Home From the Sea Page 7

"Lucy!" I'm afraid I shouted. "Lucy!" I called again, but there was no answer.

  Mother was standing, wide eyed, at the foot of the stairs as I bounded down them, two at a time.

  "Anne! You are not five years old anymore. Decorum my dear. . . Decorum and comportment. . . "

  I did not allow her to finish.

  "Lucy. Where is Lucy!"

  My rudeness had left her, once more, speechless.

  "Do not speak to your mother in that tone. . . "

  "Mother," I said, more softly. "There is no time for decorum. Lucy is in danger."

  "Nonsense. She left in a carriage with that charming Lieutenant Barclay not five minutes ago."

  I pushed past Mother, heading for the door.

  "Wait," she called after me. "It is raining, and you do not have your overcoat."

  But I could not stop, for I had two images in mind that threatened to freeze my blood; one, of Lucy sucking her thumb at the Bath, and the second, Captain Wentworth's final words. . .

  Merely let it draw your blood and you will be lost to the dreaming god, as I am, lost in the blackness.

  Lost to the dance.

  I ran out into the night.

  ~-o0O0o-~

  I ran, until my breath came hot and dry in my throat and my lungs felt like they might burst. Mud had long since coated the bottom foot of my dress and encased my feet in lumps of cold unyielding clay, and the rain had plastered my hair flat against my skull.

  "I'm afraid I may need more lessons in decorum and comportment, Mama," I whispered as a carriage passed, its astonished occupants gaping at me as if I was some circus creature presented for their entertainment.

  I cared not. I only had one goal in mind; to reach Lucy. . . to reach Lucy and save her, before the dreaming god took her in a dance.

  ~-o0O0o-~

  By the time I reached Ladywell Manor I fear I was in a worse state to be accepted into polite society than even Mr Jacks the peddler. My dress was torn and splattered with mud nearly up to my waist, and I was as wet as if I had already taken a dip, fully clothed, in one of the famed baths.

  It mattered naught though. There was no one present to receive me.

  Only the shadowed eyes in the hawthorn heads watched me as I sped into the house, trailing mud across the fine-tiled floor.

  ~-o0O0o-~

  I had thought I might once more hear the frenzied dance of the harpsichord, but the house was silent, and the main hall was quite empty. All was still, save for the crackling of flame on log in the fireplace, and the slow waft of the drapes in the cold breeze that blew from the shadows beyond the open oak door.

  I stood there for long moments, unsure of my next actions. Just at the very moment when I might have misthought my intentions, there came the high piping of a flute, rising up from beyond the dark doorway. I allowed myself one last, lingering burst of warmth from the fire, then followed the ever-rising music, down into the darkness.

  ~-o0O0o-~

  The walls here were old, older still than the great house built around them. My fingertips brushed rough-hewn sandstone, damp and greasy with dark green slime; slime that covered ancient carvings long since worn with age.

  From beneath, the flute had been joined by a sing-song chant, soft at first, but growing ever louder until the very walls reverberated in rhythm, and I felt the beat of the wild dance call to my heart.

  And still I descended, to a place where the chill reached deep to my bones and I tasted the tang of the sea in my throat.

  The passageway finally levelled out, and I looked out into a rough-hewn chamber and a sight I hope never to see the like of again.

  ~-o0O0o-~

  The room was dimly lit by oil lamps spaced in niches around the wall. In truth, it was near dark, but there was more than enough light to see the damned revellers at this bacchanalia.

  They danced in frenzy around a dark well, chanting in time with the flautist's wild playing that rose up from the deep places below.

  I saw Lucy, whirled past me, first by Lieutenant Barclay, then by Captain Wentworth, her eyes staring, her mouth indecorously wide as she took her share of in the demented chanting.

  And deep in the well, their chant was answered, as voices, guttural and strange, rose to join the cacophony.

  The dance grew ever more frenzied; the chanting ever louder, until I felt my very heart would pound itself free from the bounds of my chest.

  The dance drew me, in small steps, slowly towards its whirling heart, but I was brought short as the first pale hand rose up from the depths of the well and grabbed at the rim.

  ~-o0O0o-~

  Soon it was joined by more. They pulled themselves up out of the darkness. Pale grey, almost translucent, they were gross parodies of the human form, distended and distorted by aeons in the dark depths. Their eyes, preternaturally large, shone in the dim light, and I do believe they smiled as their eyes settled on their prize; still dancing and whirling in the throng; my own precious Lucy.

  Even as the first of them pulled itself fully from the well and made towards her I was moving; not to Lucy's aid, but to the one thing in that hellish chamber that I knew might have the strength to help me.

  I ran to Captain Wentworth's side and touched his arm.

  ~-o0O0o-~

  The impact on him was instant; the dull stare left his eyes and with one glance he took in the situation.

  "Stay here," he said in the tone of a man used to command.

  He took two of the oil lamps from their niches, and strode into the cavorting throng.

  He reached Lucy at exactly the same moment as the first of the creatures.

  He did not hesitate. He slammed one of the oil lamps into the chest of the encroaching beast. It fell away, burning like a piece of paper held over a candle, dropping soundlessly into the blackness of the well where it was swallowed by the dark.

  The dance stopped abruptly, the participants momentarily confused.

  The Captain swung his free fist, hard, into Lucy's jaw, rendering her immediately senseless.

  In almost the same movement he had thrown her across his shoulder and turned, heading back towards where I stood.

  He handed me the oil lamp.

  "You saw how they burn?"

  I nodded.

  "Then come," he said. "We have scant moments left before they recover."

  With him leading, we made our way to the staircase. Even as I put my foot on the first step, I heard Lieutenant Barclay call out from behind us.

  "Wentworth. You cannot take her. She is of the dance."

  The Captain did not slow. He headed up the stairs, and I followed quickly behind, always keeping one eye on the shadowy depths.

  Below us, soft feed padded on rock, but I could see nothing but blackness beyond the range of the lamp in my hand.

  ~-o0O0o-~

  That long journey up the dark stairs seemed to take forever, but finally Captain Wentworth led us into the light of the hall and the heat of the fire.

  As if perturbed by the sudden change from light into dark, Lucy moaned.

  I turned, concerned, and when I turned back, Lieutenant Barclay stood in the doorway.

  He reached for me, grin widening. With no thought or hesitation I smashed the burning oil lamp against his chest.

  He did not so much burn as explode, a nest of wriggling tentacles bursting from melting flesh to thrash and writhe in time with inhuman screams and curses.

  An oily smoke rose to the ceiling, and small flames grew along the jamb of the oak door.

  Behind the burning body, saucer like eyes stared unblinking in the shadows.

  ~-o0O0o-~

  Captain Wentworth once more showed his quality. He stood Lucy beside me and threw his weight behind the oak door, slamming it closed. Several snake-like tentacles were left on our side, writhing still, and the howling screams could still be heard through the heavy oak.

  We piled everything we could find against the door; tapestries, drapes, even the harpsichord, although it pained
me to see such a fine instrument ruined.

  With a torch-brand made from a log from the fire, the Captain set it all alight.

  The screams from beyond the door grew ever more frenzied, and something heavy threw its weight against the oak.

  But the door held, and we had to stand back as the fire grew fiercer, starting to take hold of the wainscoting.

  Lucy grabbed at my hand. When she spoke it was in the same trembling voice I remembered from after her childhood nightmares.

  "Anne? What am I doing here?"

  I shushed her and led her back from the ever-growing flames.

  Captain Wentworth took my free hand.

  "Ladies. We should take our leave in search of better circumstances."

  Together, we fled from the hall as the fire took hold in the ceiling.

  ~-o0O0o-~

  By the time we reached the main entrance, the whole manor was aflame. As we passed through, the Captain, a look of grim satisfaction on his face, lit the hawthorn balls from the dying flame of his brand.

  We stood back and watched his home burn.

  ~-o0O0o-~

  There is little left to tell. Lucy has retired to Lyme Regis, where the good clean air and the company of fine gentlemen have quite revived her.

  But Captain Wentworth still suffers. Sometimes his head cocks to one side, as if listening, and his eyes take on a far-off stare.

  At those times, there is only one thing that eases his despair, and I could not in all conscience deprive him of this respite.

  Reader, I married him.

  The Larkhill Barrow

  Carnacki's card of invitation arrived just as I was starting to wonder what he was up to this time. On Friday evening I arrived at seven prompt at his lodgings in Chelsea at 427, Cheyne Walk.

  Carnacki motioned me through to the parlor where I found the three others already there awaiting me. It was not long before Carnacki, Arkright, Jessop, Taylor and I were all seated at Carnacki's dining table. As usual talk was confined to inconsequential gossip until we repaired to the parlor for after-dinner drinks. By the time we got our glasses filled and our smokes lit we were all on tenterhooks, eager for the tale of Carnacki's latest escapades.

  He did not keep us waiting, launching straight into a story that immediately had us captivated.

  *

  "I am sorry it has been so long since our last meeting," he began. "But I have been under a veil of secrecy that has only today been lifted. The reason for all the cloak and dagger flummery will become apparent as my tale unfolds, but let me begin by assuring you that it is as strange a story as any I have ever related, made stranger still for being performed under the auspices of His Majesty's Royal Artillery.

  "It began some three weeks ago with a telegram.

  "‘Request your services immediately at Larkhill Barracks. George Blandford (Colonel)'

  "Now you chaps know me by now. I am not the kind of man to turn down such a request, no matter how curtly it has presented itself. The next morning I was on a train to Salisbury and from there by cab to the testing ground at Larkhill.

  "I was almost turned away at the perimeter by an over officious guardsman, but once I showed him the telegram I was allowed through and was escorted by an armed soldier to a tented village. There, in the largest of the tents, I was finally presented to Colonel Blandford.

  "It was immediately apparent that the man was in quite a funk. Indeed, he seemed less like a military man and more like someone on the verge of diving into a bottle with no intent of surfacing. After no more than the most basic of introductions he launched into his story. As he talked, it was punctuated by munitions going off all around us, and that only served to lend verisimilitude to the yarn he spun.

  "‘Before I start,' he said. ‘I must inform you that this must remain strictly confidential. If word of what is happening here ever gets out, it may give the enemy a distinct advantage.'

  "I did not bother inquiring as to which enemy. There is always one.

  "The Colonel continued.

  "‘It began last week. We were ordered to start testing on a new gun, the Hotchkiss Mark I. We had it set up on a mound out on the plain that we have used in the past as a piece of higher ground. Gunnery Sergeant Rogers was keen to see what the new weapon could do and once we had the dummies in place he set about mowing them down, thirty rounds at a time. The air was full of the din for many seconds.

  "‘I went to inspect the damage to the dummies, but only got half way across the field when Sergeant Rogers started to scream. Now you must understand Mr. Carnacki, Rogers is one of the stoutest men I have ever served alongside. Yet he was in such terror that he had to be restrained forcefully to prevent injury to himself.

  "‘A few stiffeners in the mess later and he was more his old self again, but no amount of ordering was going to get him back on that mound. He has not talked of exactly what brought on such terror, but that night everyone in camp got a small taste of it.

  "The Colonel opened his desk drawer and removed a hip flask. He took a long smooth gulp.

  "‘It is the nightmares that do it Mr. Carnacki. Such dreams as no Christian man should have to suffer. Every time we fired that blasted gun on top of the mound the man on the gun suffered a blue funk. The night afterwards, the dreams returned to us all. And the drums -- the infernal drums.

  "‘After a while we stopped using the mound altogether. We could not get a man to go up there, even under threat of court-martial. But it was too late. The drums, and the dreams have continued for us all.'

  "His voice dropped to a whisper.

  "‘And they are getting stronger.'

  *

  "Now I have seen hysteria before now," Carnacki continued. "But never among a band of military men hardened by battle and united in camaraderie. At that stage I thought they might be suffering from a common delusion, but I would not know the details of the matter until I got to the cause.

  "That afternoon I went out onto the firing range with a young private who was clearly terrified even before we got close to the mound.

  "‘You do not have to do this,' I said to him as we left the Colonel's tent.

  "He was ashen-faced and his lower lip trembled. He looked to be no more than eighteen years old and his uniform had clearly been intended for a larger man. But his gaze was clear and bright as he looked me in the eye.

  "‘I have my orders sir,' he replied. "And Jimmy Carruthers ain't no coward.'

  "He led me out onto the range.

  "Almost immediately I saw the mound I realized what it was. It was a long barrow, a large example of the species that are found liberally scattered all over the Plain and surrounding hills. Remarkably this one seemed to be still intact, having never been plundered by treasure seekers.

  "I was soon to find that there was a good reason that this particular site had remained unspoiled.

  "Even before we started to make our way up the slight incline I felt the malign influence of the place. It thrummed, like a dynamo underfoot, and the young private stopped, unsure as to what he was feeling.

  "I put a hand on his shoulder.

  "‘I am here with you lad. Let us get this over with, then you and I can have a smoke and a beer in the mess.'

  "He smiled at that, and it was enough to get him moving, but by Jove, we wanted to turn and flee with every step. The view from the top of the mound temporarily relieved the symptoms. We looked out from a raised elevation over a large flat plain. Some five hundred yards distant stood a row of straw dummies – our target for the test.

  "The Hotchkiss gun lay under a tarpaulin and it was a matter of seconds before Carruthers was ready. He lay on his belly and set aim at the dummies. I pressed my hands over my ears, but the din when he started to fire was still deafening.

  "Now you chaps know that I have faced terror many times afore now, and have been so close to death that I have felt its cold breath on my face. But those times were all as nothing compared to the sheer funk that descended on me as those shot
s were fired and the mound began to echo in time.

  "It began with a reverberating vibration that shook the ground beneath us, as if a giant might be attempting an awakening from a buried sleep. Carruthers tried to stand but the shaking was so violent that he immediately fell back to lie on the ground beside the gun, fear huge in his eyes. The vibrations soon shook me to my very core, threatening to shake my flesh loose from my bones. I too fell on the grassy mound as darkness seeped in at the edge of my sight.

  "In less time than it took to draw a breath I was blinded, groping in the darkness as the ground rose and fell around us.

  "But that was not the worst of it. I was in blackness. But I was not alone.

  "A drumbeat had started and I felt it just as much in the pit of my stomach as I heard it in my ears – a giant drum, distantly far, but getting closer every second, beating as fast as my terrorized heart. Something moved in the dark, something huge. I was lost in a world of fear, like a child in a dark room when he senses movement under his bed. The blackness surged, washing over me in waves. I wished I were dead so that I might be free of this. Somewhere in the dark young Carruthers screamed, but try as I might I was unable to find him. I was utterly lost, utterly alone.

  "And just as I thought I could take no more, something in the blackness reached for me."

  *

  Carnacki paused to knock the ash from his pipe and refill it from his tobacco pouch. None of us spoke. We knew from long experience not to disturb the flow of the story at this juncture. There would be plenty of time for questions later – if any were needed.

  *

  "It was not my fortitude, but that of young Carruthers that saved us from any assault. By some means he got his hands in the weapon and fired round after round into the ground at our feet. My sight recovered sufficiently to see mud and earth fly where the shots tore into the ground. The giant drumbeat faltered. It did not stop completely, but its effects diminished sufficiently that I was able to drag the young soldier off the mound and onto safer ground.

  "The further we got from the source, the more the feelings receded until we were able to drop to the ground, ourselves once more, but totally spent.

  "And that is where the Colonel and the others found us, lying a hundred yards from the mound and too weak to stand, too weak even to speak. I was ignominiously carried off to a tent and a camp bed that felt better than any feather pillow.