The Kings of Eternity (8 page)

When he had departed, I asked, “What did you make of all that talk of other worlds and times last night?”

Vaughan smiled. “I could say that he’s been reading too much Wells and Vaughan,” he said. “But, coming as it does on top of whatever he’s brought us here to look into...” He gestured with a corner of toast. “We’ll no doubt find out in due course.”

Two minutes later Carnegie returned with what looked like a portfolio tucked beneath his right arm. He cleared a space on the table and laid it before us.

“I would like you to take a look at some photographs, gentlemen, and see what you make of them.”

Intrigued, we leaned forward as he opened the cover of the portfolio like some vast trapdoor to a magical underground kingdom.

He shuffled through a pile of perhaps a dozen large, glossy photographs, then handed us one each. I stared at mine, attempting to make sense of the image. I passed it to Vaughan, raising my eyebrows in mystification. Vaughan gave me the photograph that he had been studying, evidently with the same perplexity as I felt myself.

The first picture showed what appeared to be a flash of light, surrounded by darkness; the second displayed much the same, though in this one vague shapes in the surrounding darkness could be discerned.

We considered each of the dozen pictures; they were very much alike, all showing the ubiquitous light upon a dark field, with the light varying in intensity from one photograph to the next.

“Well,” Carnegie said, glancing from Vaughan to myself. “What do you think?”

I exchanged a quick look with my fellow novelist. “Hm,” I began. “Interesting, but what are they?”

Carnegie beamed. “That, my friends, is what I too would like to know.”

Vaughan leaned over the photographs now spread upon the table-top. He pointed to one or two. “In the darkness here, and here, I can make out shapes - they almost look like branches. Trees.”

Carnegie was nodding. “They were taken at night in Hopton Wood,” he offered.

“And the light?” I asked.

“Look more closely at the light, especially in these two photographs.” He pushed two images across the table towards us, and Vaughan and I bent to inspect them.

“Can you make out shapes, outlines? There, and there...”

Now that he mentioned it, I could discern the very vaguest of patterns upon the print. In the bright explosion of light upon each photograph was the faintest shadow.

“Do the shapes suggest anything to you, gentlemen?”

I frowned, and glanced at Vaughan; his perplexed expression must have mirrored my own. He shook his head. “I suppose, if one stretches one’s imagination... one might almost convince oneself that they could be faces. But, then again, they might be many things.”

If I squinted, and employed sufficient imagination, I could almost make out nebulous, ghostly visages.

“Faces,” Carnegie declared. “Exactly. That’s exactly what I thought!”

“I take it you took these photographs yourself?” Vaughan asked.

Carnegie tucked his thumbs into the pockets of his waist-coat and leaned back in his seat. “I set up the equipment to take these photographs, but I was not in Hopton Wood at the time they were actually taken.” He gathered the pictures together and closed the portfolio.

“If you would care to explain...” Vaughan began.

“That walk I mentioned last night - after breakfast we’ll take a stroll over to Hopton Wood. There is something there that I think you might find of interest. Stout boots will be in order.”

Vaughan had brought a pair, but I had not. Carnegie furnished me with a pair of hob-nails belonging to his brother, which were a comfortable enough fit.

We set out at eleven, my curiosity more than a little piqued. I considered Carnegie’s claim, that the shapes in the photographs were faces, far-fetched to say the least. But the fact was that something in the wood had prompted him to haul a good amount of heavy photographic equipment all the way from the Grange, and I could not hazard a guess as to what that might be. There was always the possibility, of course, that Jasper Carnegie was mad.

There can be few more beautiful landscapes than the English countryside when adorned with a fresh fall of snow. A bright winter sun was shining, and the effect upon the brilliant white mantle was almost blinding. When my eyes adjusted to the glare, I made out, stretching out before me, hills and vales softened by snowfall for as far as the eye could see: not a blemish marred the pristine perfection. The only contrast was provided by the vertical trunks of distant trees, dark strokes against the untouched canvas of the snow-covered land. It seemed like desecration to mark the fall with our footsteps.

Carnegie led the way, and I had to admit that he cut a somewhat comical figure in his ankle-length waxed coat and deerstalker. Vaughan and I followed, he striding out with his hands in the pockets of his tweed jacket and his pipe thrust resolutely before him.

Carnegie had packed a haversack with a thermos of coffee and, for good measure, a bottle of brandy. I felt like a schoolboy again, embarking upon some adventurous holiday outing.

Cranley Grange stood amid the rolling slopes of the Chilterns, with extensive beech woods covering the crests of the surrounding hills. We climbed for a time towards the distant trees, our steps compacting the snow in a series of high, musical notes. There was not a breath of wind in the air and the sunlight upon our heads was unseasonably warm.

After perhaps thirty minutes we paused to take in the view. I turned and stared down the incline at the Grange, reduced by perspective to the size of an architect’s scale model. I was impressed by the absolute stillness of the scene, the air of calm and solitude. The cares and concerns of London seemed a million miles away.

The occasional, muffled call of a hidden wood pigeon made the silence all the more profound. I could make out not one living thing at any quarter of the vast panorama; even the cloudless blue sky was innocent of birds.

We resumed our trek, Carnegie pointing the way with his shooting stick and panting as he climbed the hill.

As I followed, I reasoned that even if Carnegie’s quest proved to be nothing more than a wild goose chase, then at least I had enjoyed the outing and a break from the routine of city life.

“Ancient woodland,” Carnegie panted, gesturing up ahead with his stick. “It’s seen the history of England played out before it. If only trees could talk!”

I could see Vaughan contemplating this as he strode along. “Interesting idea, Carnegie. Intelligent trees, living long after humankind has quit the scene...” He fell quiet, contemplating the idea.

We came to the tree-line on the side of the hill and Carnegie paused. “Hopton Wood,” he said, pointing. “Not far now, perhaps a mile, and the going will be easier under cover of the trees.”

We entered the wood, passing single file down a narrow track between short ferns and tall beech trees. For the most part the snow had not penetrated the tree cover, and the effect was as if we had stepped from one world to the next, or from one season to another: we had left winter behind us, and were approaching spring.

The air was musty, something almost tobacco-like in the aroma of humus and dead wood. Sunlight slanted through the denuded branches, falling in columns and illuminating dust motes like swirls of smoke. The effect was almost fairy-tale.

Carnegie paused. Ahead of us, the path forked. “As children Charles and I haunted these woods,” he said. “Can you think of a more ideal place to play?” He smiled. “We’d be away for hours, and often got lost... father had to come hunting us.” I thought I detected sadness in his tone as he recollected those far-off days. He looked at us. “Do you know something, I was happier then than I’ve ever been since. The world seemed a limitless place, full of possibilities and opportunities, full of wonder. But we grow up, become mired in the petty concerns of the adult world, and somehow our horizons become narrowed.”

He waved his stick. “This way!”

Exchanging a glance with Vaughan, I followed.

We took the path to the right, which climbed a slight incline past a tangle of tree roots that had obtruded through the surface of the earth and become weathered and smoothed over the years. I imagined Carnegie and his brother sporting here as children. As I watched him now, striding ahead with his stick and deerstalker, it seemed that he might hardly have grown up.

We came to a clearing in the trees, a circular area perhaps thirty feet across. I knew, then, that there was something...
peculiar
about the place, but at the time I could not quite define what made me think this. Only later, in conversation with Vaughan back at the Grange, did it come to me: despite the lack of tree cover, not a flake of snow had fallen upon the clearing.

“This is it, gentlemen,” Carnegie declared. “This is where it happened.”

We were silent for a time, and then Vaughan asked, “Where
what
happened, Carnegie?”

He did not immediately reply. As if in a daze, he wandered off into the middle of the clearing and gazed about him, first looking up into the sky, and then around at the enclosing trees. At last he regarded the ground at his feet, and nodded to himself. He poked his stick into the soil, as if having satisfied himself upon some point.

I glanced at Vaughan and shrugged.

Carnegie looked up, staring at us.

“Step forward,” he commanded.

We did so, and he said, “Do you feel it?”

I said, “Feel what, Carnegie?”

“The change, the subtle shift.”

I concentrated. Undoubtedly it was warmer in the clearing, but this was accounted for by the fact that we were now standing directly beneath the midday sun.

“There’s a charge in the air,” Carnegie was saying. “Something almost... I don’t know... electric. Look at the hairs on the back of your hands.”

Feeling ludicrous, I did so. I noticed that Vaughan was also inspecting his hand.

I started as I realised that, improbably, Carnegie was right: the hairs on the back of my hand and wrist were standing to attention. At the same time I convinced myself that I felt a frisson, almost a shiver, pass across my flesh.

I stepped back into the shade of the trees and again inspected my hand. No longer were the hairs standing upright. Vaughan conducted the same experiment and frowned at me. “Very strange,” he murmured.

I stepped forward into the clearing, and this time I told myself that I did feel something, a charge in the air, a certain heat that could not be accounted for by the presence of the sunlight alone.

“Would you mind telling us what’s going on?” I asked.

Carnegie paced to the far side of the clearing and stood with his back to us for a time, apparently lost in thought. At last he turned and said, “It’s a strange tale, gentlemen, and to be honest I don’t rightly know what to make of it myself. I can but describe the events as they occurred, and see what you think.” He paused. “I’ll begin at the beginning, or the beginning as far as I can tell.”

I sat down with my back against the broad bole of a tree, and Vaughan joined me. Before us, Carnegie paced back and forth like an actor upon a stage, which in effect was what he was.

“I first noticed the phenomenon twenty-four days ago,” he said, “though I dare say it had been occurring long before that. I’m in the habit of walking late at night - there are times when sleep does not come easily, and I find that a turn around the countryside for an hour or two tires me sufficiently so that I can get a good night’s rest. On this particular occasion I had retired around ten, but could not sleep. I rose, dressed, and set off towards Hopton Wood. It was a clear night, and the moon was almost full. There was no snow, and thus the going was relatively easy. I was perhaps half a mile from the wood when I noticed the light.”

“The light?” Vaughan echoed.

“It was a brilliant blue radiance that seemed to emanate from the very heart of the wood. It appeared as a great fan-like aurora above the tree-tops, pulsing in a slow, regular rhythm. As I approached, I could see that the light was at its most intense at ground level, as it shone brilliantly through the trees, silhouetting their trunks.”

“Did you have any idea what it might have been?” I enquired. “Weren’t you apprehensive?”

He shook his head. “No, to both questions. I had not the slightest idea as to what might be causing the light, but I did not feel the least concern. Rather, I was intrigued, excited by the possibilities.” He smiled to himself. “Indeed, I recall hoping that the light might not have some mundane explanation - some campers or revellers or whatever.”

“It occurred to you that this might be the explanation?” Vaughan asked.

“I’ll try to apprise you of exactly my frame of mind as I stepped into the woods,” Carnegie said. “Though the light was of such a nature as I had never beheld before, yet I feared a simple explanation. I was in two minds - a part of me wanted to discover the fantastical, while the more rational side of my being knew that I would be disappointed when I discovered the simple truth.”

As I listened to him I realised that, from what he had told us thus far, there had been no simple explanation for what he had seen that night: our very presence here testified to the fact that he wanted us to investigate whatever it was that had occasioned the light...

“I hurried through the trees, following the glowing light. By the time I arrived at the clearing, I was exhausted, and realised I had run the last few hundred yards.”

“What did you see?” Vaughan asked.

Carnegie smiled and shook his head. “At the very second I approached the clearing, the light ceased, vanished as if it had never existed. The clearing was in darkness, but for the light of the moon. I searched for any sign of the device that might have been responsible, but of course found nothing. However, I did become aware of the atmosphere in the clearing. The air was charged, more so than it is now, and there was a certain aroma - almost a burning scent. Have you ever turned on an electric fire which has stood unused for a time? The reek of singed dust which arises then is something similar to the scent that pervaded the air that night.”