The Seventh Pan Book of Horror Stories Part 14

Uncertain whether to speak, Peter hesitated, but Dora was already calling out 'Bonjour.' The cure came apologetically towards them, picking his way as delicately as a cat. He was wearing socks of stout, inelegant home knitting. Peter noticed that his shoes were down at heel.

'What a wonderful morning,' Dora greeted him. She prided herself on being at ease with the Church. 'We are going to the lie des Regrets. Give us your blessing. Your people are all too scared to come.'

'You have my blessing, certainly,' the curd responded, 'but if you are going there, you are clearly not afraid. I wish you a pleasant day and continued good weather.' He made as if to turn away.

'Oh,' Dora cried, catching sight of the rowanberries, 'what a beautiful branch. Is this to decorate the church?'

The cure shuddered and held it further from him. 'It would not be suitable,' he replied.

'Really?' Dora was politely unbelieving. 'It would look so lovely in a vase. Would you like me to arrange it for you? I'm considered rather good at doing flowers.'

'You are very kind, madame, but I must not trouble you.'

Some memory stirred faintly in Peter's mind. 'Mountain ash - isn't that a talisman against evil magic?'

The cure admitted: 'There are those who believe it to be so.'

Dora, momentarily excluded from the conversation, had not been wasting her time. 'There are no mountain ash trees in the churchyard,' she cried archly. 'Mon pere, where did you get it from?'

The cur twirled the branch unhappily: 'Among the Bretons, the old beliefs die hard. They are faithful children of the Church, madame - never doubt it - but they cling still to certain relics of their past. It can happen that a person dies in such circ.u.mstances that these superst.i.tious beliefs come into play. In such cases a talisman may be placed on his tombstone so that his evil spirit shall not walk.'

Tn the twentieth century!' Dora exclaimed in mock consternation.

'We are less advanced than you suppose, madame.'

'I never heard of anything so absolutely archaic. Do they really believe that evil spirits walk?'

'Whose grave was it?' Peter asked with growing foreboding.

'A young man, monsieur. You would not know his name. He died three years ago from eating poisonous berries.'

'Which he found on the lie des Regrets?'

The cure looked obstinate and unhappy. 'As you say, monsieur, he found them on the lie. There were those who said he should not be given Christian burial, but with G.o.d's help I managed to prevail.'

Only just, Peter thought, glancing at the decrepit corner from which the cure had come. 'May he rest in peace,' he said.

'Amen.' The cure crossed himself. 'Au revoir, monsieur., madame...'

'This place is extraordinary,' Dora said before he was out of earshot. 'Even the priest is afraid. And the proprietor last night more than half believed what he was saying. I'm so glad we didn't miss this,'

Peter's fears about the boat were justified when they reached the harbour; Dora had one already laid on.

'I had to pay the earth,' she confessed, 'but I know it's going to be worth it. It'll make a wonderful story to tell when we get home.'

Peter stowed away the picnic-basket and the camera, which Dora had insisted they should bring. His fiancee irritated him this morning, though there was nothing new in this. Sometimes he even wondered if he would have continued with the engagement if everyone else had not been so sure she was the girl for him. They declared her sensible when she seemed to him merely insensitive. More and more he was reminded that 'fools rush in. ' But it was not in Peter's nature to struggle hard and long against anything. Dora sensed this, and it had given her the upper hand. They were going to the Island of Regrets because Dora wished it; Peter automatically wished the same.

Their boat had an outboard motor which left a faint blue haze as they put-put-putted away.* From the jetty the net-menders watched them, and the gulls screamed in the perennial excitement they display whenever a boat, however small, puts out to sea. Dora was at the tiller (she had claimed to know the channel) and Peter noticed with surprise the way she was hugging the sh.o.r.e. She seemed intent on putting the maximum distance between them and the harbour before setting course for the island in the bay. At last, just before they were out of sight behind a headland, she swung the little boat around, and, opening up the throttle to its limits, made straight for the lie des Regrets.

At once, angry shouts arose from the sh.o.r.e behind them. Looking back, Peter saw that every man was on his feet. They were gesticulating - beckoning and pointing. One man - the owner? - even shook his fist in the air.

'Are you sure this is the course they gave you?' Peter asked Dora. 'They don't seem to like it very much.'

'They don't like our going to the island,' Dora said calmly. 'But we've got too good a start for them to be able to intercept.'

'Why didn't they make a fuss when you hired the boat?' Peter queried. 'They must have known what you were going to do.'

'They may not have asked or they misunderstood when I told them. Besides, I did not let them know we were coming here. I told them I wanted a boat to go around the headland to the next bay.'

'You lied to them,' Peter said.

'Only because I had to, Peter darling. They wouldn't have hired me the boat if I'd told the truth. In a sense you can say that their own superst.i.tion brought it on them.'

'The superst.i.tion, as you call it, is very real to them.'

'More fools they. It's about time they learned to live without it.'

'They could no more do that than get by without the air they breathe.'

'Unhealthy air,' Dora said, breathing it in in lungfuls, while the wind and spray brought colour to her cheeks.

Ahead of them lay the sheltered, smiling inlet which Dora's finger had marked on the map. A wooden jetty, its planking decayed and rotten, was the only intimation that the He des Regrets had life. Dora switched off the outboard motor and the engine coughed. It was time to wade through the shallows.

Reluctantly Peter stood up.

'Don't make such a mountain out of it, darling,' Dora said sweetly. 'You'll have to carry me across the threshold next.'

Oh G.o.d, Peter thought, swinging a leg over the side of the boat, which rocked alarmingly, I wish I didn't have to marry this girl.

And immediately his foot touched bottom. He had made his first wish, the wish which would be granted by the He des Regrets.

By the time he had waded ash.o.r.e, carrying Dora, Peter's momentary forboding had gone. In no circ.u.mstances could he imagine that he would regret the engagement's being broken. He might even break it himself. Only - she was the ideal wife for him - everyone said so. Surely so many people could not be wrong? There would be such explanations and recriminations. Any doubt he felt would be dismissed as pre-nuptial nerves. On the other hand, if the engagement could be broken by Dora or some force outside his control, he could accept it as the working of fate or fortune, and (after a decent interval) rejoice. The Island of Regrets might be renamed the Isle of Grat.i.tude. He set Dora down on it with a jar.

'What a darling place!' she exclaimed over-loudly. 'I do wish I could believe in magic, like you.'

'I hope that isn't your first wish,' Peter said sourly.

Dora favoured him with her most indulgent smile. 'Darling Peter, you really believe in it, don't you? Now, stand still. I'm going to take your photograph. You look so sweet, standing there on the edge of the water.' She was adjusting the camera as she spoke.

Dora was an excellent photographer. She had an instinctive eye for composition and pose. Peter, normally slight and insignificant, looked a colossus against the empty s.p.a.ce of sky and sea. Not that this gave him any satisfaction, as he stood there twisting his face into a smile. He would have given anything to turn and leave the island, but Dora was already summoning him to come on.

In a sense he did not blame her for advancing, for the island looked inviting and serene. From the sandy bay with its high-water mark of sh.e.l.ls and pebbles, a track led inland, following the course of a stream. On each side of the bay the cliffs rose sheer and craggy, the ledges occupied by rock pigeons, gulls and terns. At the top of the slope where beach and scrub-gra.s.s intermingled, someone had built a clumsy cache for the stores which were brought once a week by the boat from the mainland; it was a further sign that not all the dwellers on the island were 'unseen'.

The path and the stream kept pace along a gra.s.s-grown valley. The slope of the land was getting steeper all the way. Looking back, Peter was surprised to see how great was the distance they had covered. The island had the power, it seemed, of suspending time. Then he glanced at his watch and at the sun approaching its zenith; the sense of timelessness was apparent rather than real. They had been walking a good half-hour and he had not noticed, so engrossed was he by the unfolding scene.

Despite the lateness of the season, there were wild flowers in profusion everywhere. From low-growing thickets of gorse and bramble the yellow-hammers were demanding bread-and-no-cheese. The blackberries, Peter noticed, were ripe and luscious; they looked more like cl.u.s.ters of jewels than fruit. It was easy to understand that a local boy might fill his stomach and his pockets. Happily, Dora did not like blackberries. He doubted even if she had noticed their existence; she was so intent on taking photographs.

At the top of the slope the gra.s.s gave place to woodland - deciduous trees in shades of autumn gold. On a Breton island trees are hardly to be expected. Peter said as much to Dora, who did not reply. The explanation was perfectly simple, as Peter was very soon able to see, for the centre of the island was a depression like a deep saucer, protected on all sides from the almost ceaseless wind.

The track - path was too grandiose a word to describe it - began once more to descend. In the bottom of the saucer a house hugged a cloak of conifers so tightly around it that only a chimney showed. Perhaps the house would be ruined and desolate, given over to martins and bats. Overhead the pine-trees merged, making the path darker; underfoot the pine-needles carpeted the ground.

'Aren't you glad we came?' Dora called out to him.

This time it was Peter's turn not to reply.

In not-quite-mock anger, Dora pelted him with fir-cones, one of which hit him in the eye. Peter cried out in mingled pain and protest. Dora was instantly at his side.

'Did the nasty little fir-cone hit him, and did his horrid Dora throw it, then! Never mind, Dora will kiss it better.' This she proceeded to do. Peter remained unresponsive. She flung away from him in a pet.

'I can't think what's the matter with you this morning. Are you sulking because you didn't want to come? Really, Peter, you behave no better than a baby. For heaven's sake be a sport and come along.'

She marched off briskly, leaving Peter to follow, which foe did, albeit with resentment in his heart. Neither of theih noticed that one of the little fir-cones had lodged in the outside pocket of her bag.

The path through the pines led ever more steeply downwards. They had left the sunlight behind. The pine-needles underfoot m.u.f.fled their footsteps. There was something sinister about this absence of sun and sound. Small flies darted about under the pine-trees. A clump of scarlet, white-spotted toadstools made Dora exclaim: 'Look, Peter, there's your magic - fairy houses.'

'Deadly poisonous/ Peter remarked.

The more he penetrated this wood, the more he wanted to get out of it, but Dora boldly led him further in. No wisp of smoke came from the chimneys showing above the tree-tops. The path itself had a little-frequented air.

'Do you suppose anyone lives in the house?' Dora asked him.

'No,' Peter said, not wanting to believe.

Almost before they knew it, the house was upon them. A sudden twist in the path and there it stood. Grey stone, foursquare, its windows protected by closed shutters, it had a desolate and unresponsive look. Yet the front door swung open on its hinges; the ubiquitous pine-needles had drifted into the hall. They had also blocked the guttering and the drain-pipes. After the autumn rains damp patches showed on the wall.

All around the trees formed an elliptical clearing, the longer part of which lay directly behind the house. A rusty door-bell, its chain bracketed to the wall to discourage visitors, reverberated when Dora pulled it with unexpected sonority through the house.

'Suppose someone answers?' Peter said with apprehension.

'Nonsense, darling, the place is absolutely dead.'

It certainly seemed so; no hesitant footsteps or creaking shutter, no voice sharply demanding 'Who's there?' Nevertheless, remembering the cache for foodstuffs and the boat's once-weekly call, Peter's uneasiness mounted. No one had described the island as uninhabited, though they had seen no sign of life between the house and the sh.o.r.e.

Dora, untroubled by these considerations, pushed idly at the swinging front-door. It opened inwards with a sudden shrill whine from the hinges, spilling a drift of pine-needles to the floor.

'Why, the place is furnished!' Dora said, startled for the first time out of her phlegmatic calm. 'What a shame to let it go to rack and ruin.' She was tcha-tcha-ing and inspecting as she spoke.

Peter wondered what the owners would say to two inquisitive foreigners if they found them poking round in their hall; but he was bound to agree with Dora that it was a shame to see objects of beauty and value sinking through neglect into a state of disrepair.

Dora pushed open the door to the drawing-room. It revealed the same melancholy scene. The silk upholstery was split and rotten, the carpet dim under dust. At the windows hung what had once been curtains. Cobwebs trailed and floated on the walls, ma.s.sing around mirrors and pictures and festooning the chandelier. It might have been the Sleeping Beauty's palace, except that there is nothing fairy-tale about filth.

'The whole place wants burning,' Dora stated, sneezing as the dust got into her throat.

'You don't want to go upstairs?' Peter asked her.

She missed the irony of his tone. 'I want to get out,' she said abruptly. And walked through toward the back door.

This gave on to the long and narrowing garden, whose greatest width was just below the house. It was entirely filled with a rank weed too coa.r.s.e even to be couch-gra.s.s, which had submerged the outline of flower-beds and overrun even the terrace's stones. Unlike the flowers on the island, the weed had faded; its leaves were colourless, deepening to brown. It lay unstirred by the wind within its prison-enclave of pine-trees, for all the world like some malignant, stagnant pond.

And in the middle of it a man was standing, with his head sunk low upon his chest. He stood with his back to the house, and his hands thrust deep in his pockets. His long white beard and hair and old-fashioned garments made him look like Rip van Winkle sleeping on his feet.

'Why doesn't he speak to us?' Dora whispered.

'Perhaps he hasn't heard us,' Peter replied. He knew in his heart that this was not the answer, but he obligingly called out 'Good day.'

'Bonjour,' Dora added for good measure.

The figure neither moved nor spoke.

'He must be deaf,' Dora concluded.

'Or dead,' Peter added, half to himself.

Dora's literal-mindedness came to her rescue.

'He can't be dead, dear. He's standing up.'

'So he is,' Peter said. 'I hadn't noticed.'

She gave him a glance of dislike. 'Aren't you going to do anything about him?' she demanded. 'Find out who he is or ask him if there's anything he wants.'

'Comment allez-vous?' Peter dutifully shouted, aware of its incongruous sound.

The man might have been a statue for all the signs he showed of responding.

'Go up to him,' Dora said.

"What for? We have nothing we can give him. Remember we're trespa.s.sers here.'

'Then I'll go,' said Dora determinedly. She began to move forward as she spoke.

'Wait,' Peter commanded. 'You're too sudden. You'll give him too much of a shock.'

He began to edge cautiously around the garden. Dora did the same on the far side. Still the old man stood with his head bowed, like a statue. They tried French and English, even German; he did not look up. They were near enough now to see that his clothes were tattered, his hair and beard were matted and unkempt. His face, though grimed with dirt, had a strange, unhealthy pallor - maggot-white, Peter thought to himself. Even Dora's exuberance had subsided. For once she was not taking the lead. Peter stepped forward and laid a reluctant hand on the greasy shoulder.

'Can we do anything to help?' he asked awkwardly. 'Is there anything ypu need?'

At his touch the figure came to life convulsively, broke free of his grasp and raised its elf-locked head. The eyes, scarlet-rimmed, the lower lids drooping like a bloodhound's, lit up as they contemplated him. The voice was cracked and produced with difficulty, wheezing, as though, like the furniture, it had been neglected to the point of disrepair. His laughter when it came was a shrill cascade of cackles - harsh but not resonant in that oppressive air.

'Come at last, he has, the new tenant,' he cried between his peals of hideous mirth. I could feel it in my bones that you were coming. I've been waiting for you since yesterday.'

Peter backed away from the madman. 'You're mistaken. I don't live here.'

The madman's laugh rose, screeching and unearthly. 'Don't try to deny it, my dear sir. This commodious residence is never left untenanted. It wouldn't be good for it, you know. I've been wondering who would replace me when I gave up my tenancy, because this winter, I'm afraid I shall really have to go.'

He put out a claw with black-rimmed finger-nails.

With a cry of fear Peter plunged back toward the path. Dora was already running as if the devils of h.e.l.l were behind her, but the madman made no attempt to pursue. He simply went on standing there, and laughing. The sound was audible all the way to the sh.o.r.e.