Reunions

You haven't seen Philip for twenty years
and you think, well,
he might have a better job than me
but he looks a lot older than me.
And Philip looks at you
and maybe he thinks the same.

A Disappearance and an Appearance

I know a church on the Staffordshire-Derbyshire border where there is a most unusual tomb. It is a plain chest, about 3 feet high, without any inscription or decoration, on which lie two recumbent figures, whom I presume are man and wife, though this can be no more than speculation, since neither is visible. Both are entirely covered in long shrouds, which I would have to say are meticulously well carved by the long-dead monumental mason. But before any hunter-down of curiosities who might read this decides to visit the church, I must stress that there WAS such a tomb, because the figures are no longer there. They vanished some time ago, and have never been found, though I do have an idea of what might have become of them. But it’s a strange story.

          I first discovered the church, in a village which I shall call Maxton, when I was out on a walk. I can’t resist passing an old church without taking a look inside, and there was this remarkable tomb, like no other I had ever seen, without any information as to whom might have built it, or why it took this strange form. I looked in vain for any guidebook to the church offered for sale, or even a postcard, which I thought sadly neglectful. Fortunately I had on my person the bible for all haunters of churches, namely the relevant volume of Pevsner‘s Buildings of England. But even Herr Pevsner wasn’t greatly informative.

          “Maxton. Holy Cross. Nave c. 13. Tower and s. aisle much restored 1850s. Chancel e. window of 5 lights (etc etc). Chest tomb, said to date from 1590s, a member of Benville family and wife, but no inscription; alabaster effigies, both figures completely shrouded; grotesque”

          And then, a few lines later:-

          “Maxton hall, 1/2 mile w. of village. Once the seat of the Benville family. Only traces now remain”

          “That’s not very helpful!” I commented to a man who was standing near the tomb.

          “It’s a load of rubbish”, he informed me. “Pevsner didn’t know what he was talking about. I could have told him better”

          I was depressingly familiar with his type: an amateur local historian, whose greatest pleasure was to discover an error in the work of a major writer: the fact that the error might be of the utmost triviality not signifying at all. Sure enough, it only required a few words of encouragement from me to cause him to launch forth with his own ideas.

          “For a start, the real name of the family wasn’t Benville, it was de la Benneville”, he informed me. “And the date should be the 1570s. This tomb is Sir Robert de la Benneville and his wife Eleanor. They were cousins too, because the family was always very inbred and in consequence a bit strange to say the least. This pair were said to be quite spectacularly ugly, and they weren’t liked in the neighbourhood: in fact they were suspected of witchcraft, but because they were so rich and powerful, nothing could be done. Then they both died together, in mysterious circumstances, and locals said it was by visitation of the devil; so that there was a move to deny them burial in the church; but they were childless and had left all their money to the church on condition that a proper tomb was erected with them on it, so in the end it was decided to build a tomb, but with these shrouded effigies we’ve got here.

          “Some people think the church is haunted by them”, he added, entirely predictably. “There are stories ….”

          I feared he might go on like this for ever, so I interrupted to say that he really ought to write a guidebook for the church himself; and again, entirely true to type, he muttered something about quarrels with the vicar, and in any case not having the time. I disengaged myself from his company as politely as I could, and departed in search of a pub for my lunch.

 

           There the matter rested until a couple of years later, when we were visited by friends from the south who loved visiting old churches, and it occurred to us that they would probably never have seen anything like the Benville (or should it be de la Benneville?) tomb. So we drove them over to Maxton that afternoon; but on arrival we were astonished to find police cars in attendance and the church surrounded by red and white scene-of-the-crime tape. My friend the local historian was, I was relieved to notice, absent, but a man who was obviously the vicar was standing by.

          “There’s been a break-in”, he said, in answer to the obvious enquiry.

          “Was anything taken?”

          “It’s very strange. There were two peculiar figures on a tomb. Oh, so you know about them? Well, they’ve gone!”

          “Gone?”

          “Yes, they’ve completely disappeared; heaven knows how! Nothing else seems to have been touched. Why would anyone want to do that? And how was it done? They must have been very heavy! And what’s even odder is that there’s no sign of a forced entry anywhere, though I’m absolutely certain I locked up the night before. It’s a Yale lock, you know. I can only think that someone must have been hiding inside the church when I locked the door, and then opened it from the inside. But even then, several men must have been involved, and how they dislodged the figures and then carried them out without waking up half the village, I really don’t know! The police are baffled.

          “It’s almost as if the figures got up from the tomb themselves, and walked out, isn’t it!”

 ………………………………..................................................

Some time later I found an item in the local paper, which informed me that a derelict barge had been found sunk in the Trent-Mersey canal and had had to be hoisted at no little cost. What had caused excitement was the fact that human bones had been discovered inside the wreck. Pathologists had identified them as belonging to a man and a woman, but had been mystified on finding that both had been dead for a very long time; probably several centuries.

I’d a good mind to return to Maxton church and tell my story to my friend the amateur historian. I’m sure he’d have been fascinated. But somehow I just can’t face it..

Neston

Paul had been studying late, and he fell asleep at his desk and dreamed a very intense dream.
   He was lying on the deck of a wooden sailing-vessel. He could hear the creak of oars, and above him a white sail strained in the breeze. Raising himself on his elbow, he saw he was sailing up a mighty river. The sun, shining over the stern of the boat, was hot. Presently a man came over to him and spoke to him in a language of which he understood not a single word. A feeling of intense loneliness swept over Paul, and he awoke.
   Some time later, Paul dreamed the same dream again, but this time with more certainty. As he lay on the boat-deck, he knew who he was and where he was. Men called him Neston (not his real name, but he accepted it), and he was journeying up the River Nereth. He supposed he was about forty years old, though he had never known the year or place of his birth. His body held many scars, for he had been a warrior and adventurer for all his adult life. But recently fortune had deserted him, and he had nothing left but his sword and a few gold coins concealed in his belt. He was tired of adventure, and sought a quieter life; so he was on his way to the Twin Cities, the centre of a great empire, hoping to take service as the bodyguard of some lord. This time,when the man approached him, he recognised the Twin Cities language.
   "Not far to go now. We'll be docking this evening. Have you been tot he Twin Cities before? If not, you'd better know that no weapons may be taken inside the walls without authorisation, so you'd better find somewhere to stow your sword". 
   Neston was still pondering this problem when Paul woke up.

(To be continued) 

Gerry's Journey

(This was a vivid dream. It appears to be a scene from an epic fantasy story. I don't know what should precede it, or come next)

................................................................................................. 

The little group of travellers made their way along the mountain track, following their leaders, the old greybearded wizard and the tall, beautiful Elven lady. They were Gerry and his two companions (though in truth he had only met them at the start of the journey) and a strange young man who had joined them later. He was most inappropriately dressed, in a suit and tie, and clutched obsessively at a briefcase, which he refused to put down even when they stopped for a rest.
   They crossed the mountains and came to a wide valley, where there was a farm. They laid down in a field. It was a dry and warm night and they soon fell asleep.
   Gerry awoke before the others. The wizard and the lady went to consult the farmer, and Gerry explored behind a barn, where he found water to wash himself. When he rejoined the others, he looked through his bag and was astonished at the random collection of objects he had packed for the journey. Why on earth had he brought a wineglass? "And I only have one clean shirt!" he exclaimed. "What will I do when I meet the King?"
   "You'll have to wash it!" replied one of the others, and laughed.

   The wizard and the lady returned. "It seems the Wolf isn't far away", he told them. "We will have to overcome it - or tame it".
   The lady turned to him. "The success of our mission will depend on my death." she announced quietly. The wizard said nothing, for he knew that she could discern far into the future.
   After a long silence, she repeated, "My death", but then added, fiercely, "But I will not be bound by fate!"
   The strange young man clutching the briefcase now approched the wizard. "I must go back!" he said.
   "You cannot go back", he was told, "When we crossed the mountains, we entered another world. There can be no return".
   The young man said, "I am carrying drugs to be delivered. But when I looked in my case, there were no drugs: just twists of newspaper containing only sand!"
   "That too is fate", the wizard told him.

Anxieties

Nigel said to his doctor, "I've had a very strange dream, and it's been worrying me. I thought I was lying on the ground, naked, reading a book, when up comes this young girl,about nine or ten, and she's naked as well. She snuggles up to me and we cuddle and chat. Nothing much else happens, but then I realise I'm having an enormous erection, which she's bound to notice, and then I woke up. I'm very anxious about it all. Does it mean I'm a potential paedophile? What do you think?
   The doctor said, "Now isn't that strange? I've had much the same sort of dream myself. We'd better go and discuss it, and look at a few pictures to see what stimulates us". 

Fugitive

Ever since Geoffrey was taken, Alex knew it was only a matter of time before they came for him too. In an attempt to stave this off, he left his home, broke off all contact with his friends, and moved into squalid lodgings inthe chaotic household of Lizzie, an unmarried mother of several young boys. He told her nothing about himself, and she was glad to take his rent money without seeking any proof of his identity. In Lizzie's neighbourhood nobody asked too many personal questions.
   But after a while he started to feel insecure even there. Abruptly he decided to up sticks once more, and took a train to Scotland, but the first thing he saw when disembarking at Glasgow Central station was a poster of himself, offering a large reward for his capture. In panic he fled back to Lizzie.
   Now he scarcely dared venture outside at all. His uneasiness was now overwhelming. Would Lizzie be able to resist the money offered for his capture? And what of her boys? Surely they would gossip to their friends about the strange man who never left his room, and eventually this would reach the ears of the authorities. But his will was paralysed, and he could do nothing to help himself.
   Thus it was that when two man came to take him, he accepted it fatalistically and offered no resistance.
   "I suppose it was Lizzie who betrayed me?" he asked as they took him away.
   "Lizzie told us nothing; otherwise we'd have found you much earlier".
   "Well well," he mused, "It shows how wrong you can be! I would have thought she could really have used all that money!"

Typhon

For some weeks past, Udlotwyn the wizard had become increasingly troubled by his dreams. At first these had consisted of no more than obscure shapes, dimly perceived, but which nonetheless caused him a vague disquiet; but then, as night followed night, the vision gradually solidified, until he beheld an ancient city of tall towers and minarets, domes and battlements, strange in form and utterly black in colour, seen in the distance with the foreground shrouded in a strange bluish mist.

   Udlotwyn was disturbed. He was certain that these dreams portended something of great importance, but he could not identify the city, or even ascertain whether or not it had a real existence outside of his mind. He wondered whether anyone else had had similar dreams. As a wizard, he was naturally more sensitive to such things than ordinary people. But there was no-one he could consult: he was the only remaining true wizard in that country; perhaps the only one left in the entire world, for all he knew. For sure, there would be some amateur dabblers in magic, and all he could do was hope that their foolhardy experiments would not create too much damage.

 The dreams continued. Now sounds were heard too: voices chanting in an unfamiliar language and discordant notes of harsh music. Udlotwyn became increasingly worried. Finally he decided he must take action. He read reports that an unfortunate inmate at a mental asylum, who was generally placid and was encouraged to paint pictures as a therapy, had produced a canvas of a fantastic city-scape and then lapsed into violent ravings. In rare moments of coherence he had stated that he had painted what he saw in his dreams.

   Udlotwyn consulted his books of magical lore. What he eventually found there filled him with dread. The city he saw in his dreams could be none other than Typhon, that legendary home of evil warlocks, on the hill overlooking the Blue Marsh. No trace of it had ever been found by archaeologists, and some authorities maintained it was no more than a myth. And one name especially was associated with it: Magathan.

   Magathan! The most terrible of all the black magicians of past aeons! Of course, that was not his real name: no-one would dare pronounce the real name of a great wizard out loud: you never knew what might happen; though doubtless there would be hidden conundrums that allowed you to discover it. According to legend, Magathan had not died (for such a powerful wizard would never die in the way that ordinary mortals did) but was eternally asleep, no-one knew where, waiting to be awoken.

   Udlotwyn wondered whether some foolish dabbler had discovered his name and thus aroused him. For the situation was becoming more and more alarming. Groups of people were now reported to be wandering around, babbling incoherently about searching for a lost city, and in his dreams Udlotwyn could see them, trekking across the Blue Marsh towards the gates of Typhon. After much thought, he decided only one course of action was open to him. He must himself locate Magathan, and if his unquiet soul was indeed stirring, then silence him by banishing him from the world, if such a thing was possible. Udlotwyn sighed, knowing that this could be the final task he would ever undertake as a wizard, and might in every likelihood lead to his own fall and destruction. But what else could he do?

   He concentrated all his powers, in the hope that somehow he could sense the presence of Magathan in some place and make his way towards it. Nothing. Nothing at all. What now? 

(To be continued)