"The Stranger House" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hill Reginald)

9. Interpretations

Mig Madero stood before the Wolf-Head Cross. He felt no impulse to kneel.

“I’ve seen a lot of Christian antiquities,” he said slowly. “But never one that felt as alien as this.”

“You feel that too?” said Frek. “Usually Viking crosses are interpreted as showing how the new religion took over from the old. This one makes me look at things the other way round, as if the old religion were getting a burst of energy from the new.”

“So let my lesson begin,” said Madero. “Tell me what I’m looking at.”

“If you like. Right, let’s start at the bottom panel here at the front,” said Frek.

She took him through the cross’s Viking elements, speaking quickly and not dwelling overlong on any one feature, but this was no mere tour guide’s rote recitation. Everything she said was shot through with real enthusiasm.

“And this panel here is really interesting,” she said finally. “As you can see, it’s badly eroded. In fact I think there’s more damage here than even ten centuries of Cumbrian weather can account for. I’d say at some point someone took a hammer to it.”

Madero stared at the panel on which he could scarcely make out anything.

“Christian orthodox backlash, you mean?” he said. “Some pagan linkup that went too far for even the Illthwaiteans to stomach?”

“Maybe. I’ve looked at it very closely over the years. Made rubbings, taken photographs. I think it’s something to do with Balder. You know the Balder legend?”

“Yes. Killed by a dart of mistletoe. But why should he attract special attention?”

“Think about it. The legend is clearly a version of the same nature regeneration myth we see in the cults of figures like Adonis and Thamuz and Attis. Balder, son of Odin, is slain. Later he rises from the dead to take his place in the reconstituted creation that emerges from Ragnarok, the Nordic version of apocalypse. Remind you of anyone?”

“Yes, yes,” he said impatiently. “I have read a little.”

She seemed amused rather than annoyed by his sharpness.

“Sorry to be teaching my grandmother,” she murmured. “Then you’ll have no problem seeing that using Balder as an unsophisticated prefiguration of Christ was a pretty obvious move for the clever old priests reworking the ancient myths. But suppose a mason somehow managed to insinuate that Christ was merely a pale imitation of Balder who is the real regenerative spirit?”

A movement caught Madero’s attention and to his annoyance he saw a figure coming round the corner of the church. It was the strange Australian child, her mane of red hair awash with sunlight. Not child. Woman, he corrected himself. But with a childish indifference to interrupting the adult intimacy he hoped was springing up between himself and Frek.

She made straight for them, responding to his discouraging glance with a mouthed Hi.

Frek, showing no sign of having noticed Sam’s arrival, went on, “In addition, some scholars have detected the presence of two figures on the defaced panel. The other could be Hod, Balder’s blind brother, who was tricked into throwing the fatal dart. Hod too rises after Ragnarok and takes his place alongside Balder in the new pantheon. That would be like elevating Judas alongside Jesus in Christian terms. You can see how this might be too much for some true believers to swallow, hence the defacement.”

Sam said, “Everyone round here seems pretty taken with this Balder guy.”

Frek looked at her as if one of the attendant sheep had spoken.

“Everyone?” she said with polite incredulity.

“Thor Winander anyway,” said Sam. “Said you thought my namesake, the guy who topped himself, sounded a bit like him.”

Mig understood none of this but it seemed to make some sense to Frek, who was regarding Sam with rather more interest.

“So I did. It was well before I was born, of course, but some stories enter into local legend. In the poor fellow’s reputation for goodness, charisma and beauty, I felt there was a parallel with Balder. Is there a possible link with your family, Miss Flood?”

She made it sound as if she hardly thought it likely.

“Doesn’t seem to be anything I can find and the dates don’t check,” said Sam.

“A pity. Or perhaps not. Now here’s something which is really interesting, Mig.”

She stooped to indicate the inscription on the lowest step of the cross’s base, obliging Madero to stoop also, physically reinforcing her verbal exclusion of the Australian. He felt quite sorry for the girl.

Frek continued, “The carving is clear, but the meaning is completely obscure. Could be Runic with a bit of Ogam, maybe. One more than usually nutty Oxford professor claims to have proved it was a version of the ancient Cypriotic syllabary. It’s been variously interpreted as a prayer, an epitaph, and a biblical quotation. Take your pick.”

“How about the maker’s name?” said that by now unmistakable voice.

Frek turned her head this way and that with the faint puzzlement of a saint hearing voices in the bells. Then she rose to her full height, at the same time lowering her gaze to take in the little Australian.

“I’m sorry?”

“Sort of a label,” said Sam. “I wondered about it when I saw it yesterday. I had this hunch the symbols could be semagrams maybe forming a rebus. And the crossed lines could be a date. Thought I’d like another look.”

“You are an expert on archaeological decipherment?” said Frek incredulously.

Sam laughed.

“Hell, no. But I did go out with this guy who thought that encryption/decryption was the be-all and end-all of mathematics and I read some of his books so we’d have something to talk about. There was a lot of language stuff in there, the Rosetta Stone, Linear B and so on. I guess you need to be a mathematician as well as a linguist to really get to grips with that gobbledegook.”

“Is that so?” said Frek, in a voice so coolly polite you could have served caviar on it. “And has this strangely acquired wisdom produced any positive interpretation you care to share with us? The date perhaps?”

The Australian frowned slightly as if for the first time detecting antagonism, but replied relatively mildly, “Let’s see. If it’s a simple pentadic system, it would be 1589. Yeah, that would be it.”

Frek laughed out loud.

“Only five or six centuries out,” she said. “Or the mason couldn’t count?”

Sam removed her sunglasses and turned her unblinking slatey gaze on Frek who, rather to Madero’s surprise, let herself be faced down.

“Sorry,” said Sam. “I should have said. I didn’t mean the original maker’s name but the repairer’s. It came to me when I was talking to Thor Winander this morning and he told me his name was the same as some old Viking who got a lake named after him.”

“Thor’s been playing that little game with you, has he? My ancestor who owned Windermere,” said Frek, smiling. “But it’s true that it figures on old maps as Winandermere, meaning the lake of a man called Vinandr.”

“There we go then,” said Sam. “This oval here with the wavy line in it, that’s this Winander lake.”

“And these earlier symbols, you’re saying they’re semagrams too?” said Frek, clearly still doubtful but now, Madero observed, genuinely interested.

“Yeah. Difference is they form a rebus. This one here, the triangle like a roof, I think that’s a barn. And this one with the little cross on top, I reckon that’s an abbey. All the other stuff is just a bit of ornamentation to confuse matters.”

“And this gives you…?”

“Barn abbey Winandermere,” said Sam slowly. “Barnaby Winander who, according to Peter K.’s Guide, restored the cross in 1589. And from what I’ve read about the family and seen of this Thor guy, that’s exactly the kind of daft trick he’d get up to!”

“Well, well,” said Frek softly. “You are a surprisingly clever little thing.”

Madero could see that the Australian didn’t care to be patronized.

“Nice of you to say so,” she said, looking up at Frek as if seeing her for the first time.

Then her eyes widened in what looked to Madero like a parody of recognition and she exclaimed, “Hey, I thought you looked familiar.”

“I saw you briefly this morning outside the Forge,” admitted Frek grudgingly.

“No. Not outside the Forge. Inside. You must have been the model for that carving Mr. Winander did. It’s a real close likeness.”

She let her gaze slide down the other woman’s body and grinned as she added, “So far as I can see, that is.”

A tiny smudge of color touched Frek’s cheeks.

Madero, intrigued, said, “What’s this then?”

Sam said, “Hang around and I daresay you’ll get the chance to check it out for yourself.”

She paused long enough to see the smudge spread into an angry flush before adding, “Yeah, Mr. Winander said he’d be bringing it down here this afternoon. It’s the headstone for Billy Knipp’s grave. Miss Woollass modeled the angel. Right?”

Their gazes locked. The flush subsided. Then surprisingly there was the suspicion of a smile and Frek said, “I may have provided the features, the form was Thor’s idea. It’s been nice to meet you again, Miss Flood. You’ve given me food for thought.”

She offered her hand to Sam who took it, surprised rather than reluctant.

Frek brought her other hand up and held Sam’s enclosed in both her own as she continued, “I hope you enjoy the rest of your holiday. You too, Mr. Madero. I need to be off now. No need for you to rush. You must be dying to see the inside of the church. Perhaps Miss Flood, who knows so much, can give you the tour. Unless you don’t feel up to walking and really need a lift back to the Stranger…?”

Nice twist, thought Sam approvingly. She had spotted that the woman had taken Madero by surprise. Would he play the poor invalid or take it on the chin like a hero?

He said, “I’m fine.”

“Then I’ll say goodbye. I’m sorry things didn’t work out.”

She gave Sam’s hand one last squeeze, let go, turned and walked swiftly away.

Together they watched her out of sight round the side of the church.

“Lovely mover,” said Sam. “Things didn’t go so well then?”

He didn’t try to deny it.

“No,” he said. “Does your fund of arcane knowledge in fact extend to showing me round the church?”

“I’d rather not,” she said. “Someone in there doesn’t like me. Anyway, I need to get my gear together. I’m moving on today. See you around maybe.”

She moved forward past the cross to the churchyard wall and stooped down to push aside the veiling weeds.

“Well, Sam Flood,” she murmured softly. “What are you? Mr. Perfect, or Mr. Pervert? And have you got anything at all to do with me? God knows, and maybe it’s best I stop trying to get in on the secret.”

She released the vegetation, stood up and turned round to find herself face to face, or rather face to neck, with Madero whose curiosity had made him follow her.

“Talk about creeping Jesus!” she said angrily.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “But that name on the wall, isn’t it yours? Sam Flood?”

“That’s right. So what?”

“I’ve no idea. Is this what you and Miss Woollass were referring to just now?”

“Why don’t you ask her? No, sorry, I forgot. It doesn’t sound like you two will be getting much chance of talking again.”

“Doesn’t it?” he said, slightly taken aback by the sharpness of her riposte. “Well, they say fortitude is the virtue of adversity, don’t they?”

“Not where I come from. Kick against the pricks till the pricks stop kicking back, that’s what my pa says.”

He surprised her by laughing out loud, knocking a decade off his age.

“A natural philosopher by the sound of him. But my morning hasn’t been altogether wasted. As for meeting Miss Woollass again, I daresay God will provide an excuse, such as, for instance, my need to retrieve my briefcase from the back of her car.”

He smiled at her, and she found herself smiling back. When he smiled you could almost forget he was a wanked-out priest.

They walked together round the side of the church. She noticed that he was moving much more easily than when last she’d seen him laboring up Stanebank.

As they came in sight of the churchyard gate, they saw it was wedged fully open and Pete Swinebank was helping the driver of a pickup to reverse in. On the back was Billy Knipp’s memorial stone. Supporting it on either side, like a pair of pet apes positioned to emphasize the angel’s brooding beauty, stood the Gowders.

Safely through the gate, the vehicle came to a halt as near as it could get to the young man’s grave. As Sam and Madero approached, Rev. Pete turned and saw them. He looked distinctly uneasy.

Not without cause, thought Sam grimly. Not mentioning my name being carved on his wall and all that crap about stolen records. I could probably get him defrocked!

She had a flash image of ripping off his cassock and seeing him standing there in frilly undies. This, plus the almost comically abject guilt of his expression, softened her heart toward him a little and when he said uncertainly, “Hello again, Miss Flood. How are you today?” all she replied was, “What do you think, Vicar?”

Madero gave her the same look he’d given when she’d chilled out the nun, then said with a compensatory if not quite natural heartiness, “Vicar, I’m pleased to meet you. Michael Madero. I’ve just been looking at your splendid cross.”

They shook hands. Thor Winander got out of the cab. Sam walked toward him. As she passed Swinebank he gave her an appealing glance. She ignored it, fixing her gaze on one of the Gowders at random and saying, “Lovely day, Laal.”

He studied the statement and her face for a menacing moment before replying ponderously, “Not si bad, eh?”

It works! she thought.

Winander smiled at her as if appreciating her experiment and said, “Nice to see you again. And in clerical company once more. He seems quite taken with my angel.”

Madero was standing by the pickup, staring up at the angel, rapt, while Swinebank was hurrying toward the church, probably to try a quick prayer for my rapid disappearance, thought Sam.

Winander called, “Good day, Madero. Thor Winander. We met briefly last night.”

The Spaniard wrenched his gaze from the memorial.

“Mr. Winander, pleased to meet you again,” he said.

He advanced to shake hands then glanced back at the statue.

“It’s a fine likeness,” he said.

“You recognize my model then? The lovely Frek is an artist’s dream, her essence redolent through all materials. Wood you can smooth and polish till you can hardly get a grip on it, yet gouge a cut with your chisel and there’s always the risk of a splinter.”

He glanced at Sam as he spoke and did his eyebrow thing.

“As for marble, that’s perfect too.” He reached up and laid his hand on the angel’s breast. “Always cool, even in the sunlight. Oh, by the way, talking of Frek…”

He returned to the cab, reached in and pulled out a briefcase.

“…I met her getting into her car just now and she asked me to give you this – ”

What God gives he can take away, even excuses, thought Sam.

Madero accepted the case with grave thanks, took a last rather sad look at the angel, nodded at Sam and said, “If you’ll excuse me…”

As he walked away Sam saw that his limp had returned.

“I gather he’s been banned from the Hall,” said Winander. “I asked Frek why. She said something about sherry trifle, but I never could get much sense out of her. Or indeed anything else. Don’t suppose our divine dropout gave you a confessional hint?”

“Wouldn’t recognize one of them if it peed against my leg,” said Sam, finding herself surprisingly defensive. “Don’t see that it’s anyone’s business but Mr. Madero’s.”

“Good Lord,” said Winander, looking at her closely. “Is this why you spurned me? Muscular athleticism is démodé. Mediterranean injured boy look is in! Well, my dear, in case you’re dejected at the thought of competition, perhaps I can reassure you there – ”

Sam interrupted what sounded like more tedious innuendo by saying sweetly, “Excuse me, but I think your angel could be about to lose one of her wings.”

Winander turned to follow her gaze. The Gowders, impatient of delay, were maneuvering the statue off the truck by main force. One twin was standing at the tailgate with his arms wrapped round the angel, which looked ready for flight. Only the presence of his brother on the flatbed hanging on to one of the wings stopped the whole weight of the marble from crushing him into the ground.

“Jesus wept!” screamed Winander. “How many times do I have to tell you stupid bastards to wait till I set up the block and tackle!”

They had themselves a real problem, she thought with a certain not very becoming satisfaction. But one which could be solved by a bit of simple math involving critical angles, friction resistance, and dead weight.

She wished all her problems were as easily solved.