SHOWCASE
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Moment Of Truth |
John Crowley |
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The woman driving the little red car was a sharp-featured middle-aged person with the unmistakable air of authority and impervious manner of the school-mistress, which are inseparable from that class even when on holiday, because on holiday this lady was, but on a holiday with a purpose. There had been the usual discussion in the staff-room of St. Paul’s in the weeks before Summer Vacation about, “Where are you going to spend the holidays”, but she had unhesitatingly declared her disinclination to lying about in blazing sunshine in some exotic location at enormous expense adding to her crop of wrinkles. Someone had suggested a visit to the haunted ruin of Glenshee Abbey. Miss Ita Hopkins, for such was her name, confirmed materialist and militant sceptic as she was, poured scorn on the idea at first and vociferously denounced all alleged ghosts and supernatural phenomena as the work of pranksters, or else the fevered imaginings of ignorant and superstitious peasants. “Well, if you think it’s all a fake, why not go along yourself and prove it?” said one of he colleagues, rather amused than otherwise by her earnestness. “I certainly will,” said Miss Hopkins, taking up the facetiously made challenge. Hence we find her on her way to the castle and the ruined Abbey. Stopping at a country filling station for petrol, she inquired of the rather slow and sleepy attendant, “What’s this I hear about the haunted Abbey and the ghostly monk that is supposed to be seen there?” “’Tis said to be the spirit of an old monk who was imprisoned in the cave under the Abbey for some sin or other by a cruel abbot, who was really a lord’s son and had no right to be in the Abbey at all.” “Oh!” said Miss Hopkins, “Is that the legend?” “’Tis so,” said the pump attendant, “and what’s more, nobody ever see his face.” “Has ever seen his face, boy! Your grammar is atrocious,” said Miss Hopkins with asperity, and as a parting shot: “Don’t scratch my car with your wretched hose.” Having thus suitably quelled the maestro of the pumps, Miss Hopkins departed, satisfied at having asserted her authority and superiority. The road to the Abbey was little better than a lane, full of ruts and potholes, and when at last the ruin came into view, she began to wonder if her adventure was not a dreadful waste of time. However pride would not permit her at this point to abandon her project, so driving her car as far as she dared over the rough track, she then got out and approached the old ruin on foot. The once splendid building had now become a mere jumble of broken machinery and fallen arches. After clambering over a pile of rubble and massive blocks of stone, she at length reached the stone steps which led to the underground cave. She had neglected to bring a torch, but had bought some candles and matches at a village shop on her way. The dark cavern which she now entered, even at the best of times, seemed dauntingly weird by the light of her flickering candle. Huge, irregular columns of grey rock surrounded her, and dark, mysterious openings in the walls of the cave were the entrances to still further passages. Fearfully she advanced, penetrating more deeply into the awesome damp and airless recesses. She had made her way over boulders and unexpected holes in the cavern floor for a distance of fifty yards when, at some distance off, in the dark part of the cave, where the light of her candle barely reached, she saw something that brought her instantly to a stop. What she saw was not, of itself, hideous or terrifying. A figure clad in long brown robes, its head hidden in a cowl, was moving silently, with its back towards her, into even more remote recesses of the cave. At once the pump attendant’s words came back to her – “Nobody ever sees his face”. For a moment, she stood motionless. A chill that was not due to the cave’s damp atmosphere swept over her. There was something in the eerie, silent movement of the brown figure that was not of this world and certainly not of a prankster. Miss Hopkins suddenly felt weak at the knees and was very glad to sit on a large smooth block of stone which was nearby. Her scepticism with regard to ghosts had been severely shaken, and the whole silly escapade became distasteful. She would make her way to the entrance of the cave and leave the Abbey of Glenshee for ever. She stood up and began to retrace her steps to the entrance, when an ominous rumbling sound made her pause. Then, as quickly as she could, she made her way to the entrance steps. There her worst fears were realised. Large rocks had fallen from the roof of the cave, entirely blocking the entrance. She was trapped! Fighting down feelings of mounting panic, she started to search in her mind for other means of escape from her predicament. Perhaps there was another exit, or maybe the figure she had seen was really a human practical joker who would help her. Anyway, there was little to be gained by standing staring at the fallen rocks, so she made her way back again to where she had seen the figure and looked about her. There was nothing to be seen in the flickering light of her candle but grey shapeless rocks, glistening with moister. All at once, she again saw the brown spectre. With the courage of desperation, she called out impulsively: “You! Come and help me!” The figure turned and then scream after despairing scream echoed and re-echoed among the rocky walls, for the monkish cowl held no living face, but a pallid, eye-less skull, and the hands protruding from the brown sleeves were the fleshless bones of a skeleton. Copright © 2003 John Crowley
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