Satan’s Rock

Part Thirteen

A Beaten Heart – Part One

Melanie stared at the sanguine figure who Peter introduced as Toby.  Toby, large and fragrant, who sat on the grassy slope waiting for her to appear as though her visit to the island was planned.  “How could you possibly know I would come to The Rock today?  I just came for an afternoon out with Peter.  We nearly went to the Mall.”

“But you came, didn’t ‘ee?   Some just has a tune as calls ‘em, tha’s all.  They needs that, see?”

“What tune?”  Melanie scowled, because her dislike for the old countryman was instinctive, and she couldn’t hear any ‘tune’ – or could she?   She remembered lying in the grass at Peter’s side just a little way from here and just a little while ago,,,

Toby seemed unperturbed, “You can ‘ear ‘un now, missy, in your ‘ead.  I knows you can.   You’ll hear ‘un more an’ more, now you knows ‘tis there.”    He rose to his feet, a violent spinning movement which involved Dervish-like thrashings of arms.  “Come along wi’ me, now.  I think you needs to start learnin’.  ‘Til you do, there‘ll always be them as is ready to take ‘dvantage, see?”

He strode in an oddly uncoordinated lope up the remainder of the hillside towards his cottage.  Peter made to follow.

“Oh, no!”  Mel whispered:  “Not in there!” 

She need not have worried.  At the boundary of his immaculately-kept garden the big man turned, taking them on a path that plunged into a tangle of  under–brush and bramble, leading towards the sheer side of the rock.

“Toby?”   Mel called after him.

“Aye, missy?”

This song I’m supposed to be hearing.  Do you hear it, too?”  She bestowed Peter with a significant look, and hissed under her breath, “Is he a head-case, or what?”

“Oh, aye.   I hears it all the while, I does.  See, it’s part of Old Ben, to them as lives ‘ere.   ‘Tis as old as time, that is.”

“Yes,”  Melanie whispered to herself,  “He is.”

            Through the under-brush, with the high wall of the Great House to their left and open sea some three hundred feet below them to their right, their way led into a converging V between wall and precipice, so Peter and Melanie began to feel that their very breath was being squeezed.  They were following the boundary of the Great House as it rounded the eastern face of the rock. Now they could see the coastline stretching away north eastward, with Levenport Head’s sheer basalt slab frowning at them from across the bay.  Here  the path swung right, doubling back upon itself so tightly there was barely room to turn for fear of stepping out over four hundred feet of uninterrupted air with foaming rocks at the bottom.   They were descending; clinging to the cliff-face along a stony ledge.   Toby wobbled ahead with a casual disregard for the drop.   Peter, led Melanie, for whom the sight of his shaking knees lent an unwarranted sense of encouragement, as shared adversity often will.  The wind, barely a breeze when they were up on the slopes above, screamed and whipped around them, threatening to prise them from the cliff-face altogether.

“Peter!”  Melanie called above the din:  “Do you really want to do this?”

“I don’t want to try turning round!”  Peter shouted back.

Men had carved this path.   There were steps, the worn steps of ages, carved into the steeper reaches: there were passing places, too, though so confined it was hard to imagine even the sparest of bodies being able to edge around one another without falling.

“This ‘ere, ‘twere an old monk’s path.”  Toby called back:  “This bin ‘ere since the mon’stry times.”  They reached a turn in the face of the rock and the path apparently ended.  Two vertical spurs of rock barred their way, like the prongs of a fork.  “On’y they didn’t want ever’ body to know about ‘un, they monks.   Reckon not even the Abbott knew ‘bout this.  This las’ bit’s a bugger, so careful now!”   He legged himself up into the cleft between the spurs, and disappeared over the far side.

Peter saw that the main pathway had actually doubled back again, dropping away below them.   Eroded by time, it had diminished to a grassy lip, a ledge for nesting sea-birds: beyond that, the drop to the sea was uninterrupted.  Yet there was evidence the monks had used this means to reach the shore, for at the foot of the cliff a tiny shelf had been hewn from the stone.  Shale washed up around it rattled uneasily, chivvied constantly by the waves.    The height made Peter’s head swim.   Steadying himself for a moment, he made to follow their guide, levering himself up into the gap between the two rocks.  What he saw on the further side turned his bones to ice.

There was no path,  just a wickedly steep traverse, at the far side of which, some twelve feet away was a ledge, apron to a dark recess in the rock offering sanctuary to those who might reach it.   Toby was standing braced against the cliff-side upon this ledge.

 “There’s six foot–‘olds.   They’m solid enough.   If you looks for ‘em you can see.   You can see six ‘and-‘olds too.  They’m just right for ‘ee, I reckon.  Take it slow, and don’t ‘ee lean in towards the slope.   Use your balance, see?  Now, give me yer left ‘and!”

“Slope?  It’s sheer!”  Peter protested.

“Don’t look down!”  Toby advised.

“They always say that!” 

“You can do ‘un!”  The big man stepped nimbly onto the traverse, stretching out a large, safe-looking hand.  Peter thought he could see the holds Toby had pointed out.   It would still be a huge act of faith, and if Melanie had not been behind him he might never have stretched tentatively for the first of those foot-holds, a mere fragment of levelled stone nearly a yard away.  Shaking with fear, he placed his weight on the tiny pad of rock, grabbing frantically at a protruding stone as he stepped out into space.

A further handhold would be higher up on his left – he had seen it, knew it was there.   Transferring his weight to his right hand and forcing himself to stand away from the slope, he shuffled his right foot alongside his left.   For a terrifying moment his whole body was pivoting on those two points, with the wind trying to take him like a sail, until he could reach out to the next handhold.  His left foot waved in empty air, seeking a projection large enough to take his weight.   The welcome firmness of solid rock formed under his foot.  His hand found its second grip.

Almost sick with terror, Peter tried to draw himself across the last foot or so separating him from Toby’s outstretched hand, but his legs quivered convulsively and his arms refused to co-operate.  Stuck in an ungainly star-shape, he was unable to move, he was going to fall…

“Let go that right ‘and young ‘un.   I got ‘ee.”   Toby’s big hand grasped his arm, 

Within seconds it was over.   Feeling foolish, a breathless Peter allowed himself to be half-dragged onto the rocky platform then guided into shelter away from the edge.  As soon as he had his breath back, he warned:    “Don’t try it, Mel!  It’s too dangerous!”

“Too late!”   Mel informed him blithely.  “I already did.”

She stood behind him with a broad grin on her face.

Toby guffawed loudly, so his voice echoed up and down the rock.

 “She’m like a moun’ain goat, that ‘un!   No danger!”

“Rock-climbing.   Last holidays.  Glen Coe.”   Mel summarised. “Now tell me why I did?”

“Because as ‘ow you has to see this. I’ll show the’”   Toby led them into the deep shadow within the crevice, where they discovered the concealed entrance to a cave,   the portal of which, small and round, had been widened and shaped by human hands.  The marks of their chisels, ages old, showed what a labour this had been.

“Come on, Babes!”  Melanie urged,  “Let’s explore!”

“I really wish you wouldn’t call me that!”

Leaving the gale behind them, they followed Toby through the narrow neck of the entrance, which quickly widened to a small chamber, no more than four meters across.  There was scarcely any natural daylight, so their eyes took time to become accustomed to the gloom.

“Oh!”  Melanie breathed, feeling a little overawed.

At its further end, the chamber wall had been carved to reveal a seam of crystalline rock which, if its short, exposed section were to be believed, ran vertically up through the basalt above them.  At its foot had been hewn a stone altar table, draped with the dry threads of ancient embroidered cloth.    A terra cotta chalice rested there, flanked by two tallow lamps, their spouts blackened by use.   But Melanie’s eyes passed all this by, frozen moment of a forgotten time though it was, to rest upon the figure before the altar, who half-knelt, half laid before it with its faded cloak, or robe, pulled up to conceal its head; as if sleep had overtaken it as it prayed.

“Well!”  She exclaimed, “You just never know how things will turn out, do you?  There was I, expecting a quiet afternoon picnic in the sun, and what did I get?  A cold cave and a dead body,”  She touched the edge of the robe experimentally;  “I hope he is,like, totally dead?”

“Don’t worry, now, Missy.  ‘E can’t do ‘ee no harm.”   Toby’s voice was comforting. “’E been gone these two ‘undred years.”

“Who was he, do you think?”  Melanie asked:  “One of the monks from the Abbey?”

“No, I don’t think so.”   Overcoming his revulsion, Peter stepped closer to examine the mummified form.  It had been tall when it had lived, with shoulders that were broad and very, very strong.   Prompted by some innate knowledge, he reached down past the dry leather and the drawn grin of the face, delicately pushing its garments to one side, to expose a gold chain around its throat.

“Toqus.”  He said. “So you never left.”

“That’s right, young Peter.” Toby murmured softly, taking the young man’s shoulder to draw him back. “’E never did.   Come ‘ere after the old man died, likely, an’ jus’ starved hisself to death.   ‘Tis a solemn fact.”

Somehow, Peter did not find it too incredible that Toby should know enough of the island’s history to have heard the story of Lord Crowley’s death, and the mysterious disappearance of his servant, Toqus.

“What brought him here?”   He wondered.

“Ah well now!    This place ain’t exac’ly a Godly one, now, is it?   Look around ‘ee.   What do y’ see?”

By now, with eyes thoroughly accustomed to the scarce light, Peter and Melanie were able to take in more detail of the chamber.   The walls were daubed with crude pictures of strange horned beasts, dragon-like flying creatures, and indecipherable writing: on the front of the stone altar, half-obscured by Toqus’s body, an inverted cross was engraved.

“Devil worship?”   Melanie asked, with a slight tremor in her voice.   She was not superstitious, but the thought was a little disquieting.

“Maybe – or prob’ly jus’ a bit angry, like.”   Toby sat down on the shelf at the cave entrance.   “See, the old Abbott, ‘e wouldn’t have been too ‘appy if ‘e’d knowed what ‘is flock was doin’ down ‘ere, now would ‘e?   And I don’t think as ‘e ever did know.  That path us come down jus’ now, ‘twasn’t no official path, see?   An’ that landin’ stage down below us there, that ain’t the official dock, neither.   So there was some, like, alternative kind of goin’s on in ‘ere while they up there was prayin’ their socks off. See?”   Toby smiled secretively:  “Nope, I don’ reckon all they monks were quite so godly as they pretended, were they?   No!”

He raised himself to his feet, stooping slightly to avoid hitting his head on the chamber roof.   “Mind old Toqus, now, and come over here.  There’s somethin’ you should do.”

Toby beckoned Peter over to the altar. “Whenever you’m ready, see how the crystals in that seam feel to ‘ee.   Be they sharp, or what?”

“OK.”    Peter touched the black band of rock.   Immediately, a surge of warmth tingled through his finger-tips, sending a little pulse of heat up his arm.   He snatched his hand away.

Toby nodded approvingly:  “Now, you know what that’s all about, don’t you, young ‘un?”

It was tempting to deny it; to lie. Peter would have preferred not to acknowledge that this cave with its musty sitting tenant, with the approach which so terrified him, was another source, and possibly a very special source, even the promise of an explanation for the powers that gave him his extraordinary moment of foresight the day before Anzac Day.   But there was no choice.  He looked at Mel and saw recognition in her eyes, too.   “They’re connected, aren’t they?.”  She murmured:   “This stone and the stone in the House – they link to each other.  You felt it, didn’t you?”

“Not linked, Missy.  They’m all one.  This stone runs right through the whole island. The heart of Old Ben, this is.   ‘It’s beatin’ eart.  Come ‘ere, now.  You try.”     Toby gestured to the seam.

“I don’t want to.”   Melanie protested.

Peter felt equally sure Melanie should never touch the black stone.  “No.   No, don’t do it, Mel!  Please, just….don’t?”

Toby’s eyes showed how deeply he understood.   With something like pity, he said:  “’As to be, young ‘un, see?  ‘As to be.”   He nodded to Melanie:   “There’s nothin’ to fear, Missy.   ‘Specially for you!”

Although she harboured some misgivings, Melaniewas tempted.  She reached out with one probing finger-tip, dabbing at the black crystal.   She tried one finger, then two, finally her whole hand.   The rock gave her no answer.   There were no visions, no sensations of warmth, just cold stone.

“Nothing!”  She said, feeling quite glad.

“Ah, but you ain’t used to ‘un yet!”   Toby told her.   Nevertheless, he seemed confused.

Peter had withdrawn to Toby’s shelf at the cave entrance, where he sat with his head on his chin, trying to convince himself that he still had control of his own thoughts.  A drawing on the wall to the left of the stone altar fascinated him.  He could not drag his eyes away from it.   A crude cartoon, it depicted five matchstick figures.  One prostrate, either injured or dead, two others standing over it, one bearing a club and the other a spear:  he presumed they must be the prone figure’s assailants.  To their right a figure in a full robe and head-dress bent to release an asterisk creature, a lizard or snake, perhaps?  To their left and above them all, a stick figure with unmistakeable wings looked down, one of its arms extended as if in a blessing.  It was hard to dismiss the moral portent of what he saw – murderers watched by a higher being, as if sanctifying their deed..

Melanie had satisfied herself that the stone seam held no fears for her.    She traced it with her fingers, absently sensing its dense, gritty structure as the soft song of the island that Toby had described began to play once more in her head.   There was a dreamy contentment in everything that was part of St. Ben, even this gloomy room of death.  Hadn’t she always wanted to be here?  Wasn’t it a part of her soul?   The music was in the trees, the grass, the sea-borne wind:  it was in this rock, too, as clear as if its singers were all around her.

The music very slightly increased in volume when she realised that Peter had joined her: that was alright; it was meant to be so.   When his hand covered hers the music filled her, strong and vibrant, like a possession, like a sleep.

When he pressed her hand to the stone, so strong and firm, determined, knowing, the music overtook her, so she found herself living entirely within it.    Her mind was drifting…drifting…

It was another time, a room in another place; an oak-panelled bedchamber, lavishly furnished, with a great four-poster bed.

A banshee wind howled, battering at the oak doors of the room, slamming the shutters of the tall windows open and closed.   There were three men here; one, an expensively attired gentleman in his thirties, the second, a great midnight tombstone draped in an African robe who stood like a monument beside the third, a sickly old man in a nightshirt reclining on the bed.  Melanie could hear the old man’s voice above the wind, full of quivering rage:

“This is a trick, sir, and I shall not stand for it!”

“I fear you have no choice….”  The well-dressed man soothed.   “I have all your notes!   I could bankrupt you tomorrow if that were my wish.   But I will do nothing to sully your family or their name.  I will be discreet…”

“Discreet, sir!  Aye, I’ll wager you will be discreet!”   The old man interrupted.   “I have been looking into your affairs, Mr Ballentine!”

“Indeed?”

“Indeed, indeed!  You are not a reputable man, are you Ballentine?     How, I wonder, will my capricious wife respond when she learns of your upbringings and your past dealings, with which my letter will acquaint her?     Answer me that, sir!” The old man’s voice was rising hysterically.   “You are an upstart, a pipsqueak of a stock clerk who made his fortune by stealing his master’s merchandise and selling it for himself.   You may cut something of a figure, here, sir, but what will you answer should my wife suggest a tour in Spain, or in the America’s, eh?    Will you tell her there are warrants for your arrest in those places, eh, Ballentine?   Or should I call you by your real name?  Wilbert, is it not?

The well-dressed man’s finely chiselled features paled:  “How have you…?”

“Found ye, sir?   Found ye?   Did you think I was a nincompoop, a fool?   I have made you my study, Mr Wilbert!  You have been my sole occupation, these last months!”

The dark-skinned sentinel rested a big hand upon his master’s shoulder.  Urging him not to excite himself further, but the old man was incandescent.    “You sought to rob me of my fortune, sir! Now I shall deprive you of yours.   I have a dossier which I shall publish if you do not withdraw.   Return me my land, and my wife.   If I don’t get them Society shall know you for a scoundrel.  I doubt you will have your freedom long.”

In his excitement, the old man failed to notice changes in Ballentine’s demeanour.   “Had you researched more thoroughly, my Lord,”   Ballentine snapped, “You would also have seen what becomes of those who discover too much. Toqus – work your craft!”

The dark man’s great eyes widened:  “What …”   He asked (his voice is thick as treacle); “Would you have me do?”

 “You know where your future lies, do you not?” Ballentine answered,  “ Have we not agreed?”

“We did not agree to murder.”

“Ah! Such an emotive word.  I  prefer to think of it as timing.  Let death promote itself.”   He turned his stare upon the old Lord.  “How chill it feels, eh, old man?   How wildly leaps the beast in that decrepit chest?  You cannot still it, can you?   No, Toqus: not murder.  Just take your master to the brink….he will do all of the jumping.”

© Frederick Anderson 2021.  Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the author is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Frederick Anderson with specific direction to the original content

Image Credits:  Features Image:  Freephotos from Pixabay

Waves: Ilyuza mingazova on Unsplash

 

Satan’s Rock

The Chapters So Far:

The Wild Sea:   Satan’s Rock – Frederick Anderson’s Story Blog (frederick-anderson-stories.org)

The Prince’s Gift:   Satan’s Rock – Frederick Anderson’s Story Blog (frederick-anderson-stories.org)

Quimple:   Satan’s Rock – Frederick Anderson’s Story Blog (frederick-anderson-stories.org)

Intrusion:   Satan’s Rock – Frederick Anderson’s Story Blog (frederick-anderson-stories.org)

Foreign Deceptions and Home Truths:   Satan’s Rock – Frederick Anderson’s Story Blog (frederick-anderson-stories.org)

The Cuckoo and the Nest:     Satan’s Rock – Frederick Anderson’s Story Blog (frederick-anderson-stories.org)

Honoured Guests:             Satan’s Rock – Frederick Anderson’s Story Blog (frederick-anderson-stories.org)

An Invitation:                      Satan’s Rock – Frederick Anderson’s Story Blog (frederick-anderson-stories.org)

Exploration and Discovery:      https://frederick-anderson-stories.org/2021/05/02/satans-rock-9

Part Six: Butterfly

At first, in spite of the miasma Vincent’s welcoming spread of food had induced, Peter found his introduction to St. Benedict’s House fascinating.   Shepherded by the erstwhile rock star, yet with scant guidance from either Vincent or Alice, he was able to interpret what he saw in his own fashion.  Whatever drug Alice had introduced to him, although it did nothing for his balance, seemed to heighten his perception.  The small wooden paneled door which now led into a quiet informal garden could be the side door Toqus had secretly used.  He could visualize the big man’s form and the shining bronze of his skin, even believed for a moment that he saw his fleeting shadow, and he explained this to Vincent, who asked:   “Who was this ‘Toqus’ geyser, then?”   Peter managed to garble out the story of Crowley and his mysterious servant.

The long gallery, once buttressed onto the rock beyond these windows, had been torn off by the storm on the night Lord Crowley died, its debris cascading down three hundred feet to the sea.   Now full length sheets of glass replaced it to form a sky-walk with a view which took Peter’s breath away.

Here might be the room where poor old Crowley spent his last night alive.    Too ill to use the great stairway that fed the upper parts of the house, his bedroom was on the main floor.  Although the décor was entirely changed, its oak doors opening now into a warm, modern dining room with a beautifully polished central table and Mackintosh chairs, still it was easy to imagine the big Georgian four-poster bed with its poor, huddled occupant.  

“This is where we do the posh eating.”  Vincent explained, unable to see, as Peter saw, beyond the recessed lighting and the plain, smooth walls in their sympathetically soft terracotta hue.  Peter refrained from telling him of the likelihood that the house’s original owner had died in just this doorway.  Certain information might be best left unsaid.

This, then, must have been the corridor along which the maidservant brought news of the old man’s death.   In this smaller salon a widowed Lady Crowley had very likely entertained her scheming lover: of course, the designing Mr. Ballentine would have known all there was to know of the house in his day.  As in Lord Crowley’s bedroom, though, little real clue to its distinguished past remained: just as the structure of the Great Hall had been gutted to accept the new, so most of the rooms had lowered ceilings with crisp, fresh interiors, refurbished for the comfort of Vincent’s music industry guests.   Low volume audio played in most of them, and the air was redolent of nineteen-seventies glam rather than Regency hauteur.

Led hither and thither through so many different rooms all looking so much the same, Peter’s befogged brain began to descend from the height of its euphoria and to tire of the experience.   Yet Vincent,  clearly regarding his ‘place to be’ with pride, wanted him to absorb each space.  Peter noticed, too, that Vincent was moved occasionally to leave him alone in a room, as though his presence might interrupt Peter’s appreciation in some way.  He would have been intrigued had he overheard Vincent and Alice on one such occasion.

“Nothing!”  Alice hissed in exasperation.  “He doesn’t feel anything, he doesn’t see anything – he just wants to talk about bloody history!”

“Right, yeah, right!”   Vincent soothed, “Maybe if you hadn’t dosed him up so much?  Give him time, girl?    He’s got to tune in, right?”

“Vince.   Vince?   Time is what we don’t have?”   Alice paced as she spoke.  “I agreed to this, God help me.   I came down here because you told me you had the answer.   And you’ve got nothing!  Just a schoolkid and some crazy fantasy you dreamed up – probably after one of those iffy fags of yours.   Well, I’m dead!  I’m finished!”

“Will you calm down?”  Vince said.   “Have some faith, Al?  He hasn’t seen everywhere yet, has he?”

“Where else?  The guest bedrooms?  He’s out on his feet now – are you going to take him around all of those?  You said yourself the answer was down here.  Where did you get him from anyway?   How on earth do you know he’s ‘the right one’?”

“Trust me.   I just do.  Let ‘s take him through the atrium and do the studio now, right?”

Alice gave him a look of trust betrayed:  “I can’t believe I’m going along with this!  This is abduction, do you know that?  You’re keeping this kid against his will!  Look, ask him, Okay?  Just ask him if he gets – oh, I don’t know – some vibe or something: whatever he’s supposed to get.  Ask him.”

“Can’t do that, love.”  Replied Vincent.  “It has to be spontaneous.  We’ll know when it happens, though.”

“If it doesn’t hurry up I’m going back to London – see if I’ve got a job left.”   Alice shook her head sadly.  “I did trust you, Vince – you, and your miracle solutions.  I went for it, didn’t I?”

“Faith, Al, have faith.”  Vincent urged, as he returned to the room which had once been the great kitchen of the old house.   “Come on, Peter, mate.   Come and see where I’ve got me own personal recording studio!”

The architect Quimple’s original plans for St. Benedict’s House had depicted a main building surrounding a central courtyard in a sort of horseshoe on three sides.   Part of this courtyard had been intended as a sheltered garden, where his client could take the air while tempests raged and hurricanes blew, the rest, discreetly veiled by a columned palisade, a cobbled yard whereon much of the business of the house, deliveries of food, cleaning and drying of linen, etcetera, could take place.

The stable block with its attendant noise and odour was designed to be away from the house, forming part of a boundary wall on the seaward side, near the gatehouse.   But with the fall of Crowley’s fortunes, and after the more physical fall of Quimple, Matthew Ballentine  insisted that economies must be made; the stable was built across the open space which Quimple had intended as a garden.   Thus the stables formed the fourth side of the courtyard, so other than access gates serving the tradesmen’s yard it completely enclosed the cobbled area.  No-one had much objected to this transformation, in part because all the main windows of the house opened outwards onto the seaward sides, and in part because they knew no differently:  Ballentine ensured the original plans were destroyed.

“This used to be a courtyard,” Vincent explained as he opened the small door from the one-time kitchen;   “We threw a glass roof over the top, so it’s an ‘Atrium’ now.   We got all sorts of stuff in here.   The studio used to be a stable.   Come and see!”

He led Peter into a small, enchanting garden, dissected by a path among giant tropical foliage and a bridge across a pond where golden carp swam sedately.  A fountain played at one end of the garden, sending a tiny stream over a series of little cascades.    Water plants scented the humid air and sun from the glazed roof created a rainbow.  The mist was dusted with exotic butterflies, some catching the sunlight in vibrant flashes of pure color as they flew, others perched with gently flexing wings upon stone carvings of mythic creatures that lurked in the undergrowth to either side of the path.   The enchantment was brief but liberating for Peter.  Here, in a tiny tropical paradise, anxiety, stress, his worries about being missed, all dissipated.  

It was an experience soon over, however, because for all its variety, Vincent’s  temperate house was quite small and the studio-come-stable all too close.  Not that Peter was uninterested in what was, after all, the first recording studio he had ever seen.

“Is this the mixing desk?”

Vincent nodded.   “Yep. Just as good as any they got in the big company studios.   I can do a full recording session here, editing, everything.   Come and try the booth, Pete.”

So Peter stood in the sound booth, where he could not help imagining himself with headphones on and a band behind him as he sang.  And there was a high stool to sit on, and there were guitars strewn carelessly about the place, and a drum set he wanted to play; but he could tell that for some reason Vincent was not so enthused, while Alice in her shuffling slippers inside the sound booth was positively twitching with impatience, so he did not ask if he could do these things.   Instead, he made his excuses.

“Thank you for taking the time to show me all this;” Peter said,   “But I think I really have to leave now.”

“Yep, I guess that’s it.”  Vincent agreed with an odd, resigned sigh:  “Thanks for visiting us, mate.  I’ll show you out, Pete, yeah?”

Alice said nothing.  Outwardly she seemed the same rather laid-back person who had greeted him at the beginning of his visit.   There was a smouldering undercurrent, though, which Peter could not help but detect; and as he and Vincent made to return through the enchanted garden she flounced ahead of them, her hips swinging angrily and her squid-hands clenched so the tentacles were white.

In his dejection, Peter nearly missed the little drama playing out in by the pond.   Had he not chanced to look down he would never have seen the giant white butterfly which, presumably while feeding on a piece of rotting fruit lying at the margin of the water, had got itself caught in weed.   Two legs were firmly wedged in a frond that tightened its grip every time the poor creature struggled, and the golden carp were circling ominously like u-boats close by.   Peter leaned down and released the captive, gently pulling the strands of weed apart until he could lift it clear of danger.  The great insect then, far from flying away as he might have expected, clung to his finger as if in gratitude.

“What should I do with it?”  He asked Vincent, entranced.

“Do you think he wants to go home with you?”  Vincent smiled sadly:  “Better let him settle somewhere to dry out, man.”

There was a rock beside the stream, a nice flat table-shaped stool of sparkly black granite where a butterfly might sunbathe, so Peter let it settle there.  As he persuaded the creature to leave his hand he had to lean against the rock.

            A scream wrenched itself from somewhere deep inside Peter’s head.   He recoiled, clutching pointlessly at pain which was firing some furnace in an untouchable place: he twisted around, nearly fell, yet he could not snatch his hand away.  Pulses of heat were radiating from the stone, engulfing his thoughts, turning them into shapes – images of people, places, exploding through his mind at terrifying speed. The figure of a faceless woman lost in an agony which cried out to him, wrenching at his heart:  behind her, grasping her shoulders, a powerfully-built man whose eyes were filled with hate.   A thin, enigmatic male image in clothes of a bygone time whose cadaverous features twisted and worked at some imagined discourse.   As these three rushed by they were pursued by rows of soldiers; hundreds, no, thousands of soldiers in battle dress. A tall dark man of utter sadness broke from their ranks to come straight towards Peter, reaching out as though to claim him.   The dark man grew larger, ever larger, until Peter knew he must be swallowed by the image:  he was bound for oblivion, bound to be submerged, lost in the mass of this gargantuan figure.   Then, just as he was about to give way, to plunge into the dark man’s despair, he seemed to tip backwards, and he felt himself tumbling, over and over, through featureless space.  He was falling.

From out of the emptiness a townscape came rushing up to meet him.   There were no figures now, no people or faces, just a street of buildings, shops, offices maybe:  but the street was a pit, standing on its end and he was plunging helplessly down into a hot, raging sea which lay at the bottom.  He cried out in terror.  Boiling waves consumed him. He could not breathe, could not see.  This was it:  this was what drowning was like; the water reaching between his lips, into his nose, his throat, down into his lungs.   Then, when he thought that death had come, there was a hand – soft plump skin, a persistent grip – a child’s hand.  It slipped between his own scrabbling fingers as soft as dove feathers; and it led him, it guided him away.  As abruptly as it had begun, the pain stopped.

Peter was back in the garden again.  A few panic-induced gasps for air were needed before he could persuade himself he was free of the illusion, that he was not truly drowning.   He slumped to the ground, his head gripped between his clenched fists.  Looking up, he found his two hosts staring at him.

Vincent grinned broadly.  “Bingo!”   He said.

© Frederick Anderson 2021.  Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the author is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Frederick Anderson with specific direction to the original content.

Satan’s Rock

Part Three of Conversations

Quimple

What could have befallen Toqus?  Peter’s mind had already lost itself – his nightmare examination of the afternoon, European History and the dusty room with the dusty, pacing invigilator – all gone.  The history which had fascinated him since he was first old enough to read was written in local history books.  The bricks and mortar of Levenport, its traditions, superstitions, atrocities and victories, all laid out around him.  The Rock – St. Benedict’s Rock, sometimes reputed to be inhabited by Satan himself – that loomed above them all, loomed large in his vision now.  Callow youth, chin on hands, fingers gripping the cool steel of the handrail, the retreating tide singing to his question in ripples among the stones.   Toques, the manservant who never left Crowley’s side, where did he go?   That seagull, gripping the rail likewise a dozen yards away, remained inscrutable.   

“How would you know?”  Peter murmured.   The gull cocked its head.  “Do seagulls talk about history at all?   In the evenings, maybe, perched up there on the ridge tiles, before the kebab shops open?”

The bird fluffed a few feathers as an adjustment, clucking awkwardly, as references to its scavenging lifestyle were obviously discomfiting.

For several years following his memorable dip in the Levenport waters, Horace, Lord Crowley did nothing about the rocky island that was his royal gift.  During these (it should be said) quite happy times for the town of Levenport, ownership of its rock was a matter of no concern: a trickle of rent flowed through to His Lordship’s ample London coffers, paid by the tenants of the odd few cottages which nipped like bulldog clips onto the side of the track that led to its summit, but that was all.

Lord Crowley never came, and happily for those who eked a living from certain continental trading activities, The Revenue rarely came – the rock languished in its own particular peace.

At last there befell a time when Crowley’s sun began to sink lower in the Palace sky:  the older ‘Prinny’, soon to be King George IV, with his love of laudanum grew tetchy and difficult to please, so many of those friends who, true or otherwise, had found their fortunes at his noble feet were distanced.   After Prinny’s coronation Crowley spent less and less time at Court.  The parties grew fewer, the invitations sparse.  Also older and more circumspect, he took as his wife one Elizabeth Grey, a society beauty who, though herself considered to be past her prime, was yet thirty years his junior. 

At such a distance of time and space it was hard to know exactly when the old warlord decided to retire from London and Brighton life, still harder to comprehend why, of all his estates, he picked the Rock of St. Benedict as the windy cradle for his autumn years.   He alighted from a coach-and-pair one brisk morning outside Roper’s Hotel on Levenport’s esplanade with his manservant Toqus in his wake, making no secret of his intention to stay.   The town was afire with excitement:  the news that their distinguished guest intended to build a mansion on the rock flew through the salons and drinking houses so rapidly that the proprietor of Roper’s Hotel learned of it from his fishmonger before he heard it from Crowley himself!

In the weeks before construction began the town was full of rumours: what sort of dwelling could the great man be thinking of, to crown the rock and still satisfy his undoubted subtleties of vision and taste?   Would he follow the fashion, so popular at the time, of the Indian Palace, with those great Sezincote windows and high exotic domes?

Unfortunately, enormous wealth does not always imply good taste.  Crowley worked hard upon his plans for a mansion to be perched upon the rock:  he employed the best architect, listened to the wiser counsels of his wife, his family, his friends.  He listened, but he never heard.  One by one, the architect’s best endeavours were rejected until at last the poor man found he could suggest no more.   He returned to London, leaving in his wake a hotchpotch of drawings and uncompleted notes. These, the noble Lord studied for some time.

Days later there was summoned to Roper’s a certain Mr. Quimple. Mr Quimple was well known within the town as the architect who had created, among other things, Levenport’s charity hospital. This was a fine building, although less artistic than functional.   His subsequent commissions, drawing upon this early success, were equally unimaginatively designed, but had the virtue of being built like fortresses, so no-one relished the idea of knocking one down.

“Quimple!”   Lord Crowley instructed him grandly:  “Build me that!”

Joseph Quimple was a mild, slightly oily little man with disorderly clothes and straggly hair which fell on his head like a well-tossed salad.   His outward appearance was in total contrast to that of his buildings.  They were flat and uninteresting.  Joseph Quimple did not have a flat bit anywhere.

“Er, what did you want built, m’Lord?”

“Dammit, have you no eyes, man?  That!”

Crowley’s hand gestured expansively towards a large board propped against a wall:  Quimple had already seen it.   He felt a lump of horror rising in his throat.

“Well!”   He said. 

“My word!”  He said.

He couldn’t think of anything else to say.

Glued to the board were bits and pieces of architectural drawing, cut apparently at random from the work of an obviously talented architect and reassembled to make a plan for a mansion.  Although what resulted was obviously intended to be a vision of a great house, upon first appearance it looked like nothing more than a page from a scrap-book.   There were bits of roof turned on end to make walls, gable-ends stuck over the top of windows, chimneys turned into pillars. Where the scraps failed to fit into the rest of the picture an expansive hand had joined them with bold lines in black ink with brief notations beneath:

‘Add step to match with first floor’

‘More roof here’.

Quimple felt his diminutive soul shrivelling deeper within him.  He struggled for words:

“It’s a very original concept.”  He managed to blurt out at last.

Crowley swelled with pride: “Glad y’think so!”

“But there are gaps.”  Waving a finger at an obvious space:  “Here, for example?”

“Stick in a water-closet, or something. You’ll think of it.”

Quimple felt as though the space beneath his feet was no longer supporting him.  He struggled in vain for firm footing.  “It defies description.”   He said finally.

“Excellent!”  The Lord took this as a compliment.  “Pleased you like it.” 

The little architect’s personal diary had provided an account of this conversation, but it was the last regular entry, and thereafter Peter had been unable to discover much concerning Joseph Quimple, or how he took Crowley’s dream glued to a large piece of board up to the summit of the rock and, somehow, brought it together in the agglomeration of styles and peculiar angles which came to be St. Benedict’s House.   He did know that the little man regarded the house as his master work, that it eventually sent him mad.   He found some clue as to why in a letter from the richly embossed Lord Crowley dated 18th August 1825.

Sir,

I have received missives from you concerning your progress with the house at St. Benedict’s Rock, and I am disappointed that you should feel cause to repeatedly complain about, as you would have it, “constant importuning of tradesmen for payment”. I surely need not remind one such as yourself, sir, that tradesmen are incessant in their pursuit of money and it is a necessary duty to rebuff them.  I do, however, send a draft for a further one hundred and fifty guineas to settle the most necessary accounts, but kindly do not trouble too much with decorators and the like, of whom there are an almost unlimited supply.

You reprimand me for my absence from the project, sir, but I say to you that I placed my complete trust upon you when I gave you instructions, which I expected to be followed to the letter.  Reports which I have received suggesting that there are, in fact, substantial variations from my plans, are disturbing to me, sir.   I am hopeful for an improvement to my health which shall allow me to return to England to correct these matters, but for the meanwhile I must advise you that you should persist no further with extravagances which, I am persuaded, lend to the house a quite undignified appearance.  

 I intend to limit my further investment in the house to a further nine hundred and fifty guineas, which will follow at the commencement of next year. You should dispose of this in such manner as will finish the house to an acceptable standard of accommodation.  I enclose my plan for the finished building.

I am,

Lord Horace Crowley

In even those distant times, though riches beyond the wildest dreams of many nine hundred and fifty guineas for such a project was a completely unrealistic sum,  but Crowley was, of course, by this time stumbling down a dusty road towards bankruptcy.

         “A book of account, Ma’am,”  he said once to Lady Crowley, on one of the few occasions when he spoke to her;  “Is a dreadful devious foe.   Whichever way ye turn him there’s always another within his ranks to find the weakness on your flank.   Set me against an army of the Frenchie and I’ll take ‘im on and thrash ‘im for ye:  but this?   Ye can never beat him Ma’am.  Ye never can!”

In eighteen-twenty-five, after some three years during which he never returned to the seaside town, the old Lord was still battling the elusive book of account.  Now, however, he had a second enemy gathering in his lungs.

On the rainy morning when the messenger arrived bearing Quimple’s request for further funds, Crowley had just seen his doctor.   He was ordered abroad. He must stay a winter in the warmer climate of the south of France; take the waters regularly, rest as much as possible.   If he did not he would live for….a year – two?  Who could say?

So Quimple worked alone, with very little money, constantly battling his Patron’s amendments and alterations to a plan which was structurally unworkable.   This alone, Peter thought, might have driven him insane.  But there were other enticing snippets of history surrounding the rock and its new crowning glory, other pieces to a puzzle which intrigued him and helped, as he returned home this evening, to distract from memories of a bad history examination.

Contemporary accounts relate that a bright summer morning in the Year of Our Lord 1822, when one Matthew Brightley, master mason, laid the first stone of Crowley’s Great House, marked an ending as well as a beginning.  Quimple had hitherto been untroubled by the rock’s natural inhabitants, but from that morning on, as if some truce had been broken, the snake population of the rock  attacked remorselessly.  Viper venom was a constant hazard for all who laboured there.   Several were made very ill by it, and two older stonemasons died.  It was also the time when the seabirds’ yelling became ceaseless, their molestation unpredictable and vicious.  The old title of Devil’s Rock was resurrected more than once in the taverns of Levenport.

Joseph Quimple’s final entry in his diary had always fascinated Peter:

21st August 1825:

Today completed excavations to level the surface of the central courtyard.  Exposed a shelf of stone apparently intruding deep into rock – possibly a seam.  Not granite.  Warm to touch.  Suggests hot spring, or similar – investigate.

He never did investigate.

In the gathering darkness of evening on 22nd August, the very day after this entry, those who chanced to be looking seaward were just able to distinguish Joseph Quimple’s bent form running atop the rock, inexorably running towards the lip of the cliff and its three hundred foot plunge to the sea.  There were those at the subsequent inquest who testified that madness and obsession were the cause of the little man’s lonely end.  There was one townswoman who saw the event, and her evidence spoke of Quimple as being pursued by a large flock of gulls.

© Frederick Anderson 2021.  Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the author is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Frederick Anderson with specific direction to the original content

Featured Image: Manfred Richter from Pixabay