Manly Wade Wellman - John Thunstone 01 (19 page)

 
          
Back
in his room, he put on pajamas and stretched out on the bed. As before, he left
on the light. Hands behind his head, he thought and thought.

 
          
Here
he lay under the protection of the electric light, late in his own twentieth
century. Switch off the light, and he would instantly go back yet again to that
other remote century. Did Gram Ensley mean something about that time when he
kept talking about ten thousand years ago? If Thunstone turned out his light
now and returned to the lichened hummock he had begun to know, he might have
company close at hand, unfriendly company armed with sharp stone weapons. He
had told Constance Bailey that he did not fear death, and he did not fear it,
but he felt no zest for courting it just now. Very likely he would have ample
chances for courting it later.

 
          
He
went to sleep at last, and slept soundly. His dreams were not of bleak night
landscapes and dancers in firelight, but of pleasant moments in faraway cities.
He thought that he sat at a table, sipping wine and talking to someone he knew,
someone with fair hair and rosy cheeks,
who
smiled and
smiled her happiness to be with him.

 
          
Waking
in the morning, he shaved as usual and went back to his room to dress as
conventionally as possible for a Sunday visit to church. He put on dark
trousers instead of the checked ones he had been wearing, a white shirt and a
soberly patterned necktie and his dark jacket. Downstairs, Mrs. Fothergill
welcomed him radiantly and introduced him to three other guests, two women and
a man, and they went in to sit down to breakfast.

 
          
'This
is the day you Americans celebrate, Mr. Thunstone," said Mrs. Fothergill,
pouring coffee. "The Fourth of July, your Independence Day. We British
rejoice with you. It’s too bad that we aren't the same nation now."

 
          
"Amen,"
said one of the ladies. "You say you'll be at church today. We drove in
past that church on our way from
London
.
Noticed it.
It's
a small church, isn't it?"

 
          
Mrs.
Fothergill obliged with some talk about St. Jude's, how old it was, and how it
was really only part of a larger parish at Gerrinsford. She amplified with talk
about David Gates the curate and his almost frantic activity on behalf of St.
Jude's. "But not a great many attend services," she said.
"Today, this morning, I don't expect attendance to be out of the
twenty-five or thirty."

 
          
"More,
then, at your church here than at our home place," said the other lady,
buttering toast.

 
          
"Will
Mr. Ensley come to church today?" Thunstone asked Mrs. Fothergill.

 
          
"If
he does that, I’ll wonder at it," she said. "He attends very little,
though they do say he makes contributions. Mr. Ensley is a more or less secret
man, withdrawn. Today you’ll be entertained by him the second time since you
came here—first time was on the Thursday, right?"

 
          
"Friday,"
said Thunstone.

 
          
"Not
many get inside Chimney Pots twice in the year."

 
          
Breakfast
over, Thunstone strolled outside. The morning was bright, warm, with sunshine.
He gazed up at Old Thunder on Sweep- side. The figure looked more misshapen
than before, and Thunstone wondered if it had been relined in any way. A voice
spoke beside him. It was Constance Bailey.

 
          
“What
is it, Mr. Thunstone? You're having a look at Old Thunder."

 
          
“Yes,"
he said. “Have you noticed that, in that other place you and I can go when it's
dark, Old Thunder glows?"

 
          
“I
don’t think I’ve noticed," she confessed. “I’m always too afraid to notice
any much of things."

 
          
“But
it’s not Old Thunder I’m thinking about," he told her. “I’m thinking about
how the people of Claines turn the Dream Rock every year, always at
midnight
."

 
          
“Always
at
midnight
," she repeated. “The witching hour,
somebody said."

 
          
“That
was Shakespeare," said Thunstone. “And once I heard somebody explain
midnight
as the logical time for strange, evil
things to happen. I think I can quote what he said exactly, it made a big
impression on me." He paused, remembering. Then:
“ 'It’s
exactly midway between sunset and sunrise. Allows the supernatural force to
split the dark hours halfway—half for the summoning of courage and strength to
come forth, half to do whatever is in hand to do.’ ’’

 
          
Constance
Bailey stared at him, impressed. “I say, I never thought of the thing like
that, but it’s the solemn truth. Whoever told that to you?"

 
          
“His
name was Rowley Thome. He was an enemy of mine."

 
          
“Was?"
she said after
him.
“Was?
You mean,
he’s dead?"

 
          
“I
earnestly hope so," Thunstone said. Still he gazed up the slope toward Old
Thunder. “Tell me," he said, “does that figure seem to move?"

 
          
“It
shimmers," she said. “Dances, you might say. Maybe the sun on it makes it
happen like that in my eyes."

 
          
“Maybe,"
he said. “How did you rest last night?"

 
          
“Oh,
all very well, considering," she replied.
“Slept with my
light on.
I fancy Mrs. Fothergill wouldn’t like my light burning, but I
did

 
          
leave
it. Otherwise—” She shuddered. “Otherwise I'd have been
out there, out where you and I know. If I may ask, did you rest well too?”

           
“After I got back,” he said. “I
ventured back into that place and time.”

           
“
Ow,”
and
she shuddered again. “What happened?”

 
          
“Several interesting things.
I’m still speculating on them.”

 
          
He
turned his back on Sweepside and watched traffic on
Trail Street
. The other overnight guests came out of the
house, got into a little car that surprisingly held them all and their luggage
too, and went driving away toward the east. As they went, they chattered about
how excited they would be at the place for which they were bound. Thunstone
speculated that excitement enough would involve Claines when the Dream Rock was
turned at
midnight
.

 
          
Dream
Rock, he said to himself. What had the Dream Rock once been, what had it
represented? What relationship was there between the Dream Rock and Old
Thunder? Again he turned and gazed up at the outline in the chalk. It seemed to
dance again, shimmer again, as when he and Constance Bailey had stood looking.
That couldn't be natural.
But it shimmered and danced,
natural or not.
Thunstone wondered what sort of danger he had come to in
Claines.

 
          
He
thought yet again about death and the fear of it, and the times he had come
close to death. There had been Rowley Thome whose name he had mentioned to
Constance Bailey, Rowley Thorne who had known so much about the night side of
nature but had not known as much as he had flattered himself. There had been
those strange people the Shonokins, sure of their title to the American
continent, menacing but not undefeatable.
And once or twice a
vampire, and once or twice a werewolf.
Here in Claines, what threatened?
For something threatened. Nobody seemed to know what, except perhaps Gram
Ensley. And he would be taking dinner today with Gram Ensley, at that huge old
house called Chimney Pots.

 
          
He
looked at his watch. It was well past nine. He went back inside. Mrs.
Fothergill beamed at him through the door to her little room that did duty for
parlor and office.

 
          
“When
will church services be?” he asked her.

 
          
“Why,
at eleven, of course/’ she replied. “I’ll leave here at about
half past ten
. Will you walk there with me?”

 
          
“It
will be a pleasure,” he said.

 
          
“Yes,”
she agreed.
“A pleasure, Mr. Thunstone.”

 
          
He
went up to his room. There, he carefully filled a pipe with tobacco,
kinnikinnick, and the shredded bark of red willow. He sat and kindled the pipe
and gazed into the rising cloud of blue smoke. That, Long Spear had told him,
was one way to see visions of what might come. Such visions would be a welcome
change. Just then, Thunstone felt he had had quite enough of visions of the
remote past.

 
          
The
smoke rose in a slaty puff, another puff, another. It seemed to spread out like
a fabric. Thunstone gazed into it, trying to see something.
If
Long Spear could see things in smoke, why not Thunstone?
He gazed. He
stared.

 
          
And
saw something, faint, puzzling. He kept his eyes fixed, hoping it would clear.
It cleared, a little. He sensed, rather than saw, what was there.

 
          
At
first he thought that a great, grotesque animal was moving past in front of his
eyes. It looked like a distorted dream figure of a dark bull. But though it
moved, somehow it seemed static. No movement of the feet. Then he saw what the
thing was—a picture of some kind, bizarre but at the same time workmanlike, a
true picture of a bull. And it did not move. He moved; he was going past it.

 
          
Abruptly
the sense of it faded before his eyes. He saw something else. It seemed to be a
lattice like tracery of lines, and the figure of a man was there against it. He
was only a smudgy outline, somebody of powerful build, his hands raised upon
the lattice.

 
          
As
Thunstone looked and wondered, the picture dimmed. The smoke was dissolving
into the air; it took the picture with it.

 
          
His
pipe had gone out. He reached into his pocket for a packet of matches, but did
not strike one to rekindle the mixture of herbs and tobacco in the pipe. If
Long Spear had been present, Thunstone might have done it. Long Spear was not
only a chief of his people, he was a medicine man, could make strong magic. He
would be a help here, would interpret. Thunstone wished for him but, without
him, decided to evoke no more visions.

 
          
A
glance at his watch told him that it was neady
half past ten
. He rose, looked in the mirror to
straighten his necktie, and went downstairs.

 
          
Mrs.
Fothergill met him in the hall. She had changed into a summer suit of pearly
gray, and upon her mass of hair rode one of the flattest hats he had ever seen.
In one hand she carried a black prayer book, red-edged.

 
          
“Oh,
ah,” she said. “Are you ready to go to church, then?”

 
          
“If
you are,” he said.

 
          
Side
by side they crossed
Trail Street
, just then strung with traffic. Thunstone took Mrs. Fothergill’s arm as
though to guide her, and she seemed almost to cuddle against him. On the far
side of the street, at the parking space in front of the Moonraven, Hawes the
proprietor stood and watched them come toward him.

 
          
"It’s
a fine, fair Sunday,” he greeted them. “Good morning to you, Mrs. Fothergill,
and good morning to you, Mr. Thunstone. You're for church, I daresay.”

 
          
“That’s
right, Mr. Hawes,” said Thunstone. “The curate, Mr. Gates, seems especially to
want me there.”

 
          
“I
must stay here and open at
noon
,” said Hawes. “I’d like to come, but Mrs.
Hawes has to be there at the organ, and we can’t both be gone from duty at
once. I was at church for early prayer already today.”

 
          
They
continued along the sidewalk. A pudgy woman greeted them. Thunstone recognized
her as the postmistress who had sold him stamps.

 
          
“Mrs.
Fothergill,” she said, “and—eh—”

           
“This is Mr. Thunstone,” Mrs.
Fothergill told her. “We’re on our way to church.”

 
          
“Ow,
Mr. Thunstone,” said the postmistress.
“Church.
Yes
indeed.”

 
          
They
walked along. “She’ll come to church now, even if she hadn’t meant to,” said
Mrs. Fothergill.

 
          
“Why
should she change her mind and come?” Thunstone asked. “What’s on her mind?”

 
          
“For
one thing,” said Mrs. Fothergill coyly, “she thinks we make a very handsome
couple; that’s plain enough. Possibly you think the same.”

           
“You’re very handsome, anyway,”
Thunstone let himself say.

 
          
“Oh, Mr. Thunstone.”

 
          
They
passed the Waggoner pub, its door closed. Opposite, Chimney Pots looked closed,
too, no human motion there.

 
          
“Will
Mr. Ensley come to church?” asked Thunstone again.

 
          
“He
attends very rarely. His servants come. Yonder comes one, now, that Hob Sayle
person.”

 
          
As
she spoke, Hob Sayle came tramping around the side of the house. He wore a
black suit and he made purposefully toward the church.

 
          
“But
not Mrs. Sayle today,” said Mrs. Fothergill. “She’ll be busy with the dinner
that’s to be served you.”

 
          
She
did not sound happy about that. Thunstone changed the subject.

 
          
“Quite
a few people seem to be afoot this morning,” he commented.

 
          
“On
their way to church, I fancy. The
word's
gone around
that Mr. Gates will have something quite special in the way of a sermon.”

 
          
“Yes,”
said Thunstone, “he hinted as much to me.”

 
          
They
approached the church. People were going in at the door. Two or three others
lingered outside, talking. They looked at Thunstone and Mrs. Fothergill, but
none of them spoke. Thunstone escorted her inside.

 
          
The
interior of St. Jude’s was, not surprisingly, a relatively small auditorium,
with walls of a dull brown paneling. Two windows at the front had stained
glass. One represented the parable of the sower going forth sowing, with, in
gilded letters, the message
in memory of
nathan
jackson
morrison.
The other was
older and quainter. It portrayed a haloed figure with draped gown and long
beard. Possibly it was meant to represent St. Jude himself. Other windows at
the two sides were of plain glass.

 
          
Pews
on either side of the aisle looked solid, old,
unshowy
.
They had dim cushions. People already sat in the rear pews, avoiding the front
ones as usual in a church. Up at the far end was an altar with vases of flowers
upon it, and candles in sconces. Forward of the altar, to right and left, stood
small lecterns, and, centered midway between them, the pulpit. There did not
seem to be ushers.

 
          
As
Thunstone showed Mrs. Fothergill into a pew and sat down beside her, a mutter
of music rose. That was from a small electric organ to one side, where an
unimaginative choir loft had been built. The organist was Mrs. Hawes in a
flowered hat, playing carefully and not badly.

 
          
More
worn old cushions lay on the floor in front of the pew, and Thunstone and Mrs.
Fothergill knelt in the traditional moment of prayer, then slid back and sat.
The pews filled up. They seemed even crowded. Stealthy whispers crept in the
air. Then David Gates entered at a rear door, in cassock and alb, carrying in
his massive hands a long rod furnished with a length of lighted wicking. He
crossed in front of the altar, noticing it as he did so, and lighted the
candles on that side. He crossed back, with another bow to notice the altar,
and lighted the others. Then he went out through the rear door again.

 
          
“Mr.
Gates would be so happy if he could get acolytes to do that sort of thing for
him/' Mrs. Fothergill whispered to Thunstone.

 
          
The
music of the little organ rose, began to be a hymn. At the church door behind
the pews, voices were singing. A procession of sorts moved along the aisle.

 
          
At
the front, in the crucifer’s place, paced Hob Sayle, the manservant of Gram
Ensley, bearing the processional cross like a banner. He wore a white cotta and
stepped his way proudly. Behind him moved two men, then two women, also in
cottas and carrying open hymnbooks and singing. One of the women was Rosie, the
plump waitress. She seemed to have a good soprano voice. They marched to the
altar, where Sayle planted the cross in its socket. Then they entered the choir
loft. Sayle went with them and stood there, joining in the hymn.

 
          
At
the rear of the formation had marched Gates, gigantic seeming now that he wore
an ornamented chasuble over his alb and cassock and had draped his neck with a
stole. He stopped before the altar, knelt for a moment, then rose and came to
the pulpit, facing the listeners. His face looked bigger and broader than ever,
and tense to boot.

           
The service went forward on the
traditionally prescribed lines. Gates read the collect for the Third Sunday
after Trinity, a humble and trusting appeal enough. When it came to reading the
proper epistle, which is from the first chapter of St. Peter, he began quietly
enough, though rather grimly. But his voice rose suddenly, even fiercely, as he
read out:

 
          
Be
sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh
about, seeking whom he may devour.

 
          
Similarly,
he began quietly as he read the Gospel for the Third Sunday after Trinity, from
the Gospel of St. Luke. But he raised his voice significantly when he came to
the passage:

 
          
I
say unto you, that likewise joy shall be in heaven over one sinner that
repenteth, more than over ninety and nine just persons, which need no
repentance.

 
          
From
step to step the service proceeded. At last, David Gates announced several
church activities, a collection for foreign missions, a meeting of church
ladies for a community project, and so on. After that, it was time for the
sermon.

 
          
Gates
drew himself up at the pulpit and stood impressively tall. His attitude was
more that of a prosecuting attorney than of a minister of the Gospel. He gazed
to this side and that, his eyes burning palely as they raked the congregation.

 
          
“For
this day I have chosen a text singularly appropriate,” he declared. “It will be
familiar to all of you. It is to be found in the twentieth chapter of the Book
of Exodus, the second verse. It is also easily to be found in our Book of
Common Prayer, the first of the Ten Commandments, and the most important among
them all. In the Scriptures it reads, 'Thou shalt have no other gods before me
/ ”
He squared his broad shoulders and looked at them again,
pew after pew of them, as though to note the effect of his words.

 
          
“That
is the command of God our Father,” he said, “spoken to Moses at the top of
Mount Sinai
, to be cut by him on the tables of

 
          
stone
. It disavows, it forbids, the turning after false gods
to worship them. Now, today is the Third Sunday after Trinity, and the fourth
day of July. And the fourth day of July also happens to be the day of the year
on which, in this our community of Claines, a bizarre and infamous heathen
ceremony is traditionally accomplished at the hour of
midnight
.”

 
          
His
voice shook, as though he strove to master a fury within himself. “I refer,” he
said, “to the annual turning over of what is called the Dream Rock that lies
out there at the edge of the street in front of this church, this holy church.”

 
          
He
clamped his meaty hands on the sides of the pulpit and leaned powerfully
forward above it. The folds of the chasuble stirred upon him. Fiercely he
gazed. It was as though he menaced his listeners.

 
          
“Against
this pagan ceremony I shall preach this morning. I promise you that my sermon
will not be a long one, nor shall I search out elegant, elaborate words and
phrases. I shall strive to make it simple and forthright; because I want it to
be well understood by all of you.
And if you care to repeat
what I say to others who are not with us here this morning, why, so much the
better.”

 
          
Another
pause, as though to gather himself for his next words. All listened raptly.
Some leaned forward in their pews. Hob Sayle sat stiffly in his chair in the
choir loft. He gaped, he stared. He seemed to hold his breath.

 
          
“Think,
my people,” burst out Gates. “Why are they here so close together, St. Jude's
little church and that strange, uncouth menhir called the Dream Rock? I can
assure you that this is no accident, no fortuity. How long ago they built the
first
church
of
St. Jude
's here, there can be no sure saying, but it
was long, long ago, centuries ago. It was built here under a classic missionary
policy.”

 
          
Another breathing space.

 
          
“Our
first ancestors, here and elsewhere in
Britain
,
were pagans, of course,” Gates went on.
“For untold centuries, for centuries almost past counting, they worshipped
false gods, sacrificed to them—sacrificed wild beasts and tame, sometimes even
their unfortunate fellow men. The Roman legions came and brought in their own
culture and their own pantheon, their string of Latin deities from Jupiter on down,
and worshipped them far and near until the
Roman Empire
was enlightened by Christian faith. But
that faith suffered in turn in
Britain
, was put down by the conquering invasion of
the Angles and Saxons. They followed their own barbarous heathen worship of
Wotan and Thor and other Teutonic gods, until Christianity was returned to our
land by
Saint
Augustine
.”

 
          
Gates
warmed to the old story of missionary strategy and success, telling the
oft-told tale of how Pope Gregory the First—Gregorius, Gates called him,
apparently forgetting his promise to stick to plain language—showed a somewhat
sophisticated tact toward the Saxon pagans. Taking up a sheet of paper, Gates
read a translation of Gregory’s instructions: