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
