I invite you this evening to chose your favourite armchair, turn down the light and arm yourself with a large measure of your favourite drink and read the letter that was found, written in a flowing script on parchment; parts barely legible but now transcribed for Members to read and reflect. It is dark now outside my own house but how dark can the night become ?
Bernithan; how long have I walked those banks ? Years beyond memory now......
The rebirth of the Spring and the expectation of a long and fulfilling life; the wondrous explosion of unchecked vibrant growth, excitement, the incessant noise of fauna, young and old, during those long lazy hot days of Summer; the striking colours through its Autumnal glory and shades of orange and brown with, eventually, the leaf fall to provide a natural carpet to those hidden paths through overhanging, and inter-twined boughs and then, that most haunting season of them all; the Winter with long bitter nights and, mercifully short, cold days. A time for sleep and quiet reflection but of course sleep never comes. It will always be Bernithan to me although, in more common tongue now, Redmire. If only they knew.
My story begins in the years after the Civil War. King Charles I dead some years and the Republican experiment nearing its’ end; Cromwell, once a hero exhibited now, as his power expanded, no more balance or social justice than the worst excesses of the Royalist dominated Court he had once, and so actively, campaigned against. The country was increasingly lawless. Bands of disaffected, underpaid and anxious men, so recently lauded as saviours through The New Model Army roamed the land; small groups, with their distinctive shaven heads, increasingly desperate preying on the poor and vulnerable. Of course it is with the benefit of hindsight that I write this. At Bernithan Court, we were largely immune to the excesses of London and far, far, away from the strictures of the Puritan Movement and the worst examples of a society now doubting the course on which it had set once the decision had been taken to commit Regicide. No, at Bernithan, life remained largely as it had before the War. The farm hands continued to work the land, crops grew in the fields and livestock thrived in the fertile soil around. The Estate was run through my family as it had for so very many generations before. We hosted dinner parties through the long Summer’s evening with the pool providing a tranquil and mirror like backdrop to the candle light and music that would entertain our guests long into the night. But, that fateful evening in the Summer of 1654 it was all to change; I can never forget and neither will I ever forgive. Bernithan pool; if only they knew.
We had taken our dinner and enjoyed the balm of the early evening. As the heat of the day was removed, we took leave of our guests, my love and I, and walked through the woods to the pool. The boughs provided a respite and calm as we walked, hand in hand, in the early evening light; a magical time when nature seeks to change from the fervent activity of the day toward a more relaxing and restful period, when the light takes on a more mellow tone and the harsh separation of shadow transforms to a softer, more gentle art form. We liked to walk through the woods to the pool, to reflect quietly, to stop and listen, to absorb the beauty of Bernithan and the flora and fauna. A peaceful time, an intimate time, just my love and I. The mirrored surface of the pool reflecting the love we shared.
But, this evening, our tranquillity was disturbed. We could hear voices, gruff and uncultured. Too late we saw them. There were four of them; dirty, unshaven and their armoured breast plates long since, if ever, having seen honourable use. They were upon us quickly the brutes. I was quickly overpowered and beaten then trussed, like a hog ready for the butcher’s block. Even now I cannot describe what I witnessed. No human should endure such violation; the harsh laughter and then, quiet. It was over. My love lay still, a cold, heartless blue slowing replacing the vibrant glow to her skin, blood staining the once virginal white dress that, seemingly, only moments before, had looked so perfect in the soft sheen of that Summer’s Evening. I lay, immobile, the pain of my bonds and cramp but nothing to the pain that pierced my very soul. I screamed. None came to my aid. I lost consciousness yet a more permanent peace was not my reward. I awoke in the early hours; that period before dawn when mist forms across the land and cold; so very cold, my dream a waking nightmare. Real, terrible, pain too intense to bear. Why had I to endure when my love lay dead ? I screamed in anger, frustration, no not these. I screamed my agony such that the Gates of Hell would shake. I cursed and swore damnation on those brutes who had so violently taken my love. It was then he came; my Saviour. Even now the irony is bitter. Saviour ? No. I think not. I was weak. My life over. No future could I see. No colour except black. No sunlight except dark. No warmth except cold. He gave me his “gift” in exchange for my soul but what soul remained ? All that I had loved now destroyed. Emotion, a human sense removed; Compassion ? I had none. The exchange seemed so attractive; vengeance and immortality together. I did not hesitate. My bound hands released, the scars removed and wounds no more. Energy coursed through my veins; blood. Ah ! blood, that essential part of life; the irony complete ? No, there is one more. If only they knew.
I came across them in the woods not far away; their camp fire burning. My heightened sense of smell detected their aroma; their unwashed bodies and the cheap liquor. They did not have hope. I killed them all; my power so great, my immortal strength now so intense. I savoured the look of horror as their leader saw the true nature of the beast that had them; just a brief moment when his own nightmare was true. I left their bodies as they fell; the blood that had flowed so freely now slowing, as it cooled, seeking its own resting place in the already fertile earth.
I left the camp, following the stream back to the pool and sat on those banks that seemingly, but a moment before, my love and I had walked together. She was still there; unmoving, lifeless, her soul at least now free from the torture I was to endure for eternity. My Saviour returned; my exchange to be honoured. Honour ? I know not if such is true but the contract had no clause for release. He demanded much but no more than I had agreed and so it was that my life was then set. Life ? Ha ! the irony again. I have no life. We sat and talked. He told me of the future. Future ? I have no future but he allowed me one last dignity. I buried my love beneath the ancient oak near the boathouse; that source from where we had so often taken the punt to glide, silently, across the surface of the pool but, no more. My duty complete, I knelt to wash the soil from what once were elegant hands; hands that had once caressed, that had once felt and loved. I had forgotten; the dried blood of my sweetheart then released into the depths of Bernithan. The dark red blood now spreading from the ripples my hands had made. Slowly, so slowly, that dark red, that blood, grew in an ever increasing expanse across the pool until it covered that blessed water from Dam to Shallows. Bernithan no more; a Red Mire. If only they knew !
I return whenever I can. The seasons may come and years may pass but I return when I can. I walk those same banks and remember. There was one, not so very many years ago. I had seen him often. Tall and angular with a peculiar manner; I often watched. He seemed different; at ease. He wrote, he would sleep under the stars and he would talk. I say talk but his voice was for the pool and its’ inhabitants not others. I listened. His appreciation was intense and reminded me of my own love. I left him. He did not deserve my gift as had others down the centuries since my own re-birth. No. I would not kill him as I had others who violated my pool with their presence.
I had not seen him for some years but I sensed him again after these years absence as I walked through the woods toward the pool and as the dawn cast its first beams to penetrate the shade of the dark night. I knew it was him; a distinctive sense. I let him see me as I approached. He turned and smiled. A broad welcoming smile, so different to the look others had as they saw my dark form although on this occasion I had taken a more pleasing appearance to disguise my true nature.
“Thank goodness” he said. “I thought I was on my own”.
I responded in kind. “Good morning. I have been aware of you before”. If only he knew.
“I know. I have also seen you before”. I was briefly shocked, if that can describe my reaction.
“I am glad you are here as I have something I wish to show you. Here. Look”. I peered toward where he pointed and there was my pet; his broad back wide enough to carry the load of a mule; his pectorals slowly fanning as he lay, hardly moving, in a wide triangular net.
“You will release him” I said.
“What ? The fish of a lifetime. That my friend is “The King”. The largest carp ever to live. I cannot”.
“You will release him” my voice taking a more commanding tone “Now”. I released my disguise to reveal my true demonic self. He recoiled but slowly obeyed.
My pet now released from his temporary restraint disappeared slowly into the depths; his own reign but temporarily disturbed.
He watched, his hands trembling although whether from this act or my presence I could not be sure. Slowly, he stood regaining his composure. “I must know”. He said. “Tell me why ?”
I relayed my story. He sat silently; reflective, his gaze taking in the pool. A haunting beauty; it’s watery depths and ancient woods both hiding monsters of dream and nightmare; by day and by night. He understood. He knew.
“You must never return” I said. “Never, and you will tell no-one of this day. I will not harm you if I have your word but you must go and never return to this place. Go now. Do you understand ? Now !”
He looked at the pool and at where, only a short time before, my pet had been held, he turned to look next at the trees, the old Willow and Oak and then, slowly, he turned toward me tears flowing freely, if silently, across his cheeks . He nodded an acceptance. He understood. He knew. He left his rods and rucksack and turned and slowly walked through the trees and then on up again through the slopes of the fields that form the valley. I saw him turn again; one final look. I almost felt pity but that, my friend, is an emotion long since removed from me. There is only one King at Bernithan; as I turned toward the surrounding wood, the once clear waters again turned a dark red as if in silent tribute to the past; I will return soon to bestow my gift. If only they really knew.
Copyright: Barbulus Nightmare Productions 2014: “Fishing Expeditions with a Twist”
