John Schettler - Devil's Garden

Yes, the place has always been a portal between this world and others, the Duke thought as he walked. The Angels come and go, and the saints take their repose here while the monks painstakingly copy their glorious Gospels. He had always been fond of the Lindisfarne Gospel, and had even tried to acquire it at one point in his career. I may accomplish that yet, he thought to himself, but not here…not now.

The Monks fled when the Vikings came, and were said to have wandered for generations, carrying with them the body of Saint Cuthbert. The Vikings almost made an end of the place when they ravaged the shore, and Lindisfarne was uninhabited for all of two centuries until the intrepid Benedictine Monks returned.

The sun set very late that day, at well near eight ‘o clock, and the new moon was not yet up, so the night was thick after darkness came. The Duke walked alone on the quiet shore thinking of all he had done in the years past, the slow but steady rise to wealth and fame, his acceptance as a Peer of the Realm, which was most unusual for anyone outside the Royal Family in modern times. Yes, he thought, I will be hard pressed to do any better in the years left to me, but at least I shall have the thrill of the hunt back again. I was getting a bit jaded at the top of the tree. Time to live again.

He breathed in the cool sea air and quietly said goodbye to the life he had brought to this place, and to the whole of the world beyond the shores of that isolated, holy isle. Then it was up the long wide stairs to the castle again, the approach leading to the pantry on the lower battery and through the kitchen to find the stairway up to the second level. The castle as it stood that day had been lovingly restored by the noted architect Sir Edwin Lutyens in 1902, who fashioned an Edwardian home on the upper floors They would catch a few hours rest in the bed chambers there and then rise in the dark well before dawn, with the crescent moon low over the submerged tidal zone on the muddy shores leading up to Fulwark Burn and Buckton. It was the last moon, he thought, the moon of the Ninth Day.

Mister Thomas had placed their luggage in the small bedroom as directed. They warmed themselves with a cup of hot tea in the kitchen before they left. Then the Duke led the way to the back of the narrow room by the gallery where there was a small closet.

“I’ll just be a moment,” he said quietly, stooping to enter alone, his hand tucked into the pocket of his outer coat. He soon emerged, a wry smile on his face and a gleam in his eye.

“Well, Mister Thomas, are you ready?”

“Certainly, sir. I’ll take the bags downstairs right away. Will there be a car coming for us this morning?”

“No, my good man. You may bring the luggage this way.”

To Ian’s surprise the Duke was gesturing to the open doorway of the closet. His first thought was that his lordship intended to leave the bags there for safekeeping, and that they might then pass the day here sightseeing on the island. Yet as he entered the narrow door he felt a sudden chill, a distinct draft of cold air rising. The Duke was right behind him.

“I’ll take that bag,” he said, holding up a small flashlight that now illuminated a dark portal at the very back of the closet. “Two is a bit much to manage on this stairway. There’s a small landing just inside the entrance. Pause there, please, while I secure this door. And do mind your step, Mister Thomas. The stairway is somewhat treacherous, and it’s a long way down.”

Thomas had heard of secret passages in old castles-every boy had dreamed of them at one time or another. Well, here was a fairly good one right at his feet! He assumed it was a hidden back stairway that would take them to the north end of the castle. Why the Duke wanted to take this dark, narrow stairway he did not know. As they stepped through the entrance to the landing the jittery light revealed the topmost flight of stone cut steps, very steep and narrow. Cobwebs draped across the narrow way, and the place could have done justice to any haunted house. The Duke handed him a folded umbrella.

“There you are, my man. Swipe aside those cobwebs with this. If you would be so kind as to lead, I’ll light the way as best I can.”

“Very good, sir.” Ian lifted the bag he was to carry, still thinking this was an odd way to make their exit, with the Duke carrying the last of their luggage. The sound of the upper closet door closing behind them had a certain finality about it, though he didn’t know why he felt that way.

Down they went, thirty steps to another stone landing and a second door. The Duke set down his bag and stepped up, quickly inserting a small metal skeleton key into the lock there with a strange click and what sounded like a quiet electronic tone. “And yet another flight,” he said as the doorway creaked open on dry metal hinges.

The sound echoed up the dark stone stairway behind them, and Ian could now see that this second flight angled off to the left in a new direction. Well that will at least point us towards the cobblestone road when we get down, he thought. The door closed behind them again with a metallic click this time, and it was thirty more steps down, and very steep, growing colder as they went.

“Ground level,” said the Duke with a smile where there was yet another door, opening on yet another flight of stairs, darker and more foreboding than any they had traversed. How very odd, he thought.

“Now we get to the heart of the matter,” said the Duke, setting down his bag. “Mister Thomas…Are you certain you wish to accompany me on the journey that now lies before you? It begins here, and may not end for a very long time.”

“Sir, you have my full commitment.”

“The circumstances may be hard on us both at times.”

“I understand, sir. You may rely on me entirely.”

The Duke took a long breath, then spoke a quiet verse of poetry, as if to christen their adventure: “If there be spirits in the air that hold their sway between the earth and sky, descend out of the golden vapors there and sweep me into iridescent life. Oh, came a magic cloak into my hands to carry me to distant lands, I should not trade it for the choicest gown, nor for the cloak and garments of the crown…”

Thomas gave him a bemused look.

“Johan Wolfgang von Goethe, Mister Thomas. From Faust . We’re about to sell our souls to the devil, my good man. Good then. Let’s get on with it.” He gestured to the stairs, lighting the way again with his small LED flashlight.

Down they went, into dense, musty cold that seemed to find a way quickly through their coats and vests and chilled them to the bone. Ian felt a brief sensation of dizziness as they reached the bottom, feeling just a bit claustrophobic in the constricted space.

What’s wrong with me, he thought? I spent days and days digging out that narrow tunnel to fetch Churchill’s ashes for this man, and never felt a twinge of anything like this. Yet something about the space was deeply unnerving, the quiet, the dark, the cold of decades lying here in this narrow way. They were in a long stone hall now, and this time the Duke edged past him to lead the way. It curved round to the left again, and then began to slowly angle up in a gradual climb. Ian had lost his sense of direction by now in the dark, but he reasoned they must still be beneath the castle. Another door barred the way ahead, which the Duke quickly opened with his strange key.

“Quite a maze down here, your grace. I had no idea these passages were this extensive beneath the castle.”

“You’re in good company, Mister Thomas, because no one else knows about them either-at least no one that matters. Here now, the final door. Just let me get this key out of my pocket again and we can begin.”