The Sprouts of Wrath (11 page)

Griffin Island had until the great flap of ’84 been known as the Brentford Ait; a picturesque parcel of land about one hundred yards in length standing about another fifty out from the Brentford shoreline of the River Thames. To its rear the glorious gardens of Kew, and before it the New Arts Centre, which it faced with apparent lack of concern. Prior to the Hitlerian war it had supported one of the last great boatyards nearabouts, but now the dry-dock was choked with weeds beneath the iron skeleton of the old glass roof. It was very much a wildlife sanctuary, given over to nesting herons, cormorants and black-necked geese. At the island’s heart was a natural grove of thirteen cedars wherein, local legend held, certain rites were performed in the days of yore, by wizards of the day. Now it was the haven of courting couples who, armed with Wellington boots and a tide-table, performed their own tantric rituals, with one eye open to the rising Thames.

At eleven-thirty upon this particular evening, a tiny coracle, built in the traditional manner from willow and hide, and one of several that Omally maintained at well-hidden moorings, slipped out silently from a dilapidated quayside and drifted downstream upon the night-time river. Pooley steered the circular craft with the single oar and John sat before, gazing out into the darkness.

Ahead, at the western tip of the island, the glass and chromium tower rose from the foreshore to lose itself in darkness. Above, the stars came and went at irregular intervals as airships drifted to and fro about their extraordinary business. The dull hum of their engines had an almost somnambulant quality and the light mist, hovering upon the water, added the final touch to what seemed a dream landscape. The beauty and feeling of it was not lost upon the two boatmen.

“There is a little bay upon the north shore,” Omally whispered, “we’ll beach there.” Pooley swivelled the oar and the current bore the little craft onward without effort.

They had not as yet formed a definite plan of campaign. So far, they were down to watching and listening and only to actually intervening should things look as if they were actually getting out of control. As to exactly what form their intervention might take, or what exactly might constitute “out of control”, these were matters as yet undecided upon.

The craft beached soundlessly and Omally drew it up beyond the tide mark, turned it over and secured it to a tree. On furtive feet, the two men slipped into the undergrowth, moving towards the grove. If ceremonies were to be performed, it seemed to them likely that it was there they would be done.

Ahead, through the darkness, Pooley espied a flicker of firelight. He placed his hand upon Omally’s arm and pointed. With a sobriety which was unnatural to them, the two crept nearer until they reached a suitable vantage point.

Five figures could be clearly seen, seated in a ring about a small fire of driftwood. In their duffle coats it was impossible to discern the sexes of the campfire sitters, but earlier observation suggested that they were the same five as seen in the Swan. Two young men and three women, each in their late teens or early twenties.

Omally uncorked his hip flask and pressed it to his lips. He took a slug. “Seems harmless enough so far,” he whispered. “A bit of a ging-gang-goolie.”

Jim accepted the proffered flask and drew upon it. “If the sausages on sticks come out then I suggest we join them.”

In the distance the Memorial Library clock did its duty, and struck the midnight hour. As its last chime faded into silence, the five figures climbed slowly to their feet and removed their duffle coats. The skulking duo pressed their faces forward in rapt attention. As the duffle coats dropped to the ground it was revealed that all five wore nothing whatever beneath. They were stark naked.

“Would you look at that?” said John Omally.

“Just try and stop me.”

The celebrants now kicked off their Wellington boots, linked hands and began a slow, clockwise perambulation about the fire, chanting softly.

“This has definitely got the edge on the boy scouts,” said Jim in a hushed voice. “I wonder how you join.”

The vigour of the dance increased, the chanting became more audible. Words reached the two voyeurs, words they neither knew nor understood: “SHADDAI EL CHAI ARARITA ADONAI TETRAGRAMMATON, SHADDAI EL CHAI ARARITA ADONAI TETRAGRAMMATON.” The words had a hypnotic quality and Pooley soon found his head bobbing to the rhythm as the naked bodies cavorted in the glow of the twinkling firelight. It was as if he had flown back through the ages and was witnessing some ancient fertility rite at a time when the earth was young and men and the elements were but a single body.

Omally, however, was made of sterner stuff. “This may not be too clever,” he croaked into Pooley’s mobile ear.

“Ssssh!” said Jim. “It’s just a singalong. Good clean fun.”

“It’s witchcraft,” said John, “witchcraft.”

“Really?” Jim looked on with renewed interest. “Orgies, do you mean?”

“We will have to stop it.”

“Are you mad? You don’t get this stuff on the telly.”

“We will have to stop it, Jim.” Omally rose to his feet, he made as if to cry out but the words, whatever they might have been, never left his throat.

With a sudden rush something swept down from above. It was large, dark and ferocious and it dropped directly into the fire with a great shriek, scattering the dancers to every side.

As the two men looked on in horrified fascination the thing drove down amidst the flames, extinguishing them.

And now the light was uncertain and the terror could only be glimpsed. Cries and screams rose in the darkness, above them horrible roars as of some jungle beast. Great wings buffeted the air and Omally saw a gigantic head, like an eagle’s, though grossly magnified, rise and fall, driving its cruel beak amongst the writhing bodies that tumbled and fled before it. Yet the thing was not altogether bird — it moved upon four feet and a hellish barbed tail whipped and dived.

Pooley and Omally, numb and speechless, fell back as a naked female plunged by them into the darkness beyond, crying and screaming. They saw a man lifted from his feet and wished to see no more. Turning tail they ran. The cove glowed silver-white in the moonlight, the naked woman was nowhere to be seen. In blind panic, knowing not what could or should be done, numb with fear and horror, they tore the coracle from its mooring, thrust it into the Thames and rowed away.

The french windows of Professor Slocombe’s study were, as ever, open. John and Jim tumbled through them, panting and wheezing. The old man sat at his desk, before him a galleried silver tray held three glasses and the inevitable whisky decanter.

The Professor raised his ice-blue eyes from his books as the two white-faced survivors blinked at him. Laying aside an ivory-handled magnifying glass, his gaze left his uninvited guests and came to rest upon the decanter. John did not require a verbal invitation. Grasping the thing by the neck he splashed Scotch into the three glasses. “No ape,” said he, “no ape, Professor.”

“No,” said the sage, “no ape. Now if you are able, contain your feelings and tell me what you have seen.”

With tumblers clutched in whitened knuckles the two took up fireside chairs. At Pooley’s prompting Omally recounted their tale of terror.

At length the Professor raised a slim forefinger. “This time I must telephone for the police,” he said. “You have no guilty secrets to hide and therefore nothing to fear. If people have died upon the island then it is a matter for the civil authorities. I will telephone at once.” Pooley and Omally shared wary glances, hunched over their drinks and said no more. The Professor made his call. “Is there anything else you haven’t told me?” he asked as he replaced the receiver.

“Nothing,” said Jim. “We’ve done nothing wrong, Professor, we’ve stuck to our side of the deal, as you are no doubt well aware.”

“I can find no fault in your behaviour, Jim.”

“So what was it?” Omally demanded. “And don’t give us ‘performing monkey’.”

Professor Slocombe placed his thumbs and forefingers together and pressed the former to his brow. “It would appear to be witchcraft as you surmised. Those that choose to practise the dread art forever risk the consequences.”

“But I understood that this particular bunch were ‘white’.”

“The dividing line has a tendency to waver. Do you recall any of the words of their incantation?”

John scratched his curly head. “Adonai,” said he, “and tetra-something, gramaphone, I think.”

“Grammaton,” said Professor Slocombe. “Tetragrammaton. The four syllables that represent the unknowable and unpronounceable name of the Judaic god. The most powerful of all names of power. These children were, as you say, ‘white’.”

“So what attacked them?” Omally’s voice was scarcely to be heard. “And killed them?”

“They were attempting to raise a cone of power, of protection, if you like. But to do so one must be well versed and well protected psychically. Such is the product of years of training. These youths had not the wherewithal to protect themselves. The man that dares consult the dead expects in return to hear the truth. He that would conjure with the gods dares amply enough by any reckoning, he needs must seek protection.”

“From what?”

“From primal forces, elementals, old evil that can be conjured but rarely contained. That which is sought is not, by experience, always that which is found.”

“It was the griffin,” said Jim, “the Brentford Griffin, they found.”

“In as many words, yes, it was. Whether the griffin exists in flesh and blood reality is debatable, but in occult terms, in folk memory, in the subjective, the common consciousness, the imagination which is at the heart of all magic, then yes. It was called into objective existence. It is primal, uncontrollable.” The Professor rose suddenly to his feet. “And in all probability it is still out there.”

“O misery,” said Jim burying his head.

“We must get over to the island at once,” said Professor Slocombe.

“You speak for yourself.” Pooley sought invisibility behind his glass.

The island was ablaze with lights. Several River Police launches were moored along the Brentford side, beacons flashing. Teams of constables and officers moved to and fro with torches and flares.

The Professor, accompanied by two most dissenting dissenters, arrived in the scholar’s skiff. Here they were greeted by Inspectre Hovis, who helped the old gentleman from the boat and wrung his hand. “Professor,” he said, “I alerted the force at once. I fear this is a bad business.”

Professor Slocombe greeted the policeman as an old friend, which didn’t surprise Pooley or Omally in the least, as John secured the Professor’s slim craft to the branch of a tree. “I am a little miffed that you did not contact me upon your arrival to the borough, Sherringford.”

Sherringford?
thought Pooley.

“Professional pride,” the detective explained. “I had of course the wish to renew our acquaintanceship, but under happier circumstances than those I find myself in at the present.”

“You are here upon a case then?”

“The most important of my career. Such vexations as this I frankly have no need of.”

“So what have you found?” Professor Slocombe strolled off up the beach, arm in arm with the detective, and their conversation went beyond Pooley and Omally.

“I might say that there was safety in numbers,” John patted his pockets in search of tobacco. “But to be surrounded by such a force of the English Garda frankly affords me anything but security.”

There was at least an ounce of optimism left in Jim, so he said, “Look on the bright side, the Professor spoke the truth, we are guilty of no crime.”

John shook his head doubtfully. “I do not share your blind faith, Jim, give us a roll-up, will you?” Jim passed Omally his tin, John rolled a fat fag. “I suppose we’d better follow,” said he, pocketing Jim’s tin. Without any great enthusiasm the two men followed in the Professor’s wake, Omally humping a heavy calfskin case that the elder had packed specially for the occasion.

Near the grove they halted. The place was now floodlit and thick with the fuzz. Characters in white coats took measurements and photographs. Constables stared blankly, shared illicit cigarettes and spoke in Neanderthal tones.

Inspectre Hovis led the Professor to the centre of the grove. “I can surmise to a reasonable degree of exactitude what events occurred, though there are of course certain grey areas.”

“Then what do you have?”

“I have a dance of some sort and by the evidence of the discarded clothing, a naked dance.”

“How many?”

“Five, two men and three women, young and energetic. There has been an attack of some kind, there is blood, but no bodies.”

“I see. Have any of your officers observed anything strange in the vicinity?”

“Such as?”

“Then no matter. What do you suppose attacked these people?”

“That is one of the grey areas, Professor, whatever it was came down from above, there are …” Hovis hesitated.

“There are …” prompted the Professor.

“There are other footprints, very large, not human. I am having casts made.”

“I would appreciate a set, if possible. I am currently following a line of research which might lead to interesting conclusions.”

Hovis stroked his chin. “If you are prepared to confide your findings then, certainly, this is all a bit out of my line.”

“You have my word on it. Now I would ask you a very great favour. Request that your men make haste with their operations and vacate the island as quickly as possible.”

“You ask the impossible, Professor.”

“Sherringford, I would most strongly recommend you to do as I say.”

Hovis stared long and hard at the ancient scholar, sufficiently long in fact for Professor Slocombe to implant the concept of “immediate withdrawal for the sake of safety” firmly in his mind.

“We will withdraw immediately,” said Sherringford Hovis. “I will speak to you later this morning, an answer or two in return would be greatly appreciated.”

“Then so be it.” Hovis pressed his hand into that of Professor Slocombe’s, the handshake was unconventional but significant.

John and Jim were sharing the remains of the hip flask and a single fag. They watched in no small wonder as at the Professor’s request the lads of the force withdrew from the island, mounted up their launches and motored away into the darkness.

“Such power,” said John respectfully, “and he wastes it upon honest dealings.”

“I heard that,” said Professor Slocombe. “The case, John, if you please.”

Pooley peered around at the now all but deserted island. “Professor,” said he, “I was thinking to have a go at your rose-bed first thing, an immediate sojourn to my own might prove favourable.”

“The tide is up, Jim, you’d best stay.”

“But my work! Late nights do not agree with me.”

“You are excused duties for tomorrow. John, the case.”

Omally hefted the case. “Where do you want it ?” he asked.

“Here, where the fire has been.”

“All aboard,” said John Omally.

“Kindly lay out the contents.”

Omally applied himself to the locks but they would not budge.

“My apologies.” The Professor made a profound movement with his fingers above the case. The catches sprang.

“I think,” said Omally, “that Jim and I had best away. Leave you to your work.”

The Professor did not dignify the remark with a reply. He flipped down the sides of the case, exposing a cluster of mysterious accoutrements, bottles, flasks, crystals, strange indefinable objects. Blowing on to his fingers, he withdrew something that resembled a folded table-cloth. This he shook out before him. The thing was dark, characterized by a circle enclosing a pentagram, the whole wrought with cabalistic symbols. The Professor laid the cloth before him and stroked out its creases, mouthing certain words and phrases. He stepped into the circle, which was only of sufficient size to enclose himself alone. “Hand me the case, John, do not cross the line of the circle.” Omally did so. “And now withdraw.” Pooley and Omally did so, at the hurry-up. They retreated to what they considered a safe distance and squatted amongst the bushes. An owl asked who, but Jim did not reply. “And now …” Professor Slocombe delved into the case and laid about him a strange collection of articles: a lamp, which he lighted, a rock of a colour yet uncatalogued, a silver dish into which he decanted a dark liquid which solidified on the instant of contact, an emerald sphere and certain small caskets which seemed to tremble, as if containing living forms.

John drew Pooley back into the darkness, powerful magic was at work here. “I can’t be having with this,” whispered Jim, “it is all most unfair.”

And now the Professor stood up in the circle and raised his arms to the four cardinal points. For the second time in a single night the two men heard the words of power called forth: “SHADDAI EL CHAI ARARITA ADONAI TETRAGRAMMATON.” About the Professor the lamplight seemed contained, it ceased to reach beyond the boundaries of the circle, all else was lost in darkness.

Omally crossed himself and began the Hail Mary. Jim crossed his fingers and said, “Feinites.”

The ancient magician exhorted the ancient gods, those who were at one with the elements. The words flew from his mouth in rapid, well-practised succession, never faltering, each falling upon the last as part of a stream of consciousness, of understanding.

It was old magic, old and tried and proven beyond the possibility of error or doubt. And the two men who looked on in wonderment knew, knew that those things the Professor understood, that the world he inhabited, was not their own.

Many things passeth understanding and knowledge is given only unto the few.

“OMNE AUM AMEN AMOUN.” Professor Slocombe slumped into the circle, worn, wasted and silent.

John and Jim rushed immediately to his assistance. John cradled the old white head and pressed his hip flask to the parched lips. “Professor,” he said, “are you all right? Speak, speak.” The old eyes opened, the lips moved, John withdrew his flask and drained away the final measure.

“There is nothing more,” said Professor Slocombe, his voice coming as from a great distance. “Nothing, it is gone, we are safe.”