Herald of the Hidden (18 page)

I was intrigued to notice that estrangement from the skeleton, then the drying, treating and weaving, gave the hides a mottled pallor which, along with the smell, texture and general composition, reminded one unavoidably of pigskin.

In a later hand was added:

I have seen fit to use these valued items in a similar manner to that employed by the people from which they originate, i.e. as ornamental drapings. They serve now the purpose of curtains in the
rear
(or
guest)
bedroom,
where
we
might
imagine
they
watchfully guard the outer approaches to my house.

Miss Duncan smiled softly to herself. Such an eccentric notion of her great-uncle’s!

Go to the West

The greatest discovery of the alchemist Peakfellow, lost for over two centuries, could not now be far from Michael Bacon’s grasp. For hours, whilst his physical form was quite still, stirred only by soft, measured breathing, his mind faltered through a series of states of reverie. And now, gaining strength and heightened perception from these glimpses—tastes of the eternal—he felt ready to free himself of all that held him to creature-existence, of all the instincts and inherited limitations, of all that was brutish and corporeal. He would relinquish his place in the race of wingless bipeds, that strange order of beings who, having the gift of self-consciousness, spend their energies in extinguishing it within themselves. He would become beyond the human.

Though there was no perceptible outward change to the figure which reclined in the sparse, shaded room, the spirit within it hovered momentarily, longingly, over the hushed images which were its refreshment and preparation: then, like a breeze that suddenly rises from the dust, it leapt into the formlessness.

Yet even whilst the substance of his soul was drawn into this inexorable process far beyond the cool, austere cell, there still lingered for Michael Bacon the taste of mortal satisfaction. He had followed the scribbled notes and charts of his colleague Wilson diligently, and now he could not be far from reaping the result of his labours—and it would more than recompense for the years of weary drudgery, the petty banalities and vanities of what passes for living amongst us. But aside from the personal advantages he did not doubt lay before him, Bacon earnestly believed that this quest had in it something of the nature of a tribute to his deceased friend’s memory. Old Wilson had devoted most of his later years to meticulous and often dreary archival research; to obsessive cross-referencing and collating of seemingly shapeless strands of thought; to clutching for clues and ideas of an elusive and tantalising kind, which more prudent scholars had abandoned as illusory or impenetrable. It was not enough to be the foremost authority on Peakfellow’s life and works, nor even to possess a compendious knowledge of those more ancient, solemn and ponderous grimoires, some ludicrous, some strangely convincing, which Peakfellow had edited, amended and extended. For Wilson was in pursuit of a higher goal than scholastic merit—he believed, or rather sensed, with a keen intuition, that Peakfellow had, in his last days, before he finally cast aside all his curious contrivances and unearthly chemicals, before he quit the enigmatic Axis Lodge constructed according to his designs and funded by a noble patron; before the pathos of his subservient, semi-senile end under the gloating, morbidly sanctimonious eyes of an order of Austin monks; before this inglorious climax to a life of dazzling intellectual virtuosity, Wilson was convinced, the alchemist had achieved a remarkable breakthrough.

It was an especially bitter irony that neither Peakfellow nor Wilson could follow their fundamental insights through to the ineffably transfiguring experience which must surely await; both had succumbed to the crude, vitiating effects of advanced age, worn and harried by the demanding emotional trials they had suffered, and virtually unable to comprehend how close they were to completeness.

Bacon had been with Wilson in the last hours of life. The severity of the toll which the years of toil had exacted came as a great shock, and Bacon scarcely recognised his old mentor, when he was ushered into the dim bedchamber. It could scarcely be three months since he had last seen him, to seek out certain artefacts necessary to their work; yet the alteration was disturbing. The face was drained and haggard, and the body decrepit. Worse was the tongue which lolled and slobbered, and the eyes glazed over into the brink of idiocy, whose expression Bacon found particularly distressing, having seen in them before the living gleam of the enthused academic.

At a loss for words, Bacon had murmured assurances that he would carry on the work that the dying man could not now accomplish, that he would see it through. It was plain these promises brought some consolation even into the dementia which had seized Wilson, for his wracked form stirred in some animation in response, the eyes wobbling wildly in an effort to convey burning conviction: and Bacon heard the wasted face croak out, in heavy, slurred groans, ‘Go to the West’, and again ‘Go to the West’. The effort to thus articulate must have cost much, for although a lingering biological existence continued some hours further, sentient, reasoning life departed for all outward purposes at that point.

To the outsider, the instruction given by the dying man would appear hopelessly imprecise, and maybe no more than a raving phrase plucked at random from a deteriorating consciousness. But Bacon was not an outsider. He had shared in Wilson’s single-minded devotion to this task, and though his knowledge was by no means as trenchant, yet he had more instinctive resourcefulness, not to say cunning. And the words ‘Go to the West’ were like a motto and a rallying-cry to him. They meant the culmination of all their work: and in their urgent, terse insistence, they swept aside any doubts he may have harboured, and assured him of the old man’s blessing.

So it was that now, acting on the aged master’s imperative ultimate words, Bacon lay in the plain room which had been both their study and temple. Echoing the endlessness where his higher consciousness now roamed, his gaze was saturated by the deep crimson symbol which Wilson had cast upon one wan white wall. It was a rose, burningly red on its outer edge but becoming more vastly vivid layer by layer until the bud at the heart, so dark and dense it seemed it must be formed of purest black. Four radiant white-gold rays streamed at equal points from this strange device. What hues and tints and dyes could be used to such effect it was difficult to surmise. Yet Wilson had been a man whose flawed intellect had streaks of potency, rich veins of sensitivity, which belied his plodding mannerisms. Relishing the memory of his mentor, Bacon reflected on the peculiarly contrary genius that had led Wilson to Peakfellow’s obscure
Rite of the Compass Rose
.

The extant folios of the alchemist’s writings and workings contained much that appeared to hold out ominous promise—influence over kings and emperors, great wealth, the choice of love-partners, discourse with devils, journeys in time and space, strange powers over the seas or over animals, shape-shifting, invisibility, immunity from violent attack, premonition; all these were offered to the acolyte who would rightly obey the requisite ceremonial practices, the incantations, conjurations, offerings and oaths, states of trance, and skilful craft. And yet, against these, on a discarded sheaf of coarse parchment, the brevity and simplicity of the
Rite of the Compass Rose
promised only that the supplicant would, by its means, travel as far North, South, East or West, as they might wish to go. Wilson had seen beyond this guarded legend, and correctly interpreted Peakfellow’s reticence as a guise. A fusing of the Rite with other elements, and Wilson’s own cautious explorations, had revealed little by little how near to the edge of the alchemist’s wildest wanderings it was, and ultimately, after many painstaking days, all the concentrated perception that had been gathered led inexorably to the West Way as being where the final glory lay.

But still Wilson, mindful of the ambivalence of all he found, had insisted on the sustained use of elaborate safeguards and the full respectful observances, including fasting, vigil, and often ponderous ritual. Bacon had grown impatient of this, and urged his master on to the highest possible attainment, regardless of the paraphernalia and pomposities that he believed Peakfellow had needlessly and mischievously inserted. And now . . . Wilson’s last words were clearly a signal that all lay open and prepared, that he must hasten to the uttermost brink of the West Way, whilst the time was still propitious. Even—who could say—the old man’s wasting away might have been a self-imposed ultimate sacrifice, a gift to seal the compact, in order that he, Michael Bacon, might reach the holy and just reward for such devotion, selflessness and mortal endeavour.

And what reward! There was little doubt what it was Peakfellow had sought. As more and more of his inner self seemed to be sucked into the vastness, Bacon clung, despite his zeal to seize the throne of imperishable delight, to those personal urges still left to him by the process. He brooded over the prize which lay at the far rim of Peakfellow’s esoterically delineated quest. The vulgar called it the Philosopher’s Stone, and imagined it a treasure-trove talisman that could transmute base metals to precious. Such a property it certainly possessed, and that was in itself no doubt rather useful; but that, too, was a trick, a sparkling bauble to distract, a trap for the viciously greedy. No, Bacon knew the Stone’s real essence was of far greater worth: it could bestow blissful immortality. Not for nothing did the ancient legends of many races speak of the Isles of the Blessed far away in the West, but foolish Irish monks and primitive Viking warriors who sailed away and came upon Newfoundland or Greenland mistook this for a physical direction when in truth, it was a metaphysical one!

Bacon relished the prospect of taking his rightful place in the one attainable paradise (for all else was Christian carrot-and-stick cant. Of course there was no Hell, any more than there was a Heaven, at least not for the common herd, whose dull, sordid little souls died with their fleshy effigies). No, only those who penetrated far into the coetaneous realms of being, either unconsciously (as perhaps poets, and other artists, and madmen might) or purposefully (as the mages and other mystics and occultists might), stood any chance of savouring the abyss of torment which the Christians called Hell and stupidly supposed was set aside for the perpetrators of trivial mortal misdemeanours; or the beauty and grace and perfect perpetual freedom of the true Arcadian plane which, again, the ecclesiasts fondly promised to mere do-gooders and timeservers.

As to which fate the madmen or mages might find—the abyss or arcadia—well, indeed, few found either. For they floundered about in the primordial aether as if it were just one more diverting experience to set beside the more exotic arts of earth. Few were those who knew what it was they sought; and fewer still those who knew the Way. But Bacon had devised an absurd little rhyme, of which he was rather fond, though it was pure doggerel, and he felt it summarised the inner key to the
Rite of the Compass Rose
.

As his spirit soared through numbing worlds, striking searingly through the challenges, obstacles and enticing pleasure-points which were toys to an adept, the last, scarcely coherent remnant of Bacon’s selfhood took refuge in repetition and childlike glee, and he began to recite, in lilting time:

‘Go to the West, To the Isles of the Blessed; Go to the East, Meet the Great Beast . . .’

and gales of shuddering exuberance shook through him, at the delightfulness of his poem.

For this was the kernel: that the same Rite which led to the preserve of the adored, by way of the far West, was equally capable of consigning the seeker by the opposite route to the abode of the damned, or of leading by tortuous paths to the barren North or South. So, Bacon knew, even those sage enough to discover the hidden significance of the Rite, might still, in chaos of the soul, misinterpret some vital element, with consequences that were better kept conjectural. The West it was, and only the West, that Peakfellow had dared to approach—and now Michael Bacon was within its outer influence.

In the carefully prepared room where he had now been virtually inert all of the day, as dusk stole through the narrow windows, a light gust flickered almost-gutted candles, rippled the rare water in copper bowls, rustled the sprigs of leaves from the sacred trees, and ruffled his hair. Like a gentle ebbing, not at all like the surging emergence he’d envisaged, Michael Bacon felt the last elements of his self go. After all then, at the end, when his ascendancy was accepted and assumed, it was as simple, and graceful, and noble, as this. A serene smile lit his countenance.

Then there reared above him, huge and awesome, a horned, cloven-hoofed form that stank acridly of animal. On hind legs towered the black, bellowing beast—and all around it sang the air like sounds forced through a funnel, a distorted, dense pounding which tore at all his senses, and a half-laughing, half-chanting chorus of bleats, singing ‘Goat of the West’, ‘Goat of the West’. This it was that Peakfellow had discovered—the highest, hidden name and form of the Pan-Demon, the title which revealed the obscenest truth of all. In the moments before Bacon was finally claimed by the abyss, there sank into him with hideous force how much he had misunderstood—not just his dying friend’s hoarse, indistinct moans, which were in warning not exhortation; but also the vast dark joke of the demiurge, whereby those who were led on to what they believed was a celestial sanctuary and a joyous eternity, came instead upon the great beast’s lair, and found what was heaviest of all to bear: that the abyss is everywhere.

Tree Worship

On the outskirts of a market town, where once there were only pastures, a developer bought land and obtained permission to build an estate of ‘executive homes’. It was a fine site, by the side of a Roman road, and it nestled an equidistance between the facilities of the urban centre and the gentle, if unremarkable, countryside. ‘Hedgerows’ it was named; and there was Hawthorn Lane and Elder Close, and other evocative titles. Steel lamp-posts were installed, high concrete kerbs and bold traffic markings made, drains and cables and pipelines laid. Then the bright yellow machines moved in, wrenched the wan green meadow away and revealed the rich brown soil beneath (the garden plots would be good). And soon the brick shells of houses began to emerge. . . .

The contractors were very careful and tried to preserve the fabric of the environment. But as a bulldozer was making an entry once it veered off course slightly and scored a deep white gash in the gnarled bark of an old oak that stood on the verge of the site. Limbs and twigs might almost have clenched in pain. The damage was done, however, and the incident was put aside in the briskness of business.

**

I relate the matters which follow exactly as I have gathered them from people who were involved, in various ways. I have assembled the fragments and contrasting impressions into a narrative whole; but though the form of this story is therefore mine, the content is authentic, and belongs to those who dwell at Hedgerows and its neighbouring village. That each of them may have experienced this curious affair in a different way does not invalidate the intangible yet inevitable central impression. . . .

**

The tramp had quite evidently not had a wash for many days. His unkempt hair and beard hung in lank strands, the weather-beaten face was hideously wrinkled and pitted, the eyes were like those of an animal, and it seemed a leer played about his mouth. To the lady of number 4, Hawthorn Lane, this vagrant’s ragged garb was a source of even greater disdain. It seemed to consist of a grey, streaked overcoat, a thick but torn jerkin, and trousers so baggy and billowing they were ridiculous.

Resisting the revulsed urge to slam the front door on this creature, she merely asked him to repeat what he had just said. After a pause, he replied, in a deep but croaky voice with a distinct local accent:

‘Lady, I’m collecting for the trees. We must dress them well, those that are left. For sure, they grieve for their felled fellows. They will not leaf in Spring unless we help them along.’

The tramp was obviously simple. Such an antique way of talking. And it was almost as if he were reciting a chant.

‘Yes, it’s very worthwhile,’ she humoured him. ‘But my husband has set some shrubs in our back garden, so you see we do want the estate to look nice too. He will be coming home for lunch very soon,’ she added pointedly. ‘So I must be getting on.’

The tramp did not seem to entirely appreciate her point. He was still waiting.

‘Bye,’ she offered breezily, ‘I expect we’ll see you again about the village.’

Then she firmly but gently closed the polished door, jolting just slightly its brass knocker.

Whether it was his disreputable appearance, or some aspect of his appeal, the man who was collecting for the trees fared very little better at any of his other calls. He was told he was a beggar; that he ought to find a job; that he was a fraud; that he ought to ask the parish council for permission, even if it was a local custom, which they very much doubted. One resident sweetly said that she would send a cheque, and where should it be addressed, and to whom payable?

And that was the last seen of the stranger for a while. The matter was raised briefly at the next meeting of the residents’ committee, and all present deplored the spurious story that had been put to them, and called upon the local police to use their best efforts to safeguard the privacy and security of the neighbourhood.

Vague reports of the vagrant prowling about in the remoter corners of the area were received by this committee, but no serious incident followed until at least two months had passed.

Five children played at ‘Touch and Go’ in the rank, damp undergrowth of Radden Spinney. Strictly speaking, the woods were private property, and a lop-sided sign assured trespassers they would be prosecuted. But this was the nearest place for an adventure to the Hedgerows estate; dens could be made, and with the help of packed sandwiches, hours could be spent away from the presence of parents. The narrow, bracken-fringed paths, the mounds and hollows, the tangled thickets, were known better to these children than most living souls, certainly far better than the ‘owner’.

Bursting out from a hideaway to a slight clearing, two of the children halted abruptly to see an alien in their midst. Seated on the fallen trunk of an old tree, there was a rather old man, and he was unlike any adult they had ever seen before—scruffy, smelly, with very funny clothes and uncombed hair. He grinned at them. The youngsters looked at each other, then back at the stranger, warily.

‘Don’t mind me,’ he told them, in a strong, slurred voice.

‘What are you doing here?’ ventured one.

‘I live here.’

‘Live here? You can’t. We’ve never seen you. Where?’ The children’s curiosity was tempered with a native disbelief.

‘I come and go,’ he replied.

They hesitated. The sound of pounding footfalls came nearer, together with the shouts of their companions.

‘Over here,’ they were directed. The exclamations of the new arrivals died on their lips as they encountered the strange old man. The youngest of the party, a very small girl, saw the main point quickly.

‘You’re dirty,’ she told the man.

He laughed out loud.

‘That’s good honest earth, that is,’ he rejoined. ‘The wood is dirty ain’t it? The trees, the plants, don’t they have roots in the dirt? And I’m only as good as they,’ he added.

‘Is this
your
wood then?’ asked one.

‘In a way of speaking, yes it is that.’ And, with an air of generosity, ‘Shall I show you around?’

He began to shamble off without waiting to see if they’d follow. After a few moments they chased after him. He was talking, almost to himself. Though they knew the woods so well, there were things they’d never seen before; or rather, that they hadn’t noticed. He told them the common names of flowers and plants, murmured what birds were responsible for each different song, and gave titles to the regions of the domain they explored. Each tree seemed to have its own unique characteristics, and the old man alleged that he knew them all as ‘friends’ which baffled the children not a little. It might have been an hour they wandered around after him, their game forgotten, until at length he guided them through tortuous green alleys guarded by tall nettles to a grotto assembled from logs, ferns, branches, roots, leaves. It was littered with the debris of coarse habitation but was to the children, unmistakeably a marvellous place. The stranger beamed with pride at their surprised excitement. The suspicion that they had harboured in their reactions till now seemed to dissolve quite suddenly, and they plied him with questions about his way of life. This seemed to please him even better, and if some of his responses were a little romantic in their evocation they appeared none the less well meant.

‘We will have to go now’, one said regretfully, looking at his watch; it was five o’clock, tea-time. ‘We might be able to come tomorrow.’

The old man nodded and began to prod a bizarre clump of weeds into a makeshift couch, before silently leading them back to broader paths. They dawdled away, chattering excitedly.

Of course some of the children told their parents about the nice old man they had met down in the woods, and of course this news was met with unmitigated horror. To consort with any stranger at that tender age was courting danger, for the world is full of sickness and the most despicable things can happen . . . but a tramp was worse than all. He might have nasty fleas. He might tell them lies. He could lead them to the darkest parts of the wood so they could not get out, then they might never be seen again. Thus, Radden Spinney was placed out of bounds.

The consternation of the parents was fully supported by the other residents, who, however, felt constrained to leave the matter as it was, as in all fairness, the children should not have been allowed into the woods in the first place. The incident caused a tremor of distress across Hedgerows estate and animosity towards the ubiquitous vagrant intensified.

The relationship between the estate and the nearest village was cordial. Both were respectable, and aside from a few quaint old cottages, that community consisted very much of detached, well-lawned retirement and commuter homes. It was an idyll to stroll about the tidy streets, and breathe in the perfume of manicured flower beds, hear the faint rustling of ornate trees. Little touches such as bird tables, trellised archways, topiary bushes, even an archaic sundial, made it the more delightful.

The leading lights of both Hedgerows and the adjacent village decided that it would be a good idea to hold a Spring Fayre, and so arrangements were made, and before long, discreet notices extolled the virtues of their ‘May Day Fete’ with side shows, stalls, ponies, homemade and home-grown produce, fancy dress, country dancing around a brand new but traditional-style Maypole, and a celebrity to open the proceedings. It promised to be a pleasant occasion. Pale sunshine blessed the day of the event, a slight breeze meant that it was a little less than warm, but the participants did not allow this to spoil their appreciation. The honoured guest made a wry, happy little speech sprinkled with humour and contentment, and was greeted with effusive applause. He mingled with his audience a while before being driven away to another engagement. Steadily things got underway. Modest crowds thronged the attractions, judging of the competitions was keenly followed, the refreshment tent buzzed with earnest conversation. Just as a lull in all the activities began to make itself discernable, the folk band wheezed into action, and a display of jiggling around the Maypole began. A picturesque affair it made, the costumed mummers prancing oddly whilst weaving the ribbons of the pole in and out, over and under. Polite appreciation was evident among the onlookers.

Halfway through a certain traditional tune there shuffled from the edge of the field a newcomer in the most bizarre fancy dress yet seen. He was covered from head to foot in leaves and twigs, flowers and moss, which must have been patiently woven together into an all enveloping cloak. Even his head was covered in a heavy mask from which sprouted more camouflage. It was almost as if the vegetation grew from him. The rather wild figure shoved through the circle of spectators and commenced a whirling, spiralling, leaping ritual among the Morris men. His sudden entrance seemed to throw them into a little confusion but the band played on, and they skipped rather lamely to the end of the refrain. The initial gasp of acclaim at such a novelty and the brief burst of applause, lapsed into an awkward silence when the strange character did not halt his routine when the rest did, but pounded and pranced on with writhing intensity. When the performers drew aside in obvious consternation, a muttering and whispering swept the crowd. It was soon apparent that something was not quite what it ought to be, and very quickly this suspicion crystallised itself—this was very definitely not part of the act. People began to drift away uneasily. An organiser tried to intervene, by tapping the unwelcome intruder on the arm, but the impetus of the dance simply jogged him away, and courteous remonstrations seemed to fall on oblivious ears. This ridiculous exhibition was spoiling the carefully planned schedule. Without doubt, the unexpected performer was enthusiastic, quite devastatingly so, but he might give the others a chance, and in any case his cavortings were just a bit too frenzied for proper public consumption. His occasional moans or grunts did not help.

Then, as abruptly as he had appeared, the intruder seemed to spin off his axis and with a weird rustling, insensible of his surroundings, charged across the arena, bustling by spectators, crashing against stands, tripping over tent guys, and making a very distasteful hubbub. He lurched into the produce marquee, and actually took some of the exhibits as if to eat them, not knowing or caring that they were only there to look at. A bottle of home-made wine was dashed off at a rare pace. Then he recommenced his spiralling dance, loping awkwardly away across a bridleway, half-heartedly chased by an ejection party which had been formed. No one wanted a ‘scene’, the damage was done, and they must make the best of it. So instead of pursuing the culprit any further (a doubtful proposition for his route was across a muddy field, and his direction uncertain), an official made a formal complaint by telephone to the police, and the proper order of things was hastily restored. The Maypole dancing was curtailed, however, seeming somehow inappropriate, and certain entrants were audibly aggrieved at the fate of their produce. But with no further unpleasantness, the day wound to a close.

Opinion was quick to place the blame for this latest sordid escapade on the tramp. It was clearly an elaborate ruse to enable himself to steal some sustenance. He had been an irritating but minor aspect of the new estate for a while, and now, doubtless under the influence of drink, had maliciously made a nuisance of himself at their harmless festivity. It was too bad. To add to his reputation as a beggar and probably child-seducer, he had betrayed himself as a common thief. Strong representations were made to the authorities, but as with the previous occurrence, he had apparently vanished. It was supposed he had a number of haunts, each of which received similarly unwelcome attentions. Of course, the children told their parents he lived in the wood, but that was a nonsense meant to lure them, and the local police, making a cursory inspection, found nothing.

And Summer passed uneventfully, warm, prosperous, pleasant. Not once did the tramp show his face, and many on the estate almost forgot about him. But his next appearance was at least as bizarre as the foregoing. It was the custom of many of the families residing at ‘Hedgerows’ to pack their children away to a Sunday school held at the nearby village chapel. This was scarcely because they earnestly felt their offspring ought to be given religious guidance, but more often for the expedient reason that it left the children in the care of another person for some precious hours of tranquillity, and at the very tolerable charge of a few shillings for the collection box.