Yet Thy Spirit Shall Not Sleep: The Prequel to <i>Meadowsweet's Red Chaplet</i>

Yet Thy Spirit Shall Not Sleep

The Prequel to Meadowsweet's Red Chaplet,
Part One

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"You're quite wrong," said Ambrose. "I never make paradoxes; I wish I could. I merely said that a man may have an exquisite taste in Romanee Conti, and yet never have even smelt four ale. That's all, and it's more like a truism than a paradox, isn't it? Your surprise at my remark is due to the fact that you haven't realized what sin is. Oh, yes, there is a sort of connection between Sin with the capital letter, and actions which are commonly called sinful: with murder, theft, adultery, and so forth. Much the same connection that there is between the A, B, C and fine literature. But I believe that the misconception--it is all but universal--arises in great measure from our looking at the matter through social spectacles. We think that a man who does evil to us and to his neighbours must be very evil. So he is, from a social standpoint; but can't you realize that Evil in its essence is a lonely thing, a passion of the solitary, individual soul?"

-Arthur Machen, The White People

Charlotte's eyes were slow to adjust to the gloom in the room. The diffuse candlelight did not penetrate the furthest corners, and try as she might, she could not divine the full features of her host's face.

He sat in a tall, full-backed chair, aged and lined with dark green velvet. The chair was crowned with a carving of a goat's head with smooth and curving horns. He was sitting as still as the mantle behind him, in the night of the old dining chamber. Charlotte could make out his eyes, white like two stars in the dark.

"Was your journey comfortable?" he asked.

"It rained most of the way, and twice the coachman had to stop to force us through mud on the road." She answered, nervously excited that he had finally spoke.

"It's still raining" he said, and Charlotte realized that the dim patter in the distance was, in fact, rain; she had allowed it to slip into the unconscious edges of her awareness.

"It sounds so far away in here" she said, and tried to get a closer look at him by shifting a bit in her seat.

"You are far away in here. We're the only two people here now. Outside these walls, there is only the garden and lawn, and beyond that fields, and beyond that woods. The nearest hamlet is miles away... or at least, it was. Considering how little I leave the grounds, it could be gone by now."

Charlotte fingered the cameo around her neck while considering how isolated she really was out here. "Why don't you travel more? It's a good season for it, despite the rainy nights. I find the rain makes everything greener and more agreeable. It also keeps the dreadful heat away."

"I travelled quite often once, when I felt the call, but that's not often these nights, not anymore."

"Why not?"

"The way of the world, I expect. Times change."

Charlotte began to speak again, but stopped all of a sudden. She felt very strange, like she couldn't remember anything at all about the world outside the mansion, or even why she had come here, or been received by her host.

"Well sir, I'm very happy to be here, visiting... I... think the house is quite lovely, and I am honored that you recieved me like you did." She waited for her memories to catch up with her, but they were not forthcoming.

"Charlotte, you said you had a hard time getting here, a journey of delays in the rain and mud and darkness."

"Yes sir, I did, but it's no bother at all, really."

"Your delays and discomfort out there in the storm were only a matter of your own lack of ability to believe that this meeting was possible."

Charlotte stared a bit before looking down at her hands. She was holding a book, but she hadn't remembered holding it before. She was certain her hands had been empty a moment ago.

"I'm sorry sir, I don't understand."

"I got your letter, Charlotte. I sent one back, and you came here. As you requested."

"I..."

The small carving of the goat was very clear to Charlotte, even in the dim candle-light. She found herself fixing her gaze on it, and then the candles, and a memory forced its way to the forefront of her mind.

She saw herself standing in front of a fire, outside in another windy night, and dropping a wax-sealed envelope into the flames, in the company of several other girls whose faces she couldn't make out. The man across from them was holding something, a goat's head, it seemed. The memory made her heart race and excitement bubble into her chest, tinged with fear. Then, just as it had come, the memory went and Charlotte felt very tired.

There was a sudden start, as a flash of whiteness flitted by in her peripheral vision. Her eyes darted in the darkness and fixed on the white shape- a cat, with wide green eyes gleaming in the shadows. The eyes seemed to exude their own light.

"What a beautiful cat!" Charlotte got up out of her seat, and the book in her hands fell to the floor with a splashing of pages and a thud.

Charlotte opened her eyes suddenly; the grey light from the late afternoon outside seemed bright for a moment. She could hear the droning of a light rain.

She looked around and looked down, and saw the book of poetry she had fallen asleep holding on the ground. She immediately looked across the room at the mantle, but the chair, her host, and the cat were gone. She could hear a woman's voice from another room, and the sound of footsteps on the floor above her head.

She reached down to pick up her book, and glanced at the page it had fallen open to. At the top of the page, the verse began:

"Though thy slumber may be deep,
Yet thy spirit shall not sleep;
There are shades which will not vanish,
There are thoughts thou canst not banish;
By a power to thee unknown,
Thou canst never be alone;
Thou art wrapt as with a shroud,
Thou art gathered in a cloud;
And for ever shalt thou dwell
In the spirit of this spell."

Charlotte closed the book and stood up. At that moment, a plainly-dressed woman walked into the room, and smiled at her.

"Charlotte, dear, did you enjoy your nap? The rain always puts me to sleep, too. Mary was just looking for you."

"Yes, tell her I'm in here please."

"You look pale, dear. Are you well?"

"I am... I just had a dream."

"A pleasant dream, I hope."

"I suppose so... Jane? The carvings on this mantle are very interesting, very old-seeming. Do you know anything about who built this house?"

"No, dear, but Lord Bradford knows a good deal. He's told me things here and there. The Towneley family built this house, but it was vacated some years ago. Old families die out sometimes, and the house passed into the trust."

"Didn't the Towneleys have some sort of bad reputation?"

"Oh, I don't know dear, them's just stories. They were rich and eccentric."

Charlotte smiled and nodded as Jane left, and within a minute, Mary came into the room.

"Jane really doesn't know anything at the Towneleys, does she?" Charlotte asked.

Mary was a slighter girl than Charlotte, with larger eyes. They were near the same height. Mary always seemed to be smiling, even when she was angry. Charlotte often wondered about that.

"No, nothing that matters. And I prefer it that way."

The two girls left the parlour and went up several flights of stairs. Padding silently down a thick rug-covered hallway, they turned into Mary's bedroom and closed the door behind themselves. Mary locked it from the inside.

"Curse those rugs outside; you can't hear when anyone's coming." She fiddled with a small keychain and readied an older, dark iron key, and went into a large closet.

There, inside was a wooden chest with a heavy lock, under piles of fabric, sheets, and curtains. She unlocked it with a loud snap and opened the trunk.

Charlotte and Mary both looked down at the large leather-bound book sitting on a bed of blankets that were folded into the trunk. It was clearly quite old, but well preserved. Neither wanted to reach for it first. Finally, Mary reached down and picked it up. She and Charlotte glanced over the worn cover, at the words that were fixed in the leather:

The Mayster's Booke of Poems

They walked into the bedroom and both settled on the bed, the afternoon half-light from outside illuminating the covers and pillows and the book. Charlotte spoke first.

"How could your father have missed this?"

"He never saw it. It was under the floorboards in one of those dreadful cellar rooms."

"Have you finished reading it?"

"No. It's written strangely, in the old way, but with the help of some of father's dictionaries and grammars, I have made it through some of the poems."

"And?"

"And they aren't just poems, I don't think. I think they are spells."

"Like the one we tried?"

"No, better than that, older, more serious I think. Charlotte, they are very exciting!"

"You think the Towneleys wrote this?"

"No, the book itself says that a man called "the Master" wrote it."

"The Master? Lord Towneley?"

"No, not at all. The Master, Charlotte. You know... Sybil's Master"

"The devil? You think the devil wrote this book?"

"No, no, well... perhaps in a manner of speaking. He says that he's not from heaven or hell in the front pages, but from a place between them. He says that he cannot die, and that he is beyond good and evil. He says that his poems have two meanings for people who can see them correctly. It's like he knew I'd find this!"

"Or that someone would. What do you think he means, two meanings?"

"I already know. The poems are codes. They are about all manner of things, but somehow, somewhere in here, is a key to seeing what they really say. And furthermore, I think I know what's hiding in them."

"What?"

"His name. He says that anyone who knows his name can arrange a meeting with him. He says that all it takes is his name, and he can either come in person, or bring them to his own house. But his name is a big secret, it can't be written except in code. What else would he be hiding in here?"

Charlotte was thrilled by the idea of it all, but something was nagging at the back of her mind.

"His... house?"

Mary's eyes lit up. "Yes, his house. I think it's this house. I don't think the Towneleys built this house to be theirs, but his. I think he's in this house somewhere!"

Charlotte felt her throat tighten as the memory of her earlier dream suddenly flooded back on her. She saw the goat-headed chair, and the candles, and remembered her conversation with her host. She smiled at Mary and took both of her hands in hers.

"I think you're right."

Site last updated: August 27, 2007