Elidor (Essential Modern Classics) Page 9

  It’s my fault. I made it. I made it. The answer stopped him.

  I must unmake it.

  Roland fixed his eye on the porch. Go away. Disappear. Scram. Go on. The porch did not hear. Roland tried to will it away, to think of nothing, but he could not imagine ‘nothing’: it had no shape to build in his mind. He felt as weak as if he was pushing the bricks with his hands.

  The sentry was restless and kept walking over to the door.

  Think, Roland told himself. Think. How does a house fall? You don’t just shove it over. The church. What happened first? It was the mortar between the bricks: running out. That’s it. Bricks can’t stay up without mortar.

  He closed his eyes and pictured the arch in his mind. When it was fixed there he concentrated on the joints of the brickwork. Grey mortar. Loose. Dry. Crumbling. Oh, come on. Come on.

  Roland heard a sound, a whisper like rain on leaves. He heard it again. A thin dust was settling in the porch. Come on, you porch! You’re not all real. You’re an echo: not all solid. Come on, you echo!

  The mortar grew to a trickle. He dared to open his eyes, and although the dust-fall slackened it did not stop. He forced his mind like a drill between the bricks of the porch in Elidor.

  The sentry yelled, but Roland broke his concentration only long enough to see that the man had noticed what was happening, and was running to the camp.

  Come on! Break! Come on! More! A brick fell, and another, and a crack went up to the roof. That’s it! He picked at the gap, heaving, tearing. It was easier. The bricks dropped. If he could undermine the roof, the weight of the stone tiles would pull the whole thing down. But he was labouring now with the cutting edge of his mind dulled, and every stroke was taking more energy to drive home. Men were hurrying from the camp. He sobbed and groaned and hit unaimed blows at the porch with all his will.

  The men carried two-handed axes, and the first to reach the door swung his axe down into the wood. The house boomed like a drum. The axe was wrenched out, and up, and down it smashed again. Roland gathered his energy and made one blind lunge. Everything of him poured out, and after that there was nothing: and into this nothing the porch began to fall.

  A third time the axe struck, but the blade was muffled, and the fourth made no sound at all. The men shouted in silence, and the porch grew dim. Beyond the peaks of the mountains two beams of yellow light flashed in the sky, and behind the sky was a bloom of darkness. The shadow of another porch covered the bricks, close as a skin, but whole where the arch was broken. The man with the axe hewed the door, yet could not touch it, and he jumped clear as the roof and walls crashed towards him, and Elidor drowned in the headlights of a car that was turning off the main road. The twin yellow beams flickered through the poplar trees, and glanced from the wall of the porch. Roland sagged against the door. The wood was like ice on his brow.

  CHAPTER 15

  PLANCHETTE

  T he telephone rang while Mr Watson was having breakfast.

  “That was the Brodies,” he said when he came back to the table. “They’re giving a party for their two on the twenty-ninth, and ours are invited. There’ll be a card in the post, but John Brodie wanted to know now so that the date can be fixed. It’ll be your night out,” he said to the children, “to make up for when your mother and I go to the Greenwoods’ New Year dance.”

  “I’m still not sure about that,” said Mrs Watson. “They’re young to be left.”

  “They’re plenty old enough to look after themselves,” said Mr Watson. “Aren’t you?”

  “But do we have to go to this party?” said Nicholas.

  “Of course,” said Mrs Watson. “It’ll be great fun. And the Brodies are such nice people. We ought to see more of them.”

  “But we don’t know the kids,” said Nicholas. “It sounds deadly. I can’t stand pass-the-parcel.”

  “We’ve accepted now,” said Mr Watson. “And it lasts till eleven-thirty, so I think you’ll find it’s quite a grown-up party.”

  “Oh, heck,” said Nicholas.

  “I must remember to put them on the Christmas card list,” said Mrs Watson.

  David came in from outside.

  “Dad! Have you seen the front door? It isn’t half a mess!”

  There were three gashes in the door. Two of them were cut an inch into the oak, but the third was more of a dent, as if it had been made with less force than the others.

  “I thought I heard banging in the night,” said Mrs Watson, “but I must have turned over again.”

  “But this is vandalism!” said Mr Watson. “We’re being persecuted. It’s – it’s intolerable. Really, the lengths they’ll go to just to vent their spite. Why, this must have been done with an axe!”

  “That’s what you must expect when you have overspill in a decent area,” said Mrs Watson. “They shouldn’t be allowed to build out in the country. People aren’t going to change when they move from the city. And goodness knows what it will do to property values.”

  “It’s sheer vandalism,” said Mr Watson.

  But later in the day he filled the gashes with a wood compound, and tightened the hinges and the door catch, which seemed to cure the vibrations.

  “I thought a touch of the screwdriver would do the trick,” he said.

  The party loomed. The Brodies lived in a big house that had stood by itself among fields but was now surrounded by the local council’s new estate. Both the children went to boarding school.

  “It’s going to be wet,” said Nicholas as they set out on the night.

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” said Mr Watson. “Hard frost. Clear sky. It’ll stay like this for a couple of days at least. The glass is very steady.”

  “I meant the party,” said Nicholas.

  Jennifer and Robert Brodie met the Watsons formally on the doorstep. There were about a dozen other guests, and they drank fruit cup. They played games, “to break the ice”. These involved pushing a matchbox from nose to nose, and mixing the girls’ shoes up and then having to find the owners.

  Then they danced to gramophone records. But Helen was the only one of the four who could dance. Nicholas had had two lessons, which made him more wretched than anybody. There were Excuse-me Dances, and Novelty Dances, and Forfeit Dances. Those without a partner had to dance with a mop.

  At nine o’clock they went in to supper. There was a game with name-cards to decide who sat where, but Nicholas cheated so that the Watsons were together and at the far end of the table.

  “Isn’t it smashing!” said Helen.

  “Two and a half hours more,” said David.

  “Can’t we go now?” said Roland.

  But the food was good. The Brodie children called their father Jo-jo, and he told funny stories all the time.

  Then everybody started to pull crackers. Roland pulled his with Helen. He unrolled the paper hat, and read the motto, and shook the cracker to see if it was empty. Something dropped on the table.

  “What’s up, Roland?” said David. “Are you feeling sick?”

  “What have you got?” said Roland.

  “A hat; and a motto; same as you.”

  “What else?”

  “Only one of those useless bits of junk you always have in crackers.”

  “What is it?”

  “A tie clip, or something: a kind of sword made of pink plastic. It says ‘Hong Kong’ on the back.”

  “I’ve got a spear,” said Roland.

  “Mine’s a little plastic goblet,” said Helen.

  “What have you got, Nick?” said Roland.

  “Please, Roland!” said Helen. “Please don’t go on!”

  “What’s inside your cracker?” said Roland.

  “Calm down,” said Nicholas. “You’ll have them thinking you’ve gone barmy.”

  “Tell me what’s in that cracker besides the hat and the motto!”

  “Oh, that,” said Nicholas. “A pink brick. Do you want it?”

  “A brick? You mean a stone!”


  “Oh, good grief, Roland! Not again! Anyway, it’s a dice. And it’s a pretty poor one, too. The spots aren’t coloured.”

  “It’s shaped like a stone; it could be made of stone even if it is a dice,” said Roland.

  “Well it isn’t, it’s made of plastic, and so’s everything else.”

  “It’s pushing things a bit,” said David. “Or are you saying Malebron’s sending us souvenirs from Hong Kong?”

  “I don’t know what I’m saying—”

  “That’s true,” said Nicholas.

  “—but it’s not a coincidence.”

  “Of course it’s a coincidence,” said Nicholas.

  “Then if it is,” said Roland, “it coincides with something. You don’t have a coincidence on its own. And what it coincides with is the Treasures. It makes them more real.”

  David crossed and uncrossed his eyes.

  “You can’t laugh them off now!” said Roland. “Everything’s linked. Malebron said so. Even if these are bits out of a cracker, they’re part of something else, and you can’t get away from it.”

  “Oh, do belt up,” said Nicholas.

  “Are we all happy down this end of the table?” said Mr Brodie, appearing behind David’s shoulder. “Plenty of what you want? More pudding? Fruit cup?”

  “Thanks: we’re fine,” said Nicholas.

  Roland went through the rest of the evening in a daze, which insulated him from the round of games and dances that followed. By about eleven o’clock everyone was tired of dancing, and nobody could think of any fresh games. They all sat round the room, and it looked as though the last thirty minutes were going to drag into exhaustion.

  “I know,” said Jennifer Brodie. “Let’s have a séance! Like we had last Christmas! Please, Jo-jo!”

  “Oh, yes! Let’s!” several others said.

  “Right you are,” said Mr Brodie. “But don’t go scaring yourselves. It’s only a parlour game, remember. There’s nothing in it.”

  “What’s a séance?” said Helen.

  “Talking to ghosts – table-rapping, and that sort of thing,” said Nicholas.

  “I don’t want to do it,” said Roland. “It sounds too creepy.”

  “Come on,” said David. “It’s Christmas. And you heard him say it’s only a game.”

  “Please may we use Grannie’s planchette?” Jennifer asked her mother. “It’s more fun with that, and you had it out for your party last night.”

  “If you take care of it, darling,” said Mrs Brodie.

  “Yes, Mummy.”

  There was a conversation between Mr and Mrs Brodie at the door, but all Roland heard was, “—not as if they’re old enough – scribble – nothing frightening—”

  “Our grannie was a Spiritualist,” said Robert Brodie. “And she had this planchette for getting messages from Grandpa. All he ever said was, ‘Bury me under the river’.”

  “And did you?” said Nicholas.

  “You try it,” said Robert.

  Mrs Brodie came back into the room holding a small, heart-shaped board with a pencil sticking through a hole at the pointed end. The board stood on castors so that it could move in any direction.

  “The thing is,” said Jennifer, “that we all sit round the table, and whoever works the planchette lays their right hand on it very gently, and the board travels across the paper on these wheels. The pencil’s touching the paper, and so you get what’s called Automatic Writing. Only you mustn’t watch what you’re doing, because it’s not you writing. It’s the Other Side.”

  “Sounds corny to me,” said Nicholas.

  “No, it isn’t,” said Jennifer. “If you try to write deliberately the board skids about. Now who’s going to do it?”

  “I think it’s time young Roland here did his stuff,” said Mr Brodie. “He’s been very quiet all evening.”

  “I’d rather not,” said Roland.

  “It’s only fun,” said Robert.

  Roland was hustled to the table, where the planchette was laid on the back of a roll of wallpaper. “The writing’s big,” said Jennifer, “so you need plenty of room.

  “Put your finger tips on the planchette very lightly: that’s it. Now, everyone sit still. You mustn’t speak. Think of nothing. And if the board moves, Roland, don’t look at it. It’s best if you keep your eyes closed all the time. I’ll do the talking bit. Right. Off we go.”

  They all sat round the table. Complete silence was impossible. Some of the girls started giggling almost at once.

  “Sh!” said Jennifer every few seconds.

  “My arm’s going numb,” said Roland. “Can I have a rest?”

  “No,”said Jennifer, “Sh!”

  Two minutes went by, and Jennifer cleared her throat.

  “Is anyone there?” she said to the ceiling. “Is anyone there?”

  The planchette jerked as if Roland had cramp in his arm, and the pencil made a formless scribble on the wallpaper.

  “Is anyone there?” said Jennifer, and she nodded excitedly and stuck her thumb up.

  The planchette scribbled again.

  “Who is it?”

  The planchette moved along the paper in loops like someone’s first attempt at writing.

  “Not bad, Roland,” said Nicholas.

  “I’m not doing anything.”

  “Sh!” said Jennifer. “Who is it?”

  “My arm’s gone cold,” said Roland. “I can’t feel anything.”

  “If you talk you’ll spoil it,” said Jennifer. “Look!”

  “What’s happening?” said Roland.

  Helen squeaked.

  “Har, har,” said Nicholas.

  “What do you want?” said Jennifer.

  The pencil moved.

  “What is that?” said Jennifer, speaking precisely.

  “An amœba,” said David.

  “I do not understand,” said Jennifer.

  The pencil scribbled again.

  And then,

  “I still cannot understand,” said Jennifer. “Please tell me more.”

  The pencil swept across the paper.

  And then it wrote,

  “Findhorn!” cried Helen.

  “What?” said Roland. “What?” The planchette immediately slid away.

  “Did it write that? Findhorn? Malebron? This unicorn?”

  “Oh, you shouldn’t have stopped!” said Jennifer. “It was coming so well.”

  “Enough’s enough,” said Mr Brodie.

  “He’s trying to tell us about Findhorn!” said Roland. “The Song of Findhorn, remember! Findhorn’s a unicorn! He had to keep trying…”

  “All right, you did it nicely,” said Nicholas. The other guests were staring. “Your writing’s crummy, but you always could draw. You’d be even better with practice.”

  “It wasn’t me! Try it yourself!”

  “OK,” said Nicholas. “I will.”

  He put his fingers on the board as Roland had done.

  “Go on, write your name!”

  “OK, OK; cool off.”

  But no matter how he tried Nicholas could not manage the planchette. It rolled in all directions. One of the boys laughed.

  “Here, give it to me again,” said Roland. “He may be wanting to tell us something else. Quick!”

  “Er – I think that about wraps things up for tonight, don’t you, people?” said Mr Brodie. “Carriages at eleven-thirty, you know.”

  He became brisk and Mrs Brodie removed the planchette. Everyone started to pick up coats in the hall, and to say thank you. Some were waiting for their parents, and others were being taken home by Mr Brodie. He switched on the outside light, and opened the door to go and bring his car round to the front of the house. A white mist coiled through the doorway into the hall.

  “Oh dear, what a bore,” said Mrs Brodie. “It won’t be much fun driving in this. Those who aren’t going with John had better take your coats off: your parents may be some time. Put the gramophone on, Jen, and we’ll have another dance.”


  “I think we’d be quicker walking, don’t you?” said Nicholas. “It’s not far.”

  “Yes,” said David. “Really, we mustn’t stay, thanks all the same.”

  “Can we ring up home to stop Dad from turning out, please?” said Nicholas.

  “Certainly,” said Mrs Brodie. “If you’re sure that’s what you want to do.”

  Nicholas rushed to the telephone. “Hello, Dad,” he said. “It’s Nick. Look don’t bother to fetch us: we’ll walk. No, honest, we’ll be home by the time you could get here in this. We’ll cut through the new estate and up Boundary Lane – you know, that cinder path by the allotments. Yes, of course I know the way. Yes, we’ll borrow a torch. Right. See you in about half an hour.”

  They borrowed a torch, but found that there was no need to use it. The mist was a ground mist, and they could clearly see the tops of trees and houses, and the bright moon.

  “Anything rather than another dance,” said Nicholas as they went down the drive from the house. “Well done,

  Roland. You broke it up nicely. Old Jo-jo thought you were going to throw a fit.”

  Roland did not answer.

  “How did you pick up the knack of that board so quickly?” said Nicholas.

  “Shut up,” said Roland.

  “You what?”

  “I said shut up.”

  “Oh, all right.”

  They walked in silence. The concrete road of the new estate was easy to follow, except where it branched, or produced a roundabout. Near the Brodies’ house the estate was almost finished. The upstairs windows were dabbed with whitewash. And then further in, the windows were raw holes, and the moon shone through the roofs. After that there was nothing but the mist, and they followed the kerbstone across what was still a field.

  “It – it was a lovely unicorn you drew,” said Helen at last. “Just like the one on my jug.”

  “I didn’t draw it,” said Roland.

  “Oh, lay off,” said Nicholas.

  “Malebron drew it,” said Roland. “He was trying to tell us something, and you stopped him.”