The Guardian Stones (3 page)

Chapter Four

Jack Chapman gazed longingly at the closed door of the Guardians pub as he trod gingerly past. A drink or two would calm the demons in his skull. Every time his foot hit the road it disturbed the demons and they tried to claw their way out. Nevertheless, he must look for Issy, not least because he wanted people to see him searching and say he was a good, concerned father to leave everything and go out looking for his daughter.

He stepped on something slippery, his feet came out from under him, and he sat down hard. The road tilted and houses whirled around in a crazy dance. He closed his eyes until the vertigo was gone.

There was egg yolk on the bottom of his shoe. Why were eggs lying about in the High Street?

He pushed himself up with difficulty. His massive arms felt strangely weak. He took a few deep breaths before continuing. When he reached the shade of the forest after he'd got his blood circulating, he was sure he'd feel better. He turned down the path running alongside Susannah Radbone's house. The former schoolteacher made her home into a stereotypical country cottage, perfectly whitewashed, with red shutters and a thatched roof. It stuck out like a sore thumb in Noddweir, he thought sourly.

Behind the fence at the end of Susannah's meticulously cultivated back garden the land fell away into a marshy depression partly filled by a pond.

Jack made his way through the vegetation as quickly as he could, taking a shortcut to the part of the forest he intended to search. He was going round a tall cluster of bushes when the screaming started.

The shrieks grew louder, coming from the direction of the pond. They were not playful. They were frantic. Terrified.

A girl's screams.

“Issy!” Jack yelled.

In the pond two figures held a third, their backs to him. Two boys and a girl, waist deep in the water. The boys pushed the girl's head down through pond scum into the water, held it there for a few seconds before letting her up, and then, just as another coughing, choking scream began, pushed it back under again.

Jack broke into a stumbling run. The demons in his skull joined in the screaming.

The boys yanked the girl up and shoved her back down. She flailed and thrashed, spraying water. The boys laughed.

Jack recognized the Finch brothers, raw-boned youths with wolfish faces. They were not yet adults but they had never truly been children.

“Issy!” Jack roared again as he reached the pond and flung himself into the water.

The boys whirled around, wearing identical sneers. In their frenzied state they would probably have challenged almost any other man in the village, but the sight of the bullish blacksmith wading inexorably toward them with fury in his eyes was more than they had bargained on. They released their captive and took flight like startled ducks. Jack fastened the iron tongs of his hand to Mike Finch's arm, lurched forward, grabbed the boy's shirt, and pulled him back into the pond.

“Let's see how you like it, you vicious little bugger!”

He jammed Mike's face into the shallows with such force it was covered with mud when he jerked him back up.

Len Finch danced back and forth at the edge of the pond. “What you doing, mister? You're crazy! You'll kill him!”

Jack ignored him. Inside his head the demons clawed and kicked. His skull felt ready to explode. He slapped mud off Mike's face and pushed him back down. He'd done something similar to kittens. The only difference was he felt a bit sorry for the kittens.

There was a searing pain in his shoulder. Bellowing curses, he reached around and grabbed Len, who stabbed at him again with a pocket knife. Jack grabbed at the knife, letting go of Len as he did so. Instantly both boys were racing away, faster than Jack could follow.

Only then did he remember the girl.

His fury had driven everything from his mind but his desire to take revenge on the boys.

He had nothing to see but the still surface of the water and broken reeds.

Now the demons laughed at him.

“Oh, God! Oh no! “

He splashed into the pond, desperately reaching under the water, grasping handfuls of mud, pulling up rocks and weeds.

***

Edwin and Grace followed Duncan along the corridor, this time going into the large public bar, dimly illuminated by small windows. Their footsteps sounded loud and hollow on the flagstones. A wide fireplace dominated one wall.

Behind the bar, Duncan turned on the wireless sitting on a shelf beside a couple of half-empty bottles. It was an ancient Philco, as elegant as a bread bin.

“I keep it in here for the customers,” Duncan said over a sudden hiss of static. “Can't leave it on too long, though. Batteries are getting harder and harder to come by. I make a point to listen to the news. Buy a drink at the Guardians and you get your news free.”

Music crackled around the empty room, fading in and out. Edwin didn't recognize the band. Elise would have. To the extent Edwin cared for English music, he preferred Elgar, whom Elise had considered rather dry.

Duncan fiddled with the dial and static receded as an announcer began speaking in tones sounding out of place in a country pub.

There wasn't much of interest. Listeners were assured Malta was in good heart, according to a senior staff officer who visited the besieged island. Edwin wondered if there was a dearth of positive news and perhaps too much bad news that the BBC might be reluctant to broadcast.

“Soviet officials continue to insist that there is no German threat to Russia,” the announcer informed them.

When the newscast was over, Duncan clicked the wireless off. “So, is Hitler going to invade Russia? That's been a popular topic of debate the past couple of weeks. Opinion runs about two-to-one in favor.”

“Noddweir knows something Stalin doesn't?” Edwin asked.

Duncan observed that Der Fuhrer would be mad to invade, but then he was mad anyway.

“Evil, is what he is,” Grace said. “And evil doesn't recognize any limitations. Satan challenged God, after all.”

A barrage of knocks rattled the pub door. “Open up!”

Duncan's jaw tightened as he strode over to a window and glared out. “I'll not be serving you before time, Jack! Get away now!”

The publican's refusal was met with more knocking. “I'm not here for drinks! I got something of yours to return.”

When Duncan opened up, Edwin saw Violet standing in a doorway for the second time in less than two hours.

This time, rather than a neat, enraged little girl, the figure was soaking wet and crying, her face covered in scratches. Beside her, holding her hand, stood a muscular, middle-aged man with scanty brown hair, wet and plastered to his skull.

“They tried to drown me in the witch pond,” Violet sniffed between choking sobs. “The Finch boys did. Those bad, bad boys. They said they'd kill me for telling about the egg fight.” She began to wail.

“I was on my way to search for Issy when I heard her yelling,” said the man. “The little buggers was dunking her in the pond. And her thrashing and sputtering and screaming. For a moment I thought I'd lost her, but when I turned around, there she was sitting on the grass, crying her eyes out.”

“Professor Carpenter, this is Jack Chapman, our blacksmith,” Grace said. “Isobel's father.”

Edwin added another name to memory. At the beginning of each school year he had a hard enough time recalling students' names with the benefit of a seating chart. Thrust straight into the life of Noddweir, meeting its inhabitants willy-nilly, he felt as if he'd been thrown into the middle of a Russian novel.

“Don't worry, Jack,” Grace was saying. “We're still searching for your daughter.”

“There's them thinks she's run off.”

“We hope that's all it is.”

“Hope! That's worth bugger all. I might as well have the vicar pray we find her.”

“She'll be back soon. Remember Len Finch went missing for a day last month? Turned out he'd gone to Craven Arms.”

“Everyone knows he was up to no good there for Joe Haywood,” Jack said. “You're not accusing Issy of working for a black marketeer, are you?”

He turned and walked away before Grace could reply.

Edwin saw blood on the shoulder of Jack's shirt. Grace didn't remark on it. Either she hadn't noticed or didn't care. She was icy when she spoke to the blacksmith.

The commotion brought Meg back. “I told you to go upstairs and read, Violet!” Meg scolded as she entered the bar. Then she caught sight of the bedraggled child, standing in a puddle, sodden green hair ribbons along with strands of green pond scum dangling in front of her face.

She knelt down, put her arms around her daughter, and glared up at Duncan. “This is the last straw! You promised we'd buy a place in town! You promised when we married!”

Duncan raised his hands in a vague gesture meant to quiet her or perhaps to defend himself. “Meg, there are people—”

“You promised, Duncan! And where are we? And now, look, you've almost got our daughter killed. Next thing she'll be vanishing like Isobel.”

The tenor of her voice was irritating enough to make Edwin wince.

“That isn't fair, Meg,” put in Grace.

“You know I've done my best, Meg,” said Duncan. “You can't blame me for the war. I've had to change my plans.”

Meg stood up, arm around Violet's shoulders. She looked at Duncan with such transparent contempt Edwin was afraid she was about to spit. “A plan? You have another plan? Is it better than your first one, or your second?”

Violet stopped crying and looked from her mother to her father, eyes wide with alarm.

Meg's fingers tightened on the girl's shoulder, guiding her toward the door. “I hope to see the back of this god-forsaken place before too long. And when I'm gone the Boche can bomb it until there's nothing left but a hole in the ground for all I care!”

Chapter Five

Edwin decided it was time to visit the vicar whose letters had brought him to Noddweir. After the scene in the pub he wanted to settle his mind. He had always been a scholarly and somewhat solitary man. He was not comfortable learning that a couple's marriage was on the verge of breakup practically before he had memorized their names. He returned to his room, changed his egged shirt, and went looking for the vicarage.

The village Meg Gowdy would have been happy to see bombed into a hole in the ground nestled in a narrow fold between wooded mountains rising gradually north, west, and south. Cottages clung to the incongruously named High Street as if cowering away from the forest. A few branching roads doubled back or petered out in fields and meadows. The majority of the houses were small, built of brick or stone with slate roofs. The largest building, a sturdy church with its squat Norman tower, recalled a time when Noddweir had been more populous. The Guardians pub, the second-largest structure, sat beside the church. Beyond the village, where the land slanted upward, Edwin could see the knob-shaped hill of the Guardian Stones.

It was a short walk around the side of the church to the vicarage behind. The residence's stone walls were all but concealed by vines, matching the vines that crept up the back of the church. Rose bushes bloomed all around in profusion but no apparent order.

The rap of the knocker summoned a man in his fifties, with a drawn face whose pallor was accented by kindly, deep-set dark eyes.

“I've come to see Mr. Wilson.”

“You must be Edwin. I'm Timothy Wilson, your faithful correspondent. Wonderful to meet you at last.” He coughed and gave Edwin a surprisingly feeble handshake.

“Oh, indeed. I'm glad to meet you after all these years Mr.…Wilson. I…uh…”

“I see you're surprised. You expected me to be older.”

“Well…actually…”

“The archetypical elderly country vicar dabbling in esoteric studies?”

“I have to admit….”

“Never mind. I rather like that image. Perhaps that's why I never bothered to mention I'd been gassed in the last war. The nice thing about correspondence is it doesn't matter what your respective ages may be. Or physical attributes. Unless, of course, we are speaking of
billets-doux
.” He spoke in a raspy, gentle voice, little more than a whisper.

Edwin felt disoriented. He was used to a distant friend who was his senior. Once he had been shown to a Victorian loveseat by the window of a small parlor he tried to reorient himself.

Wilson served a pot of strong tea and slices of sponge cake, taking a seat opposite Edwin. Not only Wilson's age shocked Edwin, but his general appearance of ill health. “What were you doing in the war?” Edwin asked.

“Sky pilot. Afterward I was given this small parish. Nothing too strenuous, you see.”

Edwin realized he was probably seated where a parade of troubled parishioners had sat—grieving a loved one, or a broken marriage, or regretting some destructive impulse too late. Hearing such stories was not what Edwin called a restful job.

He heard childish voices and the thud of running feet upstairs.

Wilson glanced up. “The pitter-patter of tiny elephants. My little visitors can be noisy but the oldest keeps her sisters fairly well behaved.” He poured out tea. “I've got five billeted on me. The oldest also looks after our meals, though at times overcooks the vegetables. Still, these days we must be thankful for whatever we have. They've been here a few months and are quite settled in.”

Taking his cup, Edwin leaned forward, to avoid spilling on the furniture. Elise had chided him about coffee stains on his sweaters. After a few years she gave up chiding and kidded him instead. “Not all the evacuees settled so well, unfortunately.”

Wilson sighed. “Yes, young scamps, some of them. We must make allowances.”

“That's what my wife always said. She taught grade school.”

“I was sorry to hear about Elise's passing. I had looked forward to meeting her.”

Edwin was thankful that Wilson did not mention God's will, or a better place, or any other platitudes that had come to enrage him more than the most cutting insults could have. On one hand it struck Edwin as odd, since Wilson was a minister, but on the other hand he had corresponded with Edwin for years and doubtless knew how he felt about such things.

“Elise would have loved it here, with all these troublesome children to take in hand,” Edwin said. “She always saw good in the worst of the lot. Every year she would be trying to reform some little reprobate.”

“A worthy occupation.”

“Yes. I can't say her success rate seemed very high. Some people are just born bad, if you ask me. I had it easy. At college you get to teach the more civilized of the little monsters.”

“Our own little monsters have certainly been stirring up trouble. And then there's Isobel. It's unfortunate you arrived at such a difficult time. No news, then?”

Edwin shook his head.

“We can only pray Isobel is simply stirring up trouble herself and will return safely. My sermon on Sunday will address the matter. Yet, I confess, while my flock can be difficult at times, I simply cannot see any of them harming a child.”

Edwin took another sip of tea. “Excellent brew. I don't think I've had tea this strong since I arrived in England.”

“But then it's folklore you're interested in, not tea! Do you know, some of the villagers I see at my services every week are among the most superstitious? When I came here I thought these old country beliefs would be a problem but with a bit of give and take on such matters as the proper form of harvest festival celebrations and blessing of cider presses it hasn't been too difficult. Of course, it probably helps that I always keep my sermons short. An instance of necessity being a virtue. Can't be long-winded when you're short of wind.”

“You never mentioned—”

“We must not grumble about our own small crosses. My library is a great comfort.” He waved a hand at a well-filled bookshelf against one wall. They were not new books. Some spines were torn, others displayed embossed titles and colored decorations faded by time. They were the sort of books Edwin preferred.

“The old books always are the most interesting,” Edwin remarked.

“I have quite a few you'll find of interest. For instance—” Wilson stopped and coughed, taking time for his hacking to subside to a wheeze. “Excuse me. The dust produced by all those dear old vicars' compendiums may have done as much damage to my lungs as the mustard gas.” He smiled but his eyes were watering. “I have a couple of notebooks my predecessors kept with fascinating details of Noddweir customs not totally unknown today. One I enjoyed was not throwing ashes out on Christmas Day because you would be throwing them in the Lord's face. Fascinating how these customs linger on in rural areas, isn't it?”

“I'd be most grateful if I could borrow the notebooks sometime.”

Wilson rubbed his eyes wearily. “Of course. I'm making notes myself on all manner of things. My memory is not what it was. Did I show the two barrows near Noddweir on the maps I sent? I keep thinking I didn't. Some were copied from old ones I made after I arrived, but others I drew from memory. It's much harder for me to get around than it was.”

“I had no idea how ill you were, Timothy.”

“I didn't want you to have any idea, my friend. I hope you don't think the less of me that I'm not what you imagined. I never will become the eccentric old vicar you took me for.”

“I wouldn't—”

“Oh, don't feel sorry for me. Millions of other men weren't spared. I still have my faith and my job and my studies. When I arrived here my predecessor advised me not to worry, I was perfectly fit to raise souls because souls weigh nothing. I would have liked to run outside to see what all the commotion was earlier but if I'd tried it would have been over before I got there.”

“Some of those scamps you mentioned were having an egg fight.”

“Let me guess. The Finch boys.”

“That's right, and not long after that they dunked Violet in the witch pond.”

Edwin noticed how Wilson's lips tightened into a narrow line. He added, hastily, “She's all right, just frightened.”

Wilson forced a smile. “Yes. I suppose. I must tell you, though, that our so-called witch's pond is really the Witchford's pond. A family of that name owned all the land round it in the eighteenth century and as time passed the name was corrupted, as so often happens. But that's nothing to do with the Guardian Stones.”

“Oh, I'm interested in anything you can tell me. Who can say what tales might lead back to the stones if we could trace the path?”

Wilson looked away, frowning. “Those boys have grown up surrounded by bad influences,” he said. “Perhaps out here in the country, away from the city, they can be reached. I pray for all these unfortunate children.”

Edwin wanted to say he would be very surprised if anyone or anything, including prayers, could reform the likes of the Finch boys. Some people, as Violet had succinctly put it, were just bad. But he took a bite of sponge cake instead.

***

Once in the High Street, Edwin paused to contemplate the Guardians Hill. He thought of what had brought him here, the mystery of the stone circles scattered across England.

They were eerie reminders of a past shrouded in the mists of time, their builders leaving few clues as to why these circles had been erected, a purpose that at this remove could never be learned. They had been important to the culture of their time and they were scattered from Stonehenge—its huge stones supposedly transported from Ireland by the magician Merlin to windy Salisbury Plain in the south—to as far north as Stennes, where couples plighted their troth by holding hands through a hole piercing the Odin Stone. To pass an infant through the same hole was said to safeguard its health.

Many connected them with the Druids, a theory scholars had discarded but a great favourite of the general public. Some claimed the circles served as astronomical observatories, others that they were the grave sites of heroes, or marketplaces.

Their very mystery was a great attraction for Edwin, the feeling of being almost able to touch the ancient hands which had dragged boulders and stones, sometimes miles across difficult terrain and impossible hills, to erect in prominent places. Their brooding presence drew those who sought their secrets but revealed nothing.

Despite his familiarity with the circles—including those long since destroyed, but accounts of which could be read in older histories and documents—he always felt they were majestic and otherworldly.

To Edwin, entering what he regarded as their sacred space was akin to that strange hush the visitor to a church experiences, a sense of timelessness and sanctity heavy with the centuries. He had noticed in collecting information, no matter what outrageous legends he heard from local inhabitants, they tended to pay an instinctive respect to the ancient stones. Many were the stories he recorded of supernatural punishments meted out to those who dared attempt to destroy a circle or to take stones for constructing a farmhouse or cow barn. Perhaps that was why stories of witches were often connected with the circles or magical powers attributed to their stones.

As a Wiltshire resident had told him, “Them Stonehenge stones was here before the world and will see us out, you can be certain of that, sir.” He then went on to relate how as a young man he had visited Avebury to see if a particular stone walked across the road at midnight, a story he had heard since childhood.

“And what happened?” Edwin had asked, pen poised over notebook.

“It were a foggy night, sir. I stood a bit away and watched that stone very close, you may be sure. All of a sudden there was a crash. I went all shivery-bivery, sir, and took to my heels.”