Manly Wade Wellman - John Thunstone 01 (10 page)

 
          
One
I love, two I love,

           
Three I love, I say,

           
Four I love with all my heart,

           
And five I cast away . . .

 
          
Listening,
Thunstone smiled above the pen in his fingers. For a moment, he almost joined
in the song for the sake of old times, but decided against that. He let her
sing the next verse by herself:

 
          
Counting
leaves is not the way

           
A body's love to prove,

           
For the very one I cast away

           
Is the very one I love.

 
          
He
heard her move away to work somewhere else. He studied the letter he had
written and put it in an envelope. He thought of all he had heard, all he had
wondered, since coming to Claines. He mused on a hint, from somewhere, of
danger.

 
          
Finally
he made a careful copy of all his notes from the first, and this took him
considerable time. He wrote on a card, in big letters:

 
          
SEE IF THIS INTERESTS YOU. IF YOU DON’T
HEAR FROM ME BY MONDAY OR TUESDAY, COME TO CLAINES AND SEE WHAT S HAPPENED. YOU
MAY WANT TO BRING HELP.

 
          
J. THUNSTONE

 
          
He
folded the sheaf into the largest envelope he had brought with him and
addressed it to Professor Leslie Spayte at the University of London. He put
stamps on the bulging envelope, and took both his letters out to seek the post
office.

 
          
Thunstone’s
watch said it was nearly five o’clock. Overhead, dull clouds had begun to roll
up across what earlier had been a sky of soft blue. They rose above the horizon
to westward and sent out exploratory tendrils of dark gray. Thunstone headed
past Albert Porrask’s machine shop. Porrask was inside the open door, his
massive body stooped as he peered into the motor of an automobile. Next door,
at the Waggoner pub, a little knot of men lounged. As on the previous evening,
they were waiting for the door to open.

 
          
He
strode past the side street along which he had adventured to Sweepside, and
looked at Old Thunder. On the white border line of the huge, rude image clung
two dark dots, men working to cut and smooth away the turf to let the white
chalk show through. Porrask and his mate who had been there earlier must have
been relieved by another pair, and Ensley had seemed to have something to do
with directing the work and its performers. Thunstone remembered how Ensley had
spoken praise to Porrask, condescendingly lofty praise, and had told him he
would be relieved at the job of outlining the figure. That had been a casual
dismissal of sorts for Porrask. Then Ensley had flared into anger when Porrask
had called his attention to Constance Bailey at her herb-gathering. Certainly
there had been nothing casual about Ensley’s dismissal of her. However Ensley
supervised the annual repair of Old Thunder, Constance Bailey was to have no
part in it. Thunstone had felt embarrassment that he had been present at her
banishment.

 
          
He
passed the cindery-dark pile of Chimney Pots across Trail Street, and again
approached the little church they called St. Jude’s. Gates, the curate who
wanted to be a vicar, likely sat in his study, but Thunstone had no notion of
calling on him there. Gates would certainly be at work on his sermon for day
after tomorrow, the sermon he had promised to make memorable in Claines.

 
          
Thunstone
paused beside the Dream Rock, but this time he did not touch it with the
ferrule of his cane. He studied the markings upon it. At what would have been
the upper end before the thing fell were the remains of carved or chiseled
lines, washed and worn by who could say how many
centuries,
that
might have suggested eyes and mouth, a face that looked up at him.
Nor was that
face dissimilar to the greater outline of Old
Thunder’s face
on Sweepside yonder. Elsewhere on the fallen pillar
showed a faint pattern of marks like chevrons, with lines and
loops.
Writing of a sort? Did the ancient dwellers at
Claines tread the fringe, the threshold of true writing? Thunstone wished for
several scholarly friends, men whose judgment would be better than his, to come
and study the Dream Rock. They might even manage to decipher the writing, if
writing it truly was, might give its message to the modern world.

 
          
He
continued on his way past the church, past the last house on Trail Street, and
reached the murky stream that bounded Claines to the east. He had had a walk of
considerably more than a mile. He moved out on the concrete bridge and leaned
on the rusted iron railing and looked down into the water.

 
          
It
moved slowly, did the water of Congdon Mire. It had nothing like the bright ripple
of the little brook at the foot of Sweepside, the brook that must flow into it.
The current crawled as dark as a shadow in winter. No light bounced upon it
from the sky overhead that was now well cloaked with clouds. Congdon Mire
rolled stealthily below the bridge, seemed to writhe its way along like a great
gloomy snake. There was no way of judging depth, but Thunstone could guess that
anyone who fell in would be over his head. He surveyed the flow and wondered at
the proportion of solid matter in the liquid. And what sort of solid matter?

 
          
As
he stared, light came from somewhere into that slow current. First
came
flashes, as if reflected from a mirror. Then circles
like halos, one after another, glowing, blinding, greatening, rising. He had a
sense of faintness, and clutched at the upper rod of the iron railing.

           
Into his ears stole a throb, like a
ruffle of approaching drums. He planted his feet apart to hold himself where he
was.

           
“Sir, are you all right?”

 
          
It
was the voice of Constable Dymock, anxiously raised. Dymock pedaled his bicycle
swiftly along the bridge and sprang off to catch Thunstone strongly by the
elbow. His mustache quivered. “Are you all right?” he asked again.

 
          
“I
am, now I am,” Thunstone replied. He was not looking into Congdon Mire now, and
his head cleared. “I had a feeling of faintness just now; I don’t know why.”

 
          
Dymock
still held him by the arm. “Some people do go dizzy here on the bridge,” he
said. “Once or twice, someone has fallen in. I’ve had that feeling myself in my
time.”

 
          
“Why
does it happen?” asked Thunstone, feeling better.

 
          
“I’ve
wondered that, but I’ve never heard it explained. It seems to affect walkers on
the bridge at this time of year, more or less. The weather, I fancy.”

 
          
“The
weather’s been beautiful,” said Thunstone.
“Even if it
rains.”

 
          
Dymock
stooped and picked up Thunstone's cane. “Here, you dropped it. Handsome stick,
that. Good job it didn’t fall off the bridge.”

 
          
“I’m
glad I didn’t lose it,” said Thunstone, taking the cane back. “It was given to
me by an old friend.” He turned back toward Claines. “Thanks for troubling
about me.”

 
          
“Not at all.”

 
          
They
walked along the bridge together, Dymock trundling his bicycle. A truck passed
them. Its driver honked and waved, and Dymock waved back. “I know that chap,”
he said. “He delivers dairy products along this highway. I see him sometimes at
the Moonraven. He says he wouldn’t live in Claines if they gave him free rent.”

 
          
They
were off the bridge now, walking along beside Trail Street. “Why won’t he live
in Claines?” Thunstone asked.

 
          
“As
I remember his talk, he was made nervous by Old Thunder up there on the hill.
Says he spent one night in Claines—it so
happens
that
it was this time of year again, around the first of July. He stayed at Mrs. Fothergill’s
where you’re staying.” Dymock looked thoughtful. “He says that Old Thunder came
to his window where you’re staying.”

 
          
“I
had a sort of dream of my own there last night, but nothing about Old Thunder,”
said Thunstone. “All right, Officer, what do you make of all this strange
evidence?”

 
          
“It’s
not evidence so far, only conjecture, only a question. The first thing I
learned at police school was to stick to facts, not conjectures.” They were
passing St. Jude’s by now. Both of them glanced down at the Dream Rock. It
looked like a long carcass of some sort, a carcass flayed and pallid.

           
“May I say something, Mr.
Thunstone?” said Dymock suddenly. “Connie Bailey said you were kind to her
today.”

 
          
“Oh,
that,” said Thunstone. “She’d gathered some plants and dropped them, and I
picked them up and saved them for her.”

           
“You were kind to her,” repeated
Dymock.

           
“You seem to like her,” ventured
Thunstone.

 
          
“Yes,
sir, I do like her. I don’t know why Connie is hated and mistrusted in some
quarters; she never tries to hurt anyone. She does call herself a white witch.
But now, I’d suppose that
witch
is a
word coming from wit or wisdom, and perhaps she’d be better off to call herself
just a wise woman.
Because she does have wisdom.”

 
          
“As
I understand, the word
witch
seems to
derive from the
old
Saxon word
wicca,
’’said Thunstone.
“Wicca
meant sorcery.
Wickedness
may be a
word related to
wicca
,
and some argue that.”

 
          
“In
any case, there’s nothing wicked about little Connie,” said Dymock definitely,
“and there’s nothing on the statute books to say that witchcraft of itself is a
crime. I’ve no reason to suspect her or arrest her.”

 
          
They
were walking in front of the Waggoner pub. Men moved into it and out of it.
“What sort of place is that?” Thunstone asked.

 
          
“Oh,
quite respectable, I’d call it,” replied Dymock. “Yes, and needed here. The
Moonraven is a capital place, but Claines is a trifle big for just the one pub.
The Waggoner takes care of the overflow from the Moonraven, and it has a
clientele of its own.” He leaned his bicycle beside the front door. “I'll go
in, just for a check. Would you care to join me?”

           
“Thanks, I'll have some dinner at
the Moonraven.” Thunstone looked at his watch. “It's a minute or so past six,
time to eat."

 
          
“I
hope to talk with you again," said Dymock, and entered the Waggoner.

 
          
As
Dymock went in, Porrask came out. He stood with his feet planted wide and
watched Thunstone walk along the street. After a moment, he followed.

 
          
Thunstone
came to the paved space in front of the Moonraven and paused for a moment
beside a parked car. Without seeming to, he saw Porrask approaching. He went
into the Moonraven and to the bar, where Mrs. Hawes filled him a pint mug of
lager. A number of customers sat here and there, eating and drinking. Thunstone
carried the mug to a table and hung his cane on the back of a chair. Porrask,
too, approached the bar, ordered a drink, and went to another table.

 
          
The
plump waitress came smiling to where Thunstone sat. “Would you be taking dinner
with us, sir?" she asked.

 
          
“What’s
for dinner tonight?"

 
          
“Well,
it’s Friday, and we have good fish, fresh or smoked. Or if you don’t fancy
fish, maybe a nice slice of ham with peas."

 
          
“What’s
your fresh fish and what’s the smoked fish?" Thunstone asked her.

 
          
“The
fresh is fried plaice and the smoked is finnan haddie. Chips with
either one, of course, and
a salad."

 
          
“Let
me have the plaice and chips," decided Thunstone. “As for the salad, can
you just bring me some lettuce and some oil and vinegar? I’ll mix my own."

 
          
“Very
good, sir, thank you sir."

 
          
She
trotted away to the kitchen door. Thunstone took a sip of his lager. People at
the bar and at the tables chattered. From a radio set
came
a reedy, mournful strain of music. Porrask sat drinking. He stared toward Thunstone
without looking directly at him.

 
          
Some
minutes passed, and the waitress fetched a tray to Thunstone and set down a
plate of fish and chips, another with a pale green wedge cut from a head of
lettuce, and cruets of oil and vinegar. He paid her and tipped her. Carefully
he shredded the lettuce in his big fingers, poured on oil, then sprinkled salt
and pepper. He stirred the salad with a fork, ate a morsel, approved it, and
then tried the fish. It was crisply brown and sweet. He seasoned it with vinegar
and dripped some on the chips.

 
          
Porrask
was eating, too, an enormous sandwich from the edges of which fluttered red
fringes of ham. He finished his pint, went to the bar, and brought himself back
another. Sitting again, he scowled down at the mug,
then
scowled toward Thunstone. Other customers chatted over their plates and mugs.

 
          
Thunstone
finished his dinner and let the waitress clear away the plates. He sipped
slowly at his pint of lager. Porrask was heading back for what would be his
third.