Beside the passage, the writer in ink had been at work again: 'She had not the will.'
Tom frowned at this. It was quite beyond him, but the tone of it he did not like. Suddenly he realised how uncomfortable the library had become. The woman at the counter was complaining loudly to Ms Sawcroft about an overdue fine, and the heat in the room had grown intense, an uncomfortable heat which made his neck and wrists sweat and stilled even the buzzing of the bluebottles by the window. Tom got up and opened the casement wide. Fresher air wandered in. He perched himself on the window seat and read on quickly. The book continued,
One hundred years later, at the end of the 17th century, the Fordrace Parish Records mention the names of two parishioners, Tobias Thomson and George Pole, who died of exposure while sheltering in Wirrenlowe Hollow in Midwinter 1692. Oddly, their remains were interred outside the churchyard in the common ground.
Not long after, the Stanbridge Chronicles record one of the last known outbreaks of Witch Fear in England. In a tragic episode in 1734, two women of a farm near Fordrace were pursued by a mob to the summit of the Wirrim and beaten to death with sticks. Their bodies were thrown into die Wirrinlow and left as carrion. The Chronicles explains the matter thus:
'These women were accused of witchcraft and idol-worship, and of coming of a long line of idolaters. One of these, Meg Pooley, had been seen flying over the Wirrim; this same Pooley was likewise accused of firing her neighbour's barn. Both she and the other, Mary Barratt, were also said to have looked upon their neighbours with an evil eye and stolen from them gold and precious things. The Justice could find no witnesses to the women's deaths and was forced to abandon the inquiry.'
A line in Fordrace Parish Records, written in an unknown hand, seems to refer to this incident: 'Pooly and Barat – returned to The Pitt, their proper place.'
Thereafter, Wirrinlow fades from the local traditions, except from an aside in Rev. Colver's 'Memoirs' (1825):
'There was at this time, a fading flame of folk memory, which ascribed to areas of the Wirrim an unsavoury reputation. In particular, the region about the barrows on the summit, called by some The Pit, was largely avoided by the common man, and those who went there were looked upon with grave suspicion. I encouraged, in my sermons, strong scepticism on the subject of demons and fairies, and I fancy I have been largely successful in this endeavour, for I have not seen evidence of such belief for nigh on twenty years. But the details of these dark things, I was unable to discover.'
The Rev. Colver seems to have been justified in his belief, for there are no further records of such obscure beliefs that this author can find. We must assume them consigned to history.
Here the chapter ended. Beside it was one character, heavily scored on the paper: !
It seemed to Tom that this was written in felt-tip pen.
He closed the book. There had been no mention of the cross, and no concrete information of any kind. But he knew now that there were hidden traditions of the Wirrim, which were closely tied to death and superstition. And it could well be that they continued in some form to the present day. Could there be any connection with the theft, and the witterings of a sad old woman? He himself knew of the Pit, a large hollow on High Raise, popular with picnickers and ramblers. He had heard no ill of it, nothing to reflect its seemingly chequered past.
A slight cough disturbed him from his reverie. Ms Sawcroft was standing near him. She was still wearing her grey twill, yet was unflushed in the heat.
"It's early closing today, Tom." She smiled at his confusion.
"Sorry, Ms Sawcroft, I was miles away."
"It's closing time. Did you find anything of interest?"
"A few scraps. Nothing much."
She eyed the book resting on his knee. "Was there anything you were after in particular? I know my way around these parts, you know."
Tom was about to answer her question with some vague nicety, when from thin air, he asked, "Arthur Willis. Do you have anything by him?" As she hesitated, frowning, he added, "I'm not sure if you will. In fact, I'm not even sure he was published. But he was a local writer, referred to in here. Late 19th century, I think."
"I don't think so . . . Let me check."
She returned to the desk to consult the computer file, and Tom replaced the book in the Reference cabinet. When he had done so, he found her shaking her head and smiling.
"Sorry, I can't help you. No Arthur Willis here, although there is an Alfred Willis – 'The Gardener's Scourge: My War against Greenfly' – and I don't imagine you were after him."
"No," said Tom. "I wasn't. Is that just this library, or might there be something elsewhere?"
"That's the Central Library records for the county. You'll have to go further afield for it, if it exists."
"Right. Oh, is there a book of local biography?"
"Yes, in reference again. But it's closing—"
"I'll only be a moment. Sorry. I'll just take a quick look."
Tom hurried over to the shelves and almost immediately found the county 'Dictionary of Biography'. Ignoring the bustling sounds from the desk, he flipped the pages until he came upon what he sought. There was a photocopier beside the desk, and he made a copy for 10 pence. Ms Sawcroft eyed him with calm impatience.
"He did exist," said Tom. "Sorry to hold you up." "Don't worry. It's always good to find what you're looking for, especially when it's a hard chase. I'll put the book back for you. Thank you. You'll find the door's on the latch."
Back in his office, Tom cast his eye over the photocopied sheet. The entry was brief.
WILLIS, Arthur James (1841–1895)
Folklorist
Born Fordrace; educated at Stanbridge and Oxford; taught abroad before returning to Fordrace in his thirties. Spent years researching local traditions of the area; his theories were notable for their cavalier mingling of historical and legendary material, which garnered the derision of his rivals. He was a flamboyant character, legendary for his intemperance and professed paganism. His only published work, 'The Book of the Worm' was printed privately, in an unfinished state, by friends after his death. He died in a house fire, at his home at Crow Wood, Fordrace.
Tom tossed the paper onto his in-tray and stretched himself. There were a hundred and one things to do, and he still hadn't spoken to Sarah. He leant over and picked up the phone. It would be as well to check that her intemperate brother hadn't had any more visitations.
14
High on the Wirrim, two boys stood on the lip of a hollow, scanning the clusters of stones, the purple harebell wedged in corners, the alien brightness of coke cans and crisp packets dotted here and there among the grass.
"The Pit," said Stephen. "So it happened here."
"Over on the far side, beyond that stone."
"Right," said Stephen. "I see."
"Look," Michael snapped at him, "I know you don't believe me, and I don't care. Too bad. So just leave out the sarcasm." He sat down decisively and rubbed his eyes. Their aching had got worse the higher he went; a dull pressure which flared angrily whenever they moved. It made him irritable, a feeling which was worse now that he had made the climb, and knew that it proved nothing.
"I don't quite know what you were hoping this proved." Stephen casually echoed his thoughts. "I should give you a hiding for this; but frankly I can't be bothered." He half-walked, half-cantered down the slope and into the hollow, and wandered off across it, leaving Michael sitting.
"What proof can I give you, you idiot?" he said under his breath, and with this exclamation, he felt the pain in his head flare, and his eyes refocus.
The earth was red, like old blood or weathered brick. It seemed to radiate a heat he could not feel from a centre somewhere deep below the surface, a hidden bruise beneath the skin. Stephen's soul moved across that skin, its pale lights fluttering and winking with their small foolish anger. The glow around its form was weak and feeble beside the livid red of the waiting earth. It made Michael laugh to see its frailty, and he
saw the horse head look back at him, stare, and turn away.
Then it seemed to Michael that the earth was clear as glass beneath him, and that somewhere fathoms down through all that redness a thing was rising. Up it came, slowly swirling, coiling, curling, a ball of movement underground. He saw the red strata of the rock below distort briefly as it passed across them. And he felt its purpose.
Stephen was standing in the centre of the hollow when he heard his brother laugh once, gutterally; a harsh sound. He turned with a start, but Michael was staring down into nothing, and with an exclamation of disgust he resumed his fevered thinking. His brother was either lying or mad, and he could do nothing about it whichever it was. He was stupid to have come.
Then he heard Michael calling for him to wait. He ignored the urgency in the voice, and kept walking. But footsteps came running behind him and a slight fear entered his heart and made him turn.
"Michael, keep away. I've had enough. Just piss off."
"Stop! Stop here and listen to me. Listen, Stephen, I've got proof." Michael's face was flushed, lit up with joy and expectation.
"Don't give me any of that crap."
"I've got proof, I tell you. It's coming."
"What? You've flipped. Just keep away from me. Look, keep your hands off!"
Michael had grabbed the front of Stephen's shirt, wrenching it towards him with clenched fists. Stephen caught both wrists and tried to wrest them loose, but Michael's grip was iron-strong. His face was locked in a grin of fierce effort, and for the first time since the scream the night before, Stephen grew scared. He punched upwards between his brother's arms, catching him on the side of the jaw. Michael's head jerked back and he swore savagely, but he didn't loose his hold. Stephen hit out again in blind panic, then closed, locking Michael's head from the side and dragging him down with him to the ground. They rolled there, gasping and swearing. Stephen was the stronger, but Michael was possessed with a wild energy and gave no quarter.
At last, driven to desperate lengths, Stephen managed to land a punch below his opponent's ribcage. While Michael was foaming and gasping for breath, he wrestled himself free and sat squarely on his chest, gripping his hair with both hands.
"Now," he snarled, "I really am going to kill you."
But Michael gazed up through half-closed eyes and laughed at him, and something rose swiftly from the ground and engulfed them before Stephen could think or move.
He fell through the earth, into a secret place where a restless power awaited him.
He came to a halt with the soft slowness of a stone dropping through syrup. It was cold around him, the slow remorseless cold which over many nights will shatter solid rock without a sound. But somewhere close a fire burned.
He felt bones underfoot, and hard cold things, which had once been beautiful under a warm sun. Up ahead was an abyss of black. Nothing moved, but he felt something offered to him, and acceptance surge in his breast.
Then he tried to step forward, and something snagged his foot. He looked down, and saw among the bones his brother lying under him, smiling up in vindicated triumph. And with that, a bubble of fear came vomiting up from inside his stomach, and he was lifted by that fear up and away with vicious speed, up and out through the cold earth until the sun broke suddenly on his back once more.
But the air was thick and acrid, and his eyes were blind, and his skin stung him.
Then Stephen, with a soundless cry, flung himself to one side, out into the summer air. And the lizards scattered.
15
"Well," said Michael, "you really messed that up."
Stephen was lying on his back in the grass of the hollow, with his mouth open and eyes blinking. It took him a moment to realise where he was, or recognise the figure who stood over him.
"Mikey, your nose is bleeding."
"Yes. You punched me, remember."
"Did I? Sorry, Mike. Hey, Mike, I feel wonderful."
"Well you've no right to. You should have stayed where you were. What made you go tumbling off? God knows what that's done – you were hardly in there a moment. There's no way you can have absorbed anything."
"I don't know. But listen, Mike – was that what happened to you before?"
"Of course. I didn't know until now, because I was asleep then. But I recognised the feeling when it passed through me. You've cocked it up big time. You should have stayed in there longer."
"I don't know; it didn't feel – but I feel great now."
"Well, you won't have the sight. Remember the state I was in afterwards. You've got to pay for these things, Stephen."
"You seem to know an awful lot about it all of a sudden."
"I don't have to prove it to you any more, do I?"
"No. But I'm just as confused, only – God, where the hell did it come from, Mikey?"
"It rose up. That's all I know. Now, if you feel so great, how come you're still lying there?"
"I'll get up. Give us your hand."
Michael extended an arm and pulled Stephen to his feet. He stood there for a moment, shaking gently, blinking round like a man with a fever risen out of bed.
All of a sudden, without warning or any pain, his focus changed. He cried out as he saw his brother in another shape.
"My God!" he cried. "Michael – you're beautiful!"
Michael started and clutched at him. "You can't," he hissed. "Not as easily as that! You're lying!"
But the dragon's thought flowed through his brother's veins like wine, filling him with a high and giddy exhilaration. He stretched his arms out wide, his fingers splayed in the air; then he spun around, taking in the world with savage, greedy eyes. At the third spin of his feet, he lost his balance, teetered wildly for a moment and fell heavily among the heather, laughing even as the wind was driven from his body.
"Oh, Michael," he said, sitting up slowly between gasps, "how can you, how can you be so – serious? Smile for me! Have you looked in a mirror? Did you know that you're a cat, Michael? Your hackles are up, Mikey, swirling blue and exploding like fireworks. You're not happy, are you, not at all, but it's you all right. You're summed up perfectly!"
He laughed again, leaning back in the gorse and gazing up at the two-tone sky, where the flat slab of space seemed underlaid with red and the clouds were flecked with grey.
Michael watched with an impassive face. "You'll be able to control it in a little while," he said. "But you'll be sick first." He frowned. Cat-souled? Could that be right? He felt his own solitariness, his watchful caution. It might be true.
For nearly five minutes, Stephen lay on his back and burbled softly, his body shaking and twitching with little repressed tremors of delight. Michael watched him, almost unconsciously changing the focus of his eyes. Stephen's form blurred and his horse-like face appeared, gazing up amid the heather, with its fluid surface spiralling with colour. The colours welled up from within like eruptions under glass, spread outwards across the surface with an eager haste, and were swiftly drawn in again. The intensity of movement was greater than before, the colours brighter and more varied, though there seemed a slightly lurid sheen to them which had not been there before.
'It'll be too much for him,' he thought. 'He'll be sick soon.'
And with that to comfort him, he rose, and left the burbler lying, and went to the ridge to look out across the valley.
The afternoon was old, and the sunlight which had bathed the countryside all day was showing the first signs of retreat. The pale blue of the sky was sapped of colour, and the furthest hills and fields were faint under a distant veil. The air was still. He shifted his focus automatically, and saw the colours darken. The sky changed to its reddish tint, the fields to a rusty brown, the coppices and skirting of woodland a dull dark brown. The people below – and there were some, out in the furthest fields – suddenly sprang into prominence. He had hardly been aware of them before, lost like ants in the vastness of the scene. Now, the brightness of their souls revealed them: they glittered like tiny moving jewels
.
How delectable they were. But what was it that made them shine so? And if they sparkled like that when they were so far away, how bright would they look when all collected together? Michael wished he was on the crowded green at that moment, to see for himself.
A sudden noise behind him reminded him of Stephen. He waited a little longer before going back with a sympathetic face.
Even after the nausea, Stephen still wore an expression of delight, though the lines in his face were etched with weariness. He could no longer see, except for a searing light which pained him, but instead of keeping his eyes shut, he rolled them up so that only the whites showed. It gave him a very unpleasant aspect, which Michael lost no time in pointing out, but Stephen only replied, "I can't help it. I can't shut them. The urge to look is too strong, but it hurts me when I do. This way, it pains me least."
Michael helped him stand, took his arm around his shoulder and set about guiding him from the Pit. His brother was still shaking like a panicked rabbit, but he walked easily, sensing where to place his feet with a surprising confidence. After those last words, Stephen kept silent as they took the path downhill, and Michael did not break in upon it. A mood of anxiety and envy had come upon him. When the bubble had encased them, its taste and feel had been familiar, but he had known, with as much certainty as if he had been told, that its purpose was with Stephen, and that Stephen had in some way rejected it. Stephen had only been immersed for a minute or so – and that he should have received the gift despite it, Michael resented deeply. They descended the Wirrim without words.
By the time they got to the cottage, it was nearly seven. The sky was lit with a pale evening blue in which cold stars already shone, and shadows were gathering under the elms outside the gates. Here, they loitered.
"Damn. The Pope's here," said Michael in a low voice, surveying the small car squeezed into one corner of the drive. "Now what do we do?"
Buried Fire Page 7