“And are there truly no pagan gods? No power that answered when those sad and ancient people prayed and danced and sacrificed? Building Stonehenge and monoliths from here to Russia, cutting the throats of horses, raising mounds and digging tombs—that is a damn lot of effort to no purpose, isn’t it? You’d think they would have noticed before they did so much work that it never worked.”
Henry laughed. “Good lord, old man! I do believe you are serious!”
“Answer the question, please.”
“You mean, do I think pagan gods are real? Gods like Odin and Oberon and Osiris?”
“I was thinking more of Moloch and Asmodeus, but you may answer as you’d like.”
“Of course they are not real!”
“Then who or what did I foreswear and defy when I was baptized? When I swore off the devil and all his pomps, and vowed enmity to all the devil’s angels, who was I talking about? When the Christians overthrew the Roman Empire, they kept all the institutions of man intact. They fought only one foe, and overthrew only one enemy. Who did they fight, if not the pagan gods? The powers of the air, the prince of this world? When a third of the hosts of heaven followed Lucifer in his fall, who fell?”
Henry sighed. “I know you think demons are real…” he began in a condescending tone.
“If demons are not real, what did Our Lord drive into the herd of swine at Gadarene?” And, when Henry had no answer, Mandrake said, “You see the problem with your modern American education, where everything in the past is forgotten? The problem is that you forget the simple principles of logic as utilized by Aquinas or Aristotle. You cannot have it both ways. Either the supernatural order exists or it does not. Either there is another world alongside this one, invisible, haunted, filled with powers and terrors we cannot imagine, and wonders beyond all joy, light beyond light, or–”
“Or what?”
“Or the whole lot of it, from Christ to Krishna to Cuchulainn, is all a bunch of rot, and nearly everyone you have ever met is a damned fool for believing a word of it. And there is no life after this one, and no dreams come true, and we are born of nothing and come to nothing. That is the choice.”
Henry said, “Either stark, hopeless atheism, or I must believe in witches and spooks?”
“Yes.”
“No. Men can tell lies and make up stories about God and spirits as easily as any other topic. God could be real and magic fake. You know that! That trick you did at No Talent Night, when you pulled a dove out of your sleeve! There are reasonable positions between those two extremes, old man. Reasonable halfway opinions.”
“Out there, I grant you, in the outer world, there are reasonable halfway opinions,” said Mandrake with a solemn nod. “That is one reason why this chamber was built. Because those thoughts we think out there are fogged with the fumes of Lethe, the river of death, which Adam set free at his first act of rebellion. Mermaids sing death in their songs, and witches brew death in their cauldrons. Out there, a man can believe Christ is divine, but cast out no demons and performed no miracles. And so belief slowly ebbs, wisdom is lost, and men become shallow and vulnerable. Out there, it is reasonable not to believe in curses, and to believe our memories cannot be influenced by charmings. What about in here? What do you believe in here? Tell me, if you were a witch, and could fog the minds of men, surely the first thing you would fog out is the memory of the fog?”
“What do you mean?”
“If you could mesmerize others, the first false belief you would implant in your victims is that there is no such thing as mesmerism. No one can fight a foe he thinks does not exist. He cannot even arm himself. Come now! Your conclusion might be different if we held this conversation out there. But in here—why was this chamber built, if not as a protection from witchery?”
Unwritten History
Henry said, “Do you know when and why this chamber was built?”
“Yes, but this is a history not anywhere written down, for what the men of Sark say, they do not write down.”
“Go on.”
“Queen Elizabeth I was one of the first to study diligently the art the Catholic Church had forbidden to mortals, and she formed the first of the Coven of White Witches protecting the Island of England. By her dark arts she raised a storm and scattered the Armada. Sir Francis Drake, the most famous of the English privateers, was given a looking glass in which he could summon winds and tempests.
And so it was that for many years we flourished and grew, until the empire on which the sun never set was protected by these uncouth, unseen means. The power of the White Coven was broken after World War Two; that is why Hitler put so much effort into studying the occult, why he collected rare items of mystical influence like the Spear of Destiny, and why the Soviets forced men like Lysenko and Rejdak to study parapsychology so diligently.
“So after the war, something spiritual was broken in the spine of Britain, and now the witches use their arts only to their selfish advantage, and so more and more of the mists of amnesia rise from elf-lakes and buried kingdoms below the hills, and sweep across the British Isles. The Irish barely remember they are Irish any more.”
“About the murder of your cousins—I heard folk in the village, three men or four, talking about it. They blame you.”
“I’d prefer you tell me this outside, so that I can remember it clearly.”
“But I dare not step outside.”
“Of course you can.”
“But you will forget you don’t love Laureline—and I will forget I do!”
Mandrake shook his head. “Everyone knows you love Laureline. I am the only one who does not see it, and even I suspect it.”
“But you and she—I saw you!”
“What? You think I am being very intimate and cozy with her? It is an act. My outward self does might not recall all that was blotted out of memory, but he is canny enough to play along and see which card is turned next. If I call off the marriage now, that gives the enemy too much time to plan. The next group to attack this house might not be one that can be easily driven off, like those rowdy boys we drove off the other night, or that nuclear scientist from a decade ago.”
“Even so, I dare not go out.”
Mandrake stood up. “You merely need to trust your true self. If your love for her is not strong enough to be heard in your heart even through the deception fogs of witchcraft and enchantment, it is not true love. And if it is true love, then you cannot be afraid. Come back out with me.”
“And what will happen?”
“There is a small, still, quiet voice in you that always speaks truth. Forgetfulness can numb that voice, but never smother it entirely. If you listen to that quiet voice deep inside you, you will win her.”
And so Henry walked out of the door with Mandrake, arm in arm, friends before they crossed the threshold and friends as they trotted up the stairs, both suddenly convinced and seeming to remember that Hal had been at the house all that week, studying diligently.
10. The Feast of Saint Guthlac
Graduate Student
Hal sat on a hardbacked wooden chair in the office of the College’s Tutor for Graduates. Dr. Vodonoy sat behind a desk piled with books, folios, and manuals. The computer monitor was an old-fashioned square box that looked like someone’s grandfather’s black-and-white television, and it also had a stack of books piled on it. Between the stack to the left and the stack to the right, the florid and square face of Dr. Vodonoy could be seen, like a full moon rising between mountain peaks. He was a Fellow by Special Election in the Senior Tutor Department.
“Your adviser says you have missed two meetings in a row, to discuss your paper,” he said in a censorious tone. “By this late date, not only should you have turned in an abstract to your adviser, Mr. Pettyworth, but given him a list of your Literature review as well. The subject approved by the Committee was on the Substitutionary Atonement in The Matter of Britain. At the time, several members of the committee cast doubt on the appropriateness of the subj
ect. A bit too, ah, theological, shall we say? More than one of them said to me privately that bringing religion into the Arthur myths was controversial, and may be seen as rather inappropriate, considering the backgrounds of Mr. al-Asiri and Dr. al-Wuhayshi. Even insensitive. A word to the wise should have been sufficient. But you insisted, so I went out on a limb for you and the topic was approved.”
Hal nodded, looked over the top of the man’s head to the window, and the sky outside. It was a fine blue day, with but few clouds as white as ewes, drifting lazily above the domes and spires of the campus buildings.
Dr. Vodonoy raised his voice. “And yet when asked what has been accomplished so far, you were able to tell your paper adviser only that you had read one or two books on amnesia cases, one on state-related memory, and the biography of the astrologer and mathematician John Dee!”
Hal was unconcerned. He said breezily, “The subject of memory retention techniques and memory loss is related to the thesis topic in several ways. In the story of Tristram and Iseult, for example–”
“Perhaps you had better use those memory retention techniques of which you speak so highly, Mr. Landfall, to remember what the date is! Most of the other candidates are polishing up their table of appendices by now! Have you even begun? Do you have even one word written on a piece of paper?”
Hal said, “Too much drafting and redrafting tends to take some of the spontaneity and zest out of academic writing, in my opinion…”
Dr. Vodonoy sat back. “You are going to perform several months’ worth of work in mere weeks? The examiners will tear you to bits like mad dogs. It will not be a pretty sight.”
Hal shrugged.
“If it were in my power, Mr. Landfall, I would expel you here and now. Unfortunately, there is no requirement that you meet with your adviser, nor keep him abreast of your progress. The only requirement is the paper, properly presented, on an approved topic, embodying original and significant research, and it must be your own work. Since it is perfectly clear to me that you have done no work at all, but either bought or intend to buy a dissertation written by another, I assure you that five minutes after you turn in your plagiarized fraud, I will have you before Dean Schubert, who is chairman of the Graduate Student Ethics Committee.”
Hal knew he should take the warning seriously, and do his best to placate the Senior Tutor, but there was no help for it. He simply laughed, unable to tamp down his buoyant feelings. “Don’t be such a worry-wart! You’ll give yourself pemphigus! I could write this paper in my sleep. Original work! The world has no idea of what I know about King Arthur. Did you not know how he fights his battles, over and over and over again, in dreams. Do you know how many stalwart warriors and chiefs he slew, when the banners of the Saxons streamed against him, and he alone recalled the Roman tactics, Roman honor? He was fighting for Christ against you pagans, you witches and enchanters! You have taken over the halls of Academia, and called up the blinding mists from the elf waters roaring darkly beneath the hollow hills!”
Dr. Vodonoy’s face grew dark. “You clearly are drunk, Mr. Landfall!”
“No, I–” Hal blinked. What had he just said?
“Again, drunkenness is not grounds for expulsion, but plagiarism will be. I am looking forward to blasting your hopes and dreams, but I must wait until the deadline falls like a guillotine blade. And, no, there will be no extension on account of illness, or drunkenness, or even insanity. Good day!”
Daily Crossing
Hal, a thin cigar in his mouth, one hand in his pocket, twirling his cane, and with the bright sun high overhead, strolled happily and unhurriedly back to his flat above the smokeshop in Blackbird Leys. Sure, it was the bad part of town, the haunt of ‘chavs’ and lowlifes. But Hal had never been harassed by them: even the toughest boy seemed for some reason to steer clear.
Why so light on his feet this day? He had found a way to visit Laurel every other day or so. It was only bit over two hours from Oxford to Weymouth by motorcar, and he had come across the brilliant idea of drawing out all his savings, and the money he had set aside for his remaining school expenses, in order to buy a yacht. It was a small boat, but fast, and able to cross the fifty-four nautical miles to Alderney in three and a half hours, and it was only ninety minutes more to Sark after that. This meant that every day he left at six o’clock in the morning, he could reach Laurel and enter the Rose Crystal Chamber before two o’clock, and if he departed before sunset from Sark, he could be back in bed in Oxford by midnight. Of course, this schedule would be thrown off by classwork or study, but he could skip those. And horrible distractions like the Graduate Tutor insisting on seeing him! The nerve of that man.
Hal decided he needed more time with Laurel. Schoolwork had to wait. After all, he was doing so well on his studies, and was so far ahead on his paper, he could afford to take this week off. That would leave him with all of next week to start and complete the dissertation!
Now, why it was that this one room in Manfred’s spooky old house held such an attraction for him, he did not know. And, with no money now left for rent or food, he practically had to make the daily pilgrimage to Laurel, to see her, to…
No, wait, what was he thinking? Laurel was marrying Manfred in less than a month! He was traveling all this way to see Manfred, of course, and to help him along with his studies. Manfred seemed unaccountably worried about how the dissertation paper would be received. Hal wondered why.
It was late in the day when Laurel met him on the lawn in front of the house. Perched atop masses of coiffed hair was her broad straw hat. Apparently it had been returned to her after that night it fell from her head in Wrongerwood Forest. She wore a short, sheath dress which displayed her figure to its best advantage. Hal wondered for the first time why she never seemed to get cold? He had not once seen her dressed as warmly as a person should be.
She seized both his hands in hers, and in a bubbly voice of enthusiasm described how she’s hit on the idea of inviting her sisters to come here, to England, to Sark, to help with the dress and the wedding preparations.
Hal said, “You cannot just buy a dress in a shop?”
Laurel drawled, “And be a laughingstock? There are traditions to be upheld, you know, and appearances. In any case, I found this letter in my handbag, inviting them, and laying out all the plans. It was in my handwriting, but I don’t remember writing it. I cannot seem to sleep at night, I am so excited. Manfred thinks I am sleepwalking—or perhaps sleepletterwriting—but, just between you and me, it is nice to have an excuse to knock on his door at night … well …”
His heart bumped oddly. He said, “You look a little sad. Having second thoughts?”
She raised her shoulders and her eyebrows in an exaggerated shrug that, to him, looked adorably girlish. “All brides get cold feet.”
“Well, the clever ones run off with the best man,” he said with a grin.
Laurel said, “Good heavens, Hal, are you making a pass at me?”
“I must be doing it wrong, if you have to ask.”
“Aren’t you the bold one! I should slap your face!”
He put his arms around her, and hugged her tight, pinning her arms to the sides. “Be careful! If you slap me, who knows what I might do?”
He gazed down at her as she stared up at him, startled. Her expression was haughty, but in her eyes, he saw something else, a frantic innocence that pierced him to the very center of his heart. It reminded him of an animal, trapped at the back of a canyon in its efforts to escape a wildfire—watching as its crackling doom approached, yet unable to do anything to alter its fate. But Laurel was as tough as steel and as resilient as bamboo. What could possibly so frighten such a fearless girl?
The wedding. The wedding was her wildfire. She did not wish to marry Manfred, and yet she could not contrive to escape.
Staring down into the helpless agony of her eyes, Hal felt his universe tremble as it came to him, with a terrifying certainty, that it was he, and not Manfred, that Laurel loved. r />
No. It must be his imagination. Perhaps, her agony came from the tightness of his grip. Perhaps, he entirely mistook…
Manfred came pacing around the corner of the eastern wing at that very moment, staring at the ground. Hal released the girl and stepped away. Laurel, his cheeks pink, drew back her arm to slap him. Hal grinned and proffered his cheek. Laurel hesitated, and looked over her shoulder at Manfred. It was not clear if he had seen anything or not.
Manfred looked up. “What is all this, then? Having a tiff? I want my bride and best man to get along, you know.”
Laurel smiled her dazzling smile and laid her upraised hand on Hal’s shoulder. “Oh, I was just asking Henry to step into the Rose Chamber with me, to look at swatches.”
Oddly enough, Hal had also been tickled by a strange urge to visit that Chamber again, but for what reason, he could not say.
Lover’s Quarrel
Memory returned. They were in the silk-lined chamber beneath the silver dome. Laureline had somehow cajoled her outer self into replacing the smashed furniture, stocking the chimney side with wood, and moving a small icebox in here, some futon mattresses, and other little comforts needed for a lover’s nest.
Henry said, “That was a very good sign! That last scene—Manfred saw, and he was not angry. The Out-of-Doors you is coming around!”
But Laureline was angry, almost panicking, her eyes like green fire. “Your brutal antics are ruining everything!”
“Brutal antics?” He asked, entirely confused. “Weren’t you complaining that I was not caveman enough for you?”
Laureline ignored him and charged on. “Manfred has seen you traveling between here and Oxford for days now, doing without sleep, ignoring your school! He’s getting suspicious and angry. Even my other self is starting to hate you! You are so creepy!”
He shook his head as if to clear away the mental cobwebs. He said, “I don’t think you know your outside self very well. She is about to come around. She is falling in love.”