Manly Wade Wellman - John Thunstone 01 (20 page)

 
          
If
these temples are well built, it is requisite that they be converted from the
worship of devils to the service of the true God; that the nation, seeing that
their temples are not destroyed, may remove error from their hearts and knowing
and adoring the true God may the more frequently resort to places to which they
have been accustomed.

 
          
Philo
Vickery had mentioned that policy, Thunstone remembered as he listened.

 
          
Gates
finished reading, and fairly flung the paper down on the pulpit. His broad palm
slapped the wood resoundingly.

 
          
"There,
my people,” he said, "
a
missionary work was well
begun here in
Britain
. The Saxons proved adaptable, reasonable. Their very kings gladly
accepted the true faith. Their ancient places of worship were purified with
holy water and prayer and those places became Christian churches. Why?” His
voice rose suddenly. "The older cathedral at
Salisbury
stood on the site of just such a place of
pagan worship. And it was so with many, many others. Let me read to you from
John Milton’s beautiful work, ‘On the Morning of Christ’s Nativity.’ ”

 
          
He
then read extensively from that poem. He chose verses which described the
banishment of the gods of
Greece
and
Rome
, of
Philis- tia
,
Phoenicia
, and
Egypt
. Plainly he enjoyed the reading, and he
smiled as he finished.

 
          
“The
uncouth festivals of those barbarians also were adopted and adapted by the church
and its communicants,” he said. “Beltane became our happy May Day, when country
folk dance around the pole and choose their king and queen of the May.
Halloween, our eve of All Hallows, falls on the ancient date of
Saunhaim, the Celtic festival for the dead.
The old Midsummer Day, when
once Druids sacrificed human victims, is now
Saint John’s
. And so on. And, as I have said, all
throughout this land churches rose on the sites, the very graves, of heathen
rites and worship. More than a hundred such churches can be pointed out, in
England
and
Ireland
and
Scotland
and
Wales
, including our
church
of
St. Jude
’s.”

 
          
He
returned to citations from the Bible. He dwelt with relish upon the story of
how Elijah contended with the priests of Baal on
Mount Carmel
; of Elijah’s sneering mockery of Baal’s
priests when they could not pray fire down upon their sacrifice, Elijah’s
triumph when his appeal to Yahweh kindled his own
altar,
and the massacre of the unsuccessful priests afterward.

 
          
“Thus
have the true and false faiths contended, side by side, through time,” he
summed up impressively. “Now need we stir from here to see the evidence at
first hand?”

 
          
He
pointed a big forefinger, and the wide sleeve fluttered on his arm like a wing.

 
          
“Yes,
my people, out there!” he fairly roared. “Out at the edge of our own church’s
yard, our own holy
ground,
lies the relic of a false
belief that has not yet died! Though
Saint Augustine
and his fellow missionaries hoped and
strove, that thing exists and its ritual is observed in Claines, even upon this
day! You know what I mean. I mean the Dream Rock, and the dreams it gives are
dreams of the pit below the very floor of hell itself!”

 
          
He
gestured downward as he spoke, as though to indicate to his hearers where the
floor of hell was. A sigh went up from those who listened. They hung upon the
words he gave them.

 
          
“For
how many years, for how many lifetimes, has the Dream Rock been turned at this
midnight
?” he flung out at them. “And what does it
signify, portend, this annual turning? My people, I’ve looked into the most
ancient records I could find. And I have not found a year in those records when
the turning is not noted as taking place. At
midnight
—the witching time of night when, says
Shakespeare, churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out contagion to this
world. That’s always the hour when the Dream Rock is turned over in its place,
by those who think they have good reasons for the turning.” Gates flourished
both his big hands. “Reasons?” he said again. “What might those reasons be,
pray? I wonder if anyone here
present,
or away from
here at home in Claines, can give plain reasons. The custom’s been passed on
through time, from grandfather to father to son. I would feel no surprise to
learn that these turners of the Dream Rock are not sure themselves why they do
that turning. No! They turn the thing because it has always been turned, isn’t
that so?” He clenched his hands. They made fists as rugged as cobbles. “Oh
yes,” he said, “I’ve had advice on this matter, well-meant advice from high
places, about letting ancient traditions alone, letting ancient traditions take
their course, go on as they have gone so long. And, as you know if you’ve been
out at
midnight
of
a fourth of July to watch the turning of that triply cursed rock, you know that
never yet have I attended. But—”

 
          
One
fist raised itself on high.

 
          
“I’ll
be out there this
midnight
,”
he promised at the top of his lungs. “I’ll be present to forbid that turning,
forbid it as it is my duty —my duty as a clergyman, a man of God. And here and
now, let me give warning. I am a strong man of God. I have muscles in these
arms. God has given me these thews and sinews. He has found it good that I have
exercised them, schooled them. I can use them in the service of the right and the
true. And—”

 
          
Yet
another fearsome sweep of his blazing eyes.

 
          
“If
there are those out tonight who, in spite of my warning, try to turn the Dream
Rock, I shall oppose them; I shall resist them! Let my vow to do that go forth
in Claines, too!”

 
          
With
that he fell silent, and the church, too, was silent. He leaned heavily on the
pulpit, as though the vigor of his speaking had wearied him. He breathed
deeply, drawing in great panting lungfuls of air. Thunstone saw sweat on his
brow beneath the tossed fair hair.

 
          
When
he spoke again, it was quietly, almost tonelessly, to announce the offertory:

 
          
'To
do
good
, and to distribute, forget not; for with such
sacrifices God is well pleased.”

 
          
Mrs.
Hawes struck a chord on her organ and began to play a selection that Thunstone
did not know. Two men, dressed in suits of consciously decent drab cloth, came
forward to take gray plates and return along the aisle, passing the plates
along each pew in turn. Thunstone put a five pound note in the plate, noticing
as he did so that the plate was of dull pewter with a crude but interesting
antique design around its edge. Such a piece, he reflected, was undoubtedly old
and rare; a collector would pay a big price for it. When the collection was
finished, the two men stood at the head of the aisle and waited.

 
          
Rosie
sang a solo then, and it was a hymn that Thunstone had always liked,
"There is a Green Hill Far Away.” Her voice was pleasant, tuneful. When
she was done, the men fetched the plates forward and Gates recognized the
offerings with some words of prayer and placed them on the altar.

 
          
He
then pronounced the benediction. The choir began another hymn, while Gates
moved almost hurriedly away toward a rear door. The choir proceeded up the
aisle and
away,
and when the hymn was finished all
rose and moved to depart.

 
          
Mrs.
Fothergill spoke to several acquaintances on the way out, but stayed close to
Thunstone, a hand on his arm. Outside the front door, Gates stood, shaking
hands with men and women and speaking to them. Mrs. Fothergill made a fluttery
occasion of taking his hand.

 
          
"What an eloquent sermon, Father Gates,” she bubbled,
"but it was a bit frightening, too.”

 
          
"So
I meant it to be, Mrs. Fothergill,” he assured her readily. "Mr.
Thunstone, you kept your promise to attend services.”

 
          
"I
do my best to keep all my promises,” said Thunstone. "Now, we’re to
understand that you’ll be present beside the Dream Rock at
midnight
. I want to be present, too. That’s why I
came to Claines in the first place.”

 
          
“And
if 1 should need your help, Mr. Thunstone?
Your physical
help?”

 
          
“If
you need it, I’ll give it as well as I can.”

 
          
“Thank
you, thank you.”

 
          
At
least a dozen men and women stood listening. They stared at Gates, at
Thunstone, two big men who were promising to be there at
midnight
. Hob Sayle was one who watched and
listened. After a moment, he strolled to where the Dream Rock lay and gazed
thoughtfully down at it.

 
          
Gates
turned away to speak to another couple. Thunstone and Mrs. Fothergill walked
together along
Trail Street
.

 
          
Others
who walked on
Trail Street
met Mrs. Fothergill and Thunstone and spoke to them. Mrs. Fothergill
glowed as she exchanged words of greeting. Plainly she was glad to be seen
walking with Thunstone. They had almost reached her doorstep when she first
mentioned the sermon Gates had delivered.

 
          
“Those
were powerful words,” she said. “Fighting words, I should call them.”

 
          
“He
means to stop the turning of the Dream Rock tonight, that’s plain,” said
Thunstone.

 
          
“And
sounded ready to fight,” Mrs. Fothergill went on. “With his fists, I mean.”

 
          
“I
judge that he can do that,” said Thunstone. “He told me that he had boxed for
his university, boxed heavyweight.”

 
          
“I
don’t know anything about boxing,” confessed Mrs. Fothergill, “but I should
fancy that he would be quite good. And you told him you’d help him. Can you
box, Mr. Thunstone?”

 
          
“I’ve
done a little of that in my time.”

 
          
They
mounted the front steps and went into the hall. “Now,” she said, “you’ll be for
dinner with Mr. Ensley. Mightn’t I offer you a glass of something before you
go?”

 
          
“Thank
you, but Mr. Ensley will have drinks, and I’m no heavy drinker.”

 
          
“Oh, to be sure.
I quite understand.
Maybe
later this evening, then, before our little supper tonight.”
She smiled,
as though thoughts of supper pleased her. “Don’t eat too great a dinner; leave
some room for the ham and veal pie.”

 
          
“I’ll
leave room,” he promised.

           
“And when you come back, you can
tell me something about Chimney Pots.” Her smile became conspiratorial. “About
who it is who stays there with Mr. Ensley, that woman of mystery.”

 
          
“Doesn’t
anybody know who she is?” he asked.

 
          
“No.”
Mrs. Fothergill shook her head. “He brought her here in his car, oh about five
months ago. All anybody saw of her was her rich fur coat. And once or twice,
there have been glimpses of her, here and there among the trees behind the
house.”

 
          
“Then
she doesn’t come out into the village, to the shops or anywhere?”

 
          
“Not
she. And Mr. Ensley doesn’t speak of her, and nobody here would think of asking
him, wouldn’t ever dream. Nobody knows a thing of her, not even her name.”

 
          
“I
know that she plays the piano and paints pictures,” said Thunstone. “But I
haven’t met her.”

 
          
“Well,
if you should meet her today, bring back a report, then. I’m so curious.”

 
          
Up
in his room, Thunstone communed with his pipe. He promised himself an
interesting visit to St. Jude’s when the Dream Rock was turned at
midnight
, and permitted himself to wonder if David
Gates, with his sturdy determination and formidable fists, might not be able to
prevent that turning. In any case, Thunstone would be there to find out.

 
          
He
finished smoking his pipe, tapped it out, and slid it into the side pocket of
his jacket, along with the pouch that held the mixture of herbs and tobacco. As
he stowed the things away, he noticed that his small flashlight was still
clipped in his breast pocket. He left it there, picked up his sword cane, and
went out.

 
          
He
strolled slowly along
Trail Street
. A number of people were out in the bright Sunday air. Fully half a
dozen of these spoke to Thunstone, calling him by name. It was as though he
were a well-known, well-liked resident of Claines, where actually he had been
for less than three full days. His watch told him that it was almost exactly half-past
one when he came opposite Chimney Pots. He crossed over, mounted the wide, low
porch and swung the brass knocker on the massive door. He waited. Inside, the
piano made music.

 
          
Hob
Sayle opened the door to him, wearing a white linen jacket.

 
          
"Mr.
Thunstone,” he said. "Please come in, sir. Mr. Ensley is expecting you.”

 
          
"Yes,
Mr. Thunstone, come in.” That was Ensley, walking toward him in the entry hall,
with the music of the piano behind him. Bach, Thunstone recognized at once, a
two-part invention. Ensley was dressed in a tawny jacket and slacks, and in his
lapel he wore a tiny pink flower.

 
          
"Come
in, come in,” he invited again, taking Thunstone’s hand and shaking it.

 
          
Thunstone
leaned his cane against the stand of armor. He went with Ensley into the
drawing room he remembered from his previous visit. The music was there.

 
          
A
young woman sat at the piano. Thunstone’s first impression was of pallor, pale
hair, pale face, a sort of glow like a night-blooming flower. She stopped
playing and rose to her feet. She was tall and seemed taller for the
high-heeled shoes she wore. Her dress was of soft black fabric and it clung
close to her proud, slim figure. A rope of pearls hung around her neck and down
upon the soft curve of her bosom.

 
          
"Gonda,”
Ensley addressed her, "this is Mr. Thunstone. I’ve mentioned him to you.”

 
          
"How
do you do,” she said in a sweet, deep voice. She had an oval face,
creamy-skinned, with a short, pink mouth and eyes somewhat aslant and as blue
as the sea on a cloudy day. Her short hair, almost fleecily curly, was so blond
as to be almost ashen. She was not an albino, but it took a second look to make
sure of that. Thunstone had never seen so light a complexion.

 
          
"How
do you do, Miss Gonda,” said Thunstone, taking the long, slim hand she held out
to him.

 
          
"Please,”
she said softly, "my name is Gonda, only Gonda.
All the
name I use.” She spoke with the smallest touch of an accent.

 
          
"Gonda
is Norse,” contributed Ensley. "She is greatly talented in various fields.
You have heard her play, and these paintings on the front wall are hers. But
sit down and talk for a moment, and won’t you have a trifle of sherry before we
eat?”

 
          
Thunstone
and Gonda sat in armchairs. Ensley went to the sideboard and poured from a tall
bottle into stemmed glasses. He offered these, sat down himself, and lifted his
own glass. “Cheers,” he said hospitably.

 
          
It
was an excellent sherry. Thunstone sipped appreciatively, and looked at the
paintings Ensley had indicated on the front wall, paintings he had not had time
to study on his previous visit.

 
          
The
largest of them was done rather somberly in dark oils, brown and gray-blue and
gray-black, with only touches of brightness in two places. It seemed to be a
night scene, with a pale disc of a moon in the gloomy sky and a tag of orange
firelight on the ground below. Around the fire crowded figures, darker than the
darkness, barely touched by the glow of the fire. To Thunstone, they looked
like something he had seen.

 
          
“How
did you come to paint that, Gonda?” he asked.

 
          
“It
was what you might call a vision,” she replied.
“More or
less.”

 
          
“And
a highly interesting vision it is, wouldn’t you say?” asked Ensley from where
he sat. “Don’t you have visions, Mr. Thunstone?”

 
          
“Don’t
all human creatures have visions?” asked Thunstone in turn. “And don’t the
visions become realities sometimes?”

 
          
“I
can believe that,” said Gonda, her slim white hand poising her sherry glass,
while a jewel sparkled on her ring.

 
          
“I’m
interested in what both of you might say about visions,” said Ensley. “Mr.
Thunstone, you and I have touched on the subject before this. We recognized the
possibility that Claines is particularly rich in the stuff of visions.”

 
          
“I
remember,” nodded Thunstone. “And you spoke of times ten thousand years ago, in
the Old Stone Age.”

 
          
“Ten
thousand years ago is an even hundred centuries,” said Ensley. “Claines has
been here that long, in some sort of established community. My finds of
artifacts, of the traces of old habitations, prove as much.”

 
          
“And
Chimney Pots?” asked Thunstone.

 
          
“Hardly
as old as all that.” Ensley smiled. “Stone Age homebuilders had far less
elaborate notions of architecture. But Chimney Pots
has
been recognizable, name and all, for several centuries at least.”

           
“It has a true feeling of antiquity,"
offered Gonda.

 
          
“Of
course, it has gone through changes and alterations," Ensley went on. “But
it stands, I feel certain, where once a Stone Age habitation stood."

 
          
“Indeed?"
said Thunstone.

 
          
“After
dinner, perhaps, I can show you some evidence of that. Historically, I mean in
times of written history, Chimney Pots
was
some sort
of fortress. During the Wars of the Roses, that is, and again during the Civil
War—I’m speaking of our Civil War, Mr. Thunstone, not your American one. The
place came in for attack but was never taken, not even by Cromwell, who used to
take whatever fortress he attempted."

 
          
“And
your family has always been here," put in Gonda.

 
          
“Oh,
not quite," put in Ensley. “Nothing has always been here. Earth’s life has
been long and various. But we’ve lived here from far back in history; one might
say well before history. It is always a younger son who lives at Chimney
Pots—the Ensleys have a title and a fairly stately home, a good way off to the
north." He sipped at his sherry. “I’m the younger son of my generation,
you see. My brother, my elder brother, has only one son and is unlikely to have
another. So I feel fairly well established here."

 
          
“You
and all those younger sons before you," said Thunstone. “Does that
succession perhaps go back for those ten thousand years?"

 
          
“Exactly,"
said Ensley. “We have certain family traditions, which we take
seriously—written records and oral ones. When I was a boy, my elders instructed
me in those oral traditions, made me commit many things to memory."

 
          
“For
ten thousand years?" asked Thunstone again.

 
          
“Why
not for ten thousand years? Traditions hang on, don’t you find? Here,
may
I give you a little more of this sherry?"

 
          
“It’s
very good, but no thanks."

 
          
Thunstone
gazed at another of the pictures on the wall. It was an exaggerated
representation of a gigantic homed creature, seemingly a bull, in the act of
charging at the smaller figure of a man with a poised

 
          
spear
. The bull seemed to be stuck full of spears. The
colors were bright brown and black, with strokes of red.

 
          
“That’s
an interesting composition,” said Thunstone. “It looks like a painting from a
Stone Age cavern.”

 
          
“It
was suggested by just such a painting,” said Gonda. She twiddled her glass.
Again the jewels sparkled on her hand.