A Story of Woe and Destruction in Seven Parts
Dedicated to Robert
Louis Stevenson, in the hope that some of his talent rubbed off on me.
Prologue
On
July 19th, 1783, in a small village not far from Brighton, in the
unending undulations of the South Downs, a man wearing a black suit, his hair
slicked back and black, a thin wisp of moustache resting salacious upon his top
lip, suddenly appeared. From the first moment this man slunk upon the scene of
this small village, the locals thought, yes,
this man indeed might be the Devil. His dress, quite remarkable and
blasphemous to the uncivilised, prudent country mind, was considered most
extraordinary.
He entered the Fox and Hound, the
local haunt of traders, travellers, and carriagemen, now ominously bereft of
life, ordered a gin, and stood stock-still staring down at his drink. The few
villagers sat, watching the man silently. The stranger then clicked his fingers
suddenly, jarring the nerves of one old fellow sitting immediately near him,
and then, quite shaken up, as if sediment dispossessed in some unknown vessel,
the men about him watched as this dark-eyed figure downed his tipple, now
aflame, a purple glow shrouding the glass.
He
then smashed down the glass, turned to the men sitting about their drinks,
seeking out the lifeless eyes of each one of them, raised his head, extended
his arms upwards and out, and said, ‘Praise be to Jesus! Forgiver of sins!
Great Redeemer! His words be empty, his
blood bad vin! A dreamer! I am a foreigner to these shores; my sins are yours! Gentlemen, farewell!’
And with that he smiled, his teeth
seeming infinite in number, pointed like bleached thorns, faced the barkeep,
turned on his heel, and walked briskly from the inn, a harsh wind seeming to
scowl out through the wide-open doors after him.
Yes, it could indeed be said that
the Devil was roaming the lonely, windswept hills of the South Downs, but, as
of yet, nobody could be quite certain of the dark perspective that was slowly
casting itself down upon this place of endlessly verdant desolation.
Part I: The White Curse of Mrs Mary Parsons
Eldridge
In
1783, in the months leading up to the episode I am to document, a great boon
smiled itself upon the people of Elmsley Village, East Sussex. A wonderful
Christian renaissance had begun in miniature, thanks to the charming, and yet
evangelically terrifying, figure of Mrs Mary Parsons Eldridge.
Mrs Eldridge, a strict Calvinist,
had spent her youth in Scotland, in a country home peopled by the pale figures
of silent and dutiful servants. Mrs Parson’s governess, Rebecca Hawthorne, was
a most vicious figure, from whom Mrs Parsons herself sought much guidance and development.
Mrs Hawthorne saw the Whore of Babylon spread-eagled out everywhere about her,
the world a shameful and blighted place, craven, and populated by innumerable
godless heathen. ‘Wait till it burns, wee Mary: you’ll see tha good Lord shall
smite most of his sheep – bad lambs, all e’ them.’
From roots tangled in epithets of
prostration and fear, Mrs Mary Eldridge had become a woman whose breath could
be made to become as fire, her benign appearance and modest dress disguising
the shimmering scales of a vast and angry dragon.
In the years leading up to the
moment of my story, Mrs Eldridge had scorned Father Peters, the vicar of
Elmsley Parish Church, for being far too green; she’d rebuffed him in church,
spread vicious rumours about him amongst her devout circle of religious talking
heads, and had even gone as far as denouncing him as a charlatan, a religious
fraud, a demon in Christian garb. In April of 1782, his constitution weakening,
his health now cracked like the foundations of a condemned building, he became
an outcast and fled the little village of Elmsley.
Banished from the community, unwelcomed by the
church, he died a gaunt and defeated man: on June 28th of 1872, in
his sister’s house on the outskirts of Hove, at 7.12 pm, he had been pronounced
dead by a private doctor. The reason for his death seemed mysterious, but the
blood that had been lost from his bodily orifices (let us be euphemistic about
it) could only mean that he had succumbed to a painful, drawn-out death caused
by internal ulcers.
And so, the figure of a humble and
helpful servant of the Lord absent, fear and dejection rife, a small religious
orgy began to surface like a boil on the flesh of this village, growing ever
larger with time. Soon, stories began to circulate in nearby villages,
eventually reaching Brighton within a few weeks.
And
then, one month after the death of Father Peters, a small, modestly dressed
woman appeared at the front door of some quiet soul’s house the next village
over, saying, ‘Good morning, kind sir. I call on behalf of the Eldridge
Evangelical Church of Elmsley, and I bring good tidings: I have come to save
your soul from eternal damnation.’ As the man went to close his door, the woman
said, ‘Brother, do not close your door on me – I will not go so quietly.’ And,
flanked by two solemnly dressed men, she entered this poor soul’s abode.
Part II: The Case of the Travelling Man
Strange
goings-on in the little village were widely talked about. The village, it was
said, had become much more insular, much less welcoming of strangers and
travelling folk. Sometime in November, 1782, a nobleman, one P. R. Longfellow,
a landowner with a tobacco plantation in Virginia, was making his way from his
London address to his second home in Brighton; he had been ordered to
convalesce in the midst of that sweet air by his personal physician, Dr
Ruthers.
A curious man with a keen wit, he
decided to stop by Elmsley to rest, take up a brief board, and examine the
minutiae of this village, his aim to investigate whether the fanciful tales
he’d heard about this accursed place had any validity to them.
Except for the small tavern there,
the appropriately named Fox and Hound, he’d found the place to have the air of
some forsaken hole, a deserted and unpeopled place, dark and chill. Upon
enquiring with the local men who frequented the Fox and Hound, he had been met
with rebuff.
‘What’s going on here?’ he’d asked
the innkeeper. ‘It’s awful quiet here.’ He took a sip of his ale. ‘Is that
usual for this place?’
‘Nothing out of the ordinary, good
sir,’ he said. ‘Now we’d kindly ask sir if he’d keep his nose out of our
business.’ The innkeeper then leaned in closer to the man, the bar seeming an
insufficient barrier, and muttered, ‘If sir knows what’s good for him.’
The man stared ‘round at the men in
puzzlement.
‘You heard ‘im,’ one man piped up.
‘Now go: we don’t like your sort ‘round here.’
‘My sort?’ he said. ‘I’ll have you
know I’m a respectable man! I –’
‘We don’t care what sort of man you are,’ said the
innkeeper. He pointed to the door. ‘Now go!’
The
man stormed out, going straight to the boarding-house where he’d booked his
lodging. He was met by the landlady, a curt old woman by the name of Miriam
Weathers, greying, with a weak smile like a defeated old dog.
‘Good evening, Mrs Weathers,’ he
said. ‘I’m sorry to announce this, but I shall no longer require the services
of this boarding-house. I leave for Brighton at once. Please have my things
readied immediately.’
‘Well, my goodness, whatever’s got
into you!’ she’d said.
‘A scene,’ he began. ‘A most
illuminating and humiliating scene at your local public house. I have never
before been treated as such, in such a coarse and ungodly manner! Chased!
Chased from the scene! Forced to flee like some pestilent scuttling beast!’
The woman looked at him silently.
‘Ungodly?’ she muttered to herself. Her gaze became sharper. ‘Ungodly?’ Her
blank expression suddenly broke into a vicious snarl. ‘Ungodly! Ungodly! Get
out! Get out at once!’
‘But what of my bags?’ he’d said in
desperation.
‘I shall have them sent out to you
at once! Now, be gone with you, vile malingerer!’ she said, and as she shooed
him out, she spat.
The gentlemen could see that
gloaming was descending, and the greying sky, bruised like dead flesh, looked
ready to rid itself of its heavy burden. His things were sent out to him, the
coachman came from the Fox and Hound, and they left once his things were stowed
away.
But upon leaving the scene, he heard
a most terrifying and blood-curdling scream. Upon looking back, he could see a
pale, ghostly face, its expressionless eyes peering out of a seeming dark void,
from a window above the arched door of the Eldridge Evangelical Church. Not a
religious man, he nonetheless crossed himself, wishing the miles to Brighton
few, and the memory of the despicable place forgotten.
Many
more tales of woe reached people outside of Elmsley. It was said that a special
Christmas Mass was held, at which all manner of horror and debauchery was on
display. The child of a young girl by the name of Sarah Miles was baptised in
blood on the orders of Mrs Eldridge, her reason being that only a baptism of
blood could save this poor bastard child’s soul. Tales of crucifixion, murder
and torture also wound their way into the mouths of those living outside the
village – stories of castration, forced abortion, rape, and incest, the likes
of which outsiders could scarce believe.
But one especially strange tale
involved the proceedings that culminated on that bloody day, the birth date of
our Lord, AD 1782. After this bloody mass, a book burning took place. Copies of
Principia Mathematica, Leviathan, treatises by Galileo, and Huygens’
Cosmothereos were burned. But one strange addition was a beautiful, green bound
volume of verse by William Wordsworth.
Strangely, Mrs Eldridge saved all of
her venom and vindictiveness for this text. ‘Wordsworth,’ she began, ‘tells us
that nature is sensuous, that nature encourages us to think romantically - but
Wordsworth has debauched nature! Nature is not ever-changing and mysterious;
nature is fixed and immutable! God’s law! Nature does not encourage us to be
sensuous; he has sexualised it! Nature is a seething and vile pit, and He shows
us, in his plan, how we must live! Nature is a fearsome example of His will!
Nature is sensuality and death! If we do not abstain, we shall go the way of
the myriad creatures that leap to the grave! Abstain, ye heathen! Abstain,
abstain, abstain!’
With these finishing words, Mrs
Eldridge was said to have nearly passed out, her vehement admonitions almost
causing her to break into tears of proselytising passion. The deafening sound
of clapping and wild applause filled the scene, seeming more some sickly pagan
display than a religious celebration, and as the flames rose violently from the
mountain of smouldering words, whipping and flicking the air, they were said to
have almost licked the sky.
Part III: The Curious Life of Jonathan Holt
Jonathan
Holt was a simple man. He lived with his mother on her small farm, left to her
after the death of her late husband, and worked himself drear for her, tilling
the land, tending the animals, and maintaining their small cottage. To earn his
keep, he also worked as a woodcutter for a local timber trader called Phineas MacManus,
who lived in a small woodcutter’s lodge three miles east of Elmsley.
Their farm was nestled in the total
blackness of those undulating hills, nights darker than dark, swallowed into
the leviathan landscape as if nothing could overpower its monotone immensity.
His mother, worried about her son’s
journey from the woodcutter’s lodge, would leave a single candle in the front
window of their cottage. The building was crested on the brow of a hill, known
as Holt’s Bluff, after his great grandfather, overlooking farmland and the
seeming infinity of those verdant green hills. And, far off, appearing like
some heavy load sinking into a mire, was the little village of Elmsley, tucked
away in a small valley, but still visible by the steeple of the now darkling
and tainted church.
One day in late February, the season
now on winter’s edge, nestling like a solitary bird on a snow-specked branch,
naked before the judgement of winter, Jonathan had got home, guided by that
single candle so affectionately placed, to find his mother sitting by the fire
hearth. When he stepped in, hanging up his jacket and removing his heavy boots,
he said, ‘Mother, you seem odd, your air like one who has cracked before the
visage of a ghost!’
After a few moments, his mother
stirred: ‘Sorry? Oh, you’re back.’
‘Yes, mother,’ said Jonathan. ‘Are
you okay?’ He paused. ‘Shall I make some tea?’
‘Oh, that’d be nice.’ She seemed
unable to focus on anything, her mind possessed by some terrible thought.
‘Mother, what’s wrong?’
‘I’ll tell you presently. Some tea
would be nice.’
He brought the tea, placing it on
the small oak table between the two brown-leather armchairs sat before the
broad fire. They sat, and Jonathan looked down at the right arm of his chair,
the leather peeled away, revealing the soft down beneath it.
His mother began, telling him about
the strange man who’s suddenly appeared in Elmsley Village, the way he’d
comported himself so strangely and debauched their faith. ‘These are dark
time’s, son,’ she’d said. ‘First the coming of this Christian resurgence, the
way those cackling beasts had scorned Father Peters, that horrible, wench, Mrs…
Mrs –’
‘– Eldridge?’
‘Yes, Mrs Eldridge – the way she’d
stirred up such hateful sentiment. She professes to be a good Christian; a good Christian, no less!’ She paused,
taking the hand of her only son. ‘And now this. I tell you, things are bad. I
don’t know what’s to be done, but I tell you the good Lord must be soon to
intervene. It’s a godless situation! Only the Devil could’ve conjured it up,
Jonathan!’
Perplexed, Jonathan asked his mother
to better explain what’d happened. She’d mentioned a strange man making an appearance
in Elmsley Village, and, after she’d calmed down, Jonathan asked her to tell
him the entire story.
He’d sat there, horrified and
confused. It seemed like he’d been sat there hours, because the twilight that
loomed on his way home had now given way to total darkness. He stepped out of
the house briefly, scanning the hills in the distance, and he could make out a
single light coming from Elmsley Village, and it came from the Eldridge Church.
The wind seemed harsh and strange, and he could almost make out faint words
floating upon it. He stepped back into the house, wished his dear mother good
night, and went to bed, barely sleeping at all, but rather imagining the
menacing figure which seemed to haunt this quiet corner of nowhere.
Part IV: A Strange Meeting
The
next morning, a Saturday, Jonathan awoke to find the weather outside a rainy
sort of bland. The irregular cottage windows, aslant and warped, were clouded
by rain, and the air outside was hazy, the sky a barren grey.
Jonathan found his mother in the
kitchen preparing their supper, a roast chicken dinner, followed by an apple
pie. She’d peeled the vegetables, put the chicken in their small oven, and was
now peeling and coring some bramley apples, later to make the pastry crust
which would embalm the apple in its hot grave.
‘Jonathan, dear, would you fetch
some more wood from the pantry?’
‘Won’t it be damp?’ asked Jonathan.
‘No, no, I shouldn’t think so.’
He put on his shoes and Jacket and
stepped out into the drizzle and mist which seemed to overpower the hills. He
walked ‘round the side of the house to their pantry, opened the door, but then
paused. He could hear some faint noise on the wind. I’ll be, he thought. It seemed to be a human voice. In fact it
almost sounded like someone singing. He looked out over the Downs but couldn’t
make a thing out. He grabbed some wood, shut the pantry door, and took it into
his mother.
‘There you are,’ he said, and he
placed the wood down on the kitchen side. ‘Mother, I’m just popping out,’ he
said. ‘I won’t be long – I think there’s
someone out there, on the Downs. I heard this strange sound yesterday evening,
and I just heard it again as I went to fetch the firewood.’
‘Oh, Jonathan, I think I know what
you mean. I fancy I heard the very same thing yesterday evening. But it’s
probably just some silly soul out taking a walk or something – I wouldn’t fret
over it.’
‘No, mother,’ said Jonathan. ‘I must
be sure. It could be anyone out there. If it’s someone in peril, I’ll aid them;
if not, then I’ll chase them away, I’ll threaten them with the promise of
several large dogs giving chase.’
‘But we haven’t got any dogs, you
green thing!’
‘I know that, mother,’ he said, ‘but
they don’t, do they?’
‘Oh, now that you put it that
way....’ She paused. ‘Okay, but don’t be long, dear. Don’t make your old mother
worry – I’ve enough to deal with without the aid and love of your father.’
He kissed his mother on the cheek
and left the cottage.
Jonathan
started over the hills in the direction of this sweet and sonorous melody, but
as he progressed he found the rain to increase, seeming to cut inwards like
glass thrown aslant as it swept over the barren landscape. As he walked, the
voice seemed to grow louder, and now, the rain throwing itself violently across
the landscape, he couldn’t make out anything farther than a few hundred metres.
He had walked into a slight valley,
when he heard the voice more clearly. In front of him, the rain still thick, he
could make out barely the visage of a man, and he could hear the sound of earth
being moved. He approached quietly, not disturbing the man, and he could make
out his song:
Moustachioed
in a ribbon of black,
Dark
secrets up my sleeve,
Mephistopheles
I am, a being of tack:
The
Devil takes not his annual leave.
And
then the strange man noticed Jonathan: ‘Oh, helloa, young chap!’ said the man,
his entire body soaked with rain; he seemed barely able to see through the
thick watery lens which rolled down and off his face.
Helloa?
Thought Jonathan. What an odd turn of phrase
this man has. ‘Excuse me,’ said Jonathan nervously, ‘but what are you
doing?’
‘The man propped himself up on his
shovel: ‘Digging!’
‘Digging?’ said Jonathan.
‘Yes! For damnation.’
Jonathan seemed not fazed by this
strange concession, and instead said, ‘But it’s raining. Aren’t you afraid
you’ll catch something?’ He maintained a caring and passionate air, but
wondered at the mental sanctity of this poor fellow.
‘Rain? A bit of rain? Ho-ho-ho! That
won’t stop me!’
Jonathan
thought about this. ‘Just then, I heard you saying that you’re digging for
damnation – what do you mean?’
‘I’m digging for your damnation, dear boy! Or,
more specifically, the damnation of the villagers of Elmsley. Although I hear
it maintained in various places that they dig for themselves!’ He paused. ‘Does
the name Eldridge ring any bells, young man?’
‘Yes,’ said Jonathan. ‘She’s a crazed old bat
who’s taken to warping the minds of her flock.’
‘Very well done!’ sneered the Devil. ‘She’s got
right up my nose, so the old bat has! And what can one do when something gets
up one’s nose? Well, the natural reaction is to sneeze.’ He laughed, obviously
appreciating some hidden joke lost on Jonathan.
‘I
heard you say your name’s Mephistopheles,’ said Jonathan, ‘like the character
from Goethe’s masterpiece. Is that your real name?’
The Devil looked him over carefully. ‘You think
I’m mad, don’t you? You think I’m a madman!’ Jonathan’s silence provided the
answer to his question. ‘I’m not a madman! No, I’m much worse than that.’ He
paused, ready to instruct Jonathan. ‘I go by many names: Lucifer, Satan,
Beelzebub, Mephistopheles, The Devil...
but I prefer Megiddo. Do you know what that means, young man?’
Jonathan thought carefully, knowing the word
from some hidden refuge in his past. Yes, he’d heard it in Sunday school as a
young boy: ‘It’s the final battling place between good and evil – in Christian
lore, that is.’
‘Very good!’ sneered the Devil.
Jonathan
looked the Devil over. ‘And are you here to do battle, then?’
The
Devil stood very still. ‘In a word, yes. But my battles never end.’ He looked
Jonathan over. ‘Are you frightened, young man?’
Jonathan’s countenance alone answered that
question, but he took in a large breath of air, and replied, ‘No, sir.’
‘Ah!
Please,’ replied the Devil, ‘call me Megiddo. And you are?’
‘Jonathan,’ he said. ‘And I am not
afraid.’
‘Good,’ he replied. ‘And tell me,
what do you know of my work? Do you think me an evil thing?’
‘Well, I’m led to that answer,’ said
Jonathan. ‘You are a figure of death, temptation, fear – in every culture upon
the scarred face of this world.’
‘Death?’ replied Megiddo flatly.
‘Temptation? Fear? No! Not I! That is your God – the one to whom you all
prostrate yourselves! The one before whom that whore in Elmsley village
flagellates herself!’ He paused. ‘I am but a cleaner, an arbiter – the eternal
maintainer of the balance!’
Fretful and panicked, Jonathan said,
‘No, I refuse to believe it. Why have you come here? Is it because of that
Eldridge woman? I’ve heard the stories, but I assumed they were all hokum.’
Calmly, Megiddo said, ‘Yes, that is
why I have come here, but that is merely one fine detail amongst many. Young
man, you might have heard it said that the Devil is in the details.’ He stops,
raising one hand from the handle of the shovel to wipe his brow. ‘The Devil cares not for details; he is everywhere
– I am everywhere. Much like your
God, but the cause of your actions. I am both the fire and the blanket – do you
understand that?’
‘No! It can’t be,’ said Jonathan.
‘’Tis the state of affairs,’ replied
Megiddo.
‘But, but can’t things alter?’
‘No, no they can’t. You see, as long
as fire courses through men’s veins rather than blood, as long as heat rather
than light is the product of thought, I shall be there, waiting; cleaning up
the mess, as it were.’
‘But you paint yourself as a
necessary being! Some sort of benevolent, evil martyr! How can that be!’
‘Evil?’ said Megiddo. ‘To whom? I am necessary! I am, in effect, the essence of the suffering and
dispossessed of this world.’
‘Really?’ said Jonathan. ‘I thought
that was Jesus.’
‘Oh, no; don’t be silly!’ said
Megiddo. ‘He was just some fool whom I impressed some two thousand years back.’
‘Never! I refuse to believe it! What
about the meek, the – won’t they –’
‘–Inherit the Earth? The meek, eh?
Well, there’s a lot to be said about the meek, but they have no place in power.
To them, power is something slippery and burdensome. No, the Earth shall inherit the meek,
unfortunately . Unless, that is... no.’
‘Unless what?’ said Jonathan.
‘Unless the meek rise up, will
themselves to power, as equals – or more.’ He paused, seeming to look tenderly
at Jonathan. ‘The meek are a limp horse, but they must become the essence of horse! Until then, the meek
shall inherit only the suffering they’re given.’
Megiddo could see the blankness in
Jonathan’s eyes, but he knew that blankness was merely confusion, and did not
stretch down into the pit of his soul. He continued: ‘Allow me to expand,
Jonathan, with a story. You don’t mind if I tell you a story, do you?’ Jonathan
remained silent. ‘Good. I once met a merchant man, a nice, pious man, from the
fair city of London. And I asked him, ‘Are you monied?’ And he said, ‘Yes, I
have wealth.’ And I said, ‘Are you a Christian man?’ And he said, ‘Yes, I am a
most evangelical man.’ And I said, ‘That’s funny, because most Christians pay
their interest in hell. I’ve seen them,’ I told him, ‘like you, and they all
deny that money burns.’ He paused, preparing to finish his train of thought.
‘This man scurried away, more a beetle than a human being, and I could already
feel the warmth rising from him, ensnaring him in the fires of hell.’ Then
Megiddo showed a look of consternation, not looking directly at Jonathan, and,
quietly, he said: ‘But it’s strange: I never know when to expect them. That is
beyond my knowing – but I know they
will come, and I prepare for them a warm
welcome.’
‘Jonathan,’ began Megiddo, ‘I shall
explain the situation to you: there are
gods, but they care not for human
trifles. The God to whom the Christians, Jews, and Moslems of this world pray
is elsewhere – and I am left to pick up the pieces. It is an unfair job, but
someone has to do it.’
‘You speak lies!’ said Jonathan,
fire seeming to erupt out from the bowels of him. ‘You are a treacherous, vile
creature! If you’re all there is, then why should we go on living!’
‘Well, perhaps I am all there is - and perhaps not. You
see me standing here before you, plain as this cold rain, and yet you question
my power. Jonathan, you are a strong man – that will bode you well. My quarry
is not with you. I would advise you to leave this place. If you remain, you
will witness my power. You have been warned.’
At once, Jonathan ran from the scene
in fear. The rain had cleared somewhat and only a fine drizzle now descended
upon the hills. He could hear Megiddo laughing viciously into the wind behind
him, some mad and barren thing. Before he made the crest of the hill, he turned
back, and what he saw shocked him: a dyke, seemingly miles long, stretched into
the distance – the valley he’d found Megiddo in was no valley, but some immense
construction which ran out for miles upon the Downs. The fear of God was in
him, night was descending, but he ran home with such haste that he arrived
before his mother had the chance to place a candle in the window.
Part V: Thou Shalt Reap
What Thou Soweth
It
was not long before Mrs Eldridge heard about the activities of this strange and
menacing intruder, and she came to the decision of confronting him, with the
aid of her myriad followers.
Exactly two weeks after he’d first
made an appearance, a gathering was held in the Eldridge Evangelical Church of Elmsley.
‘What shall we do?’ shouted one man.
‘Will fire kill him? What if he is the Devil!’ shouted another.
‘What does this mean for the Church,
Mrs Eldridge?’ shouted a woman from the back of the building.
‘Hush-hush!’ shouted Mrs Eldridge.
‘Hush now! We shall address all these questions presently. But first it must be
made plain what it is that we face. Ladies and gentlemen, kind followers, it is
Satan that we face! Satan has manifested himself here because he knows we are
winning! Our glorious revival has made him weaker, and I hope upon all hope
that he is now a moribund and damned figure!
Several people applauded loudly, and
then dozens more joined in.
Mrs Eldridge shouted over the top of
them: ‘We must face this menace as one! We will confront him on the Downs once
and for all! Gentlemen, women, gather your bibles, your weapons, your torches,
and join me! Let us send this fiery demon back to Hell!’
A crowd erupted from the Church, lit
by myriad torches and led by Mrs Eldridge, and slowly began their trudge up
into the hills of the Downs.
As Jonathan came back from the
woodcutter’s lodge, he could see a bright stream ascending through the hills,
from what looked like the village of Elmsley. The gloaming quickening, he ran
towards the crest of the hill that overlooked the immense trench of Megiddo’s
construction. In the half-light, he could see Megiddo peer up at him, and then
suddenly his eyes seemed to glow red, and a most deathly and unnatural screech
resounded from his lungs: ‘No!’ The sound seemed to almost topple Jonathan,
wind rushing up from the deep gulley he had fashioned for himself.
Jonathan turned around, seeing the
candle his mother had placed in the cottage window in the distance cresting the
hill, and he could hear the crowing of a single cockerel. And then Jonathan saw
a different glow climbing towards the trench and spilling into it: several
dozen men and women stood a few hundred metres from him, staring down into the
cavern in which Megiddo stood.
‘There he is!’ exclaimed Mrs
Eldridge. As they descended towards Megiddo, he bellowed again, but this time
he seemed to grow larger. Horns erupted from his skull, several feet long, and
he seemed to metamorphose into some towering beast, at least twelve feet tall,
cloaked in a magnificent and fiery cloak that shimmered red, filling the cavern
with the brilliance of sapphire, as if it were a lake of blood rather than an
earthen hollow. Standing tall, a lengthy staff clutched between the long,
claw-like fingers of his right hand, he approached the crowd, striking Mrs
Eldridge head-on, her large Authorised Bible brandished out at arm’s length, as
she approached to confront him,
At once the villagers stopped,
several women screamed, and they all tumbled out of the cavern and advanced at
speed towards Elmsley, some falling helplessly, others seeking desperately to
find shelter or cower down on the ground.
Jonathan watched as Megiddo, now a fearsome
beast, sprouted wings and took Mrs Eldridge up into the talons of his feet. He
flew upwards, out of the valley, giving chase to the crowd, raining down plumes
of fire and meteors of brimstone, people everywhere protecting themselves in
vain as they puffed up into clouds of ash.
The stragglers barricaded themselves in their
homes, but it was useless. He approached Elmsley, dropping Mrs Eldridge from a
height, and she fell downwards, crashing though the roof of the Eldridge
Evangelical Church; and then Megiddo began circling the village, summoning a
swirling cloud of black fire that seemed to engulf it. Mrs Eldridge crawled
from the church, helpless, and protracted thud as Megiddo landed.
The black orb spun above the village disappeared,
retracting from the darkness of night, leaving in its wake a collection of
buildings razed to smouldering ruins. Megiddo took hold of Mrs Eldridge, and a
rumbling could be heard for miles around. The ground opened up, and a pit
opened beneath Elmsley Church, engulfing it.
Helplessly, Mrs Eldridge was dragged by Megiddo
down into the fiery chasm, screaming and clawing at the ground in vain.
Eventually, both of them consumed in the fire of this hole, the ground closed
up, and all Jonathan looked out upon was a tinderbox, where once was the
village of Elmsley.
As Jonathan stood and watched all of
this, the colour seeming to drain from him completely as disbelief filled
brimmed over inside him, he heard a voice: ‘It’s not all bad. They had it
coming; don’t worry.’ He turned, and there stood Megiddo, the fire in his eyes
calming like dying embers. Megiddo explained that he hadn’t been able to finish
the Dyke, that he wanted to flood the whole area to wipe out all traces of this
despicable resurgence, that the flood would last for a thousand years, a lake
of water hiding the ruins of Elmsley from the world. He told Jonathan that he
could not be before the rising Sun – that dawn would have killed him. That
single candle in the window, and the cocking of the crow, of his mother’s
cottage had misled Megiddo. He also told him to forget all he’d told him, to
live his own life, and not to brood on what had transpired in this small corner
of East Sussex. And, with that, he disappeared for ever.
Epilogue: The Legend of Devil’s Dyke
After
this episode, people from miles around stayed clear of Elmsley. It burned for
several days, until all that was left was crumbled ruins and cold ash. The
place stayed abandoned for several decades, until, in the early twentieth
century, it was ploughed over, a reservoir built over the barren ground.
Some experts would tell you that the Devil’s
Dyke, as it is mysteriously known, due to such folklore as this very story, is
an Anglo-Saxon phenomenon, built over two thousand years ago. Others would tell
you that it was caused by glacial runoff and gouged into the landscape by the
action of a long-vanished river tens of thousands of years ago. But that isn’t
the whole story, the true story.
If you ever wander the hills of the
South Downs, listen to the wind - keep an ear out for fragrant and alluring
song – and watch for the visage of a lone man, his black suit the colour of the
coldest coals of hell.
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