Enoch
By
Garry Linahan
Smashwords Edition
Published by
Garry Linahan at Smashwords
Copyright 2011 Garry Linahan
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Introduction
Cavendish Forest, dark and tangled home of towering giants, of dense undergrowth, of flashes of light and splotches of dark, of canopies, branches and vines. The constant drip of water from the rains and mist that so mark the place, the rotting, dying forest floor, and the sweet, musty odour of decomposition filling the nostrils of any venturer drawn to this damp and shaded place.
But on, when the weather turns warm and the breezes waft through the dangling growth, cool relief then for the animals, the squirrel, the deer, and the multitude of bird breeds that call these two thousand square miles home.
Through the heart of Cavendish Forest there runs a steady stream that bumps and tumbles its way down from the granite highlands to the north. The crystal waters foam and bubble across the polished river rocks, gather for a moment in the flatter reaches, in the striking rock pools, then cascade further through the boulders and encroaching undergrowth, pouring in a series of small torrents over the many falls and rapids.
Soon enough the forest is gone and the stream matures, becomes a part of a most idyllic rural setting, rolling lazily through cattle pastures, winding and sweeping its way through romantic necks of shady willows, their arms reaching and intertwining and caressing the slow flowing river. It passes through the township of Cavendish, an ancient village of 800 people. Men with little else to do sit on the old stone bridge in Cavendish, and so too further on in Brookdale, and fish dreamily as each day wears slowly down.
By November the weather starts to bite, with the first hint of those icy arctic winds, and by mid December the place is usually snowed in. Few people are seen on the streets of Cavendish at this time of year, the townsfolk staying indoors, the glow from the windows and the smoke from the chimneys being the most obvious indications of life. Even the already quiet Cavendish Forest becomes even more silent, the birds having flown away and the full time residents hibernating in trees or in holes beneath the ground. An occasional exception might be the deer that can, on rare occasions, still be seen, darting away against the white canvas, and beneath the frigid, snow-laden trees. It is uncommon for people to venture into the woods when the snows have set in. The cold can be deadly and there is little reason to be there anyway. There is precious little for the hunters, nothing for the lovers or the picnickers, and nothing too for the fishermen. The stream is largely frozen, the rapids and waterfalls seemingly trapped in time, paralysed in mid-fall. It was however just this time of year, when in 1909, Eric Pagram and his friend Matilda Burke were stumbling through the deepening snows of Cavendish Forest, and in so doing came upon a grisly and tragic find.
“Eric, I’m freezing,” called Matilda, heavily rugged yet hugging herself nonetheless, numb in her feet and struggling along behind her friend.
Eric kept on, seemingly determined to make his way to the top of Brierly Hill.
“Come on Matilda,” he called back. “You must see the view from up here. It’s not too far, then we can go back.”
Matilda rested for a short time against a rock, then made her way up to be with her friend. Soon enough she joined Eric, just shy of the top of Brierly Hill.
At that moment something caught Eric’s eye.
“Hey, look over there,” he said, to his unhappy friend.
The pair was close then to the summit, but he pointed with his finger to a rough lean-to across the way, perched in amongst the trees. They diverted towards the crude structure, sinking in the ankle deep snow.
“Somebody has lived here,” said Matilda, looking into the primitive snow-covered building, yet seeing little to sustain life.
“No, I don’t think so,” said Eric, looking around. “I think it’s just a fisherman’s overnighter.”
The pair turned away and headed again for the summit of Brierly Hill.
“Can’t we just go,” moaned Matilda, her breath freezing in the air before her.
Eric did not answer, instead just pulled her along and up to the rocky peak of Brierly Hill.
“Just look at that view,” he said, as a vast pastureland, cleared but blanketed in snow, opened out before them. Despite her coldness, Matilda was impressed.
“And what’s that below us?” she asked, pointing forward and down the hill.
“That’s the Hargreaves Estate,” said Eric, “the mansion, the grounds. That’s what I wanted to show you.”
“Oh, my God,” said Matilda, putting her hand quickly to her face, then turning away.
“Just look at it, Matilda - so still, so lifeless.”
She looked back, her eyes suddenly drawn to it, finding then that she was unable to not stare.
“Oh, Eric, it’s so eerie.”
“And look Matilda,” said Eric, himself now pointing. “That’s the maze.”
The colour drained from Matilda’s face. Her jaw dropped a little.
“Yes - all that snow, it’s hard to tell - but yes, I see its form. Oh my God, Eric,” she said, shuddering, “look at the size of that thing.”
The pair stared in silence for a few moments before Matilda spoke again.
“Oh, Eric, please, take me home.”
They turned to leave, Eric helping Matilda down from the rocky summit.
“I’m so cold,” she said, “but I think seeing this has made me all the more so.”
They moved on down the hill, following as best they could the tracks they had already left. Suddenly Matilda slipped, her boot glassing across the surface of an exposed rock. She tumbled down its side, finishing tail first in the wet snow, six feet below the trail they were following.
“Matilda, are you alright?”
Matilda sat motionless, staring into a space between the rock and another alongside.
“Matilda,” repeated Eric.
Then suddenly, with a surprising agility, she sprang to her feet. She made a low, guttural sound, of which she was oblivious. Standing erect, she pointed with one hand, the other firmly across her mouth. Eric climbed down to join her, looking to where she indicated, a tiny cavern in the rocks. He turned his attention back to her for a second then lowered his face to gain a better look.
“He’s dead,” she blurted, in a rush.
“Yes, he is,” confirmed Eric, and he touched the frozen hand that extended from the rocks.
“Let’s get out of here, Eric - now.”
Instead, Eric forced his way down, between the rocks.
“There’s nothing to fear,” he told his friend. “It’s just a poor old man, and frozen to death.”
Part One
Chapter one
Beneath the ivy-covered tower George sat and rested his aching muscles. Tears blurred his eyes, the cause for which he could not understand. His head fell back against the old stone building, tears running from the corners of his eyes, the salt passing in through the sides of his mouth.
The tower soared above as he wiped his face and gazed up through the gently rustling ivy. Sitting on the narrow, stony path that circled the building he then looked upon the tangle of wild roses and other flowering thorns that blocked his view of the grounds beyond. Sorrow peaked within him. He held his tired face in his hands, wept into his palms. Such emptiness, such desolation of the heart. His chest heaved involuntarily, spasms of sadness longing to escape, to jump from his body, to flee, to no longer torment. But the sadness would not leave. It was always there, purposeless, without root, ready to rise to desperation at any moment.
Soon enough Ruby came for him. Faintly he heard her calling, coming nearer. George wiped his eyes and used the building to pull himself to his feet. His body clicked and groaned, the pain stabbing in his joints. Ruby appeared around the corner of Enoch’s library, at a point where the path split, one way leading into Bledlock’s wonderfully manicured gardens, and the other to where George had stumbled.
“George,” she said kindly, “it’s almost time for lunch. Please come back to the house.” She took him by the arm and gently led him back. “I worry about you George. Please don’t wander too far. How are your joints today?” George’s mind processed the question.
“Aching,” he said finally. “Be slow, Ruby.”
Ruby led him back along the narrow path, past the library where the building changed direction, back along the great front wall, beyond the difficult steps that led to the massive oak front door, then around the side and in through the servants entrance at the rear.
“Sky is blue,” choked George. “Blue today, Ruby.”
For him, words were a struggle. Thoughts often were confused and disjointed, and expressions, with the small grasp of vocabulary that was his, always a supreme effort.
“Yes my dear. Blue today.”
“Like it blue, Ruby.”
Ruby led him through the kitchen and into the dining room, seating him across from Crawford. Crawford eyed George suspiciously and rose from his chair. He moved to the fireplace and stood leaning against the mantle. George looked around the room, the heavy panelling, the dark architraves, the drawn blinds. A surge of panic went through him. He swung his head one way and then the other, then looked at Crawford.
“E-Enoch?” he stuttered at the ageing manservant. “Enoch?”
Crawford left the room for the kitchen, returning with Ruby.
“It’s alright, George. Enoch is doing his research. He will be with us later.”
George began to shake in his seat and his eyes welled.
“Enoch,” he repeated softly.
Enoch missed lunch but joined the others for a meal later that evening.
“Your injection didn’t work for as long today, George. Ruby tells me your joints have been aching.”
Enoch waited for George’s reply.
“Aching, Enoch.”
After the meal, Ruby took George to his room on the second floor. The steps were always a struggle and she inwardly cursed Enoch for having given him a room upstairs. She left him in his room and headed back down. Enoch had by then returned to his work. It was eight-thirty and she and Crawford would read for an hour before turning in. Crawford sipped at his evening brandy, eyeing Ruby as she entered the room. She knelt before him and gripped his elbows.
“Do be patient with George, Crawford. Do try to understand.”
Upstairs, George fell quickly to sleep. Stretched out on his bed his muscles relaxed, and with the weight fully off his joints, his pain eased. For an hour, maybe two, he lay motionless. To anyone watching he might well have been dead. His mind, like his body, was exhausted, and during that time it operated with only the barest functionality, empty, void, and black like pitch.
But then later, when the giant house lay in total darkness, Ruby and Crawford having both retired, George’s brain came suddenly to life. His eyes twitched under his lids and his head rolled slowly on the pillow, rolling from one side to the other. He was outside, somewhere deep in the garden. The pain was gone from his joints. He felt light and alive, a feeling so totally foreign. He moved through the garden, through rows of hedge, all manicured and fresh. The birds sang in the trees and chased one another in and out of the hedgerows. Robins, he smiled, as he strolled along between the beautiful shrubs. The sun was strong and shone down from its zenith, bathing each row of hedge in a warm, bright light. The deep green leaves of the hedgerow plants glistened and sparkled in the sun, and he marvelled at the garden, at his wonderful, wonderful garden.
Then suddenly he was awoken by a voice beyond his dream. George’s eyes flickered open as he lay on his back, staring first at the dark ceiling above, then at the cool light of the moon as it broke through the bedroom window. He waited for the voice but it did not come again, and as the minutes passed, and as he lay in the semi-darkness, he recalled the happiness of the dream that had come to him. Until he fell asleep again, he felt the sensation of that dream, the warmth of the day, the youthfulness of his wonderful, supreme body, the chirping robins, the bright sunshine, and the joy that had filled his heart as he marched through a garden he knew to be his own.
There were no more dreams that night and George re-awoke when the rising circle of the sun broke free of the hills and the treetops of neighbouring Cavendish Forest. He lay for a while watching as the morning light filled his room, seeing how it splashed through the pane, bounced brightly off certain objects while others remained in shadow. He listened for movement downstairs. He knew Ruby would come for him when breakfast was ready. There was no sound yet, so he lay as he did on each morning, and awaited her.
On this morning, however, he was noticing that he felt slightly different, strangely clearer of mind. Previously he had seen the world as though through dirty glass, smudged and blurred. Everything that ever happened about him had occurred with no understanding on his part as to what it was, or in what way he might play a part. He had existed in a cloud, a haze, and even of that he’d been unaware. He’d simply existed, unquestioning, detached, uninvolved, his needs taken care of by others. As he lay in his bed he had a fleeting vision of himself in this light, of how he had been. It was a short burst of clarity previously not known, a sudden clearing of the foggy vagueness that had until then engulfed him, but of which he had remained oblivious. He thought of the dream that he’d had, and how contented he had felt as it ran its course. In that dream his mind was clear and lucid, loose like running water, his body light and free of pain. In the dream nothing had held him back or weighed him down. He had been outside, somewhere in the gardens of the Hargreaves Estate, somewhere now he could not remember having ever been. Yet in the dream that place had been so familiar to him, so very familiar. A tingling came over him as he recalled the dream. He recalled it over and over as he lay in bed, clinging desperately and repeatedly to the feelings of contentment he was able to extract from its memory.
But soon George’s mind grew tired and he could no longer bring forth the dream. The details were fading and he found he was unable to summon the emotion he had felt. Exhausted, he fell back to sleep again, and half an hour later when Ruby came for him, the entire memory of the dream was gone. He was unable to recall any part of it, and once more his world was clouded and vague.
His joints cracked and popped painfully as Ruby led him along the upper passage, then slowly down the stairs, one at a time, and into the dining room for breakfast.
“Enoch,” said George.
George’s face lightened as he and Ruby entered the room and he saw his brother. Enoch looked up from the newspaper he was reading, and studied him.
“Seat him here next to me Ruby,” he said, and put down the paper. With Ruby’s help, George carefully took his seat.
“How do feel George?”
George was turned towards Enoch, his head wavering slightly as he battled to control his neck muscles, his eyes slowly blinking, bringing Enoch into focus. He processed the question.
“Body is sore, Enoch. Bones and muscles.”
“Follow my finger, George,” said Enoch, and slowly he moved his raised index finger around in front of George’s face.
George concentrated and his eyes followed it.
“Good, George. That’s good. How are your headaches?”
Again George considered the question.
“Body aches - needle, Enoch, needle.”
“Yes, George, needle. But breakfast first.”
“Needle.”
As soon as breakfast was done Enoch administered to George his daily injection of painkiller. It was Enoch’s own preparation and within seconds the discomfort began to ease.
“Better George?” asked Enoch, smiling faintly.
“Better, Enoch.”
“You’re doing well George. I have noticed your co-ordination is much improved. It improves daily. You were very good this morning with your cutlery.”
George nodded the way he had seen others do it. Again Enoch smiled, but faintly.
“How is your memory coming along, George? Do you recall anything from before your accident?”
George considered the question. He remembered nothing. All he knew was that he was here now, in the Hargreaves mansion, recovering in the care of his brother, Enoch. Everything was blank as to how he had arrived, of the accident he had suffered, how he had fallen under the wheels of a carriage, and of the life he had led prior to that.
“Nothing, Enoch.”
Enoch smiled assuringly and put his hand on George’s shoulder.
“In time it will come, George, I feel sure. But be brave. Should the worst happen and you find your memory never fully returns, then we must learn to accept that. You’re very lucky to be alive, George, so let’s not force things. You know there is always a place here for you.”
George processed what Enoch had said, but again felt his eyes welling with tears, as so often they did. Yet he understood that he had indeed been fortunate, for Enoch had explained how he had fallen in the yard and gone under the wheels of the carriage. It was fortunate that Enoch had been there to rescue him, that he and Bledlock, the gardener, had brought him inside, that Enoch had spent days patching him and saving his life, and weeks watching him convalesce. How fortunate that his brother was Dr Enoch Hargreaves, the great medical practitioner, the man responsible for countless surgical innovations and scientific advancements. If anybody could restore George to whom he had been, it was surely Enoch. Yet despite his good fortune George was still struck by the same all consuming, suffocating desolation in his heart, the utter emptiness that existed within him. He felt this way at every moment, as though being eaten from within, barren, hollow. He never understood what drove such emotion, but now he thought, more than anything else, it had to be the loss of memory, the total lack of recall of any part of his life prior to his current state of convalescence.
Chapter two
Enoch Hargreaves had lived for the most part of his life on the Hargreaves Estate. At the very least it had always been his home base. The property had been in his family for generations, but it had been Enoch’s father, a medical man himself and prominent later in politics, who had developed the place to grandeur. Apart from his own family, the property had been his one great love, but in saying so he considered the Estate integral to the family unit he so treasured. Enoch had never really left it, a few years in medical school, a time in Richmond running his own practice, but he never in his heart considered that he lived anywhere else. He was rooted to his ancestral home. In his early thirties he moved his practice to Cavendish and again took up full time residency with his father at the Hargreaves Estate. His mother had died the previous winter of consumption, and despite the wealth of knowledge and experience shared between father and son, nothing could save her. Edgar Hargreaves was heartbroken and welcomed home his son with open arms.
Enoch had never married, never really had a relationship either. His mind did not function that way. Science and medicine had always been the interests to which his entire life was devoted. In the years that followed the death of Mrs Hargreaves his father and he set up a research laboratory deep within the walls of the Hargreaves mansion. Its exact location remained a mystery to all but father and son. The household staff, Ruby and Crawford, had been sent away on a fully paid vacation, and when they returned, found much of the ancient and gigantic building no longer accessible. The outer structure remained the same but extensive work had been carried out within. Passageways stopped abruptly or turned in new directions. The only places that were accessible were the normal living and dining areas, kitchen, laundry, and a minimum number of bedrooms and storage areas. Edgar explained that no offence was intended but that much of the work that he and Enoch embarked upon was sensitive and confidential, and security was paramount. Despite their surprise, neither Ruby nor Crawford was offended by the limitations imposed. Indeed to some degree they were grateful, the mansion was massive, and the daily maintenance had been an enormous burden. The home had effectively become two houses in one, access to the rooms of the second being via an intricate system of hidden doors and passageways. Somewhere in that second house was the laboratory in which father and son conducted their research.
Edgar’s father, Charles Hargreaves, had possessed an inventive and imaginative spirit that had since carried forward, firstly to Edgar, and then to Enoch. He had not been a medical man but had made his fortune in stocks and in speculation, but mostly from his mining interests in Africa. He had pulled the Hargreaves family away from near bankruptcy, his own father having squandered wealth on drunkenness and gambling. The Estate was nearly lost and it was only the success and industrial genius of Charles that had saved it.
Charles Hargreaves had a mind that would not stop and despite his tough business nature, and the ability to see opportunity where others saw ruin, he had a side to his nature that was playful, adventurous, like a boy who could not outgrow his imagination. Once the Estate was back on its feet, and year followed prosperous year, thousands became millions and everything was again safe and secure, Charles entertained a fantasy he had held since boyhood. He began work on a garden maze, an amusing feature designed of dense conifer hedges. He had always loved the mystery and danger of the garden maze, the thrill of being lost, of being frightened by the prospect of not being able to find one’s way out, of perhaps being trapped forever.
The design of the maze was of his own making and Edgar assisted with the laying out and planting of the many hundred, then many thousand, plants. The maze was positioned on a gently undulating piece of land at the far eastern end of the Estate, abutting directly the Cavendish Forest.
It was so positioned as to be clear of the normal gardens of the mansion, the front garden laying between the house and the maze, itself a wonder of design, with its lovely lawns and meandering paths, statues and fountains, shrubs and trees.
The maze though, became an obsession, growing larger and more complex in its design as time passed. It was altered and massively enlarged in its first few years. The plants grew rapidly and spread into one another, the tight web of limbs quickly entangling until the maze gave the impression of being a single enormous plant.
When Charles grew too old and finally died, Edgar took it upon himself to carry on the great vision of his father, to maintain and nurture the maze, which by then had covered many acres of land. Indeed the gardens of the estate became his absolute passion, the mansion too, and never had the place looked so grand as it did under Edgar’s administration.
Edgar died on June 4 1889 after a lengthy battle with cancer that both he and Enoch had fought. Once more their wealth of medical knowledge, combined with their research and experimentation, had failed to effectively delay the inevitable. Edgar’s will was read out and everything he had possessed passed to Enoch - Hargreaves Estate and everything thereon, a holiday villa in France that was very rarely used, millions in cash and company stocks, and a vast holding of industrial real estate. And yet Enoch had not been an only child. In fact he had been a twin. He was born seven minutes before George, his identical brother. But never did there live two more different twins. As a young man George had been trouble, rapidly sullying the Hargreaves name in the Cavendish area. He fell in with the wrong people, drank heavily and brawled in the streets. He spent more than one night in the Cavendish Police lockup, as much as a protection to himself as to others. The Hargreaves family was greatly embarrassed by his actions, unable to comprehend the differences in behaviour and attitude between identical twins. George had been shown every opportunity that was offered to Enoch, but squandered them all, preferring to drink, gamble, fight, and even, it was thought, participate in robberies and break ins, though no charges were ever brought.
Each household member secretly breathed a sigh of relief when, at twenty-six, George announced he was heading for Africa. He was going to emulate the success of his grandfather, Charles, and build his fortune on the Dark Continent.
Many months passed without news of George. Then came the occasional letter. Each time he asked for money, demanded it be sent as an advance on his inheritance. To begin with Edgar went along, sent his son the money. The demands became more frequent, the letters less rational. Then news began filtering back of George. He was drinking and gambling, in and out of work, trying to live beyond his means. Finally the letters stopped and news came that George had gone missing in the jungle and was presumed dead. A partly eaten human carcass was found in an area populated by lions. Years passed without any word from George. His reported death was taken by the family to be fact. And so when Edgar died, Enoch became the sole beneficiary of his entire estate.
He retained the staff his father had employed, Crawford, Ruby and also Bledlock, the gruff, rarely seen foreigner that was paid to maintain the grounds. Bledlock had his own quarters, a self contained single bedroom dwelling a hundred yards behind the main house. Beyond that he grew a mass of vegetables, something he had brought with him from the old land. In addition he kept fowl and sheep. The sheep grazed in two designated paddocks. The only times the household saw Bledlock was when he brought his excess meats and vegetables to Ruby, or tended the gardens close in to the mansion, or arrived punctually to demand his pay.
Despite Bledlock’s mysterious nature he performed his functions admirably, the gardens always immaculate. Any repairs to buildings or machinery that were within his capabilities also fell to him. Such maintenance was always carried out promptly and well. The entire grounds became Bledlock’s responsibility. In time, however, there was one area that emerged where Enoch forbade Bledlock to go, and that was the maze. It had become frighteningly large during Edgar’s reign, the hedgerows growing eight to ten feet high, thick and impenetrable. Whilst maintaining them Bledlock had twice been lost, Edgar going to his rescue on each occasion, taking with him a detailed map of the maze and chastising his gardener for believing he could otherwise find his way.
In the time since Enoch had taken over the Hargreaves Estate the map had been lost. He had only ever been in the maze a few times, enjoying the serenity at its core, always making sure the map was with him but often having trouble getting back out, even with its help, and having to resort to a less pleasant, alternate route. The map, however, had mysteriously disappeared, and without it the maze was not navigable. Enoch reacted quickly by insisting that nobody should ever go there. Those many acres of land, he said, was but a small part of the overall landholding, and could be sacrificed for the safety of his people. As a result the plants that made up his grandfather’s great dream became unruly, unkempt and shockingly overgrown. From the mansion’s upper floors, and especially from the tower, parts of the winding pattern could be made out, but even from that height, with the density and wild overgrowth, it was impossible to untangle the intricacies and tricks of its design. Indeed on a bleak day, when the skies were grey, the clouds menacing, and the stiff, chill breezes blew across the property, the view from the tower could be quite unnerving. The maze, with its half-hidden passages, its light, its shade, the way it quavered in the wind in melancholy silence, it could leave one feeling melancholy too. But more than melancholy, one felt troubled by its presence, a one time great dream allowed to fall into ruin and disrepair, a now forbidden place it lurked somehow in a peculiar, threatening way, like a chained monster at the edge of the Hargreaves Estate.
Chapter three
Later that morning George sat in the sitting room on the ground floor, warmed by the gentle sun coming in through the window. Enoch had administered him his daily injection and now asked George to rest, to give the drug a chance to ease his pain, to restore comfort to his joints and muscles. George sat and tried to read a book, but was making little sense of it. He would stop Ruby as she passed, asking her to clarify some point or explain the meaning of a word. After a time Ruby sat and read some pages with him, running her finger across the words as she spoke them aloud. Enoch came and went from the room, watching carefully the progress the pair was making. Although each day George’s reading and understanding was improving, he would still quickly forget what he had read, and still tended to lose the thread of a story very easily. Enoch had asked that Ruby take it upon herself to teach George reading, writing and comprehension. She did her best, fitting it in with her household chores, picking also the times when George was least pained or tired. George’s progress was slow but it was certainly there, Ruby seeing improvement from one week to the next, his general grasp getting better, his mental clarity less fleeting. As they were reading this one morning, George suddenly pushed Ruby’s guiding finger aside and read, near perfectly, the next paragraph. He felt a momentary glow within him, flashing him back for an instant to his dream of the night before. Again, he could not remember the details, but remembered the feelings of happiness the dream had brought. This small and sudden reading success brought with it a similar feeling. He looked at Ruby. She was sitting alongside of him and softly crying. Her mouth smiled, but as tears ran down her face, her eyes clearly belied a deeper sorrow that even George, in his limited capacity, recognised. George looked back at his book, a little confused, not understanding why Ruby was sad.
A knock came at the front door. The door was at the end of the hallway that ran alongside the sitting room. Ruby stood and pulled back the curtains, giving her a view onto the landing. George watched her from his seated position, saw her face grow more serious, troubled, as they both heard Crawford addressing the visitors. Crawford then left them at the door and returned with Enoch.
“Who, Ruby?” George asked, still seated.
“The police,” Ruby quietly answered. “Two of them.”
She retook her seat nearby.
George thought over what she had said.
“They came before,” he said after a moment.
“Yes,” said Ruby, impressed again, this time that George had remembered the earlier visit.
“Good morning, Mr Hargreaves.”
“Good morning, officers.”
“Sorry to bother you again sir. It’s to do with the Cavendish Forest murders. The accused was found dead in his cell this morning. Hanged himself, sir.”
“Most unfortunate.”
“Yes, sir. He was in a state of great melancholia since his arrest. Wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t drink, kept crying for his dog, of all things. Kept saying he didn’t do it, sir.”
“But, surely.”
“I know sir. The evidence, overwhelming. Seems his name was Joseph Filby – bit of a drifter, sir. Was employed for a time as a carpenter’s assistant. Worked in Cavendish. Apparently his wife left him and he went downhill from there. Stopped going to work. Got thrown out of his lodgings, sir. Told us he came to live in the forest. Lived there with his dog, sir.”
“Well, I’ve told you all I know.”
“We appreciate that, sir. We just wondered - could we speak with your man again, sir? Just to clear up a few points. You know, the paperwork and all.”
Ruby listened intently from the next room, heard Enoch hesitate.
“Ah, yes, officer - of course. But he’s not here at present. I’ll have him come in to see you at the station - tomorrow, perhaps?”
“Very good, sir. We do appreciate it. Good day, sir.”
“Good day.”
Ruby listened. Enoch was watching from the door as the police took their leave. He came back inside for a moment then left the house through the rear servant’s entrance. George watched curiously as Ruby headed out of the sitting room. He followed her as she disappeared in off the hallway, through the dining room and into the kitchen. She peered through the window, saw Enoch marching quickly to Bledlock, to where he toiled half way between the main house and his own humble abode. George watched Ruby as she kept her vigil, his own eyes moving from her to those she was viewing, Enoch and Bledlock, engaged in a distant and animated conversation.
Quietly he left the kitchen and returned to his book. After less than a minute however he put it down, his thoughts distracted although his mind was clear. He had forgotten totally that the police had called once before. It was only upon their return that a recollection had stirred within him. His mind was working well and now recalled clearly the story behind the visits, yet he felt confused as to why it had been so foggy to him at the time, and why he had so readily forgotten it. Yes, he thought, I remember now.
There had been two men killed in the Cavendish Forest, horribly mutilated, torn apart. A fisherman nearby had heard an awful noise, ran to help and stumbled on the scene in time to discover a third man rifling through the pockets of the dead, taking what he could. The fisherman had given chase, but the man had escaped. The police were then called and soon enough the man was caught, and as the police took him from the forest he wailed and kicked, screamed his innocence, and called out for his dog. He was thrown in the lockup at the Cavendish Police Station, where, on the testimony of the fisherman, he was charged with the murders of two men, robbery being seen as the motive. He cried and pleaded his innocence, said he had done no wrong, simply that he lived in the forest with his dog. Now that man too was dead. His dog was lost. George sat and pondered the whole strange story.
Before long Enoch returned to the house. His mood was subdued, Ruby quickly sensing it. She remained quiet, seemed cautious in his presence. George had moved outside to the lawn and was sitting in the late morning sun. The sky was blue, the way he liked it, just a few clouds that left him cool as they passed high above. Following his lunch he returned to the lawn and read his book some more.
After a time, Ruby emerged through the front door and crossed the lawn to where he was. With the sun now low above the gables, she knew it would soon be gone and George would need to come back inside. She knelt down beside him and saw how far he had progressed with his reading. She gently took the book and looked at the page number.
“George,” she said, startled, “you’ve read all this?” She flicked back to where they had been up to that morning. “That’s fourteen pages,” she said.
“Getting a little easier,” said George, with very little hesitation. Ruby smiled, but again George saw that her eyes had moistened.
“Read some of it to me,” she said.
George then proceeded to read the next paragraph, almost flawlessly, and even more confidently than he had read that morning. When he had finished he smiled and turned to Ruby.
“Can think better now,” he said. “Getting easier, Ruby. Clearer.”
Ruby smiled again, warmly. “How are your joints, dear?”
“Needle helps,” answered George, his simple reply coming immediately on top of the question. Ruby noticed that. There had always been a lag between question and answer, and Ruby could indeed see George’s mind improving, growing clearer, more responsive.
“Come on,” she said, helping him up. “The sun will be down behind the house shortly and you will get cold. I’ll take you to your room. You need to have your lie down before tea.”
George rose, his knees popping loudly and his muscles stiff as he first began to move.
“Not too sore?” asked Ruby, supporting his first few steps.
“Needle helps.”
“You’re a bit stiff though, George - because you’ve been sitting.”
After a few yards George was able to walk more comfortably, unaided. Ruby returned to where he had sat, got his book and his cushion, then followed him back to the house. As she did, she looked up at one of the high windows, saw Enoch faintly behind the curtains. He stared down from one of the inaccessible parts of the house, out through the bars that marked each window of the forbidden rooms.
Chapter four
That evening at mealtime Enoch seemed pleased as he too noticed significant improvement in George’s condition. His mind was more lucid, still not equal to those around him, but certainly much better than, say, a week earlier, better even than the previous night. His co-ordination too was further improved, with little fumbling of the cutlery or spilling of his food. George himself felt the improvement, again at that moment realising how vague and awkward he had been.
When the meal was done Ruby once more took him to his room. Enoch read for a time in the sitting room before heading off, as he usually did, to his laboratory. It was not uncommon for him to work well into the small hours. Ruby was a light sleeper and at night often heard footsteps and groans of movement in the old house. She took these to be Enoch moving about somewhere, deep in his hidden chambers, and the sounds would continue on and off for many hours.
In his darkened room George lay on the bed, his quilt over him, his eyes fixed on the shadowy ceiling. The moon had begun to rise, casting its soft light throughout the room. Normally George would have fallen fast asleep, his body exhausted, his simple mind empty of thought, sleep bringing peace, relieving him of the terrible emptiness that seemed always to fill him, the hollow feeling he could never understand. This night however was different. The day had been good. Certainly his body still suffered its aches and pains. The popping and cracking of his tired joints was still a great discomfort but at least the injections given daily by Enoch would continue in helping to mask the pain. So George’s small sense of satisfaction was not the result of any improvement in his physical wellbeing. It was in fact the sudden improvement he had himself felt in the operation of his mind. His thoughts had become clearer throughout the day and his general ability to function mentally had improved dramatically. He remembered with pride how well he had read, how not just the words but also the thread of the story had begun to make sense. He recalled how, as the day went on, his mind became clearer, how he was able to answer more quickly the questions people asked, needing far less time to sort through their words, to make sense of them, to find for them a suitable answer. He thought too of the visit from the police and how he suddenly had remembered the story of the two murdered men. He was even able to relive in his mind the time, some weeks earlier, when he first heard of the incident, how at that time he had not felt a thing, how the words had just swirled about him and were lost in the foggy haze of his mind.
He now lay on his bed with feelings of awareness and clarity that were absolutely foreign. He sensed he was getting better. Enoch had told him of the terrible accident in the yard, that his convalescence would be slow, that he had suffered injuries to his body, to his brain, and that his memory was gone. George had known terrible melancholia in the wake of an accident he could not even remember. Nor could he remember anything prior to that. Surely it was memory loss that had driven such intense feelings of desolation into his heart and mind. His memory was certainly gone and the more he realised it the more he blamed that single fact for his feelings of dread, for that impression of inescapable, impenetrable darkness that so engulfed him. And yet today something had changed. He had sensed some light, some growth, and although the dark cloud that swamped him had far from lifted, he did feel the sensation of hope.
George lay in his bed, warming under his quilt, feeling the continued easing of his bodily pains as he relaxed, the weight gone from his joints and muscles. His mind became blurred, fuzzy, as sleep began to overwhelm him. The hour tolled distantly, a large clock somewhere deep in the house. Semi-consciously he wondered where the clock was, an old, large clock standing proud in one of the passages. His mind blurred again and he fell asleep.
For an hour there was nothing, just sleep, deep and deathlike, rhythmic breathing, nothing more.
Then from nowhere - daylight, dull grey sky, a chill breeze, slow moving clouds. George gripped his sides in the sudden biting cold, looked around him. Hedgerows – high, overgrown, impenetrable. He made his way along. The plants grew tall on both sides of a narrow path, tight and tangled. He followed the path along. What place is this, he wondered? The path twisted and turned, offered alternate routes, headed in other directions. Everywhere he looked he saw rows of wild, overgrown hedge. He became uneasy and slowly the place began to frighten him. He longed to find his way out but each way he turned took him to yet another dead end. When he turned to go back the way he had come, the path always led to some place new. He began to panic, tried to climb the hedge to see over but the plant offered no foothold. He stopped to rest, to collect his thoughts, and as he did he heard a sound. His heart jumped. He held his breathing and listened. In time it came again – a voice – faintly calling, whimpering. It came from somewhere deep in the hedgerows.
Suddenly he awoke, still in the same position as when he fell asleep – on his back, facing up at the ceiling. He knew at once the voice he heard had been real. It had lifted him out of his dream. He lay there and listened till at last it came again. He rolled his head toward the window, the moonlight softly illuminating his room through the glass. From beyond the glass there came a whimpering, a plea for help, distant and faint, then fading. All was quiet.
He waited yet again for the voice. When it came again he felt a chill so deep, and climbed from his bed. He went to the window and looked out. The gardens were bathed in moonlight and the night was deathly still. But for the shadows cast by the fountains and the frozen statues, the lawns and the paths glowed brightly where the moonbeams struck. Beyond the lawns lay a collage of various species, a dark assortment of trees and bushes, the main garden path snaking its way in and vanishing into their gloom. Amongst that blur of vegetation stood the towering forms and ghostly limbs of two giant and ancient figs, and beyond all of this, but shy of the forest, lay the dark and morbid impression of the maze.
George pushed open the window and leaned out, the chill night air quickly filling his lungs. His eyes fixed on the shadowy mass of the maze, its passageways only hinted at in the moon’s half-light. He knew nothing of the maze, only that he, like all others, was forbidden from going there. Until now he had never so much as thought of the place, never considered it, but all at once realised that it, with its high hedge walls and twisting passages, had been the subject of his most recent dream. The voice came again, a crying, whimpering voice, a plea for help. George listened, never more alert than he was now. It was a woman’s voice, weak and distant. He stared at the maze - it had come from there.
His eyes cast slowly across the dark jumbled mass, acres and acres of madness. Each time the pained voice rose, he felt the chill in his spine, along his sides, and in the pit of his stomach, renewed. He leaned further out the window, his eyes drawn in the direction of the woman’s distress. Nothing could be seen. For the remainder of the night George kept his vigil, hoping to see something - but he saw nothing, just heard as each hour tolled from somewhere deep in the house, heard too the cries of anguish and despair floating up from that distant maze.
Ruby came for him once the sun was up, by which time George had collapsed exhausted, back onto his bed. He lay uncovered, asleep, the window still ajar. She moved across the room, peered out, then pulled it shut. Gently she woke him. Slowly he came to and looked at her.
“George, what’s happening? Are you alright?”
“Yes, Ruby.”
“Your window was open.”
He sat up, his back cracking as he did. Ruby winced at the sound.
“Lady in the maze,” he said.
“Lady in the maze? What are you talking about George?”
“In the maze, Ruby.” He pointed to the window. “Calling out.”
Ruby frowned and went to the window. She opened it again and listened. Outside, the birds were chirping their delight at the new day.
“I don’t hear anything, George.”
“In the night, Ruby. Lady in the maze - crying.”
Ruby sat on the bed next to him. “Come on down for breakfast, George. It’s nearly ready.”
“The lady, Ruby.”
“You’re dreaming, George, that’s all. Dreaming in the night.”
“No, Ruby. She woke me.”
Ruby looked with uncertainty at the window, then rose and closed it.
“Come on George - breakfast.”
Ruby helped George on with his clothes and as she had for weeks, assisted him down the stairs. Each day she listened as his failing body clicked and cracked with every movement, saw how his face grew more lined, more aged in appearance, his eyes sinking deeper into his head, his hair greying before her very sight. It now pained her doubly to see his mind becoming more active, more alert, more aware and questioning, whilst knowing that his body would never sustain it. Enoch was standing by the window, staring out onto the lawns. George entered the dining room unaided, with Ruby following. Enoch turned and came to him, waved Ruby off as he helped him into a chair. He sat closely and without speaking examined George’s face and his eyes, felt the slight tremors in his hands.
“You did not sleep well, George.”
“Lady in the maze,” he blurted.
Enoch looked at him, quizzically.
“What do you mean, George?”
George repeated himself, then added, “She woke me.”
Enoch’s eyes grew narrower as he contemplated the awful possibility.
“No, no, George,” he said finally, “I’m sure that’s not so. Nobody has been reported missing and each one of us is here.”
George began to shake, wanting Enoch to believe him.
“No, no, Enoch,” he insisted, his voice more urgent. “Lady in the maze - called out to me in the night.”
Enoch smiled in an effort to calm him.
“No, George,” he said, “it just cannot be. It will be a deer or some other animal that has wandered in from the forest. Or perhaps you were dreaming. The medicine I give you, it might cause that, you know.”
George calmed himself as Enoch continued to reassure him, finally adding,
“Don’t you ever go near the maze, George. I doubt your body would take you there regardless, but promise me you never try it. It’s a dangerous place, the maze. That deer you heard in there, if that’s what it was, it will surely die.”
On this morning, Enoch, like Ruby, felt disappointed by George’s physical state. It was true that George had begun to appear noticeably more aged every day. Ruby saw it. Crawford seemed disinterested, agreeing, but not speaking of it unless the point was raised by Ruby. Enoch, on the other hand, had seemed intent on denying it, believing perhaps that George’s physical decline was within Enoch’s own power to contain. Certainly the injections each day relieved the discomfort and they were in themselves like a temporary injection of youth. There was no doubt, however, that despite his physical state, George’s mental acuity was improving rapidly. Over breakfast that morning he joined the conversation, not saying a lot, but obviously following the thread of each topic discussed. Enoch was greatly pleased by this and complimented him. Ruby felt anxious for George, almost wishing he would revert to the vague haze that had held him. She saw only suffering in the coming together of a lucid mind and a failing body.
Breakfast was over and so Enoch administered George’s daily injection, speaking to Ruby as she cleared the table. Crawford stood by near the mantle, and in his quiet way looked from Enoch to George then back to Ruby, a sad confusion appearing to wash across his features. Ruby saw it and calmed him with a reassuring glance.
“I’m heading into town shortly, Ruby,” announced Enoch. “I’ll be taking Bledlock with me.”
“I see. The police matter, I take it?”
Enoch looked up from the attention he afforded George.
“Yes Ruby, the police matter. Nothing wrong with your ears, I gather?”
Ruby, coolly rebuffed, took the remaining plates to the kitchen. Appearing peeved by the quick exchange, she remained there, washing dishes, until she heard him leave through a rear door some twenty minutes later. Crawford had headed off into other parts of the house, straightening and tidying. In the meantime George, feeling better since his injection, had found himself taking note of where Enoch had placed the medicine and syringe, the only saviour of his physical comfort. Ruby watched as she worked. She saw Enoch meet Bledlock in the yard, and when Bledlock, the strange little foreigner, joined him, they headed for the stables. In the dining room George sat quietly alone, eyeing the small cabinet that hung suspended on the wall. If one needle per day eased his pain so effectively, what might two do – or three? Did he dare? He had seen how the job was done, how Enoch would use the syringe to extract the dose, then turn the needle and eject the air. From there it was a simple matter of finding a vein. He saw too, how Enoch had done that. George rose from his seat, his joints softly clicking but without pain. He peered into the hallway. There was no sign of Crawford. He saw Ruby in the kitchen, toiling with her back to him. Never before had such a notion occurred to him. His mind had always been so clouded and vague, incapable of any great ability to reason. From the centre of the room George stared at the cabinet. He eased over to it and pulled on the small door. It opened and he looked back to see that he was still alone. He heard Ruby coming and quickly closed the door, moved away casually and stood by the window. Ruby entered the room, surprised to see him watching her from his stance by the glass.
“George,” she said, “you must be feeling well. Why don’t you go outside and read. Look, the sun is out. I will come out myself shortly and help you with your book.”
George nodded, fetched his book from the sideboard where it was kept, took his cushion, and made his way out of the room. Ruby followed him and helped him down the stairs. He wanted to ask Ruby what she thought of him taking extra medicine. Would it help? Would it get him through the afternoons more comfortably, once the morning dose had worn off? Instead he said nothing, keeping the idea and the thought to himself.
Once down the stairs George walked alone to his chair, it being part of a permanent lawn setting. Ruby watched from the steps to ensure he got there safely. She had no need for worry. George walked with reasonable ease, and with an intelligence and purpose he had not until recently displayed. He himself marvelled at the ease with which he moved; that although his joints rattled and clicked, and although his muscles felt tight and constricted, there was next to no pain. Whatever it was that Enoch injected, it was indeed a wonder drug.
He sat in the sun and began to read, his brain readily comprehending the sentences. The progress he was making mentally, the clarity of thought, the comprehension, the ability to reason; it was all happening now at such a rate that George could actually feel it developing. If only his memory would return. With that thought he stopped reading and stared out over the lawns, wondered about his accident. It must have indeed been a nasty one, as Enoch had said, to have so injured his body, but also his brain. He looked again at his book, his finger still fixed on the one large word he had not understood. He would ask Ruby for its meaning when she came out. The rest of the page was now well within his grasp, so yes, his brain injury was healing. Surely soon his memory would return, first in dribs and drabs, but then in a flood of recall. He smiled. His melancholia had eased over the last couple of days. It was being replaced by optimism as George marvelled for a moment at his sudden and rapid progress.
Ruby made her way onto the lawn, bringing them each a cool drink. She knelt beside George and saw that he had read nearly fifteen pages.
“Just this word here, Ruby,” and he showed her the one he did not understand. She then explained its meaning.
“You are doing so well, George.”
Gently the ageing maid hugged him. She pulled back, again with tears welling in her eyes.
“Why so sad, Ruby?” asked George.
Ruby wiped at her eyes, then smiled as more tears welled.
“You touch my heart, George,” she said. “You touch my heart in a way you’ll never know.”
George felt some of his old confusion. “But why, Ruby?”
She smiled softly and answered, “Take no notice, George. I’m just a silly old woman.”
“My brain is getting better, Ruby.”
“Yes, it is.”
“But I still don’t remember. Tell me what I don’t remember, Ruby.”
Ruby hesitated, looked into his eyes.
“I’m not sure what I should tell you, George,” she answered, cautiously. “Has Enoch told you anything?”
George thought for a moment then attempted a word that was seemingly foreign to him.
“Ifricah – I-Ifricah.”
“Africa,” corrected Ruby.
“Yes, Ruby - Africa. What is Africa?”
“Africa is where you lived George. You lived there for many years. Everybody thought that you were dead.”
“But, why?”
“Nobody had heard from you in such a long time and then there was news from Africa that you had probably been killed.”
George’s brow furrowed. He looked out across the lawn.
“Where is Africa, Ruby?”
“A long way away George - another country. South from here.”
“South?”
“Yes George. Remember when I explained the world?” Ruby indicated a large sphere with her hands. “We are here George,” she said, “and Africa is here.”
George stared into the imaginary globe.
“But Ruby, I don’t remember Africa,” he said finally.
Chapter five
By mid afternoon George had grown tired. He put down his book and closed his eyes. Ruby said she would return for him in half an hour and went back inside with the remains of the sandwich lunch she had brought.
George was nearly asleep when he was jerked back suddenly, a now familiar voice drifting across the tranquil lawns. For a moment he sat unmoving, his eyes open as he listened again. He thought for a brief time that perhaps he’d concocted the voice from the gentle chatter of birds.
“Help me - please… Won’t somebody please help me?”
No, it was not birds - and certainly not deer as Enoch had suggested. Although the voice was quite faint, the words were clear. George felt the same haunting chill, and leaned out with a cracking pain that caused him to wince. As had been the case during the night his eyes were drawn to what he knew to be the direction of the maze. From where he sat no part of it could be seen, the view blocked by the many trees and shrubs, all part of the dark and majestic gardens between.
“Ruby,” he called, “Ruby.”
Ruby did not come, unable to hear his call from her station in the kitchen. George got to his feet. The drugs were wearing off and each pain was returning. He strained his vision but even when standing the maze could not be seen. He turned and made for the house, hobbling and limping, not giving his body a chance to free up.