Magic Cottage, Das Haus auf dem Land by James Herbert
"One for the road?" I said.
"Thanks anyway, but I should make a start before the storm breaks, huh?"
He stood, his chair scraping noisily against the floor tiles. Midge and I rose with him, but he was by the door before we were properly on our feet.
"You remember what I told you." The left side of his smile had developed a twitch. "Call in on us any time, we'll give you a big welcome."
He was edging out of the door even as we approached.
"You stay put," he said hastily. "Don't come out to the gate, you might get wet when the rain comes."
Although it was quite dark by now, I could see his skin was damp with perspiration; yet he shuddered as though a cold draft had tickled his spine.
Then he was gone, hurrying down the path as if he had an urgent appointment elsewhere. Midge and I looked at each other in astonishment.
"Do you think he's all right?" said Midge, genuinely concerned.
"Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe it was something we said."
She shivered, victim of the same draft no doubt. "Weird, Mike. Weird. You'd better go after him, make sure he's okay to drive."
I saluted and went outside in time to see our swift-departing guest climbing into the Escort, leaving the garden gate open behind.
"Hey, Hub!" I called, but he couldn't have heard me; the car must have left deep ruts in the grass shoulder, so quickly did it speed away. I strolled to the gate, and by the time I got there the Escort had disappeared from view. "Have a nice day," I said to the empty road.
Closing the gate, I turned back toward Gramarye and now I noticed that any storm clouds had moved on. But then I stopped. There were dark clouds on the horizon, obscuring the last rays of the fading sun, their tops tinged red, but the sky above was relatively free of any heavy clouds. A breeze rumpled the flowerbeds and colors softened by twilight bobbed in smooth rhythm. A small black shape flittered from the roof of the cottage, a bat on its evening's forage, and I stood in the garden, metaphorically scratching my head, wondering why we had all thought a storm was looming.
And then that cold draft touched me.
I shivered and my shoulders hunched. Something beyond the garden drew my eyes toward it. Nothing that moved. Nothing that made any sound. Just the figure again, now standing before the edge of the forest, the face no more than a dim blur.
But I knew it was watching me. And I knew it was waiting.
The figure moved forward, just one step. And I fled inside the cottage.
SIXSMYTHE
You MAY HAVE guessed by now that I'm not one of the world's greatest heroes, and you'd be right. But I do have my moments; it so happens that the evening of Kinsella's visit was not one of them.
I didn't mention what I'd seen to Midge, not wanting to alarm her unduly and feeling slightly ashamed that I hadn't gone over to investigate anyway. Once inside the cottage, I'd run upstairs and peered out of a window in the round room; although the light was murky, I could see the figure had gone. It certainly hadn't had time to cross the clearing to the cottage, so it could only have moved back inside the cover of the trees. When Midge had asked me what I was looking for, I told her I thought I'd spotted one of the famous New Forest deer, which was a mistake because she became excited and I had to dissuade her from going outside to look for it. Too dark, I'd told her, and the animal was probably well inside the forest by now.
She'd reluctantly agreed and wistfully watched the clearing until night fell completely (I watched her, but apprehensively).
I was very much on edge when we turned in later, even though I'd done my best to rationalize matters throughout the rest of the evening. The scuffle earlier in the day, the peculiar change in Kinsella while we drank wine, the expected storm that hadn't materialized: I reasoned that all these things had strung me out, making me a little overwrought. I never doubted I'd seen someone watching from the woods, but the preceding events had made me nervous, and that nervousness had become exaggerated on seeing the mystery watcher once again. You might have felt the same under the circumstances.
I slept badly, waking often to listen to night noises, imagining prowlers trying the windows downstairs, testing the doors. Creaks were footsteps, and soft taps were fingernails on glass.
It was a relief when morning finally broke.
I'd just finished cutting the grass at the back of the house and was cleaning mulch from the mower blades when the Reverend Sixsmythe arrived. Midge, in shorts and T-shirt, had been busy in the front garden when the vicar had called hello over the fence. She'd been caught unawares (I'd neglected to inform her of his proposed visit), but naturally had welcomed him graciously. She brought him around the side of the cottage to where I was working, pulling a face at me that he was unable to see.
"Good morning, Mr. Stringer," he said cheerily, striding forward to pump my hand. Today he wore a brown trilby, which only served to make him look like a kid dressed in Dad's clothes because it was a size too big for him. "Good to see you hard at work. Mowing twice a week, I hope?"
"Three times. The grass is overhealthy here."
He looked around appraisingly. "Ah yes, you'll find plant and animal life extremely abundant in this area. I believe Flora Chaldean had quite a job keeping it all under control. I haven't come at a bad time, have I? We did agree yesterday."
"No, I was about to grab a break," I replied.
"Me, too," said Midge. "Would you like some tea, coffee? Or lemonade?"
"A lemonade would be super, Mrs.—ah, Miss . . ."
"Gudgeon," she finished for him.
"Gudgeon," he repeated. "Now that name rings a bell . . ."
"Margaret Gudgeon," I told him. "Children's books?"
"Why of course, yes indeed!" He positively bristled with the thrill of it. "Let me welcome you to our parish, Miss Gudgeon. My goodness, I'm very familiar with your work having three young sprogs of my own. My eldest daughter is only just going on to other things, but she still keeps her collection of your books. How marvelous that you should choose to make your home here. And, of course, in this particular cottage! You are aware, I take it, of (iramarye's meaning?"
"Yes," she said. "It means Magic."
I looked at her in surprise. She'd never told me that.
"How appropriate," Sixsmythe prattled. "How very appropriate. Isn't Magic what many of your stories are about?"
"I only illustrate the books."
"Yes, but the pictures are the stories, aren't they? The words are really there to serve your pictures, Miss Gudgeon. Now, may I call you Margaret? And it's Mike, isn't it? Surnames are so formal, and we're all friends here."
I wondered if I should call him Pete.
"Lemonade for you, Mike?" Midge was smiling at me and she also passed on a secret look that said, who is this guy?
"Terrific." I grinned back.
We'd bought a small garden table and a couple of cheap chairs from the village and arranged them around the old bench; I waved a hand toward them and the vicar sat in one, taking off his hat and placing it on the table top. I sat opposite him on the bench. From that position I could see the forest behind him and, not for the first time that morning, I scanned its fringes, searching for you-know-what.
"I must apologize for what happened in the village yesterday," said Sixsmythe, wiping his brow with a red handkerchief. "I suppose there has to be an unruly element in any community, and unfortunately you bumped into the worst of ours. They're not bad lads really, just at odds with themselves and at loose ends with the world itself."
"I'd almost forgotten about it," I lied (funny how you tend to lie more to men of the cloth, assuming a kind of false piety). "No real harm done anyway."
"Good of you to take it that way. We're usually a peaceful community, Mike, and perhaps we have too gentle a lifestyle in some respects for this day and age. However, it suits most people hereabouts and I can't imagine any drastic changes taking place over the next decade or so. Unless they decide to build a highway through our
He gave a short laugh, but I had the uncomfortable feeling he was watching me closely. I fervently hoped he was not going to suffer from the same hysteria as our friend Kinsella had yesterday.
We discussed the weather, the countryside, and briefly touched on the state of the nation, and I had the impression that he was awaiting Midge's return before going on to more personal topics.
Return she did, and not before time (I'm not very good at small talk), carrying a tray of glasses and iced lemonade. I took pleasure in the distraction of her slim legs, now lightly tanned and, as ever, velvety smooth from top to toe. I caught Sixsmythe having a sneaky look too, but then he was only flesh and blood despite the sweat-smudged white collar.
Midge sat next to me on the bench and poured lemonade from the jug. It was another glorious day—that summer had to hold some kind of record for continuous sunshine—and the very pleasantness of my surroundings allayed my nervousness from the night before. Almost. There was still that niggling unease at the back of my brain, a disquiet that couldn't be sensibly clarified. I sipped lemonade and tried to keep my attention on the cleric, and not on the woods behind him.
"So, Margaret," said Sixsmythe, having swallowed half his drink in one go, "are you working on a new book at the moment?"
"Oh no. Mike and I decided we wouldn't take on any more work for at least a month, not until we'd made ourselves comfortable in Gramarye. You could call it an adjustment period, too."
"Very wise. And what is your line of business, Mike? Are you an artist also?" He was genuinely interested, his clear, schoolboy's eyes eager bright.
"I play guitar, write songs when I can."
He seemed disappointed. "I see. You don't work regularly then?"
Midge and I laughed.
"Yes, he does," said Midge, still amused but indignant too. "Mike plays at recording sessions mostly, although occasionally he goes on the road."
"On the road?"
"I back other performers," I told him. "You know, as part of a touring band."
"Ah."
"And when he's not doing that, he works very hard at song writing. In fact, Mike's got the basis for a musical—"
"Midge . . ." I warned good-naturedly.
"Sorry." She squeezed my leg, then said to Sixsmythe, "We have an agreement that we never talk about ideas for future projects in company. Mike and I feel it takes out some of the energy for the work itself."
"Yes, I think I understand that. I suppose pre-explanation can take the edge off creativity."
"You got it," I said. "Too many good ideas, particularly in my business, get talked to death before they even get off the ground."
"My word, but what an exciting time you both must have."
We chuckled again at that.
"When a new book is published, or work's going really well—that's when things get exciting," said Midge. "Otherwise, it's usually self-disciplined hard slog."
"Nevertheless, you must meet some very interesting people," he insisted. "I do hope you won't get bored too easily with us simple folk."
"Believe me, half the reason Mike and I moved here was to get away from certain so-called 'interesting' people. We find country life quite refreshing."
"Yes, I was being somewhat harsh on myself and my parishioners. You'll find that many of us are not quite as dull as you might at first think." He nodded to himself, then gazed up reflectively at the cottage walls. "Yes indeed," he mused, "there are quite a few interesting characters in these parts. I think you'd have found Flora Chaldean fascinating, for instance. A most extraordinary individual."
Midge rested her elbows on the table, clasping her hands before her. "Did you know her well?" she asked.
"Flora? No, I'm afraid nobody knew her well. Very much of a recluse, you see. But the villagers and many of the local people came here to see her in time of trouble." He smiled almost wistfully. "In fact, many of those I failed to help would visit her, and perhaps she was of greater comfort to them than I. Oh, they never let me know of their visits, kept them very much a secret. But I knew. I knew their old country ways."
I shifted on the bench, and I could tell Midge was intrigued.
"What sort of help did Mrs. Chaldean give them?" I asked. "Was she just one of those who people like to tell their troubles to?"
"More than that. Yes, much more, I believe." He suddenly frowned. "She was a great healer. A healer of the spirit as well as the flesh, apparently. Sadly, I'm hopeless at the latter, and only sometimes good at the former. It seems that Flora had a gift that was centuries old."
Birds fluttered close, landing near our feet. If Sixsmythe hadn't been there they would have been on the table itself, chirping for food.
"Her solicitor did mention that she was a healer of sorts," said Midge. "Are you telling us now that she was a faith healer?"
"Not exactly. Oh, I'm sure that much of her effectiveness was due to people's utter belief in her powers to cure, but that wouldn't have explained everything. She made up potions of the kind you might find in books on ancient remedies, those that are passed down from generation to generation, but she also had the ability to cure without any such medicines, by talking, or laying on of hands. Not that she would oblige just anybody! Goodness no! There were some she would not let inside her garden gate!" He shook his head, grinning like a ventriloquist's dummy. "And then, of course, she had a wonderful way with animals. Could cure them of ailments almost overnight, I'm told."
Midge stole a quick glance at me.
"You'd quite often find a sick cow or pony tethered outside here for a day or so, who were inevitably in fine fettle by the time the owners arrived to take them home again. Dogs, cats—quite a menagerie on occasions! Now you can't tell me that animals had faith in her powers, so it's hard to fathom how they became well again. Yes, yes, a wonderful gift had Flora. Pity that I only got to know her toward the end of her life. May I have another glass of lemonade, Margaret? It's rather cooling on a day like this."
She poured and was obviously engrossed with the cleric's account of Gramarye's previous owner. "I'm surprised her fame wasn't more widespread from what you've told us."
"Heavens, no! All kept very secret in these parts, you know. Yes, very hush-hush. Flora would bind those who came with their problems to secrecy before she would even attempt a cure. However, as with all such delightful mysteries, there were always whispers, a confidence here, a hint there. I think the locals felt that to admit these things openly would somehow break the old lady's spell."
"That's an odd word for a vicar to use," I remarked.
He looked reasonably abashed. "Yes, I admit 'spell' has certain mumbo-jumbo connotations, but I'm merely recounting what went on in the minds of the local folk. I think it's quite charming, don't you?"
"Uh . . . yeah, I suppose so. I'm just surprised to hear a vicar talk in those terms."
He laughed aloud at that. "Quite so! I can understand your surprise. But spells, incantations and yes, Magic itself, have a lot to do with my particular trade, wouldn't you agree? When we clergy preach the almighty power of the Lord's divine goodness, we are, after all, speaking of Magic."
"I . . . hadn't thought of it like that," I admitted.
"Of course not. And I'm teasing you a little. Remarkable though Flora Chaldean was, I'm afraid that such sorcery went out of fashion a few hundred years or so ago. The microchip is the new Magic, isn't it?" He gulped down more lemonade, obviously very thirsty. (I learned from Midge later that Sixsmythe had cycled from the village in the belief that the exercise on such a fine day would do him the world of good. Although the oversized trilby had kept his neat-lined hair in place, it hadn't done much for his body temperature.)
"Mike," he said, placing his glass back on the table and regarding me with a beagle-eyed expression, "these Synergist people—you told me yesterday they'd visited you here a number of times."
Wondering what was coming, I nodded a "yes.
"They also used to visit Flora Chaldean."
I had no particular comment on that; it seemed reasonable enough.
"The point is, they were very unwelcome. Flora hated this pseudo-religious group with all her heart. So much so, in fact, that she even complained to the village constable, but there was very little he could do to stop them coming here." He gestured at the landscape behind him. "These woods are common land and so are the paths around the cottage: they had the legal right to pass by or linger at any time they chose to do so."
"Wait a minute. Are you saying they harassed the old lady?"
"From what I've been led to believe, yes, most definitely."
"But why should they do that?" cut in Midge. "The three we've met couldn't be more friendly, or more harmless. Why on earth should they try to upset Flora?"
He raised his hands slightly, then let them fall onto the table. "Who can say? Flora was a very private person, despite—or perhaps more correctly, because of—the discreet services she provided to those in need. She was certainly eccentric, not to say a trifle cranky on occasions, so she might have taken a particularly strident dislike to them for any number of personal reasons."
"I got the impression yesterday that not many of the locals do care for them, so she wasn't alone in that respect," I said. "I still can't understand why they're so unpopular, though. What have they done to pis—to cause such resentment?"
"They're strange people, and they live in a strange way."
I sighed. "That's hardly reason—"
"They're a suspect organization, Mike, not unlike a few others I could mention that are around nowadays. They came here five years ago, led by a man named Mycroft. There were only a few of them at first, and they moved into Croughton Hall, keeping very much to themselves. Others followed, though, people from different parts of the world, assembling on the Croughton estate as if it were some focal point for their religion. And it wasn't long after that they set out to recruit more followers, many from around here, locals, mainly youngsters, enticing them away from their families, brainwashing them to accept their ways, Mycroft's teachings, so that they never wanted to leave, no amount of persuasion from their familes or loved ones drawing them back into the real world again."