Dreams from the Witch House: Female Voices of Lovecraftian Horror Page 34
Cara’s car whined as it negotiated the bumps and pot holes. She passed a solitary wooden post, from which colorless tattered ribbons hung. Surely not the site of an accident? Any driver would have to aim very carefully at that post to hit it. She grimaced, fumbled on the dashboard for a cigarette, the last she would smoke before leaving the car.
A commission had come from the house, Maples, asking for a book restorer—Cara’s specialty. Since leaving university ten years ago, her job had taken her to many hidden corners of the country, to dim museums and crumbling houses with wormy libraries. Mrs. De La Mere, the inhabitant of Maples, had contacted Cara via a letter handwritten on creamy headed notepaper. Usually her clients got in touch with her by e-mail and, if not, letters were typed. Mrs. De La Mere was concerned about the condition of a valuable family heirloom and included two photos with the letter: grainy pictures of a huge old book. But—the older the better, as far as Cara was concerned. There was more chance of restoring an ancient book that had been created before the acids of relatively modern paper-making had doomed books to a finite life.
Cara finished her cigarette on the front drive of Maples, while her car ticked and cooled. She could hear the wind beyond the car windows, its voice rising and falling in bitter song. Mean rain, menaced by the spiteful squalls, rendered the scene blurry and vague, like a watercolor painting. Drenched and somber, Maples was a gaunt-looking residence; two turrets and constructed entirely of dark stone. Cara imagined it would feel arthritic inside, with unstable banisters and groaning stairs, a haunting of creaks and sighs. Also, houses simply didn’t look right if they had no garden. Not far from it, the sea pounced against the cliffs and savaged them, perhaps goring away the finger of land so that one day Maples would fall into the bullying waves. Maples. What a stupid name for a house where no trees grew.
Cara got out of her car, locked it, and went to the front door that stood above three worn steps of black slate. She lifted the bulky brass knocker, which had apparently been polished fairly recently, and let it fall three slow times. She wondered with some amusement what apparition would eventually shamble forth to answer her.
The door opened. A tall, teenaged girl stood there, dressed as if she’d expected the day to be warmer than it was—red shorts and a lime green T-shirt with a cartoon duck print on it. Her greeny-blond hair was tied in a ponytail. Her feet were bare. How disappointingly ordinary.
“Hi,” Cara said. “I’m the book restorer. Cara Milltop.”
The girl nodded vaguely. “Come in.”
Cara entered the hallway, which was naturally dark, it seemed, but lit by a sufficient array of wall lamps. Stairs rose majestically, branching at the foot of an immense stained-glass window. Overhead a chandelier hung, with coldly glittering pendants. The wood paneling on every wall was intricately carved. The hall was beautiful—in a Gothic, fairytale kind of way. “Amazing,” Cara said feebly, her head thrown back to squint at the vaulted ceiling high above. She peered at the colorful window at the point where the stairs divided, seeing now that it depicted a seascape hectic with storms, a great ship rolling, mermaids clawing its sides, taking drowned sailors into their embrace. “That’s dramatic,” Cara said, pointing.
The girl smiled as if she didn’t care. “Yeah, guess so. It’s my grandmother you want.”
She began to walk away, then paused, turned to see if Cara was following her. Cara blinked quizzically.
“This way,” said the girl.
§
Cara found that the house wasn’t completely without garden, as when she entered the room where the reigning matriarch awaited her, she could see a walled yard through the long windows. She glimpsed a washing-line bearing a few wooden pegs, turned earth with garden implements, straggling growth.
“Ms. Milltop,” announced the elderly woman seated by the hearth. A fire burned there, licking wood as an elderly dog might lick its own paws. The woman sat straight-backed, blessed with remarkable bones that anchored beauty still to her narrow face.
Cara strode forward, hand extended. “Mrs. De La Mere,” she responded, smiling.
The woman indicated the seat opposite her with a pale graceful hand. “Do take off your coat and sit down.” She gestured at the girl who was loitering at the door. “Judy, put the kettle on, dear. Make us tea.”
The door closed.
Cara removed her jacket and put it carefully over the back of the chair. She sat, in what she hoped conveyed businesslike purpose.
“It’s the damp that’s always a problem,” said Mrs. De La Mere. She sighed, stroked her coifed silvery hair. “Well, you must know that.”
“The book…”
“Yes, Marvels of the Deeps. It’s been in our family for perhaps hundreds of years. I understand it’s quite valuable. The children have always loved it. The illustrations, you see.”
“Like the window in the hall? That’s quite stunning.”
Mrs. De La Mere nodded vaguely. “Yes, that sort of thing. It’s a shame when something so beautiful and so meaningful to children can no longer be handled. Is there anything you can do?”
“Well, naturally I’ll need to see the book first, make an assessment.”
“Oh yes, of course.”
“But the good news is that the older a book is, the healthier it can be. It’s because of how paper was made. Wood pulp is flimsy in comparison to the old linen-based paper. That can withstand quite a lot and is more amenable to being restored.”
“I see. Well, I hope that’s the case.” Mrs. De La Mere paused. “Do you love your work, Ms. Milltop?”
Cara nodded. “I know I’m privileged to have this job, and yes, I love it very much.”
“I imagine it’s similar to working in a beauty parlor—restoring old things.”
Cara wasn’t sure whether that was a joke.
Mrs. De Le Mere grinned. “It’s quite all right. I’m not asking you to restore me!”
Cara laughed uncertainly. “I suppose it is, in a way.”
The girl Judy was swift with the tea. It didn’t come in delicate ancient tea cups, but sturdy modern mugs, each with a different print. Mrs. De La Mere talked a little about the house and the village—Mordarras—nearby. Cara listened but didn’t feel as if she was actually hearing anything. Perhaps she was more tired than she felt.
§
The library of Maples seemed tall as a cathedral. The De La Meres were certainly a family of bibliophiles. Cara itched to explore every shelf. Book cases rose to a mezzanine where more books huddled in shadow. Sliding ladders reared on three sides of the room. “I used to adore swinging on these when I was a girl,” said Mrs. De La Mere, gently fingering the satiny wood of one of the ladders. “We all did.”
She indicated the way to a table where the muted colors of another stained-glass extravaganza—an abstract pattern rather than a picture—splashed over the wood. Here, the family treasure, Marvels of the Deeps, lay waiting for Cara’s attention. It was as big as a Bible. Cara opened her work satchel and drew out a pair of latex gloves, and also her dictaphone and other instruments she might need during her preliminary inspection. She put on the gloves and turned on her machine. “Book title Marvels of the Deeps,” she began. “Dimensions approximately 30 centimeters width, 40 centimeters height. Thickness 8 centimeters.”
“How very forensic,” murmured Mrs. De La Mere.
Cara smiled reassuringly at the woman. “I just like to keep thorough notes and record progress. It’s not an autopsy.”
“Well, I would hope not.” Mrs. De La Mere laughed charmingly.
Cara laid her fingers lightly against the front cover board. This appeared to be made of leather, originally dyed dark green and embossed with gold, but now faded. Almost all of the embossing had gone. There was also staining to the cover, perhaps water damage. Reverently, Cara opened the book. The first folio was severely spotted and clearly suffering disintegration. The book hadn’t been stored correctly. And yes, as Mrs. De La Mere had suggested, damp had had its wa
y with the ancient fibers. Happily the binding appeared still strong; as far as Cara could tell, the book would not need rehinging. She used felt-tipped tongs to turn the page. The book certainly predated the mid-nineteenth century, when new paper-making methods had brought in the dreaded death sentence of fiber-destroying acids; but at first glance, she wasn’t entirely sure the base material had been linen.
“Is it rescuable?” Mrs. De La Mere asked tremulously, as if enquiring about the health of a frail relative.
Cara flashed a smile at her. “I’m sure I can do something.” She paused. “Really, Mrs. De La Mere, this book should be stored under careful conditions. If you want children to play with it, I’d advise getting a copy made for them.”
“Oh, but that wouldn’t be the same…”
“I know, but this book is really too old to be handled by little fingers. No one should touch this without wearing gloves, like I’m doing.” She turned the blank page that had followed the title page. “Oh!”
“Yes,” breathed Mrs. De La Mere.
Even though the folio itself was ancient and delicate, the woodcut upon it was still dark and clear, printed with thick, shining black ink. Staring at the picture was like looking down a tunnel deep beneath the ocean, rocks to either side thickly gemmed with anemone growths and crystals. Weeds hung like drapes, drawn back to reveal the path. Paler shapes suggestive of eyes winked between the weeds. Was that a tiny hand reaching out? And at the distant end of the path, soft rays of light, an intimation of space and height. Anyone looking at that page would want to go further, to see the end of the path, to walk it. The pages beyond were the portals to this secret place.
Cara carefully closed the book. “It’s late now,” she said, “I’d like to examine the book properly and start work tomorrow. Hopefully the light will be better. I like to work in natural light. Is there a hotel you can recommend in Mordarras?”
“Don’t be silly, dear,” said Mrs. De La Mere, making a sweeping gesture with both arms. “You can see the size of this place. You will of course stay here for however long it takes.”
“Well… thank you,” Cara said.
§
Judy showed Cara to a room upstairs that had windows in two walls, one overlooking the walled garden, the other providing a dramatic view of the sea. It was a pleasant, airy room—in spite of the dull weather—although somewhat featureless, almost as if Cara had walked into a generic hotel.
“We keep this for guests,” Judy said, as if sensing Cara’s disappointment not to find herself in a gloomy, shadowed chamber.
“Do you get a lot of guests?” Cara couldn’t help asking, depositing her luggage bag on the bed.
Judy shrugged. “At some times of year. We have a big family.”
“This must be when the children come,” Cara said, “the ones who like the book.”
“Yeah.” Judy paused, then said, “There’s a bathroom a little way down the passage to your right. Hot water whenever you need it, but if you want a bath, better wait. We’ll be eating soon. Shall I call you?”
“Yes. Please.”
Left alone, Cara stood at the window, staring out across the ocean. The sounds that came muted to her ears were soporific, the plunge of the waves, the wail of the winds.
§
At dinner, Cara ate what she could only describe as a polite meal of roasted chicken breast, with what tasted like home-grown vegetables, full of flavor. Not exactly exciting or exotic, but well-cooked and satisfying. For dessert there was honeycomb ice cream, which Mrs. De La Mere explained was made on a farm near Mordarras. “The girls from Morbenyn Farm help us out here,” she said. “It’s a big house for the two of us.”
“Has it been in your family a long time?” This was a question Cara often asked, a staple of her conversation with clients.
“Oh yes, a very long time. Our ancestors were seafarers, you know.”
After dinner, Mrs. De La Mere wanted to show Cara DVDs of the local area, mainly because Maples was mentioned a couple of times as being something of a curio. Cara was conducted to a large comfortable sitting room, somewhat overfurnished in a Victorian manner, but dominated by an immense, flat-screen TV. Mrs. De La Mere used a series of remote controls expertly and swiftly in order to begin the presentation. In one film, she was interviewed, standing regally before her domain on a bright sunny day, wearing a wide-brimmed hat. All she had to say was that in the summer Maples offered cream teas and that several of the rooms in the house were then open to the public. The hall, apparently, was faintly famous for its carvings and window. The camera panned round to show tables set out on the flat ground in front of the house. No one was sitting there. Mordarras was also featured; a typically picturesque Cornish village huddling in a deep hole beneath the cliffs as if it had fallen there. The single road that led through it was punishingly steep to either side. But there wasn’t anything that interesting in the documentaries, which were clearly aimed at tourists who wanted only an animated guidebook to take them to pretty spots and tell them where to eat, where to stand to view the sea.
Mrs. De La Mere was lavish with her sherry while they watched, so that Cara felt quite inebriated by ten o’clock. “Do you mind if I turn in?” she asked. “It was a long journey today.”
“Not at all. You go ahead.” Mrs. De La Mere poured herself another sherry. “Judy can wake you. Not too early. We’re not early risers.”
§
Cara dreamed of the illustration she had seen in the book. This wasn’t of some fantastical journey, swimming down through the ocean deeps, but merely of standing in the library, staring at the picture and saying aloud to someone unseen behind her, “but there must be a way to it, there must.”
She woke up in darkness, pulled abruptly from sleep by what she could only describe as a racket. This was a rhythmic clacking, thumping sound, which as she listened, became faster in tempo until it was a wall-shaking rattle. “What the hell?” she said aloud and leaned over to turn on the bedside light. She glanced around the room, unnerved, but not exactly frightened. She saw that despite the relative modernity of the fittings, the radiator in the room was of the ancient cast-iron type. The noise came from that. Cara got out of bed and went to touch the radiator, which was mildly warm. Her fingers registered a faint vibration that surely should have been greater. The noise was so loud. And then it wasn’t. The room fell silent. Cara looked out through the open curtains. The night was overcast, drizzle still falling. And yet it seemed the sea was glowing. She watched this for some five minutes, even took some photos on her phone. Then she returned to bed and slept till morning.
§
“It’s the pipes,” Judy supplied, rather unhelpfully, when Cara mentioned the noises in the night. Judy had come at 9:30 to rouse Cara, who had already been awake.
“Well, I gathered that, but it sounded like your boiler was about to explode.”
Judy stood in the middle of the room, hands stuffed into the pockets of cut-off jeans. “It comes through the pipes,” she said, “from the sea.”
“The sea?”
“Gets amplified, I guess. Knocking and that. It won’t blow up.”
“What comes through the pipes?”
“Just sounds from the sea. Waves, water moving things.” Judy shrugged. “Our drains go into it, so the sounds come back up. Always been like that.”
The explanation seemed plausible, and of course old buildings were renowned for temperamental plumbing arrangements. But Cara plunged on, refusing to be deterred by Judy’s dismissive tone. “The sea, too… it was strange, but when I looked out of my window it appeared to be glowing, as if lit from beneath.”
“Algae,” Judy said abruptly. “They let off light. Sometimes.”
“Oh.” Cara paused, then added brightly, “That must be where lots of old legends spring from—lights beneath the sea.”
“Yeah,” said Judy. She smiled insincerely—apparently bored—and turned to leave the room, Cara following.
§
&nb
sp; Mrs. De La Mere wasn’t at breakfast. Judy, draped awkwardly yet strangely graceful in her seat at the table, rather like an unstrung puppet, explained that her grandmother liked to have her morning meal in bed. There were boiled eggs, cooked to perfection, thick-sliced brown bread, laid in a basket upon a paper towel, and a glass dish of dark yellow butter. All this produce, Judy said, came from Morbenyn Farm.
After breakfast, Cara went directly to the library. She’d left her tools laid out neatly there. The day wasn’t much brighter than the one before, but when Cara turned on a desk lamp it threw a powerful, interrogatory light over the table. She drew on her gloves and examined the book’s cover more carefully. She had cellulose products that could help restore its condition and luster, even if the embossing was lost for good. The interior pages could be subtly laminated with professional tissue, which would protect them while being almost invisible. She had been called upon in time. The invalid could be nursed to health. Before starting her gentle therapy, however, Cara wanted to look through the book. She stared once again at the opening illustration, the invitation to explore. A tunnel of weed and rock, hiding shy inhabitants, who watched the viewer as their eyes strayed down the path. At the end? A suggestion of ruins or a huge building of some kind, but so faint within the light it was impossible to discern details.
Cara turned the page. On the left folio was text, heavily printed in dense black ink, but in a language with which she wasn’t familiar. She didn’t recognize many of the characters. They weren’t Russian or Greek, but around half were similar to Latin letters. She must ask Mrs. De La Mere about that. Her eyes wandered to the illustration on the right hand page. She’d deliberately kept her gaze from it until that moment. There was the city beneath the sea, to which the path had led her. She was gazing at it from the mouth of the tunnel, from which curtains of weed hung down, half obscuring her view. But now she could glimpse towers and staircases, colonnades and balconies. She could not see people, of any kind, but fishes in abundance—some seeming to fly in blurred flocks like birds, others swimming stately and alone; huge, and adorned in gowns of fins.