Authors: Jonathan Stroud
Stephen sat with the light off in his window seat, his back pressed against the bedroom wall, looking out into the night.
The drive outside and lane beyond were pitch black; the yellow light from the Monkey and Marvel showed above the hedge, illuminating the outlines of the trees a little down the road. Away to the right, hidden by the darkness and the wall of the house, rose the low hard rise of the Wirrim. The warmth of the day still drifted skywards from the cooling ground.
There was laughter in the lane, of men passing homeward like shadows before the gate. It receded and was swallowed up. Stephen sat in the dark, letting the fears of the day spill out into his mind.
Even now, his heart tightened at the memory of the creature on the doorstep. And yet, although it had shocked him, it was nothing compared to what he'd seen in the kitchen, when Michael had raised his head with a face like old age. Something was happening to his brother, faster and stronger than to Stephen, and Stephen did not know what to do.
The night was an inky patchwork of shadows. Stephen flittered his gaze along the grey mass of the roadside hedge, until his eyes were resting on a deep patch of black directly opposite the cottage.
Suddenly, sharply, his eyes were filled with pain.
He screwed up his face with shock. It was what Michael had described; his sockets stung and the lids felt hot and itchy. It was unbearable. But Michael had said that the pain lessened if you used the sight.
Stephen changed focus. Things changed.
The countryside appeared to him as if lit by a dull red-grey light. Everything was flattened, even the stars were gone, as if their life had been suddenly snuffed out.
And there was a watcher in the lane.
A creature stood against the hedge, looking up at the cottage. It had a reptile's head, blackish green and shiny, and its eyes were lost in the shadow of its muzzle. But Stephen knew that it was looking straight at him, that the darkness was no more perplexing to its sight than it was to his.
Then the creature opened its mouth in salutation and he saw its shining curves of teeth like the teeth of fishes, closely set, white and serrated with a wicked edge. Instinctively, with panic tightening in his chest, Stephen gasped and looked away – and saw the others.
Something with a reptile soul was watching from under the elms a little further down the lane. Its face was almost hidden beneath the lowest branches, but he caught the teeth glinting behind the leaves in the red-grey light. Another stood motionless in the centre of the field beyond. Even in his fear it struck Stephen how curiously indistinct the lower half of its body was. The head was sharp, the thick curved neck also, but below the chest the image faded out, until the lower half was almost imperceptible, even with the clarity of his eyesight, which brought the smallest midnight branches sharply into view.
After the first shock, he sat frozen, his heart palpitating. The beating of his blood echoed in his ear. Three figures, three reptile souls, and each one watching him.
Then a sudden anger rose in him.
"Who are you, you bastards?" he shouted, and his voice was swallowed by the night. The nearest reptile opened its mouth again; the teeth grinned a soundless reply. Stephen swore and forced his eyes to refocus, desperate to catch a glimpse of the human faces beneath the souls. His eyes swarm, and a burst of pain shrieked disapproval. Darkness smothered the view beyond the window and the stars sprang out again. But everything in the lane and fields was again blacked out. He could see nothing.
There was a rustling from the lane.
Stephen cursed and made the change again. The pale dead-light illuminated the landscape. The two most distant reptiles were moving now. The lower halves of their bodies were still invisible; they seemed to float through the air towards the leader by the hedge. As the one from the elms approached, the leader turned to it and opened its mouth. Stephen thought he heard a low whisper rise up from below – a human voice, strangely unnatural to his ears.
The sound sparked in him new energy, and an inspiration. Beside his bed, six feet away, was his cabinet, and in his cabinet was his torch. Army standard, high intensity, new batteries. Stephen would shine it on the watchers and reveal their human selves.
He began to swivel on the window seat. Instantly, the head of the first reptile soul jerked towards him. He felt a pain in his head, a sudden sapping of his energy. A shout came from below, urgent and unconcealed. He thought he recognised the voice, but his thoughts were suddenly confused. The shape on the field began to run towards the lane, while the leader, without diverting his gaze from Stephen, gestured the third towards the driveway gate. Helplessly, Stephen heard the latch being lifted and saw the shape pass through.
On the leader's gaze, Stephen felt impaled like a fish on a harpoon. His muscles twitched spasmodically – once, twice – and suddenly, with a burst of willpower, he wrenched himself free. He threw himself backwards off the window seat and into the room, where he landed on the carpet with an impact that dazed him. When he opened his eyes after a moment, he was back in ordinary darkness.
The aching in his eyes had gone. Somewhere below him, in his garden or even in his house, a man or woman with a soul like a reptile was moving.
He got to his feet, and dived across the bed, crushing a pack of biscuits on the way. Then he was thrusting his arm into his bedside cabinet, rooting around amid the handkerchiefs, inhalers, tapes and tennis balls, while his other hand searched nearby for a weapon he knew was there. The torch was right at the back of the cabinet. He grasped it with a snarl of relief, and as he did so, his fingers closed upon his grandmother's walking stick, propped up against the wall.
Then he stood up straight and listened.
The house was silent. No sound came from beyond the window.
Stephen went out onto the landing and listened with a frozen intensity. Silence. The stairwell was pitch black. Suddenly he had a terrible temptation to peer over the banisters into the dark pool of the hall below. He imagined with horror the figure that might be waiting, watching there . . .
No. He shook his head angrily, as if breaking a spell. Imagination would do him no good. He must forget their hideous souls, forget his fear of them. Above all, he must keep to his ordinary sight if he was to catch their human faces. They could see in the dark, but not round corners. So as long as he kept out of sight, they had no advantage over him.
The house was locked up; he had heard no sound of entry. There was time to rouse Michael first. For the moment, Sarah could wait. Holding the stick ready, Stephen walked soundlessly along the landing, past the door to the bathroom, past the door to their sister's room, down the passageway that led alongside the spare study to Michael's bedroom at the end.
At the door he paused. He looked back along the black passageway. The end of it was invisible, a smudge of blackness. Had there been a sound back there? He longed to use the sight, or switch on the torch – but he resisted the urge savagely.
Wait.
A tiny sound. A faint scratching. Nail on glass.
Sccrt, scrrt, scrrt.
It came from Michael's room.
Stephen cursed again under his breath. Quietly, quietly, swapping his torch to his right hand, he turned the handle and began to steal the door open. The door opened inwards, blocking his view into the room. When there was space enough, he returned the torch to his left hand, then leaned forward and peered round.
The first thing he saw he took in with a glance. Michael's bed was empty, the duvet flung back so sharply that it was two-thirds on the floor. The bedside light lay beside it, switched on, but half rolled under the bed, so that a strange dull subterranean radiance extended weakly across the carpet.
The next thing he saw as he craned his head round was his brother. Michael was standing next to the window, his fingers pressed upon the glass. His neck was jutting forward, his forehead tilted against the pane. Although Stephen could not see his eyes, everything about Michael's posture suggested extreme concentration.
And there was something outside, just beyond the glass. A shape in the night, partially obscured by Michael's head, very dark and still. That something was scratching on the pane.
Scrrt, scrrt, scrrt.
With each scratch, Stephen's eyes throbbed with the desire to refocus. His fingers tightened on the torch.
"Michael." His voice was a violent whisper. "Get out of the way."
Michael made no sign of having heard. His face remained hidden, close against the glass. But slowly his hand moved, down and along, towards the window handle.
The thing beyond the glass gave a little quiver of movement. Michael's hand grasped the handle, absently.
There was an urgent movement from beyond the glass. Michael's hand gripped tighter, and began to turn.
At that moment, Stephen stepped out from behind the door and turned his torch upwards and on with a fluid movement that stabbed a beam of light across the room, past Michael's shoulder and full into the window where the dark shape hovered.
Then several things happened all at once.
The beam seemed to explode against the glass, sending shattered splinters of light back into the room. Michael screamed; with his chin high, he was precipitated backwards away from the window and down against the side of the bed.
Outside the window there was a simultaneous cry. For an instant Stephen saw the beam light up a woman's face, contorted by rage and pain, then it too fell backwards into the night. There was a heavy sound somewhere far beneath.
It had not struck Stephen until that moment how impossible it was that there could be anything at all outside the first floor window. He lowered the torch and stood stupidly, looking at the blank square of the window.
"But we don't have a ladder," he thought.
Michael was lying on the floor. His chest rose with his breathing, rough and ragged. Stephen stepped over him and went to the window, the determination to see the face of his adversary still burning fiercely in his mind. The handle was already turned. Stephen pushed the window open and looked out, angling his torch onto the ground below. There was no ladder nor any other means of access to Michael's bedroom window.
Instead, lit in the theatrical beam of the spotlight, and struggling to rise from the rose bed, was a woman, her left arm crumpled up beneath her, and blood showing on her face. As he watched, she got to her feet and looked around, cradling her arm in her right hand. A sharp whistle sounded from round the house. Without a glance up at the window, she walked slowly off towards the corner which led to the side gate, limping and wincing with pain. As she disappeared from view, it swam into Stephen's head as if from a great distance who she was.
It was Vanessa Sawcroft, the Fordrace librarian, and with a strangely detached attention to detail, Stephen noticed that she was wearing her grey twill working suit.
PC Joe Vernon had just stepped out of the west door at St Wyndham's church, and was in the process of returning his helmet to his head, when Tom came hurrying up the graveyard path.
"Good morning, Reverend. I was wondering where you'd got to."
"Oh, morning, Joe." Tom came to a halt. "What can I do for you?"
If Joe noticed that the vicar was slightly flushed and out of breath, or that he spoke with an edge of impatience, he gave no sign. "Just wanted to speak to you briefly, Reverend. About yesterday's incident."
Tom hovered by the door. "Oh, right. Will it take long?"
"Only briefly, Reverend." PC Vernon removed his helmet and tucked it under his arm, in readiness for reentering the church. Tom nodded.
"Of course. Come in, Joe."
He led the way to his study, unlocked the door and sat at his desk, placing a brown paper envelope on his in-tray as he did so. Sitting down heavily in the guest chair, the constable flicked erratically through his notebook, as if reminding himself of the key facts. Then he looked up and shrugged solidly. kids – you know, vandals – larking about. But if it was some collector, someone obsessed with a bit of old stone, who's to find it then?
"Not that we're exactly experts at stolen crosses, and I did contact Scotland Yard's Antiquities Division, but it was their opinion that the stolen fragment is very unlikely to be sold abroad, or even sold at all."
"I see," said Tom.
"If I were you sir, I should try and be content with what you've got." The constable stood up. "It's still quite a find after all."
Tom nodded. "I'm sure you're right, Joe. Thanks very much for all your efforts."
"That's all right, sir. Well, I'll see myself out."
As soon as the door closed, Tom reached out for the envelope in his in-tray. He prised off the sellotape which fastened the end, and drew out a grey booklet, bound and faded. The title was written on the cover in gold leaf.
THE BOOK OF THE WORM
by
A. J. WILLIS
Tom opened the blinds and let sunlight stream into the room. Then, pushing his chair away from the desk, he stretched out his legs and began to read.
THE BOOK OF THE WORM
May I cast light in a dark place
We do not set this book before you, reader, to persuade you, nor to provide an exhaustive account of the theories and learning of our late friend, Mr Willis. Such a task would lie beyond any man now living, for our friend carried his work round in his head, and seldom entrusted himself to pen and ink. This eccentricity, if such it was, was in part engendered in him by the hostile reception given to his ideas by certain prominent persons in the field. To them we make no reply. To those others who come upon this work, we say only that it is incomplete, since disaster robbed our friend of the power to pursue it to its end. Only a day before his death, he entrusted the manuscript to one of our number for safekeeping. That manuscript, together with a few uncollected notes found on a separate paper, comprises this book. We trust that it may be of interest and stimulation. As to its content, we, who are not experts in the field, forebear to comment, only saying that we always knew our friend to be a man of the utmost honour and veracity.
John Glynbourne
Nathaniel Prior
William Branch
1896
Introduction by the
AUTHOR
I was born in Fordrace, and from my earliest childhood have been interested in the deep-rooted beliefs of my neighbours, which the years and the pace of change at the end of our great century have done little to diminish. From the start, however, I have had to fight against a very irritating disability in my efforts to learn about the local lore. My parents moved into Crow Wood shortly before I was born, and were still considered newcomers over thirty years later on the days they died. I early on discovered that being outsiders debarred us from the traditions of the local folk, and that though I might beg for details on certain subjects, my pleas were always quietly refused.
This difficulty, however, only made me more stubborn, and I have since found other ways to gain the information I desired. Perseverance over many years has paid off; I have discovered much, and if I have made some enemies in the process, I do not regret this.
For Reputation I care little. I only hope that by writing this account (and God grant that I might live to complete it) I may yet cast light in a dark place, where no light has shone for a long time.
Arthur James Willis
Crow Wood, Feb 1895
THE LEGEND OF ST WYNDHAM
My first objective was always to discover what I could about ST WYNDHAM, the patron saint of the present church. Information about him is remarkably scanty. He does not feature in any of the official lists of the early church, and has no other churches dedicated to him. It was, however, clear to me that whoever this mysterious person was, he held a position of great importance in the Fordrace area, since no fewer than three farms, two copses and one stream contain his name in their title. It was also evident that his fame must have been widespread as early as the Conqueror's time, since a 'Wynndamms Church' is registered in the Domesday Book of 1067. The present church of St Wyndham was not built until 1086. This Saint, therefore, had to be Saxon or older. I began to search through certain monastic records, but for many years found no trace of him.
My searches bore fruit at last in Oxford. There, during my studies of the Welsh Triad poems of the sixth Century, I came upon mention of a certain Wyniddyn in a list of heroes. The poem includes this passage:
From the west Wyniddyn angered came, Haw-frost hearted With oak and iron He met that writhing Red-clawed thing, Iron against fire Tooth against hand.
In that accounting Men became ash,
Our white wood blackened, Yet the band was
drawn,
A band of stone, And the seal was carved.
So crept that famished fire A coward into the
earth
And Wyniddyn rested.
What could we tell about this hero? His fame lay in his victory over a terrible foe, a foe whose weapons were teeth, claws and, above all, fire. This enemy was subdued after a ferocious battle in which many men were killed, and white wood (trees? spears?) was burnt. According to this Welsh source, Wyniddyn fought his enemy with 'oak and iron' – most probably a spear. The enemy then disappeared into the earth, and it seems it was forced to do so because of 'a band of stone' and some kind of carved 'seal'. This implies that Wyniddyn was a magician as well as a warrior. Perhaps his magic was strong enough to overcome the flames of his adversary, but not strong enough to destroy it.
Who was this enemy? Where had he fled? What was the seal? There were many questions, but one was uppermost in my mind. My suspicion was that this Wyniddyn was none other than Fordrace's obscure St Wyndham. Wales is not far from here, and there is a strong overlap in these parts between Celtic and Saxon heritage.
I had to wait a long time for confirmation. In 1892 I received permission to study the manuscripts in Hoston Priory, only 15 miles from Fordrace. Among them was a Prayer Scroll, tentatively dated to the Fourteenth Century, and one of its prayers contained a line which made my heart race:
Praise also to pale Wyniddham, by whose seal the worm was cast down.
There was little doubt in my mind that the Wyniddyn of the Welsh poem and the Wyniddham of the Hoston Manuscript were one and the same. As well as the similarity between their names, there was the crucial 'seal' used to defeat an enemy. And now that enemy was identified – a 'worm' – the Old English word for dragon.
It took little daring to link this legendary hero with Fordrace's own St Wyndham. The very place names of our area point to the truth. Mr Limmins does not agree with me, and has seen fit to malign me in print, but who could deny now that Fordrace comes from Fyr-draca (that is, Dragon's Fire) and that the very name Wirrim, (how obvious it seems now!), is a derivation of Wyrm – or Worm.
What a breakthrough this seemed to me! Light could now perhaps be cast on the thin, persistent thread of folklore which runs through the area, and which captured my curiosity as a boy.
LOCAL LEGENDS OF THE HALL AND SEAL
In all my years of investigation, I have only found one person prepared to talk at any length about the Fordrace Legends. This lady had lived under the shadow of the Wirrim all her life, and indeed had never left the county in her sixty years. It was in conversation with her that I received the first proof that the old Wyniddyn legend was still alive.
One day, we were idly chatting about our childhoods, and childhood games. As a girl, she said, she had learnt this following rhyme:
Above the crag
There bides the fire.
Between the trees,
There stands the hall.
Beneath the hall,
There lies the seal.
The good lady did not know what this meant; she could only say that it was a common nonsense rhyme of her childhood, and that she had sung it with her friends while skipping. They would sing it over and over again, faster and faster, until the skipping child caught her leg and fell.
The word seal again! I nearly shouted for joy! And fire – this was reference to the dragon or I was a Dutchman. But what did it mean?
Above the crag: there are many crags on the Wirrim – Raven, Dovetail, Old Toe, High Burr Span . . . It was impossible to know which was meant. But one thing was certain – the dragon was linked to the Wirrim, in this rhyme as in the place names.
I remembered then the significance of Wirrinlow, the old name for The Pit, that sizeable hollow high on the Wirrim. That this must stem from Wyrm-hlaew – 'Dragon's Mound' – is obvious to all except the foolish.
A pattern of belief was becoming clear to me.
Between the trees, there stands the hall: This was obscure. I felt this might refer to a hall Wyndham/Wyniddyn may have built. Maybe this was where he rested . . . Impossible to say.
Beneath the hall, there lies the seal: All the more likely then that Wyniddyn built the hall after his victory over the dragon. He buried the seal deep in the earth to protect it, and covered it over with his building.
Where could this building have been? I can only guess, and my guess leads back where we started from, at St Wyndham's church. We do not know when Wyniddyn was meant to have lived. It must have been before the Welsh poems, and therefore before the sixth century. There was a Saxon church on the present site by the Eleventh Century. Christianity would have arrived here centuries before. A hall or temple associated with the magician-warrior Wyniddyn would have presented problems to the Church. They would have been unable to destroy his influence on the people, and would have had to act quickly to link his old traditions with the new beliefs. The best way to do this was marry the two together. I think they set up their church on the site of the old pagan hall, and made Wyniddyn a local, unofficial saint.
Wyniddyn's seal, if it exists, is somewhere under-the church, or within the church grounds.
What is this seal meant to have been? Who can say, but it evidently contains the magic the magician used to bind up the fire of his formidable enemy. No doubt it is best for Fordrace that it remains undisturbed!
WIRRINLOW
The 'Dragon's Mound' has a long history of folk tradition attached to it.
[There followed the stories of Marjorie Faversham, Meg Pooley and Mary Barratt which Tom had read in the library, the day before.]
The good lady of the village admitted to me, after some hesitation, that The Pit was the setting for 'bad stories', though she refused to divulge them.
RELATED FOLKLORE
Interestingly, a good deal of more recent folklore surrounds one of the farms on the lower slopes of the Wirrim. Seen on maps from the Ordnance Survey, the Hardraker farm lies almost midway between Fordrace church and the Wirrinlow. It is an ancient small-holding, and seems at one time to have been prosperous, though it is now much restricted. A story my informant told me concerns an inhabitant of the farm several centuries ago.
'Bad John Hardraker was a Wizard. Tales were told about his dealings with fairies and worse. He put the eye on you if he caught you up on the hill. He flew too, high over the village church at night. One day a girlie was out on the hill after dark; she'd been fooling with her sweetheart in Stanbridge and was walking home late. She was getting pretty jumpy, what with the lateness of the hour and all, and she kept looking behind her as she went.
'Well, she looked back, and she looked back, and all at once she saw a man following her, a long way off. He was dressed in black and had a long cloak on. Well, she speeded up then I can tell you, but a little bit later she couldn't help herself, she had another look behind her. He was closer then, and he called out to her, "Slow yourself, Kitty, and bide a while with me!" She walked on all the faster when she heard that, but a little bit later she couldn't help herself, she looked behind her again. He was closer still this time, and she could see he had red eyes. And he called out again, "Slow yourself Kitty, and bide a while with me!" Now she began running, down the Haw path it was, down to the village, and her breath was coming in gulps. After a long while, she came near the mill stream, and she hadn't heard anything for a bit, so she snatches a quick look over her shoulder. And what should she see but him floating in the air not two feet behind her, with his cloak out and arms stretched and him smiling like a devil in hell. "Ah, you'll slow now, Kitty," he says, "and sure, you'll bide with me." And he makes a grab at her. But she gives a scream and makes one last effort, and she leaps over the stream, leaving a lock of her hair in his hands. And he can't cross running water, so he's left there, shaking his fist and hollering curses, but he can't do anything about it that time, so he has to go back up the hill.'
My good lady informant says that when she was young the children kept clear of the Hardraker farm and made signs against the evil eye when they passed close. I do not remember this in my boyhood. Nor have I found reliable records of this John Hardraker ever existing. Enquiries at the farm were not well received!