The Pendragon Legend (9 page)

“Yes,” interjected Cynthia, “but we’ve since then more or less concluded that it could have been a mounted patrol on its way to the coast.”

“Oh yes, we’ve concluded,” the vicar mused … “the devil we’ve concluded!” he burst out, and turned crimson. “Ten years I’ve been vicar here, and never yet have we concluded anything; in fact …… I beg your pardon; I humbly beg your pardon. These days my nerves are in shreds. I really am terribly sorry … ”

And he gestured like a man about to sink with shame.

“At any rate, I’m off to see old Habakkuk,” said Osborne. “Won’t you join me?”

And we made our way down to the village.

The prophet was seated in an armchair outside his house,
surrounded
by a large throng of people, all straining to catch his disconcertingly quiet utterances. With his flowing beard, he
certainly
looked the part.

This was not the wild and hysterical ranting I remembered from Hyde Park Corner or from charismatic Salvation Army rallies. He neither rolled his eyes nor spoke in tongues, like his
transatlantic
colleagues who have developed prophecy into a successful line of business. His speech was as regular and deliberate as that of any elderly peasant recounting his experiences.

“And this is how it will be, unless you change your way of life. I don’t wish to accuse any individual: you all know I am speaking in the common interest. You can see for yourselves how it is across the whole of Wales. They have shut down the mines in Pembroke and Caernarfon. Tens and tens of thousands are unemployed,
and the Devil finds work for idle hands. Someone from Rhyl told me that the sea is very different from what it used to be. Anglesey fishermen have caught a fairy-child who declared that a famine is on its way …

But I had no idea what all this meant until two weeks ago, when I met the Dog myself.

I had climbed Moel-Sych, and night was falling. I was sitting on a rock, when suddenly I saw him, up on the meadow, at about a hundred paces. His coat was snow-white, his ears blood-red, just as in the old tales I heard from my grandfather, Owain Gwyn Mawr. He was digging, digging … I did not dare to go over to see what it was he was digging … but of course I knew—he was
digging
the grave of some important person. Many, many will die, in Wales and in England, people who think now that they will live their full span on earth … ”

He drew a Bible from his pocket and read from the Book of the Apocalypse. He declaimed a chapter as far as the words
‘
and I shall give him the morning star
’
, then continued reciting from memory.

“And they brought forth the Book of the Seven Seals, which no man might open, only the Lamb of Sacrifice. And when the Lamb had broken open the seals, the Angel sounded his trumpet, and behold, the Horsemen appeared. The First Horseman rode a white horse, and in his hand a bow, and on his head a crown. The Second Horseman rode a red horse; to him was given the power to take away the peace of the world. The Third Horseman sat on a white horse, and in his hand a pair of scales. The Fourth Horseman sat on a horse that was mortally pale, and his name was Death. And those who do not bear the sign on their brows will be trodden in the dread winepress of the wrath of God. Every island shall vanish, and the mountains will be no more.

“Last night, I saw the Horsemen. The horses’ heads were the heads of lions, and from their mouths came forth fire and brimstone. For the day of reckoning is at hand.

“Repent ye, therefore, before it is too late. Except ye do this, woe unto ye, oh people of Wales: your days are numbered.
”

My second night got off to a better start than the first. There was no wind, and after dinner I went for a moonlit stroll in the park
with Cynthia. My thoughts had become decidedly more positive than they had been the day before.

Cynthia told me about her childhood—all very boring, but I took it as a good sign. If you wish to attain intimacy with
members
of the opposite sex, you make an effort to share your past with them, to make them no longer strangers, newcomers to your life.

I fell asleep early, and remained that way until one in the
morning
, when I was woken by loud voices in the corridor, both male and female. At first I was very angry at having been disturbed. “Do they really have to stage their little folk festival outside my door?” I wondered, still not fully awake. “The Singhalese hold it a crime to wake a sleeping dog. Next time I’ll go there.”

But further sleep was out of the question. The din was
becoming
louder and more agitated. They were talking, I gathered, in Welsh: I couldn’t understand a single word.

I got up, got more or less dressed, and went out into the
corridor
. There I met my acquaintance from the previous night, John Griffith, with two more giants in fancy dress and two
housemaids
, in very little dress at all. But the scene was no cheerfully amoral idyll. John Griffith was no longer a figure to strike fear. His Shakespearean doublet was unbuttoned, revealing his nightshirt. His colleague had a halberd in his hand, but was holding it upside down, like a broom.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

They stared at me, without reply. There was more jabbering in Welsh. Then they all ran off down the corridor.

I ran after them. By now I too was thoroughly agitated.

We stopped in a vast, barely furnished room, and listened. From some distance away, strange noises could be heard—as if
someone
were praying, in a sort of chant.

“Sir, just now he was speaking English, but now I’ve no idea what it means.”

I listened closer, and understood.

“Panem nostrum quotidianum da nobis hodie. Et dimitte nobis debita nostra … ”

It was the Lord’s Prayer in Latin, intoned as for Mass.

“Who could be saying Mass here?” I asked.

“Mass? Oh my God!” one of the girls exclaimed, and promptly began to sob. For the Methodist Welsh, Roman Catholicism is still the work of Satan.

“It’s been going on all night,” said Griffith. “Praying and
wailing
, and speaking in tongues. Earlier on, it started humming, like this:”

And he hummed the
Marseillaise
.

“But who is it?”

“We can’t find him. We’ve searched everywhere. We just can’t find him.”

Suddenly we heard footsteps approaching. The girls fled, shrieking, into a far corner. The man with the halberd levelled his weapon at the door.

The door opened.

In stepped Cynthia, clad in some sort of riding costume, with a revolver in her hand. She was obviously enjoying the role of intrepid Amazon.

“Hands up!” she shouted at us.

We raised our hands. She recognised us, and we lowered them. She blushed, and apologised.

“So you heard it too? What is it?”

But the noise had gone quiet. Griffith told Cynthia what he knew, while she stared uncomprehendingly.

“Singing the
Marseillaise
, and intoning Mass? These motifs are unprecedented in the history of the house. In fact, quite alien to the folklore of these parts. We really must note them down.”

Again footsteps could be heard, more rapid this time, and another footman burst in.

“He’s in the library. Definitely the library.”

We hurried off towards the library. At the great oak door Griffith and his companions stopped and stood, awe-struck. There is something thoroughly daunting about a closed door.

By now the voice was clearly audible.

“And when the Lamb shall break open the seal, the angel shall sound his trumpet, and the Horsemen will appear … The First Horseman shall ride a white horse, a bow in his hand, and a crown on his head … ”

The visitation spoke in a sonorous, if somewhat nasal voice,
with a distinct Welsh accent. It was rather like the way Swabians speak Hungarian, saying ‘b’ for ‘p’, and ‘d’ for ‘t’. And it was having trouble with the ‘s’ as well, lisping, as Welsh peasants often do.

“Why, it’s Pierce Gwyn Mawr,” exclaimed Griffith.

And indeed it was. It was repeating what the prophet had said earlier, word for word.

“Impossible,” said the man with the halberd. “Every entrance is locked. There’s no way he could have got in.”

“Oh my God,” cried one of the girls. “Ghosts can pass through keyholes.”

“How could it be the ghost of old Pierce?” said another. “He’s still alive.”

“It could be his double. It happened to my uncle. It went and got completely drunk down at the Elephant, and the next day he had to pay the whole bill.”

“Let’s just go in,” I suggested. It had dawned on me what all this was about.

But only Cynthia and I dared enter. We switched the light on, and the voice immediately stopped. Cynthia’s face was extremely solemn, and a little fearful.

“The moment has arrived,” I said. “You may be present at the birth of a new family legend.”

We searched the library high and low. We looked behind every curtain. One by one the others came and joined in. But in vain. Half an hour went by, but the voice remained silent. Then I had an idea.

“Let’s move on,” I said. “He isn’t here, he’s in the room above. The sound is coming down the chimney breast, through the open fireplace. That’s why it seems to be coming from here.”

Griffith and his entourage rushed out of the room. I
manoeuvred
the situation so that Cynthia and I lingered behind. By the time we reached the door the others were well down the corridor. I pulled Cynthia back into the library, gestured for her to keep silent, and turned the light off.

The moment darkness returned, the apparition resumed its chanting. It continued reciting the Book of the Apocalypse from exactly where it had left off.

Cynthia gripped my arm in fear. It made me feel like a strong, protective male, and I put my arm around her. Then I stroked her hair, to give her courage. She did not protest.

I blessed the worthy domestic ghost for providing me with that one moment of closeness, which was to lead to far greater
intimacy
and tenderness. Now we were linked together: we had a shared memory, and a shared secret.

I took her by the hand and led her on tiptoe to the fireplace. There was no longer any doubt that this was where the sound was coming from.

I bent down and pointed my torch upwards. It was just as I had thought. Squatting in the chimney, in the foetal position, was Osborne. From the gramophone on his lap the voice of Pierce Gwyn Mawr continued to declaim the Book of the Apocalypse.

“Hide and seek, Osborne?” I said. “We’ve found you. Down you come, little boy.”

He climbed down, showering soot everywhere and looking very pleased with himself. “Pretty good, hey, Doctor? I’m particularly chuffed with the old man’s solo. I recorded it this afternoon. If you can keep mum, it’ll be the start of a new legend. Tomorrow the Reverend and his sister will reveal their metapsychic explanation of how the prophet managed to say his piece at Llanvygan House, and a hundred years from now the Cynthia of the day will
pronounce
it yet another fascinating bit of lore, to be collected and posted off to
The Brython
. Now come on up to my room and let’s drink a Hennessy to the terrors of the night.”

We followed him up. It was the first time I had seen his room. It was fantastic. I think the intention was to recreate a tropical
bungalow
. There was no bed, just a hammock. Every bit of furniture was made of bamboo, and suspended from the walls. At their foot, a little ditch ran right round the room, filled with water.

“To keep snakes out,” he explained. “Cynthia, you must drink to sibling love. Properly speaking, we are co-workers. I create the legend, you record it. Doctor, you are perhaps not aware what an eminent folklorist my sister is. She has published two articles.”

“Oh, shush!” Cynthia exclaimed.

He took down a journal from the wall. It was entitled
The Brython
. He opened it at a short item of twenty lines on ‘Christmas country
dances of Merioneth’. It was signed: ‘Hon Cynthia Pendragon, Llanvygan.’

I congratulated her warmly. She was highly embarrassed, and immensely proud. I don’t think she would have given it up for forty ancestors. That’s women for you.

“I cannot approve of what you’ve been up to, Osborne,” she said solemnly. “If you go on like this you’ll completely undermine folkloric research. After this I can never again be sure what is genuine and what is humbug.”

“That’s just it,” he replied. “That’s how it must have been in the olden days—half miraculous happening and half practical joke.”

“Were you perhaps the midnight horseman as well?” I asked.

At that precise moment a loud report was heard.

“What’s that?” cried Cynthia. “A revolver!”

“Never,” said Osborne. “A revolver at Llanvygan? Someone must have slammed a door.”

“No, no, that was a revolver,” she yelled. “Come on. Let’s go and see what’s happening.”

We dashed out into the corridor and raced wildly through
several
rooms and hallways. And how different they looked, in the terror of night. The furniture seemed curiously elongated, and black hooks protruded from beneath the carpets, tripping you as you ran. Footsteps were heard approaching, and terrified servants burst in from all sides—there were at least two hundred in the building.

We found nothing on the first floor. But we did encounter Maloney, coming out of his room in his pyjamas, looking extremely dishevelled.

“You heard it too? Like someone being shot … ”

Then Rogers, the butler, appeared, and took charge of the
situation
.

“Quite possibly the shot was fired upstairs, on the second floor. We will have to break into the Earl’s apartments.”

The same thought was forced on everyone … Cynthia had turned a deathly pale. The Earl … perhaps he had taken his own life, after reaching the nadir of depression, with no hope of relief? Had the omens and prophecies been correct?