In London, Elizabeth visits a clairvoyant recommended by Dr Rookfield while in Waterford, Jon and the historian, Alex, have a run-in with Micheal and his friends. Alex begins behaving oddly after a visit to the mound.
Additional Sounds:
Jazz Loop by Niko Sardar (Creative Commons 4.0) https://freesound.org/people/NikoSardas/sounds/456797/
If you like THWDY, tell people about us! It will help us grow!
In London, Elizabeth visits a clairvoyant recommended by Dr Rookfield while in Waterford, Jon and the historian, Alex, have a run-in with Micheal and his friends. Alex begins behaving oddly after a visit to the mound.
Additional Sounds:
Jazz Loop by Niko Sardar (Creative Commons 4.0) https://freesound.org/people/NikoSardas/sounds/456797/
If you like THWDY, tell people about us! It will help us grow!
THIS HOUSE WILL DEVOUR YOU Season One
A Podcast concerning love, madness, mystery, murder and dead gods in 1920's Ireland and England
THWDY Episode 1.07
'The Stars Are Aligned Now'
Bloomsbury, London WC
26th November, 1925,
My dear Jon,
What do you mean, stay away? How on earth could I stay away given your state of mind and the visions you have seen? In any case, it is too late. I have booked a third class ticket on the Irish Mail train to Holyhead for next Monday, 30th November, with a connection on the boat to Dun Leary. I do hope you will be able to meet me there. I think it is essential you leave Kilphaun Hall behind you for a short time. In any event I will take lodgings at the Regal Maritime Hotel and aim to see you there.
The reason I had acted impulsively about the booking was partly cost – December fares being more expensive – but also because I was advised by Madame Gregoriou, the clairvoyant, that now was an auspicious time for travel and if I left it too long, the planetary alignment would be less conducive to a smooth voyage. Mindful of your recent experiences I felt any good auspices were worth appropriating and now I am sure of the urgency.
I think you must be in a terrible state of shock, but I have some information which I hope will calm you. While I was preparing for my second sunbeam treatment earlier this week, who should turn up at the house, unannounced and at really quite an unseemly early hour, but Dr. Rookfield! I am highly uneasy at his calling on us thus; Celia was sleeping in so was completely unaware. But it was me he had come to see as he had some update into Father’s sketches. Well, once I was out of my negligee I was able to sit with him in the parlour and review.
It turns out the Gorgon’s Head is an ancient Greek symbol related to the Medusa, and may have some relationship with the Celtic triskelions. When Father found those symbols in Greece, documented in his note and sketch (I must show it to you), he may have wanted to explore the link, which was what took him to Waterford and eventually Kilphaun. It’s just a theory but I find it quite an appealing one. I do like the idea that these traditions and symbols are all really hand-me-downs, that we all share some common origin. With that in mind, Dr. Rookfield said his spiritual clairvoyant, Madame Gregoriou, who is possibly descended from the original Oracles of Delphi, would be the perfect medium to see if my malaise was due to malign spirits connected with the Gorgon’s Head.
I did not know what to expect, and don’t feel as though I have much malaise anymore, but there was time after the sunbeam treatment so I arranged to meet him that afternoon and we motored over to Bayswater, where in an unprepossessing basement, Madame Gregoriou held her sittings.
It was a dimly lit room, light struggling to filter through dusty moiré curtains, poorly assisted by a flickering candle in a stained glass lamp. Madame Gregoriou was younger than I had expected, in an oriental style kaftan with an exquisite beaded headdress and a jewelled teardrop on her brow. Somehow I thought she looked more Indian than Greek, and I wondered, with deplorable cynicism, if she adapted her persona to fit the needs of her clients.
“Welcome,” said the clairvoyant, in a mellifluous, enticing tone. “Be seated, my dear”. She pointed me at a chair. As I sat, I noticed Dr. Rookfield looking around for his seat. I had not expected he would be privy to our session and I stared at him somewhat pointedly.
“Dear ladies,” he said. “It would honour me to be able to participate in this crucial meeting.” Meeting with our silence, he continued, “But if you would prefer I keep my own counsel, I will of course wait outside”.
Madame G, to her credit, gave him a slow nod and out he went. I liked her already.
“We will clear the air”, she said, wandering round with some incense in a small pot, which wafted around the room and quite lifted the spirits with its heady aroma. Then she sat down and muttered something – I could not catch if it was the same sentence spoken by Mr Forsyth at the Society. It could have been.
“I need your palm,” she said, “and your date and place of birth.” I was able to give her all these, though I was somewhat disappointed by the lack of a crystal ball, which I thought always came into play at these things, and which would have made an amusing anecdote for the sceptical Celia. Madame G held my hand with a warm, gentle touch, and traced along the lines of my palm, but with a rather discouraging lack of comment on her part. Then she retreated behind a beaded curtain where she said she was consulting the astral charts. From the thudding and coughing noises that emanated forth, it sounded as though these were buried in some large, dusty tomes on a set of long undisturbed bookshelves.
Finally she emerged. “There are dark times ahead,” she said, “but with vision and foresight, you can navigate these. You are better off to the west. Go quickly, for the planetary alignments change rapidly and the chance may be lost.”
And that was it! Nothing about the Gorgon’s Head, or Waterford, nothing about my malaise, not really much about etheric cross-currents or malign spirits, but this simple recommendation. I wanted to say, “Is that it?” but she gave me a dismissive look and said, “The doctor has settled the bill. Here is my card, should you wish for me again.”
As I was brought up to accept favours graciously and not to look a gift horse in the mouth, I thought it best to leave it there and be thankful for even this little shred of spiritual guidance, but I do wonder what she and Rookfield have going on. I was pleased to be out of there, I can tell you. Rookfield was hanging around and I wondered if he had been trying to listen at the door, not that Madame G had given much away at all. I have however kept her card, blue with large crescent moons and stars on it, and the address in Bayswater.
“Dr. Rookfield,” I said, with all the haughtiness I could muster, “I thank you very much for arranging this sitting for me, but I regret I do have another appointment and I must make haste from here direct to Marylebone. I hope I have not kept you waiting needlessly, but I will take a taxi.” And I did! I was so glad not to have to take tea or dinner with the fellow, to discuss it in any more detail. I believe he means well, but I find his attentions somewhat – pressing. I do however have to get Father’s sketch and notes back from him. And I have not asked him about Mr. C. King – is he Lord Clonlaw?
But I now fear for your safety and your spirit and am going to make post haste to prepare for the journey to Ireland. I must confess I have not yet told Mother, who I am sure will have concerns for my fitness to travel. I may send her a telegram. Pray you say nothing to Aunt Edith otherwise all hell will break loose on the newswires. Please get yourself a train to Dublin.
Your loving and concerned fiancée,
Elizabeth
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'Old Gods'
-------------------------
Kilphaun Hall
27th November 1925
Dear Elizabeth,
I do worry about you visiting here but you seem so determined and who am I to stand in your way! If it gets you away from charlatan mystics and dubious occultists, then all the better. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, you will not arrive in time for an evening’s entertainment at Clonlaw House. Yes you read that right, but I get ahead of myself.
I went down to the village this afternoon with Alex, the historian. In the few days I’ve known him, he has been a cheerful presence and game for anything, when not poring over his books. This afternoon though he was in a distracted mood, more on which anon, as it concerns me somewhat. As we walked into Kilphaun village, the setting sun came out below the clouds that had drizzled on us all day and its sudden glare fragmented the buildings and street into bright corners and dark shards, giving that mean collection of houses and shops a briefly exotic air.
I had decided to try again and find any friends of the missing boy and ask whether they had been up to the mound. I find myself exhausted during the day as my nights are a torment of dreams about the damn mound. I start off standing on that edifice in that dank dell and the terrible sense of some presence deep, deep down below that is ever so slowly rising up to me, and then as is the way of dreams, I am in a burning building being hunted by that crooked old man with his terrible pouring eyes, his two blades snickering off each other in rhythm with the pulse of the mound. The dreams enervate me but if they are meant to frighten me, well they will need to compete with the night terrors I suffered for so long after the war.
I never did talk to any of the village children. As we were walking down the Main Street, we went to go past a group of men lounging outside one of the public houses despite the damp weather. My friend Micheal was one of them, leaning against the building with his hands in his pockets. His eyes narrowed when he saw us and he used his shoulder to roll himself off the wall and into our path.
“Now lads,” he says, “ Just who we were talking about. Speak of the devil and he appears, eh?”
“I’ve no business with you, Micheal,” I said, meaning to brush past but I found my way blocked by the other men, all sour faced.
I noticed the small man who had organised the river search for the boy standing apart and watching intently. Was this to be more mischief by the local Irregulars, if that’s who he even was?
“But we have business with you, Captain Ross.” Said Micheal, “Jim Foley disappears after a run-in with you, the dogs disappear while on a hunt with you - “
I interrupted him, “Nonsense dreamt by idle minds. I wasn’t even in the country when the young lad went missing.”
Micheal turned to the silent men behind him.
“But that’s the thing lads, isn’t? We’ve only Captain Ross’ word for it that he wasn’t already here. I heard he arrived on the steam packet the same day poor Danny disappeared, even if he only made an appearance the next day. What was he up to before then, eh?”
There was a murmuring of agreement amongst the men and they began to crowd forward.
One of them said, “And what of this odd fellow with him? He’s been all over the parish and town lands, sneaking around.”
I have to admit, at that moment I couldn’t fault the description of Alex. He was peering around aimlessly, as if unconscious of the men threatening us, and muttering to himself. Somewhere along the way he’d lost his hat and his hair was rain slick and askew.
This morning I had borrowed a car from the house and the two of us had driven up through the steep wooded slopes and winding lanes until we were as close as we could get to the narrow secret valley where the mound waits. What had been a soft day down in the valley was a harder windblown affair up there on the high hills and despite my heavy coat, I was quickly cold and miserable as we tramped across the fields and into the valley. Alex had been in high spirits, talking of his studies and a girl back home he had hopes of, but that had fallen away as we pushed through the spindly trees and muddy ground.
It was strange seeing that grassy mound again in its concrete reality, after so many times in my dreams. It seemed bigger than I remembered. I found myself loath to approach it too close, but Alex did a traverse before clambering up onto it.
“Yes, yes,” he said nodding to himself.
Exasperated I’d said, “yes, yes, what?”
“Obviously ancient but not of the style you normally see around here. It’s been excavated of course.”
“What? How do you know that?”
Alex walked carefully over to beside the gnarled hawthorn. It’s branches seemed to stretch out for him, though it was only the wind.
“You can see here” - he tapped his foot - “ that there is a depression in the side of the monument which continues as a shallow linear feature towards the centre. Somebody definitely dug into the mound. They may have been grave robbing or an amateur natural philosopher exploring, but to be honest it’s more likely they intended to quarry the mound for its stones.”
He waved generally in the direction of Killphaun Hall.
“Perhaps when George’s house was being built, the gentleman constructing it saw the mound as a source of cheap rubble. Interestingly it looks like he gave up quickly enough as the mound is mostly intact. The locals wouldn’t have been too happy, I would imagine.”
I wiped rain out of my eyes and asked why.
“Well, general superstition about the wee folk, especially with a hawthorn on it. A tree like this could be hundreds of years old despite it size. I’ve heard stories in the parish of a lost fairy castle. One of them has it that an injured Irishman fleeing Cromwell’s soldiers lay down on the mound and the faeries turned him into a tree to protect him; but as is their way, forgot to turn him back and here he still stands, protecting it.
“There’s an older, much more interesting tale from a mythography point of view. I’ve come across it in an old study and to be honest I’d hoped to find out more once I got here but if it ever existed, the story has been forgotten much like this mound. The story is that when the old god Crom Cruach was cast down by St Patrick, some of his priests escaped south with his relics and ended up in Waterford. Crom was a piece of work, child sacrifice and the like in return for a good harvest. Anyway these druids supposedly rebuilt his altar and began their terrible rituals again until they were finally defeated and the location of the altar lost. If this was it, then there once probably would have been twelve stone idols in a circle on top of the mound. Ow!”
This last was because Alex had patted the Hawthorn in his enthusiasm and looked to have stabbed himself on one of its sharp thorns. We had left soon after and it was only as we walked down to the village that I realised that Alex had a most peculiar distracted look about him. I was busy with my own thoughts, trying to remember who I had heard recently talking about this old god, Crom.
And now with these hard men blocking our path, Alex did the worst thing he could. He said something like, I can hear it, he’s coming, or maybe it was I hear you, I’m coming I’m not sure. But then he pushed into the village men, his arms flailing. Well, they assumed the idiot was having a go at them and one of them pushed back hard and the historian went tumbling to the cobbles. I was undecided whether to lay into these ruffians myself or assist Alex, when behind me a man said, “What the hell is going on?”
It was a voice used to being obeyed, for all that there was a tremor of age in it. It stalled everyone in their places and I turned to see Lord Clonlaw himself disembarking from a car. Unentangling might be a better phrase for he loomed over us all when he stood at his full height, leaning on a heavy walking stick. He looked like he was ready to use it for violence as well, so firmly was he gripping it. Well! I never expected to be glad to see Clonlaw but his arrival had defused the situation. One of the men helped Alex to his feet, cast around as if looking for his hat and then slinked off with his compatriots, Micheal included.
Alex was at once a bit groggy from his fall and also much like his old self as if the knock had shaken him out of the odd mood. Clonlaw made disparaging comments about layabouts and was all for calling the new state police; the guards, they call them. I demurred, citing no harm done but really thinking there was enough going on without giving the police reason to suspect Killphaun Hall or its occupants. I was also sympathetic to the men’s concerns even if I considered them misdirected. I may well have something to do with Jim Foley’s disappearance, if my dreams and bloodstained pyjamas are anything to go by.
Clonlaw insisted on driving us home and hid his regret badly at the offer when I said we were staying at the Hall. I realised then that he did not recognise me from the hunt or the boat. It was a short drive but Alex seemed to need to make up for his lost volubility earlier by talking non-stop. I’ve seen men like that, a reaction to shock. I was in the front with the driver, who to my surprise was quiet Padhraig. We studiously ignored each other. When Alex described our trip up to the mound, Clonlaw was suddenly all ears and asking questions galore. He was particularly interested in who owned the land that he might go visit it. This I did know and took pleasure in leaning back and telling him. It was rented out to a local farmer but belonged to the Kilphaun estate.
George happened to be outside the main door talking to Murphy when we pulled up on the wet gravel. The latter had a shotgun strung over his right shoulder and a brace of rabbits in his left hand, their fur stained dark with blood and beaded with rain. While Clonlaw again did not enter the house, he was much more polite this time and in fact apologised for his behaviour on his previous visit, blaming his nerves and poor health. Well the upshot of that was an invitation to dinner and entertainment this Sunday, two days time, at Clonlaw House!
I can’t help but question his lordship’s motives but George is delighted with this turn of events as it helps his suit with Lily no end. Alex seems better but he has taken to startling at the slightest noise. I do worry about him and nor have I forgot his comment on this old god he mentioned - that children were sacrificed to him.
I asked George what he knows of the house’s history. Very little it turns out. Your father’s things probably would tell us much but they are in Wiltshire and you are on your way here. He did say there was a family portrait of the original owner, waiting to be rehung. He showed it to me just now, wrapped in brown paper. I loosened it enough to get a look at the picture. It was the same painting that looked down on us in the great reception room when Jim Foley was murdered. I swear it. What does this mean?
There I so much I don’t understand but one thing I do know is that I am looking forward so much to seeing you, my darling! Look out for me when you disembark in Dublin.
All my love
Jon