SEAHENGE

By Janet Baldey

I listen to the clock and the gathering whispers.  The clock’s hands crawl, the surgery door remains closed and the whispers grow louder, accompanied by the shuffling of feet.  It dawns on me that I must be the only person present, not impatient to be gone.  But, since my wife left, my house is not a home but an empty space filled only by fading echoes. Even worse, it has started to feel alien; a place in which I am barely tolerated. A recurring dream fragments my nights and turns my days into a sleep-deprived purgatory. Stifling a yawn, I flick through a magazine and suddenly the sounds of the waiting room recede as I stare at a page that trembles in time with my hands. A moody photograph shows a ring of blackened stumps sunk into the sand of a deserted shore. My pulse pounds.  I recognise that scene; I see it every night in my dream. My chair screeches as I stand and hurry outside. Once back home, I collapse into a chair remembering my Aunt and wondering what part she played in my current nightmare.

         All her life, my mother’s sister has lived in a small cottage on the Norfolk coast.  When we were children, my brother and I were often taken to see her.  I remember those visits with mixed feelings. I was excited by the thought of the sea, but my Aunt unsettled me. She had been born with a twisted spine and was cursed by a huge hump on her back. Maybe because of the pain she suffered, her dark eyes were haunted and whenever I was alone with her I grew nervous.  Both she and the cottage were small, dark and oddly shaped. The cottage had narrow staircases and cramped rooms barely lit by latticed windows that frowned over an unruly garden. Drying herbs hung from all exposed beams and it had an aroma all of its own, a confusion of scents that permeated everywhere.  But it was the shadows in the corners of that dark cottage that troubled me most; against my will,  my eyes were constantly drawn to them.

         As I got older, my visits grew less frequent and when my parents died they ceased altogether so it was something of a surprise when I received a telephone call from my brother David.

         “Bill, Aunt Henny’s in hospital. She’s had a fall. She’s getting on well, but before she can be discharged they need to check the cottage over.  They want one of us to be there.  I can’t make it and wonder if you can?”

         A jigsaw of memories slotted into place as he spoke and I barely hesitated. After all, she was my aunt. “No problem,” I said.

         The motorway had been one hold-up after the other and it was very late when I arrived.  As soon as I stepped out of the car, the night seemed to wrap itself around me, muffling my footsteps as I made my way up the uneven path towards the front door.  Already exhausted by the drive, all my strength seemed to drain away the moment I entered the sour-smelling hallway. Not bothering with lights, I groped my way up the stairs, threw myself down on the nearest bed and let the night take me.

         A strange hard light awoke me and for a moment, I wondered where I was. Then I remembered, sat up and looked around. The bedroom’s scanty furniture was scratched and basic and the daylight strained through worn patches in the curtains. Downstairs in the kitchen, I drew a line through dust coating a table littered with dirty dishes. Except for a few blackened remnants, the sweet-smelling herbs were gone, instead, a rank smell of decay rose up from the bare stone flags. A sense of sorrow and loss washed over me, coupled with strong feelings of guilt. It was clear that Aunt Henny had not been able to cope for a long time and I tried to remember the last time I had seen her. With an effort, I threw off my melancholy.  To make amends, the very least I could do was to clean the place up.

         It was when I was searching for a dustpan and brush that I found them. Inside a small, dark cupboard sat a ring of eleven roughly carved, but highly polished, wooden figures. Humanoid in shape, each had both breasts and male genitalia, grossly disproportionate in size.  I stared at them for a long time, wondering about my Aunt and whether any other maiden lady would have such a collection.

         Several hours of hard work later,  prompted a growling stomach and I glanced at my watch. It was after two and there was no food in the cottage. I put on my coat and went in search of a pub. Outside, the sky had the clear luminosity typical of Norfolk, the air smelt fresh and its salty tang reminded me the sea was not far away. As I walked through the streets, I was surprised how quiet it was. I didn’t meet a soul until I got to the pub. It was called The Kedge and a picture of an anchor swung on its sign. A blast of warm air coming from an open fire greeted me as I walked through the door and I wish I could say my welcome was as warm as the fire but the landlord was surly. He didn’t do lunches. There was no call for them. The village was dead. Rich folk were buying up the properties but only visited at weekends.  His eyes washed over me and his face said ‘Londoner’. In the end, he relented and made me a sandwich.  

         When I left, I couldn’t resist the call of the sea. I took a dimly-remembered path and picked my way across the freshwater marsh towards the dunes.  I passed through the weathered sluice gates that held back the sea and into the wilderness of the saltmarsh, where small wading birds stepped delicately over rough tussocks bordering its gullies. There was no sound except for the sigh of the wind and the occasional wail of a gull. At last, I reached the top of the dunes and saw the tide was out and the sea was a thin line drawn across the horizon. I slid down the dune’s crystalline surface and set out across the wide expanse of wind dappled sand.  As I walked, my foot caught on something. I looked down and saw a round circle of rotting wood. I kicked at it. It was embedded deep into the sand and I saw there were others, spaced at roughly equal intervals, seeming to form a huge circle.  It was then that I saw a small object lying, half buried, close to one of the posts. I picked it up and saw it was similar to those I had found in my Aunt’s cottage but missing its polished sheen. I slipped it into my pocket thinking she might like to add it to her collection.

         I continued my walk and as I did, a flock of Dunlin rose up and soared into the air, their wings turning to silver as they banked across the sky. As I followed their flight, I noticed a group of people gathered at the foot of the dunes. They were a long way away, black against the sun and their outlines shimmered in and out of focus. I strained my eyes and saw they were carrying long staffs. Puzzled, the only explanation I could think of was that they were maybe mapping out quicksand and I felt suddenly uneasy. I looked towards the ocean. The tide had turned and the North Sea muttered as it ate its way towards me. A cloud blotted out the sun and I shivered.

         Turning, I made for the safety of the dunes, walking into the wind, head down and eyes half closed to keep out the blown sand. Eventually, I looked up to get my bearings and stopped dead. Just a few yards in front of me was a line of figures. Shrouded by dark cloaks, they stood silent and motionless. Thoroughly unnerved, I took a tentative step backwards. Their shadows seemed to expand and reach towards me. I opened my mouth and squawked like a raven.  My cry invoking no response, I looked behind me and saw other shapes assembling, forming a circle around me. With a rising sense of panic, I plunged towards a gap and ran, ploughing through the soft surface until my heart pounded and my legs gave way, tipping me onto the sand. I lay face down, waiting for hands to grab me but minutes passed and nothing happened. I scrambled to my feet and looked around. There was not a soul to be seen. I started to shake and it was some minutes before I brought myself under control. At last, glancing behind me as I ran, I headed towards the flickering lights of the village.

         Not wanting to be alone, I made for the inn where I sat hunched in a corner while brandy burned my throat. Long after the last customer had left, I stayed on clutching my empty glass. Luckily a room was available and it was there that I spent an uneasy night. I couldn’t stop thinking about the black shapes and their peculiar immobility. With the turn of the tide, the wind had freshened but their cloaks remained as if glued to their bodies, Shuddering, I recalled the aura of menace that had rolled towards me over the sand.

         I visited Aunt Henny the next day and was shocked by the change in her. Her hair was now quite white and clung to her head revealing sudden glimpses of shiny pink scalp, As I bent to hug her she felt as brittle as a bundle of dry sticks. Her eyes brightened a little when she saw me and for a while, we reminisced but then she fell silent. For my part, I couldn’t forget the events of the previous day and at last, to my everlasting regret, I unburdened myself to the frail old lady. When I finished, I looked up to see her staring at me. She was sitting bolt upright and there was a strange, almost avid, expression on her face.

         “You found another figure?” she breathed.

         I nodded and searched my pockets. They were empty, both of them. “I ran. I must have dropped it.”

         She leaned back into her pillow, all trace of her previous animation gone. “You should never have touched it.” She sighed deeply and that was when her soul must have fled.

         They tried hard to save her. It was her heart, they said. They also said it was not my fault but I know better and will never forgive myself.

        

         Now I sit alone, the magazine limp in my hands. I have read the article. Its text is dry and scholarly and written for minds sharper than mine. It seems that the site is of great religious significance and is believed to have been used for ritualistic sacrifices performed by Druid priests many centuries ago. They called the site Seahenge. Again, I stare at the photograph transfixed. Gradually another image unfolds rolling over the other liked a dark tide. Now the posts are larger, standing proud on the sand in an unbroken circle. From each post hangs a figure. Black shapes advance.  The clouds part and moonlight catches the gleam of curved knives as they slash downwards.  This is the scene that torments me every night as I lie trying to sleep.

         Reluctantly, I cross the room towards a cupboard kept, especially for the purpose. There, placed exactly as I had found them in Aunt Henny’s cottage, are the eleven wooden figures.  After the funeral, I took them.  Unaware of their significance, something told me they should stay together and now the thought of being parted from them fills me with horror.  But sometimes, in the dark of the night when I lie too frightened to close my eyes, I think that if I returned them, I would be able to rest. Perhaps, but as I dare not go back to that sinister shore that thought bears no relevance.

         Closing the cupboard door, I cross over to the window and listen to the noise of the traffic. I used to dream of retiring to Norfolk but I never will. Not now. London for all its threat of violence is so much safer.

Copyright by Janet Baldey