The young professor stared impassively through the rain that lashed the rattling windows of the first-class compartment, straining to catch a glimpse of the featureless fen country beyond, made mysterious, and somehow almost beautiful, by the dim, white reflected foglight which penetrated the mizzle and mist and smoke from the engine - strangely ethereal light, like snowfields reflecting the sun. He had been alone in the compartment since Boston, where his only companion, a tweedclad ruddychopped country lawyer, had alighted headdown from the train into the howling late September storm which strafed the platform, rain and wind channelled mercilessly between track and dripping station canopy overhead. “Nasty, casselty weather,” the man had said, and since his departure it had only worsened.
It had not affected the young man’s mood; for the hundredth time that day, while his gaze remained fixed on the galloping fields beyond the glass, his left hand strayed to the little case on the worn crimson cushion beside him, and a small self-satisfied smile passed across his face.
Never mind the rain, he thought.
I’ll have what I’m after. The snap of a catch deposed the reigning silence, and his fingers intruded carefully into the satchel’s warm, womblike interior, to play softly over the smooth rounded objects lying within. A weathered bone, marks of primitive butchery etched along its length; a well-knapped flint knife, smoothed by decades of loving use and millennia of subterranean rest; shards of ancient pot, ground, burned and blackened until nearly indistinguishable from the fertile earth whose folds had concealed it for so long. The diverse relics, sent to him by an old school-friend, now a cleric in one of these windswept northern parishes, excited him with their prospect of a fruitful few days’ delving into the living earth, a working holiday.
The friend had not come by them himself, however. Rather, knowing him as a man of learning, the working men and busy children from the surrounding farms had brought each item carefully to him, as reverently as an offering to the country gods, wrapped in neckerchiefs and carried in battered hats, receiving in return a shilling or a slab of crusty bread from the rectory kitchen, a kind word and the happy twinkle of anticipation in the pastor’s eye, until the trickle of antiquities became a torrent beyond his ability to catalogue. At school, the pair had shared a passion for the classics, the violent stories of Hengest and Horsa, and above all for archaeology and anthropology in general, and so it was that a few choice specimens had been dispatched to the professor’s rooms at the university and, enclosed, an invitation to visit whenever it may prove convenient. So it was that the young man found himself cocooned in a comfortable carriage, looking forward fondly to a small indulgence before the beginning of term should call him back to his students and his more scholarly research.
The wind had abated somewhat when the train pulled shudderingly to a stop in the small country station that was the young man’s destination, though it siled as hard as before. The name, DOGDYKE, hand-painted on the wall of the signalbox, welcomed him, shining through the steam as he descended to the deserted platform, the only passenger to do so. The irregular hiss and sizzle of raindrops striking the locomotive boiler, and the rivulets running in cast iron gutters, were the only sounds, as he looked around in vain for a porter, before lifting down his own valise, watching his erstwhile steed pull away, and splashing before the wind, across the tracks, to the inviting glow of the wooden waiting room sitting midway along the opposite platform.
With luck, he thought, the clouds would part before long; he planned to hire an open cart from the inn to carry him from there to his friend’s home, and he did not relish the idea of a slow, lengthy journey exposed to such elements. Yet at the worst, he could always stop a night at the inn itself; he was youthful and justly unpretentious, and a country hotel would do well enough for him, unlike some of his older colleagues who would have balked at the idea. Strange, given the Spartan and decrepit nature of many of the fellows’ ancient apartments at the university, that they should be so snobbish and unpractical.
As if to chide him for his optimism, a peel of thunder rumbled ominously in the distance as he stepped at last beneath the hanging gas lantern and into the waiting-room, where three other passengers sat, glassy-eyed, in funereal silence, staring into the glowing embers of a low-burning fire as though long study would reveal great secrets.
The young man paused at the door to consider them, and remove his hat, then stepped between the three rustic oracles and their object, placing his back close to the fire, so that steam began to rise from his damp clothes in the fusty heat of the waiting room.
“Excuse me,” he apologised in a low voice, designed not to break the spell; indeed it did not, and his companions may as well have been carven idols for all that they acknowledged him. “...The weather, you know.”
A flash of light, and a second clap of thunder tolled, this time closer; a toothless grin played among the wrinkles of the eldest lady’s face, and she was chuckling as she answered it, “A drum - a drum!”
Confusion must have shown on the professor’s face, as the lady seemed to notice him for the first time, and spoke directly to him, gazing empty-eyed from beneath her grubby cap.
“List on, young ‘un: Now o'er the one halfworald, naäture seems deäd, an’ wicked dreäms abuse th’ curtain'd sleep; we celebraäte pale Hecate's off’rings...”
There was a sound at the door, and a uniformed man stepped in and laid his hand on the woman’s shawlbound shoulder with gentle finality.
“Na’then, Maudie,” he broke in, in a soft fenland burr, “n’more o’ that now. I’m sorry for her, sor. She bean’t hersen naymore, she’s a tad... soft I’th’ead. Hallus cot up in’r theatercal days.”
The professor nodded at the station-master’s reassurance, though he was already shaken.
“I’m sorry I warn’t aäble to meeät tha train, sor, loikewise. Fust’n I’ve missed sin I bean ‘ere, but I’d to see the Squoire awaäy.”
“It’s quite alright. There was only myself to help down, and I would have received a wet in anycase.”
“Onyroad, I’m moighty sore o’er that, sor.” The station-master smiled at him. “Can I help tha w’owt else mayhap?”
“The rain doesn’t show any sign of stopping, I don’t suppose?”
“Ay, it’s right remblin an’ silin, an’ will forra woile yit, sor.”
“Then you might allow me the use of your umbrella while I go over to the public house.” The professor indicated the dripping bundle in the station-master’s hand. “I wish to engage a conveyance.”
“Cert’nly sor, moi pleäsure.” He nodded, “Jes tha leäver a th’inn ‘n I’ll coom o’er f’r tanight.”
“Er... thank you. That’s very kind of you.” Taking the proffered umbrella, the young man passed out of the waiting room, not looking back at the three crones, raised the already sodden cloth above his head, and walked down the platform to its meeting with the road and the brick tower of the ticket office, where he crossed back over the tracks.
Rain still splashed the suitcase under his arm, and the leather bag of curiosities, and the puddles in the inn’s yard, unavoidable, leaped and slapped at his trouser legs as he crossed it, soaking each leg to the knee and filling his boots; yet his face and torso were protected from the mauling of the weather. To the south, the sky lightened again, suggesting the storm might soon abate. The inn’s shelter beckoned.
Stepping inside the door to the public bar, the man was once again met by a draft of warm, stuffy air from the large open fire. One or two drinkers had already settled into their positions by the bar, but it was as quiet here as it had been in the station, but for the rhythmic tap of raindrops at the window, begging for admission, and the noisy tick, tick, tick of the clock on the mantle. The heavyset publican pushed his dirty dishcloth into another glass and forced it back and forth, producing a tortured squeak, as he regarded the outfit of his newcomer with an analytical eye.
“Na’then, sor, what can I do tha for?” he enquired as he set down the grease-streaked glass by the pumps. “a glass of aäle an’ a hoät meäl?”
“Thank you. I’m very wet”, he said, stating the obvious, “a scotch if you please. And I’d like to engage your carrier if possible, as far as...”
“Not possible, guvnor, I’m afraid.” He measured out the drink. “Our lad’s just this minute taäken the Sqouire in dog-cart, oop Reävsby way. He’ll not be back tonight.”
“Ah. That’s unfortunate. I’d counted on its being available, my friend said I might.”
“You’re verra welcoom t’ taäke a room wi’ us futhe noight, if you need. We charge a reäsn’ble raäte.”
Looking around, the scotch had not made this prospect any more appealing than he would have found it perfectly sober, though the fire was inviting after the storm outside. He made a decision on the spot, and asked the publican the approximate distance to his friend’s residence.
“There are a few hours left until dark after all.”
“It’s nobbut a few miles oäff, that’s true.”
“Ah; well, I am an alpinist. I’m quite used to walking.” He drank the small glass of whisky in a few sips, steeling himself for the unprotected foray into the countryside he was committing himself to, and dropped some coins on the counter-top, but hesitated to go. It was not until the optimistic barman offered another drink and a tab that the professor finally shrugged back into his overcoat, picked up the case, and left the warm pub and the borrowed umbrella behind him. Thankfully the rain had reduced to a light mizzle in the meantime, barely noticeable except as an irritating tingle on the face and hands; the visibility was poor, but the walk would not discomfort him too much. He quickly left the little village behind him, and when he stopped ten minutes later to look back the way he had come, it had entirely disappeared from view. It seemed as if he were enclosed in a small globe containing only the air he breathed, the road he trod, and himself, all surrounded by an infinite mist. Odd weather.
It was long after he had followed the direction indicated by the Dogdyke fingerpost when he reached the edge of the settlement wherein his friend’s home lay. Clearly he was not as fit as he had been. His feet ached, and the gloved fingers of both his hands were numb from the damp and cold, and from the constant swapping of the heavy case from side to side. His right shoulder ached from the weight of the satchel which had slung from it, bouncing against his thigh with each step until he was convinced he would bruise. Pausing to take his breath leaning on a field gate, he regarded the few poor houses in sight through the thinning mist, whitewashed farm cottages, and what must be a smithy, all spread out along the straight road to either side.
A dog barked somewhere close by; meant as a warning of his approach, undoubtedly, but comforting to him somehow as a sign of civilisation after a bleak and, if he was honest, somewhat unsettling tramp in unpleasant weather. His friend had always praised the unmatched beauty and big skies of the fens he had made his home, but so far he felt it had not deserved such high consideration. A few moments would bring him to a warm and welcoming refuge, fire, food and drink, not to mention good conversation and welcome reminiscence; yet his experience since leaving the train had left him with an odd sense of foreboding. No doubt, he comforted himself, the result of primitive instincts in the face of poor weather. Conscious reason led him to seriously doubt the presence of circling predators just out of sight, but humanity has yet to tame their outmoded stone-age nerves.
Nevertheless, he did not wish to rest too long, so near to his destination. With protesting legs he stood himself up with the aid of the gatepost, picked up his belongings, and made his way half a mile further down the road, towards the little church and rectory beyond. The red-brick Victorian house was set back from the road, beyond its well-kept flower garden, and enclosed by rough hawthorn hedges that had long since attacked and overpowered the iron bars of the fence, weaving its branches about the rigid form. It was a relief to swing shut the squeaking gate behind him, pad at long last to the bell pull where it protruded from the wall, and pull it jerkily from its socket.
Somewhere within, a bell rang, and nearly instantly the door was opened not by the housekeeper, but by the reverend himself. He was a man as tall and dark as his friend, though he was thinner-looking, with greying, diminishing hair, and more jovial by far – his exuberant personality had always been a foil to the more sedate manner of the professor, more suiting him to a public life than a scholar’s. His receding hairline and overlarge eyes leant his wan face a comical appearance totally absent from the professor’s, and yet in their student days they had often been mistaken for brothers. Reunited, they now shook hands energetically and slapped one another sharply on the back.
“My dear fellow!” ejaculated the priest, beckoning him inside, “At long last! I was beginning to think there must have been some accident. Was there a delay with the train?”
“Not at all, the journey was quite surprisingly prompt,” the professor answered. “No – I’m afraid I had difficulty getting transport any further, from the inn you suggested.”
The priest looked mortified. “Do you mean to say you have walked all the way from the station? In this awful weather? Oh, Lord, old boy – I’m most dreadfully sorry. Here – come into the drawing room. My housekeeper will take your luggage up. But to leave you to walk – that was a great dereliction of duty on my part as a host, I -”
“As a matter of fact I rather enjoyed the walk. And all worth it – ‘a straight way leads to the good friend’, and all that. Now, how have you been? How are you? Clark sends his regards.”
“It is beautiful, the country up here, isn’t it. An awful lot of atmosphere!” the priest chortled as they sat down, on opposite sides of the fire. “And how is Clark? I for one am in splendid fettle, a very light mood, indeed – which reminds me, I have something you must see this evening, if you are prepared for another foray after dinner! Too soon, I know, but it really won’t wait. You’ll thank me for taking you directly.”
“And what is it I must see?”
“You’ll see, old chap!” He clapped his hands together and almost leaped to his feet once again to ring for service and pour each of them a drink from decanters resting by the window-seat. “It’s an extraordinary find.”
Installment 2
