The Dancing Druids Read online

  The road crossed a little stone bridge, and led past the lodge of the house, which was situated, curiously, at what seemed a secondary entrance. Behind the house was a paddock, but beyond it, and as far as O’Hara could see, the countryside, lonely and vast in the dusk which was now descending, stretched like an unmapped continent, uninviting, hilly, and sad.

  His ankle was stiffening badly and hurt a good deal. His only object now was to reach his destination, and that as soon as he could. He was certain, by this time, that he had been misdirected, and he cursed himself for having taken any notice of the information given by the man in the car.

  Of the golf-course, to which at one time his thoughts had been directed, there was now no promise, for he had left it far away to the west. Beside him there loomed a hill; beyond him there rose another. The road had the horrid unendingness of a dream of frustration and longing, but there seemed nothing to do except follow it to its end, and hope to find a village or a farm at which he could ask the way. Even a lift would not be out of the question. He was doing his ankle no good by keeping on his feet for so long.

  Suddenly from the clouds which had rested on the hills and of which he had become increasingly conscious as they blotted out the last of the daylight, great drops of rain began to fall.

  ‘That’s the last straw,’ thought O’Hara. ‘I don’t mind getting wet, and I don’t much mind being lost, but the two together are too much. Why the devil did I listen to that fellow? I might have been in Welsea by now!’

  As he indulged in these thoughts the road began to drop fairly steeply and to become much narrower. Far from being perturbed by these signs, he felt a sense of relief.

  ‘A farm,’ he thought. ‘They can put me upon my way.’ The road now entered a gloomy route between hedges, and trailed out into a wood. O’Hara decreased his pace and dropped into a walk. The rain came down fairly fast but he was saved from the worst of the downpour by the overhanging trees.

  At last the road bent to the left and he saw some buildings. Behind them the trees were thick, and a round-roofed hut of military pattern seemed to shoulder its way in amongst them. A little beyond it was a cottage, but this was in ruins. In the dusk O’Hara had been about to knock when he saw that the cottage had no door.

  ‘Oh, well, where’s the farm?’ he thought; and, as though to answer the question, further on, and among the trees, a light sprang up.

  * * *

  Chapter Two

  —«♦»—

  ‘… but all was dark, and he could find no clue to this strange business.’

  Ibid. (Peter the Goatherd)

  « ^ »

  The house from which the light shone was about twenty yards back from the road. The room from which the light came was empty. So much O’Hara could see at once as he galloped up the drive and glanced in at the uncurtained window before he knocked at the door.

  There was a long pause. Then he could hear someone moving about upstairs. He knocked again, a little more confidently this time. Footsteps descended, and the door was opened. No light was switched on in the hall and the occupant of the house carried no candle. It was a woman who stood there. She opened the door wide and stood well back from it.

  ‘Who is it?’ she asked. O’Hara deduced from her voice that she was fairly young.

  ‘I beg your pardon for troubling you,’ he replied, ‘but I’m out on a cross-country run and I’ve lost my way.’

  ‘Which way do you want?’ she enquired.

  ‘Welsea Beaches or Abbots Ingham would do.’

  ‘You’re a long way from either.’

  ‘How far?’

  ‘Ten miles, by the nearest road, from Welsea.’

  ‘As much as that? Oh, Lord! Well, I suppose…’

  ‘You’d better go through the farm,’ she went on, ‘and up and over the Seven Acre. Then you go left by the Barrows and up past the Druids. I’m afraid you’ll never find your way in the dark, and I… and I don’t see how I can come with you to show you the road. You’ll strike it quite soon past the Druids. I’ve got a sick man in the house. I ought to send for the doctor… I don’t quite know what to do. It’s getting so late.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said O’Hara. ‘Is he bad?’

  ‘It’s getting so late,’ she repeated. ‘And I’m afraid it’s a hospital case. I don’t know what to do.’ She retreated and began to close the front door.

  ‘Where does the doctor live? Perhaps I could go?’ said O’Hara. ‘And it isn’t so awfully late.’

  ‘Oh, no, no, thank you. You’d never find it in the dark. And I couldn’t trouble you. That isn’t what you’re here for.’ A new note had entered her voice.

  ‘Well, look here, then, would you care to let me have a look at him? I’m not a doctor, of course, but it might be better than nothing.’

  ‘You’re a medical student? Oh, but…’ Her voice sounded frightened.

  ‘Oh, no, I’m not a medical student,’ said O’Hara. ‘I know a bit about massage and First Aid, and that sort of thing. That’s all.’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s infectious,’ she said hastily, ‘and I couldn’t expose you to the risk. Please go. I’m sorry I can’t help you. That’s your way, look, through the cartshed and over the hill. Or—wait a minute! Perhaps you could go in the car. Come with me. I’ll soon find out.’

  ‘But…’ O’Hara began to protest. The woman would not let him continue. It seemed that she had made up her mind.

  ‘Please come,’ she said. She came out into the porch and caught his arm, but shrank away at once at the touch of the naked skin. ‘Oh, you’re… Oh, you’re…’

  ‘I’m in running togs,’ he said, smiling. He could discern her face, pale in the darkness, but merely as a paper-like blur.

  ‘Of course. It’s this way.’ She clutched his bare arm and almost hustled him down the path and through the gate. ‘Watch your step. I mean, it’s rough and rather muddy out here. And hurry, please! I really mustn’t leave him more than a minute!’

  They went side by side along the road and then through the open cartshed which seemed to straddle it. Beyond the cart-shed were barns, and to the right of these were what O’Hara took to be stables, for he could hear the movements of horses and could smell their odour.

  At the end of the stable block was another large barn. It seemed as though the woman had not expected to find it locked, for she exclaimed something under her breath and began to hammer at the door.

  ‘Let me,’ said O’Hara. He set his shoulder to the door and gave it a shove, but it did not budge, nor even rattle. ‘It’s locked, I’m afraid. Haven’t you the key?’

  ‘Yes. Indoors,’ she said. ‘Wait here. I’ll go and get it.’

  O’Hara began to feel chilly. He swung his arms and stamped his feet, and hoped that soon the key would be forthcoming. The woman was gone about ten minutes, which seemed an unduly long time, considering that the house was less than fifty yards off.

  He was beginning to wish that he had never stopped at the house at all when he heard the sound of voices and saw the gleam of an electric torch. The woman was returning. With her she had a tallish man, and it was he who was carrying the torch. He shone it on to O’Hara, allowing the light to travel slowly over the young man’s long, thin body, over his grimy shorts and sweat-stained running-vest, over his long, thin legs, and at last to his face.

  ‘Not at all a bad notion,’ he said to the woman. Then he turned the light on to the lock and fitted a key. He pushed the door open with his shoulder. It swung inward, and as the man shone the torch into the darkness O’Hara could see the gleaming coachwork of a car.

  ‘Keep back,’ said the man. ‘I’ll bring her out, and then you’ll have to help me with him. You’re very late, aren’t you?’

  He climbed into the driver’s seat and backed the car out without troubling to wait for an answer. He got out, opened the door of the car, and invited O’Hara to get in.

  ‘Might as well take a seat. We’ll be a few minutes.’ he said. ‘Wrapping him up, you know. It wouldn’t do for him to get cold.’ He concluded these words with a very sinister chuckle.

  ‘There are rugs,’ said the woman to O’Hara, ‘if you’re cold. We’ll be as quick as we can. I’m stirry. I didn’t know…’

  ‘Make yourself at home,’ said the man. He chuckled again. ‘It’s the whale of a notion. Gets us out of a very nasty mess.’

  Rather astonished, O’Hara listened to their retreating footsteps. The whole business seemed to him more than a trifle mysterious.

  ‘I hope the fellow hasn’t got bubonic plague,’ he thought. ‘Why did the woman say she was alone when this chap was there all the time? There’s something fishy going on. I wish to the Lord I’d never stopped here. Oh, well, I’m in for it now!’

  Thankful for the rugs, he wrapped one round his body and one round his long legs, and reclined against the upholstery of the car. He felt sleepy, and, becoming warm, began to doze. The sound of footsteps brought him wide awake again.

  ‘Now then, cully,’ said the man’s voice, ‘you’d better come along and help me lift him. Here, I’ve brought you a coat.’

  O’Hara discarded the rugs, opened the door of the car and groped his way out. His arms were thrust roughly and strongly into the sleeves of an overcoat. It was full big for him, and, although he was an unusually tall and long-armed young man, the sleeves came almost to his knuckles. ‘Now, then, let’s get a move on,’ the man added. He led the way back through the cartshed, and O’Hara followed.

  He was taken by a gravel path to the side of the house, where the man pushed open a door which led into a narrow passage. At the end of the passage was a staircase and at the top of the staircase, which was lighted by a blue-shaded lamp of tiny size and very feeble glimmer, was a bedroo
m. The bedroom door had been lifted off its hinges and was flat on the floor.

  ‘I thought we might need it,’ said the man. He led the way into the bedroom, and flashed his torch on to a camp bed. Lying on it, in a face-downwards position, was an enormously broad figure so wrapped and entwined in blankets that it resembled nothing so much as a gross and ape-like mummy. Even the head was completely hidden, so that nothing of the face or even the hair could be seen. Great motoring gloves covered the hands and had been tied round the wrists with tape. So much O’Hara could see, but nothing more, and that he saw only as his guide flashed the torch.

  ‘Now,’ said the man, ‘as you see, he’s a pretty tidy weight to lift and carry, so if you find him too heavy you’ll need to give me plenty of warning, so that we can set him down gently. I think I’ve fixed him all right, but we don’t want to bruise him or anything. You take his legs, and don’t be hasty. The stairs are steep and I don’t want to break my neck. Rather a joke if I did, but I should have to miss the laugh, and that would be rather a pity.’

  The weight of their burden was not short of fifteen or sixteen stones. O’Hara was a powerful fellow and in excellent training, but he could scarcely stagger down the stairs. His companion appeared in like case, for he grunted and groaned as they descended, and, in the hall, had to beg for a respite whilst they put the sick man down. A hot-water bottle which was evidently wrapped up in the blankets had been burning O’Hara’s wrist, and his ankle was now very stiff. The extra weight on it was very nearly unbearable.

  ‘Ready again?’ said the man. ‘Then up-se-daisy!’

  The journey in the dark to the yard seemed endless, and even when it was over there was the difficulty of getting the sick man into the back of the car. At last they managed to place him along the back seat, and O’Hara ducked in after him.

  ‘Hold on to him, now,’ said the man, ‘and on no account let him fall off!’

  O’Hara grunted, liking the business less and less, and the man climbed into the driver’s seat and slowly drove off up the hill. How he managed to find his way, much less to pick a track on the cart-ruts they seemed to be following, O’Hara had no idea, for the car was not lighted at all, either inside or out. It crawled along in what was now the thick darkness of a misty and moonless night, and, except for the occasional swish of the branches from an untrimmed hedge against the window, O’Hara would not have known that they were not bucketing their way across a desert.

  There was no conversation. He himself had all he could do to keep the mummy-like invalid on the back seat as the car slowly jolted and swung. The driver, he assumed, had all his work cut out to find the way and to keep the car on its track for not once did they drive on a road.

  The further they went, the less and less O’Hara liked what was going on. He could not desert the sick man, and yet there was something so corpse-like about the inert and swaddled body that he began to feel a horror of it similar to the horror he had felt for the house with the four dead trees.

  He found himself holding his breath and trying to hear the sound of the invalid’s breathing. There was no sound at all, so far as he could determine, but he thought perhaps the noise of the car was enough to blanket other sounds.

  Suddenly the car pulled up, and O’Hara was flung sideways. The driver put his head out.

  ‘You there, Willie?’ he called. There was no answer. The driver pulled in his head again with an oath. ‘What’s the matter with everyone?’ he added.

  At the notion that they were to meet someone else in this curious spot, O’Hara decided that he had had enough of the affair. He was crouched on the floor to hold the invalid in place, and from this position he put his head to the man’s chest to hear his breathing. He could hear nothing, although the car had stopped.

  ‘I say!’ he cried. ‘I think this chap’s worse! I believe he’s dead!’

  Upon these words, he slipped out of the enormous, borrowed overcoat, opened the door of the car as it began to crawl forward, crouched on the step and then fell gently on to soft, wet turf.

  ‘What the devil are you doing?’ cried the driver, as the door swung to. O’Hara did not reply. He was too busy rolling down a hill. The grass of the hillside was soaking, and rain was now falling fast. The car, he knew, had pulled up. He got to his feet and ran.

  ‘What’s the matter there, Con?’ cried a new voice behind him. There was nothing strange to an Irishman in hearing another man addressed as Con, in England the name of a girl. O’Hara took no notice, intent only on getting away.

  Shouts pursued him. He limped and stumbled, but soon out-distanced the sounds. He could tell he was on a path. It felt like a cart-track. His chief hope was that it did not lead back to the farm. He crashed against a stile and bruised his shins. Thankfully, he climbed over. Ahead of him he could see the lights of houses. There was another stile to cross, and then he was on a high-road. Regardless of his stiff ankle, he now began to run as fast as he could. He was dogged all the time by the nightmare feeling that he made no progress at all. He redoubled his efforts, and at last came in sight of the friendly lights of a pub.

  Encouraged, he flung himself onward, and reached the welcoming glow. Oblivious of the spectacle he must by this time present (for, besides being muddy, he was also soaked to the skin) he pushed open the door and went in. A group of men regarded him stolidly for a minute or two. Then the barman said wonderingly:

  ‘Bless ee, young fellow, ’ave ee bin killin‘ a pig?’

  * * *

  Chapter Three

  —«♦»—

  … and rode so quickly that he did not even see the golden road, but went with his horse straight over it.’

  Ibid. (The Water of Life)

  « ^ »

  O’hara glanced down at his shorts, once white, now very grimy. Apart from the mud, however, from waist to knee on the left side he was an unpleasant mess of dark blood washed brownish by the rain.

  ‘Good Lord!’ he said. ‘I helped to carry a man…! Here, give me a drink!’

  ‘Been mixed up in an accident, I doubt?’ said the barman, eyeing the bottles dubiously. ‘What be goin’ to have?’

  ‘Whisky—a double,’ said O’Hara. He unpinned a pound note from inside the breast of his running-vest and placed it upon the counter. ‘I helped to lift the fellow on to the back seat of somebody’s car to get him to hospital,’ he added. The implied suggestion that he had been mixed up in a road crash seemed the best explanation of his plight.

  ‘Must have been in a bad way to bleed on you like that,’ said one of the men at the bar. O’Hara nodded, and took the end seat on a bench.

  ‘He was pretty bad,’ he said briefly. ‘I didn’t see the accident, though.’ He hoped there would be no further questions, and, having drunk his whisky in three gulps, he asked whether it was possible to telephone to the Royal Hotel at Welsea. He then rang up his cousin, the hare, presuming rightly that he would have finished the course.

  ‘I say, Gerry,’ he said. ‘I’m in rather a spot. Could you possibly send somebody with a car and an overcoat to the Spotted Lion, Upper Deepening? That’s where I seem to be. No, I’m all right. Yes, more when we meet. Too long to tell you over the ’phone. No, I’m not injured. Turned my ankle, that’s all.’

  ‘Well, you are an old ass!’ said his cousin cheerfully. ‘Bad luck, though, all the same. All right, I’ll come myself. We’ve reached the strawberry ices, and I don’t mind missing the speeches if I have to. Jolly glad you rang through. We couldn’t think what had happened!’

  O’Hara went back to the bar and ordered a pint of beer and some bread and cheese. The curiosity of the customers and the barman appeared to be sated. They were discussing League football. O’Hara had just finished his very belated meal when the handsome Gascoigne walked in, carrying over his arm an overcoat and a pair of grey flannel trousers.