Shortly after two, Maddox went in the churchyard and resumed his labours. He chipped away industriously, and was just beginning to find the work pall when he made a discovery that set him chipping again eagerly at the coat of plaster which later hands had daubed thickly on the original wall. There were undoubtedly mural paintings on the portion he had begun to uncover. Soon he had laid bare quite a large stretch, and could see that the decoration formed a band, six or seven feet deep, about two feet from the ground, nearly the whole length of the wall.
The light was fading, and the colours were dim, but Maddox could see enough to interest him extremely. The paintings seemed to represent a stretch of the seashore, and though the landscape was treated conventionally he thought it looked like part of the beach near Kerouac. There were figures in the painting, too; and these aroused his excitement, for one at least was familiar. It was a tall shape, hooded, with hanging draperies—the figure he had seen the night before on the beach. Perhaps it was due to the archaic treatment of the picture that this figure gave him the same impression of flatness. The other figure—if it was a figure—was even stranger. It crouched on the ground before the hooded shape, and to Maddox it suggested some rather disgusting animal—a toad or a thick, squat fish. The odd thing was that, although it squatted before the tall figure, it gave the impression of domination.
Maddox felt quite thrilled. He peered closely at the painting, endeavouring to make out clearly what it represented; but the short October afternoon was drawing in fast, and beyond his first impression, he could gather very little. He noticed that there was one unexpected feature in the otherwise half-familiar landscape—a hillock or pile of large stones or rocks, on one side of which he could just make out words or fragments of words. ‘Qui peuct venir,’ he read in one place, and, lower down, ‘Celuy qui ecoustera et qui viendra . . . sacri . . . mmes pendus . . .’
There was also some vague object, a pile of seaweed. Maddox thought, lying heaped below the hillock.
Little though he knew either of art or of archaeology, Maddox was keenly interested by this discovery. He felt sure that this queer painting must represent some local legend or superstition. And it was very odd that he should have seen, or thought he had seen, that figure on the beach before he had discovered the mural painting. There could be no doubt that he had seen it; that it was no mere fancy of his tired mind there was the box and the incantation, or whatever it was, in his pocket to prove. And that gave him an idea. It would be extremely interesting if he should find that the old French words on the mural painting and the Latin words on the parchment in any way corresponded. He took the little metal case from his pocket and opened it.
‘“Clamabo et exaudiet me.” “I will call and he will hear.” That might be any prayer. Sounds rather like a psalm. “Quoniam iste qui venire potest”—ah! “qui peuct venir”!—what’s this? sacrificium hominum—Heavens! What’s that?’
Far off across the heath he heard a faint cry—the distant howling of the thing he had seen on the beach . . .
He listened intently. He could hear nothing more.
‘Some dog howling,’ he said to himself. ‘I’m getting jumpy. Where was I?’
He turned back to the manuscript; but even during the few moments of distraction the light had faded, and he had to strain his eyes to see anything of the words.
‘“E paludinis ubi est habitaculum tuum ego te convoco”,’ he read slowly aloud, spelling out the worn writing. ‘I don’t think there’s anything in the painting to correspond with that. How odd it is! “From the marshes where thy dwelling is I call thee.” Why from the marshes, I wonder? “E paludinis ubi est habitaculum tuum ego te convoco—”
He broke off abruptly. Again there came that dreadful howl—and it certainly was not the howl of a dog. It was quite close . . .
Maddox did not stop to consider. He leapt up, ran through the yard into the presbytery, and locked the door behind him. He went to the front door and locked that too; and he bolted every window in the tiny house. Then, and not till then, did he pause to wonder at his own precipitate flight. He was trembling violently, his breath coming in painful gasps. He told himself that he had acted like a hysterical old maid—like a schoolgirl. And yet he could not bring himself to open a window. He went into the little sitting-room and made up the fire to an unwonted size; then he tried to take an interest in Father Vétier’s library of devotional books until the little curé himself should return. He was nervous and uneasy; it seemed to him that he could hear some creature (he told himself that it must be a large dog, or perhaps a goat) snuffling about the walls and under the door . . . He was inexpressibly relieved when at last he heard the short, decided step of the curé coming up the path to the house.
Maddox was restless that night. He had short, heavy snatches of sleep in which he was haunted by dreams of pursuit by that flat, hooded being; and once he woke with a strangled cry and a cold shudder of disgust from a dream that, in his flight, he had stumbled and fallen face downwards on something soft and cold which moved beneath him—a mass of toads . . . He lay awake for a long time after that dream; but he eventually slipped into a drowsy state, half waking and half sleeping, in which he had an uncomfortable impression that he was not alone in the room—that something was breathing close beside him, moving about in a fumbling, stealthy way. And his nerves were so overwrought that he simply had not the courage to put out a hand and feel for the matches lest his fingers should close on—something else. He did not try to imagine what.
Towards dawn he fell into an uneasy doze, and awoke with a start. Some sound had awakened him—a melancholy howling cry rang in his ears; but whether it had actually sounded or whether it was part of his memories and evil dreams he could not telclass="underline"
He looked ill and worn at breakfast, and gave his bad night as an excuse for failing to continue his work on the old wall. He spent a wretched, moping day; he could settle to nothing indoors.
At last, tempted by the mellow October sun, he decided to go for a brisk, short walk. He would return before dusk—he was quite firm about that—and he would avoid the lonely reaches of the shore.
The afternoon was delicious. The rich scent of the gorse and heather, warm in the sun, and the cool touch from the sea that just freshened the breeze, soothed and calmed Maddox wonderfully. He had almost forgotten his terrors of the night before—at least, he was able to push them into a back corner of his mind. He turned homewards contentedly—even in his new calm he was not going to be out after sundown—when his eyes happening to fall on the white road where the declining sun threw his shadow, long and thin, before him. As he saw that shadow, his heart gave a sudden heavy thud; for a second shadow walked beside his own.
He spun round. No mortal creature was in sight. The road stretched empty behind him, and on either hand the moorland spread its breast to the wide sky. He ran to the presbytery like a hunted thing.
That evening Father Vétier ventured to speak to him.
‘Monsieur,’ he said, rather timidly, ‘I do not wish to intrude myself into your affairs. That understands itself. But I have promised my very good friend M. Foster that I will take care of you. You are not a Catholic, I know; but—will you wear this?’