Manly Wade Wellman - John Thunstone 01 (8 page)

           
"He had a draped coat and a
low-pulled hat, so it would be hard to say what he looked like. He was
square-built and not very tall, something the figure of your man working
outside. The one you called Hob."

 
          
"Hob
Sayle?" said Ensley. "Hob has been with our family for years, with my
father before me. His wife cooks for me, and very well."

 
          
He
rose, and so did Thunstone.

           
"See here," said Ensley
suddenly. "If you'd like to go right now and walk on Sweepside, I’ll take
you there. And when we come back, will you take lunch with me? I'll speak to
Mrs. Sayle, and I'll wager she’ll have something worth the eating."

 
          
"Thank
you, Mr. Ensley," said Thunstone. "You’re being very kind."

 
          
"Not
at all," said Ensley.

 
          
Ensley
went through a door into a room beyond. Thunstone heard him talking, and a
woman’s voice answering. Then Ensley reappeared.

 
          
“I’ve
asked Mrs. Sayle to do us a sort of justice at lunch,” he said. “She says she
has good seafood—this is a Friday—and a salad which she says will be a dream of
spring, and some kind of sweet to follow. Does that sound good?”

 
          
“It
sounds delicious,” Thunstone replied.

 
          
They
went out together, upon the broad porch.

 
          
“That
stick of yours interests me,” remarked Ensley. “Yet, if I may say so, you don’t
seem to need it to walk with.”

 
          
“I
carry it for old time’s sake,” said Thunstone. “It was given to me by a valued
friend, Judge Keith Hilary Pursuivant.”

 
          
“I’ve
heard that name,” said Ensley, nodding.
“An American student
of the occult and famous in his chosen field.
Rather like
yourself
, I should think.”

 
          
“I’m
flattered,” said Thunstone, “to be thought like Judge Pursuivant in any way
whatsoever.”

 
          
“Are
you ready for our little walk?”

 
          
They
stepped down from the porch and walked around the house to the left. On that
side, yew trees grew close to the rough, dark wall, with barred windows looking
down upon them from above. A slatefaced path skirted close to the yews. Beyond
and behind the house, Ensley led the way to another path, moss-carpeted, that
ran between clumps of trees. It was hard to see the houses of Claines from that
position.

           
“We can go directly to a gate this
way,” said Ensley. “Allow me to wonder, Mr. Thunstone, about your name. It has
a legendary sound.”

 
          
“I
can’t speak to its origin,” said Thunstone. “I do know that the name is
English,
and that an ancestor of mine came to
Virginia
in 1642.1 haven’t found any Thunstones here
in
England
, not that I’ve looked very carefully.”

 
          
“According
to the old story of Tom Thumb, King Thunstone succeeded King Arthur,” said
Ensley.

 
          
“I
didn’t know that anyone succeeded King Arthur,” said Thunstone. “I thought that
when he was carried to Avalon by the three queens, the Saxons took over.”

 
          
They
had come past the trees by now, walking among currant bushes. Sweepside was
visible beyond.

 
          
“Why,
as to that,” said Ensley, “Thunstone is a name with a Saxon sound, and there
were various Saxon kings after Arthur. Come this way to our gate through the
fence.”

 
          
Together
they approached the gate in the wire. It was a simple gate, of weathered wooden
slats nailed upright to two horizontal bars. On the far side, a roughly made
bridge of stone slabs lay across the little stream. Ensley lifted a heavy hasp,
opened the gate, and stepped aside to let Thunstone enter before him. Then he
followed and hooked the gate behind them. Far up the slope showed the considerable
stretch of Old Thunder, with the two men busy at its edge. Thunstone and Ensley
turned their steps in that direction. All along the slope grazed sheep, some of
them close at hand. The ground sprouted heavy green grass, with tufts of
flowered gorse here and there.

 
          
“I’ve
asked about your name, and that gives you the right to wonder about mine,” said
Ensley. “My given name, I mean, Gram.”

 
          
“Now
that you speak of it, I don’t think that I’ve met with the name of Gram,
either,” replied Thunstone.
“Unless it’s a form of Graham.”

 
          
“No, just Gram.
It’s always been Gram. A younger son gets
the name in my family. You see, we’re titled—baronets—and my older brother has
the title, and the manor, up north of here. But I was named Gram, and I got
Chimney Pots and the estate here.”

           
“It's an interesting old house/'
Thunstone said. “It must be very old”

 
          
“Most
parts of it are. Here and there it's been rebuilt over the centuries. Now, here
we come to what the people call Old Thunder."

 
          
They
had come there indeed. Close at hand, the outline showed as a sort of ditch dug
in the turf, a ditch fully two feet wide and several inches deep and many feet
long on an uneven curve. Pale, chalky soil showed through. Ensley led the way
toward where the men dug with flat shovels. One of them straightened up. It was
Porrask, broad and bearded, wearing wrinkled work clothes.

 
          
“We've
been at it since after breakfast, sir," he addressed Ensley. “How does it
look?"

 
          
“First-rate,"
replied Ensley. “You've done well here. Others will take your places in an hour
or so.
Any complications?"

 
          
“Well,
you might call something a complication," said Porrask. “Look up yonder,
sir, where that clump is. That little witch girl, Connie Bailey's there, all
hunkered over, up to something."

 
          
Ensley
wheeled to look. A hundred yards or so up the slope
crouched
a little figure in brown, its hands busy.

 
          
“Why
didn't you tell her she was trespassing?" growled Ensley. “Are you still
sweet on her?"

 
          
“Well—"
stammered Porrask embarrassedly.

 
          
“Since
you didn't tell her, I shall."

 
          
Ensley
strode away purposefully, and Thunstone walked with him.

 
          
As
they approached, the figure straightened to its feet. It was Constance Bailey,
sure enough. She stood and waited. As they came close, Thunstone saw that her
black hair looked
tumbled,
her eyes were wide with
apprehension. She held a little sheaf of green stems with yellow flowers, in
hands that trembled.

 
          
“See
here, my girl, I've had to warn you off my property before this," Ensley
said forbiddingly. “I thought I’d put up signs enough to warn anyone who could
read. I'll ask you to leave at once."

 
          
“I
didn’t mean any harm, Mr. Ensley," quavered Constance Bailey. “I only came
to pick some of this Saint-John's-wort."

 
          
She
held out her fistful of gathered plants, as though it might plead for her.

           
“You throw that down,” Ensley
snapped.

 
          
“But
please, it's nothing to harm,” she begged. “It's a good plant, can help
people.”

 
          
“Throw
it down,” ordered Ensley, more fiercely.

 
          
She
sighed, and obeyed. The plants fluttered to the ground from her slim hands.

 
          
“Mr.
Ensley,” she said timidly, “I’m sorry if I did wrong, but could I ask
permission to come back—gather—•”

 
          
“Yes,
you did wrong,” Ensley broke in. “You've forfeited any right to ask favors from
me. Get off this land, then. You're a trespasser here, and you can be thankful
that I don’t prosecute you. Go on, go away.”

 
          
“Y-yes, sir.”

 
          
She
went, her head bowed. Ensley watched and said nothing. Thunstone, too, was
silent until Constance Bailey reached the fence at the bottom of the slope and
went along it to the gate.

 
          
“Saint-John's-wort,”
muttered Ensley.
“Black magic.”

 
          
“I
don't believe it's that, not quite,” interposed Thunstone. “It's always been
used to fight black magic, even against vampires and werewolves, and I've heard
that it's good as a medicine.”

 
          
“Maybe
I should have let her pick more of it, at that,” said Ensley. “I know it can
hurt sheep if they eat too much of it, can make their skins sore.”

 
          
“Do
you mind if I pick up what she threw down?” asked Thunstone.

 
          
“Not at all, if you like.
You're my guest here, not a
trespasser like that little girl pretending to witchcraft.”

 
          
Thunstone
brought out an envelope, knelt and carefully gathered the scattered stems.
Flecks of pinkish red showed on the yellow blooms. He stowed them in the
envelope, taking care not to bruise or break them,
then
slid the envelope into his inside pocket.

 
          
Constance
Bailey had left Sweepside by then, had gone out of their sight. Ensley and
Thunstone returned to the figure of Old Thunder. The head of the figure showed
immense and pallid with the removal of turf, and two blotchy eyes were visible
where greenery had been left. Thunstone looked at the semblance thoughtfully.
The face bore a look of the face on the Dream Rock.

           
“How old might Old Thunder be?” he
asked Ensley, who shrugged.

 
          
“That's
difficult to answer. They've always said that he's always been here.”

 
          
“Might
the Druids have dug him out?
The pagan Celts?”

 
          
“No,”
replied Ensley. “Druids were newcomers, hardly in
England
before the fifth century
b.c.
As for the Celts, they ruled here
before the Romans, but most scholars think they came along from the European
mainland, maybe even from what's now
Russia
. Men were here, flourished here, long
before the Celts.”

 
          
“So
far as my study goes, they flourished here for hundreds of thousands of years,”
said Thunstone. “Piltdown man was a hoax, of course. But there's Swanscombe
man, dated a quarter of a million years ago.”

 
          
“Probably
he was our ancestor, yours and mine,” nodded Ensley. “
England
must have been tropical then, between the
Ice Ages. Elephants
here,
and the rhinoceros. And
Swanscombe man too, chipping flints and living a good food-gathering life. But
I doubt that he made Old Thunder here. I'd judge that Old Thunder is as early
as any hillside image we have in
England
. But, I'd hazard, no more than ten thousand
years ago, just yesterday compared to Swanscombe man.”

 
          
“Ten
thousand years!” exclaimed Thunstone, and Ensley laughed.

 
          
“It
seems long to you, eh? But how long has been the life of mankind? Now then,
shall we go back to the house? Lunch will be ready soon.”

 
          
Thunstone
lowered the ferrule of his cane to the bared chalk of Old Thunder's outline. He
felt a tingle in his hand and arm, not as strong as the one he had felt when he
had investigated the Dream Rock, but it was there. He drew his cane away and
went along with Ensley, to the gate at the foot of the slope. They retraced
their steps through the currant bushes and around the side of the house.

 
          
Inside,
Thunstone leaned his cane to the suit of armor that stood in the hall. Ensley
escorted him into the book-lined front room.

 
          
“A
splash of something to drink before lunch?” he urged. “Here, will you have
whiskey?”