The Pendragon Legend (13 page)

“I see,” said the priest, “it’s a secret. The Earl keeps his activities secret. But in vain. All in vain. Because, you see, it has come to the light of day. What never could bear the light of day. Do you know, sir, what was caught in the Castle Lake this morning?”

“In the Castle Lake? What was?”

He gazed at me in triumph, as at a man exposed.

“Come.”

He led me with quick, short steps to a small hut, where the
macabre
tools of the grave-digger leant against a wall. It was a dark, damp, unfriendly place. In a corner stood a table with something lying on it. Though I couldn’t make out what it was, in the darkness it filled me with a most unpleasant feeling.

“This is what was caught,” he announced, bringing his torch to bear on it.

One of the Earl’s monsters lay there, lifeless.

It was no longer transparent but a shapeless lump of jelly, in the early stages of decomposition. It was revolting.

“Do you recognise it?” the vicar asked.

“I do. It’s one of the Earl’s miraculous animals. How did it get into the Castle Lake?”

“That’s something you ought to know.”

“Me?”

“Yes. I implore you, as an immortal soul, to do something about it. This sort of thing cannot carry on. I can’t remonstrate with him—I depend on him for everything. You, sir, must take action. He cannot pollute God’s pure lakes with these unspeakable
monsters
.”

“How was this one found?”

“I shall tell you. Do you know that Pierce Gwyn Mawr has
disappeared
? Someone—a half-crazed peasant—told me he’d seen Pierce’s ghost rowing on the Castle Lake one moonlit night. He wasn’t alone … ”

The vicar seized my arm, glanced furtively around, and
continued
in a whisper:

“He wasn’t alone. There was someone with him. A giant, he said, in strange black garments like the ones worn by the night watchmen of the Castle. My first thought was … yes, there was no other conclusion … it was the midnight rider. But now I know who it really was. The monster has betrayed him.”

“Who was it?”

“Who else could it be but the Earl of Gwynedd? He was hiding the monster in the Castle Lake. We went there at sunrise. The waves washed it ashore … ”

But it was not the Earl of Gwynedd, I said to myself. He might have looked like the Earl, but it was someone quite different. Or, who knows … ?

But I said not a word about my own nocturnal adventures. Stay out of this, don’t get yourself involved … Janos Bátky from Budapest. It’s no business of yours … Mere scientific curiosity …

“You are a famous doctor,” the vicar suddenly began, in a rather different parsonical tone. “The Hippocratic oath requires you to do no harm, but to serve mankind in its suffering. As a physician
of the soul I appeal to you, I implore you, I require you with the full weight of my authority, to abandon your horrible experiments forthwith.”

“Sir, you are mistaken … ”

“I am not mistaken. I know everything. The creature is an
axolotl
; it comes from Mexico. The Earl brought it back from his travels in America. There it is much smaller. By some secret and unnatural means the Earl has grown it to ten times the size God made it. With an extract of cow’s thyroid. It’s an abomination.”

“Why an ‘abomination’?”

“I also know what the Earl does with these animals. He suspends their vital functions. He freezes them. He poisons them. Then he revives them again. Some of his axolotls have died as many as ten times, and are still living.”

“That’s amazing!”

“And I know why the Earl is doing this.”

“Why?” I demanded, seizing his arm.

“The Pendragons’ motto—or rather their curse!
‘I believe in the resurrection of the body.’
This heresy has led to the ruin of the greatest sons of the house—Asaph Pendragon, Bonaventura Pendragon, and now the present Earl.”

“How can a belief bring a man to ruin?”

“The Earl has brooded over it so long it has clouded his
understanding
. Can you not see the connection? He wants the power for himself to raise the dead … the dead Earls at rest in the vaults of Pendragon.”

Now I felt certain I was talking to a lunatic. As Osborne had said: a degree of mild abnormality is essential for anyone who crosses the threshold of Llanvygan.

“Excuse my interrupting, Reverend, but does the Earl ever
discuss
his experiments with you?”

“The Earl? How could you think it? The Earl considers me an idiot. I owe my parish to that fact. He would never tolerate an intelligent priest in the neighbourhood.”

“Then how do you know all these details?”

“From Dr McGregor, poor man.”

“From whom?”

“From Dr McGregor.”

McGregor … where had I heard the name? Of course, the mysterious telephone caller …

“Who was this Dr McGregor?”

“You don’t know? He was the young doctor who was here a few months ago to help the Earl with his experiments. A decent, upright Scotsman, a very good man—apart from his experiments. But … he came to a bad end. A motoring accident. He’s dead. He was your predecessor. Think about it, before it’s too late. Think, sir, of your immortal soul. I’m sure I can count on you. I see in your eyes that beneath your hardened exterior a human heart is beating, one that is capable of understanding … Give me your word.”

Good Heavens, get this madman out of here. What has any of this to do with me—this Castle Lake, these glutinous corpses? … I’m leaving this afternoon.

“Reverend, on my word of honour, I am not a medical doctor. As I live and breathe. My father and mother and all my aunts wanted me to be a doctor, but I had no talent for it whatsoever.”

“You aren’t a doctor?” he asked, in deep amazement. “Then what are you?”

“Er … it’s not easy to define. Let’s say, for the sake of simplicity, a historico-sociographer. Or something like it. But by no means a doctor. Upon my word, I’ve never witnessed a dissection in my life.”

The parson clutched his head.

“More complication … Historico-whatever … then why did you let me say so much? About such dreadful secrets? Excuse me … delighted to make your acquaintance, quite delighted … ”

“The pleasure is mine.”

I took a deep breath and made off rapidly.

That same afternoon we all set off for Pendragon.

Passing through the village, we met the Rev Jones. Etiquette required that we stop for a little chat.

“Tell me, vicar,” said Osborne, “when were you last up at Pendragon?”

“Not for ages. Five months ago, when some archaeologists came and I took them up.”

“Have you heard any talk of someone living up there now, in the ruins?”

“I have indeed,” he replied after some hesitation, and rather nervously. “Several people have noticed lights in the tower.”

“Who do they think it might be?”

“We’d prefer not to say, if you don’t mind. Lately the Earl has been going up there rather more often. It could be him, spending the night up there. Possibly he has a guest up there. It’s not for us to enquire.”

He stared straight ahead, clearly embarrassed.

“All the same,” continued Osborne, “it seems unlikely that such a strange event wouldn’t be discussed in the village. Tell me
candidly
what people are saying.”

“Osborne, please don’t think that I pay attention to the foolish gossip of peasants,” he replied, colouring deeply. “Besides, the Earl owns the castle, he can do what he likes up there. I for one can’t imagine a gentleman such as himself entertaining his lady friends in so bleak a place as the tower.”

Osborne roared with laughter.

“Lady friends? That’s not very likely. At most, the Pendragons
tolerate
women within the limits of marriage, and even then without much enthusiasm … Now, we have a notion to go up there. Won’t you join us, vicar? We might well need you for a spot of exorcism.”

The vicar went pale.

“Osborne … Do you really intend going there?”

“Of course. I see no reason why I shouldn’t.”

“Oh dear God,” … He wrung his hands. “It’s impossible, impossible … My dear sister, as you know, is endowed with some remarkable abilities.”

“I know.”

“Just this morning, she said … ”

“Well?”

“That some mortal danger awaited you if you went up to Pendragon.”

“Sensational. How would she know that?”

“Don’t forget, she foresaw the recent attempt on the Earl’s life,
which almost succeeded. I didn’t mention it then because I didn’t fully trust her abilities, I didn’t want to cause unnecessary alarm, or be thought superstitious. My conscience has troubled me ever since for my faint-heartedness.”

“Tell me, vicar … Could we not discuss this with Miss Jones herself?”

“But of course—that would be best of all. We should be greatly honoured if you would visit our humble abode.”

We stepped out of the car. The vicarage was a few yards away, and we went in.

Miss Jones was seated beside the window in the back room. She apologised for receiving us sitting down.

The tiny old woman was almost completely hidden under the pile of blankets. Only her long, narrow and remarkably ugly face could be seen. She had the intense, burning eyes of visionaries and myopics, that seem to gaze inwards rather than out.

“Jane,” the parson began, rather anxiously, “Osborne desires to go up to Pendragon.”

The old woman’s face became convulsed, as if she’d received an electric shock. She voiced some meaningless sounds, regained her capacity for speech with much difficulty, then said:

“Dear, dear, dear Osborne, do not go to Pen-Annwn.
Penn-Annwn
is the mouth of Satan. A terrible time awaits the whole House of Pendragon. You are every one of you in mortal danger. For you in particular, it would be death to enter the grounds of Pen-Annwn.”

“Thank you very much for the depth of your concern for me, Miss Jones. But, as an interested party, and an admirer of the science of prophecy, I’m enormously curious to discover exactly how you can know this with the certainty of something you’d read in a newspaper.”

She became completely calm, and deadly serious.

“Do you believe in the power of dreams?” she asked.

“No, I don’t,” he replied. “If I did, I should long ago have had some terrible experiences with women. I often dream of one who turns out to have no face. Then I need to climb this staircase, but I always slip back down. But this has never happened to me in real life.”

“I believe in dreams,” I chipped in.

“Really?” the old woman said.

“In psychoanalytic terms.”

“In what?” she asked. She was a little behind the times.

“Well, it isn’t the sort of thing one would explain to a young lady.”

“Whether you believe in dreams or not … ” she began: “if you don’t, so much the worse for you.”

There could be no more joking. It was obvious that the old woman would be deeply offended if we didn’t take her seriously.

“Would you please, Miss Jones, tell us your dream, and explain its meaning,” said Osborne.

The old woman’s face assumed an expression of satisfaction.

“Pull your chairs up closer and listen carefully. Last night I dreamed I was a young girl, walking outside, along the bank of the river. I was wearing an enormous Florentine hat.”

This, for a start, stretched the imagination.

“And Arthur Evans … did you know Arthur Evans? No, you couldn’t have known him. But I’m not going to tell you
everything
, only the most important things. Well, I told Arthur to go on ahead, and I’d follow just behind. And then suddenly there it was, standing before me, the dog … Do you understand? The dog.”

The old woman began to cough, expressively and heart-
rendingly
.

“Forgive me, what dog?” Osborne asked, when Miss Jones had done coughing. “This one here?”—and he pointed to the
half-dead
Pekinese at her feet.

“Oh no, it wasn’t a dog, it was an angel. The dog was standing there, don’t you see? The one with the white coat and the red ears.”

“Ah.”

“I was terribly afraid. But I couldn’t run away. Then the dog looked at me and asked, ‘What are you having for your tea?’ ‘Cauliflower,’ I said. ‘And coffee. Oh yes, and there was a little strawberry cake,’ I told him. I didn’t want to be less than
truthful
. ‘Young shoots must be eaten,’ he said. ‘They’re very
nourishing
. It’s what I’m having today.’ ‘And where are the young
shoots?’ ‘In my head,’ said the dog. And there was something green sprouting from his head. This frightened me so much I woke up.”

“A very interesting and instructive tale,” said Osborne. “I
particularly
liked the bit about the strawberry cake: tell the truth and shame the Devil. It’s just that I don’t see where I, and Pendragon, come in.”

“You don’t understand? Truly? But it’s as clear as day. The dog—of course you know this, don’t pretend otherwise—was Cwn Annwn, the dog of Hell. The young shoot it wanted to eat was you, Osborne, the young shoot of the family. And the dog’s head, the head of Cwn Annwn, is Pen-Annwn. Pen is Welsh for head. Pen-Annwn is the true, the Welsh, name for Pendragon. Dreams always speak in Welsh.”

“I see.”

“Well then … dear Osborne … promise me, a poor old soul, that you will never go up to Pendragon.”

For a moment he hesitated. Then, to our great surprise, he gave his word. We took our leave of the vicar and his sister, and climbed back in the car. Osborne drove out of the village, towards Pendragon.

“So what now?” asked Maloney. “We’re not going up?”

“Of course we are. But I had to promise. I know the old girl. She’d die of worry. The poor old thing has been on the point of death these three years, anyway. She’s particularly fond of me. Besides … what a sensation if I really did die now up in Pendragon. The prophecy would be fulfilled. I’d become a
legend
, like my ancestors who lived in nobler times. I’d be like one of those Homeric heroes whose death is prefigured three cantos beforehand. Sensational.”