She saw a sweet babe in the porch. And the green leaves they grow rarely.
The singing was coming from between her and the window again, and when she turned in that direction is was to see again the misty, almost smoky, figure seem to solidify and strengthen between her and the approaching dawn.
The next verse of the song came to her unbidden.
O sweet babe, if thou were mine. Fine flowers in the valley.
Another voice joined hers—a man’s voice. She did not have to turn to know that the Master was in the doorway—he had taken note of her telling him of the dawn, and what came with it—and he had come to see for himself.
The wraithlike figure grew so solid that Agnes could no longer see through it to the view out of the window beyond. Cold—freezing cold—bit deep into her, black cold, endless black. But despite her discomfort, the song kept coming, pouring out of her unbidden, with none of her volition. Three voices filled the library in song as frost ran across the shelves, spider-webbing the books, the window and even the floor, in twinkling, sparkling frost.
The Master walked forward, into Agnes’ line of sight, arms outstretched toward his love—his dead love, as the song swelled and rose again, so loud that the room seemed to tremble and shake. The wraith was almost solid now—a girl, not much older than Agnes, and sad, so infinitely sad. A babe in swaddling squirmed in her arms, its cries rising to join the chorus.
I would clad thee in silk so fine. And the green leaves they grow rarely.
The Master stood before the figure and Agnes saw tears again, glistening as they froze to his cheeks. He held out his arms toward the wraith—at first Agnes though he wanted to embrace his lost wife—but then she saw that both the Master and the wraith seemed to have other ideas. The shadowy figure handed the weeping babe to the outstretched arms of her husband. The babe stopped crying immediately and for a time it seemed as if another voice, a smaller, child’s voice, joined in the song.
O mother dear, when I was thine. Fine flowers in the valley
You did not prove to me so kind. And the green leaves they grow rarely.
There was more weeping now—from the mother, not the child. The wraith faded away, little more than smoke. The cold was such now that it hurt to draw breath. The master hugged the swaddling robes close to him and they too started to fade, as if he was taking them into him, drawing the shade of his son deep into the very fiber of his being.
As if from a great distance, a woman’s voice rose in one last line of song.
She sat down below a thorn. Fine flowers in the valley
And there she has her sweet babe borne. And the green leaves they grow rarely.
The last of the wraith in the Master’s arms faded away and was gone as soon as the song ended. The Master sobbed and fell to his knees as the sun came up beyond the window and the room filled with sudden warmth.
Agnes went to the doorway, intent on calling for a member of staff to come to the Master’s aid, and might have done so had a cold hand not gripped her wrist.
The Master looked up at her and smiled.
“Thank you,” he said. “You may just have saved me.”
She had no answer to that, but as his touch warmed against her arm, and his smile grew broader, she found that she did not have to speak.
“Stay,” the Master said.
So she stayed.
Wilde is a most remarkable chap—a tad flamboyant for my personal taste, but so dashed charming with it that he can get away with all manner of humor, and indeed insult—yet do it all with such style that you can only applaud and laugh.
Stoker and he spent much of the time at the table discussing the literary scene in Dublin, much of which is a complete mystery to me, and yet Wilde’s anecdotes had both myself and the normally rather staid James laughing so much that we fair lost track of time.
It was late when he came to relate his story, so he kept it pithy, and he did so with no recourse to notes. I do believe he might have made the bally thing up on the spot, but he has been kind enough to go over my transcript and ensure I have done him justice in typing it up.
Here is his tale.
THE ANGRY GHOST
Oscar Wilde
“There are no such things as ghosts.”
Aunt Agatha was most insistent on that point, and delivered the pronouncement with the same absolute certainty with which she spoke on every matter that came to her attention. Young Tom already, even at the tender age of ten, knew that his Aunt’s certainty did not always make her correct. Had he not found out for himself, just two weeks ago, that raspberry jam was in fact a great deal more delicious than strawberry jam, despite his father’s sister’s declaration of the opposite?
And Tom was doubly sure that his aunt was wrong again; he had seen the ghost for himself—once in the garden outside, standing by the lily pond, and then again, last night, right outside his bedroom window, stood stock still on the balcony. On both occasions it had been the same tall, pale man in a black wool suit and a high hat. He had reminded Tom a great deal of the Reverend McAlpine, although the vicar was most certainly alive, or at least had been in the morning at the Sunday Service,
Seeing a strange man on his balcony had, of course, given young Tom something of a shock, and despite himself he had screamed out in the quiet night, and brought somewhat of an uproar to the household, for which his father had greatly berated him.
“It does not do to get the servants in a fluster, Thomas,” he’d said as he ensured the boy was wrapped back into bed with a candle by the bedside. “They will not be fit for their duties in the morning, and if your aunt’s breakfast is not just right, she will put the blame on them, rather than on you, where it surely lies. Think on that before you cry out again.”
And think on it Tom had, for the rest of the night, for sleep would not come. His eyes kept straying to the window, and the dancing shades of the trees in the garden. He wondered if the tall man danced with them, and even considered dousing the candle in order to get a better look, but just the knowledge of his pater’s disapproval made him leave it lit.
The candle stayed alight all the way through to sunrise, when he heard the gong for breakfast. It was then that his aunt had made her pronouncement about the unreality of ghosts, and although Tom had well learned to remain silent in the presence of his elders, the sight of the tall pale man could not be denied so readily.
“Ghosts do exist, Aunt Agatha, and I have seen one right outside my window.”
“Pish and twaddle,” she replied, which was rather stronger language than young Tom was used to hearing from her, even when she was excited on a topic on which she could vent her certitude. “I lived in that same room for almost fifteen years and slept soundly every single night, the way a good Christian should. You had a dream, boy, and dreams are something you would do well to ignore—and suppress altogether, for dreams will make a good boy into a bad man faster than just about anything.”
Being only ten, Tom did not have any means of arguing this point, although despite his youth, he himself was by no means certain that Aunt Agatha was correct on this matter, for if she could be wrong about jam, surely she could be wrong about anything?
***
There was no more said of the matter over breakfast, and as it was Monday, Tom’s Latin tutor had him conjugating verbs for the greater part of the day and his young head was quite full of too much language to have time to think on tall men on balconies.
It was only after supper—and after learning from Aunt Agatha that trout and salmon are the same fish, it was merely the fact that trout are undernourished that distinguished them—that Tom’s thoughts turned again to the tall man on the balcony. He had a good look out from the window before taking to his bed— there was no one in the garden, no one by the lily pond and most definitely no one on the balcony. He closed the windows tight but decided on leaving the curtains open. Somehow, not being able to see out was worse than being able to do so. He had the candle and a box of safety m
atches on the bedside table, but did not light the wick, he merely sat up, pillows puffed at his back. He waited like that even as all the sun went out of the sky and the silver wraiths of the moon came out to dance.
But Tom was just a boy, and one thing Aunt Agatha was right about was that boys need to sleep. Several times he felt his eyelids start to droop, and each time he brought himself awake and tried to sit up straight, but slowly, ever so slowly, his body betrayed him by creeping down, snuggling into the warmth and comfort of the bedcovers and their cocoon. His last thought was of raspberry jam, and how it might taste with trout, and then he was gone, rocked into the arms of Morpheus.
He was therefore most surprised to be jerked awake sometime later by a strange sound. He had to stick his head out from under the eiderdown to hear it properly, but once he did he knew exactly where it was coming from, and only had to look to make sure.
The tall man was back again, made even taller by the black hat that seemed to perch, unsteadily, on his head. He stood on the balcony with his nose pressed tight against the glass of the window, and the sound came from him.
“Whooooo,” went the ghost. Then, when the tall man saw that Tom had seen him, he made the sound again, like a great owl, louder this time. “Whooooo.”
Tom suddenly remembered his pater’s admonishment of the previous night.
“Shush,” said Tom.
“Whooooo,” said the ghost, and to add insult to injury the tall man rattled the windows, as hard as if there were a storm blowing in from the garden.
Tom wondered whether this might be some sort of game, but the tall man was not smiling. Indeed, he seemed to be most put out, grimacing in a most frightening manner.
“Shush,” Tom said again, aware that he was making almost as much noise as the ghost itself was. He slipped out of bed and padded over to the window. The ghost rattled harder.
“Whoooo!” it shouted.
“Shush!” Tom said as loud as he dared, and pulled the curtains closed. He couldn’t think of anything else to do, but it seemed to work. The rattling stopped immediately and the night fell quiet, as if a drape had been dropped over the house. Tom stood there as the cold seeped up through his feet from the floor, wanting to go back to bed and hide, but equally, wanting to take a peek behind the curtain to ensure that the tall man was indeed gone. By drawing the curtains closed he had left a thin gap, and he tried to peer through that, but all he saw was the silver wraiths as moonbeams flitted through the trees across the garden. He listened, both to hear if the noise that had woken him would recur, and to ensure that he had not already woken the household for a second consecutive night. Neither seemed to be the case.
Still he stood there. He was sure Aunt Agatha would have an opinion on small boys who were unable to make their minds up, and just that thought was enough to enable him to move. He grabbed one edge of the curtain, pulled it back, ready for whatever he might see. There was only the moon in the lily pond and the quiet waft of a night breeze in the trees.
***
Tom woke in the morning, back in the safety of his bed underneath the eiderdown, unsure as to whether he had dreamed the whole thing. Nobody at breakfast remarked on any disturbance in the night, even though Tom thought for sure that the rattling of the windows alone would have sufficed to have everyone come running.
Aunt Agatha would surely have noticed had her sleep been disturbed, but the only matter she expounded on that morning was on the behavior of several of the local children, who she considered ungodly due to their lack of proper bathing.
“Soap and water ensures a life free of sin,” she declared, and yet again Tom was given cause to consider disagreeing, but he remembered Pater telling him that Aunt Agatha had recently lost her husband. As Tom did not wish himself to become similarly lost, he kept his peace, finished his breakfast, and spent the rest of the day getting his knuckles rapped by a piano tutor who was not pleased with the stiffness and lack of spirit in Tom’s playing.
At supper Aunt Agatha told him again that ghosts did not exist, and this time she was most vehement. Her cheeks, normally pale—because redness does not become a lady—were quite flushed, and her voice was raised into something that almost became a shout. She had Tom by the shoulders, and was so close that he could smell the sherry on her breath, and she shook him so hard that Pater had to intervene and lead Tom away.
“Aunt Agatha is tired,” Pater explained as he sent Tom to bed. “She has been sleeping poorly, so do try not to make a racket, there’s a good chap?”
Tom retired to bed, determined to pay no mind to whatever might be outside his window. He closed the curtains against the night, and sat up reading his Ovid by candlelight until once again his eyelids began to droop and the eiderdown called him down into slumber.
And once again he was woken by a sound. He did not have to look to know, for it was the same as the night before. The curtains were closed, but the tall man was out there on the other side.
“Whoooo,” shouted the ghost and rattled the widow, hard.
“Shush!” whispered Tom.
“Whoooo! Whoooo!” shouted the ghost.
And this time Tom would not be able to close the curtains against it. Instead he tried to hide under the covers, but even with his fingers pressed tight into his ears, he could still hear it, less like an owl now, more like the whistle of a train leaving a station.
“Whoooo, whoooo, whoooo!” shouted the ghost, and rattled the windows so hard that Tom felt the bed springs below him vibrate in sympathy. Finally, fearing that the racket might wake up the whole household, Tom relented, got out of bed and pulled back the curtains.
“Whoooo!” the ghost said.
“Whoooo, yourself,” Tom replied and as the tall man reached to give the window a rattle, Tom turned the handle on his side and pulled the window open.
“Whoooo!” the ghost whistled softly, and swept inside without another sound. The tall man seemed to swirl and dance, almost like the silver wraiths of moonlight, and it confused Tom’s young eyes to have to look too closely. It flowed past Tom’s bed and bedside table; the candle flickered and sputtered at its passing but stayed lit, so Tom was able to see the ghost pass straight through the thick bedroom door without a pause.
“Whoooo!” it said—it sounded almost excited—and then was gone. Tom ran to the door and threw it open, just in time to see the ghost flow off along the landing and disappear into Aunt Agatha’s bedroom.
Remembering Pater’s words about his Aunt being tired, and the need not to disturb the household, Tom returned to his room, closed the window and climbed back into bed.
He listened for some time and did not hear anything, but just as he was about to fall asleep he heard a rattle at the window again. It sounded different this time, as if being struck by a smaller, weaker hand.
Tom looked out to the balcony. The tall man was there again, but there was somebody with him, someone he had gripped tightly around the shoulders—a woman that Tom almost thought he recognized. She rattled the window, as if demanding to be allowed inside.
“There’s no such thing as ghosts,” Tom whispered, and turned his back.
“Whoooo!” Aunt Agatha replied angrily.
When I heard that HRH was going to be in town on business, I ensured that he received an invitation to our dinner club. I was pleased to get a quick reply that also indicated his enthusiasm at the thought of relating a new tale of adventure from his beloved Africa.
HRH is a splendid dinner guest, full of good humor and a seemingly endless train of anecdotes and stories of the unexplored continent. And such is his skill as a raconteur we were all quite transported, away from the cold and damp of a London winter to the ports, rivers, and lagoons of Kenya. I was so enraptured that I quite forgot to take notes as he spoke, but, fine chap that he is, he had already typed it all up ahead of time, and all I have to do now is include it here.
Here is his tale.
THE BLACK ZIGGURAT
Henry Rider Haggard
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I was on the brink of leaving Africa with no thought of ever returning when Lady Fate decided to have her fun with me. It was the summer of ‘86, a dashed hot one. The dubious pleasures of Lamu were being dulled, rather more than slightly, by the stench of rotting food and vegetation on the shoreline, and the fact that the Germans were making a move in the region, having claimed Wituland the previous summer. I sensed a coming change in the air for this part of the continent, and I feared it would not be change for the better. That, coupled with the onset of a twinge of rheumatism in my fingers and elbows, had brought me to the conclusion that my days as a hunting guide might well be drawing to a close. I felt so dashed fed up with my lot that I was actually looking forward to the feel of cold rain on my face and the whip of salt spray from the sea in my long neglected Cornish home.
Those were my thoughts as I visited the quayside that morning in July, looking for passage that would get me some part, if not the whole distance, of my way back to old England for the first time in almost a decade. But trouble, as ever, had a way of finding me, and on this particular day it took the form of a loud, most indignant, argument on the quayside—the kind any British or should I say more exactly, Scottish—lady makes when she is not getting her own way.
“I shall not pay such a price,” I heard, and on making my way around some boxes of fish—the very smell of which was almost enough to make me turn on my heel—I saw the source of the raised voice. It was indeed a white woman, no more than a slip of a girl, scarcely having reached twenty summers by her look. She was dressed for Africa though, in white cotton shirt, trousers, and stout riding boots, and her hair, although long, was plaited and tied up at the back. She also wore the expression of someone who was not in the mood to be trifled with. The Arab boatman, who towered over her, seemed more than ready to argue his own part in the matter, although his grasp of English was not up to the job of countering her anger.
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