A Shadow's Bliss

 

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Some there be that shadows kiss

Such have but a shadow's bliss.

—Shakespeare
The Merchant of Venice

A
UTHOR'S
N
OTE

Cornwall, the southwestern “claw” of England, was for centuries rather astonishingly isolated from the rest of the British Isles. She was not entirely cut off from the world, however. Despite her sometimes inhospitable coasts, shipping reached her. As time passed, there arrived conquerors from Rome, immigrants from Iberia, Celts from France, Mediterranean merchants, Irish voyagers, sailors from Spain. Some came by choice, some were cast up on Cornish beaches by the violence of wind and waves. All brought with them their gods, their spells and incantations, and as Cornwall remained remote and overland travel difficult, the superstitions became ever more a part of the way of life.

Two miles from Veryan Bay lies the charming village of Veryan, where are five cottages, each circular, and each surmounted by a cross, the idea having been to provide no corners in which Satan might hide. I knew of this, but although I am British born and lived in London until after World War II, I had not realized when I started researching this story just how deeply entrenched were the myths and legends and superstitions of the county. I was, in fact, intrigued to discover that many beliefs and rituals I had assumed to have vanished with the eighteenth century, actually persisted even into the 1940s.

If, therefore, kind reader, you should feel inclined to raise an eyebrow at some of the episodes in this book, I beg you to believe they are not entirely the products of my imagination.

I also assure you that I have left out a great deal more than I have included!

C
HAPTER
I

ENGLAND, SPRING, 1746

Earlier in the day the advent of spring had brought sunshine to warm the modest stone church on the cliffs, but clouds had come in to chase away that warmth, and with the approach of evening the small room behind the sanctuary was chill.

The wind was rising, and from the beach came the measured booming that told of Atlantic breakers pitting their might against this southernmost toe of England. These were the only sounds to break the silence as one of the men in the room struggled with his thoughts, and the other waited tensely for him to speak.

The light was fading, and although the only window faced east, away from the gales, a cold draught stirred the faded curtains. Father Mason rose from the bedside. A short, sturdy man with a mane of white hair, his strong face was troubled as he crossed to a chest against the wall and took up a tinder box. He lit one of the two candles, drew the curtains, and carried the candlestick back to the bed. Standing there, he looked down at the man who watched him so desperately. A young face, the light brown hair tumbled and untidy against the pillows, the grey eyes sunken into dark hollows, and the cheekbones high and gaunt above cheeks that were also sunken and marked by lines of suffering.

The priest asked gently, “How old are you, Jonathan?”

“I think … perhaps five and twenty, Father.” The words came haltingly, and with a timidity oddly at variance with the strong lines of nose and jaw, and the resolute chin.

Father Mason shook his head, stifled a sigh, and set the candlestick on a table near the bed. He sat down again, and muttered, “So young, to carry such a weight of responsibility. You must have been very good at your chosen profession.”

“Not … good enough.” The words were spoken painfully, and the sick man closed his eyes and jerked his head away, as if seeking to escape an unendurable memory.

“Do you truly wish to atone?” asked the priest.

The thin face turned to him again. There was the glitter of tears in Jonathan's shadowed eyes, and he said with faint but passionate intensity, “If only I could! I … lack the ability to turn time … backwards, alas.”

“You have the future, my son.”

“Do you mean a—a penance, sir?”

The priest did not at once reply. His lips pursed, he stared at the flickering flame of the candle, and when he spoke it was to ask another question. “Have you decided where to go when you leave me?”

“Only that it must be far inland. I cannot—I cannot bear the sounds of the sea.”

“Not surprising.”

The sick man recoiled slightly, but said nothing through another pause.

“Where—inland?” asked the priest. “Do you mean to try and find your family? You said you recall a lady, I believe? Wife? Sister? Mother?”

“I don't … know. My life before we sailed is … a jumble. Bits and pieces with no seeming connection. Besides, if there was anyone they would not want me. Not … now.” A long thin hand was stretched out; the tormented eyes fastened to the priest's stern countenance imploringly. “Father, I beg you. What must I do? Only tell me.”

“I am an unimportant, and not very learned man.” The priest took that outstretched hand and then released it as though the contact was distasteful to him. “I am not omniscient.”

“You are a man of God.”

“Say rather that I am His most humble servant. I cannot grant you absolution, Jonathan. Even were I to point you the way that—were I in your shoes—I would take, my judgment might well prove faulted.”

“Point, sir! I cannot live with … with my conscience and not try to make amends.”

“So be it. First, then, you will not go inland.” Father Mason heard the hiss of indrawn breath, and acknowledged, “It will be hard for you, I know. But the sounds you so dread will be a reminder of your guilt, and your vow.”

“Dear God! Better I had died!”

‘Much better,' thought the priest, but he said inexorably, “Will you swear to this? That until you believe with all your heart that you have made atonement you will stay on this coast? Within sight and sound of the ocean?”

“That must mean for … all my life!” Wretchedly, Jonathan muttered, “Father, how can I
ever
hope to atone?”

With rather brutal candour the priest said, “Probably never. You can only try. Well? Shall you take the vow?”

“Is there—more?”

“You must forget your former station in life, and neither seek nor accept aid from family or friends, if they should chance to find you. You will live here, among the poor, abandoning all pride and showing always a gentle humility.”

The thin fingers tightened. In a flare of indignation, Jonathan exclaimed, “But I would be a misfit! They'd never accept me!”

“Your cultured way of speech, certainly, would cause most simple folk to look upon you with suspicion. But they are suspicious of anyone not born in Cornwall.”

“And for a man of my size to behave as you suggest must earn only contempt!”

“Which you do not deserve…”

Jonathan tensed, then acknowledged wearily, “Which I deserve. But—Father, I may defend myself if—if the need should arise?”

“Do you say you still feel you have a right to raise your hand 'gainst another human being?” The priest sounded shocked.

After a moment, barely audible, came the response. “No. No, I have no such … right.”

“A greater Man than you or I said, ‘whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also.'”

“I—I don't know if I can be that humble, Father. Am I … would I be allowed to work?”

“For your food, or lodging. But not for money—unless it is taken to help others. Any kind deed you can perform, any kind word spoken, may ease the weight of your guilt. And in this manner alone may you use these.” Father Mason touched the fist that was so tightly clenched on the blanket. “To the defence of those who are abused or brutalised. But never—no matter what the provocation—
never
in your own defence!”

He drew back, and there was silence again, while the shadows deepened in the corners and the room became ever more chill.

At length, Jonathan said, low voiced, “You have been very good, sir. To take me in, and—and care for me. The men who found me would do nothing.”

“Cornish folk are a fierce and proud lot, I'll own. But they've been betrayed often down through the centuries. They have no love for strangers. Which will not smooth your path, I fear.”

Jonathan asked hesitantly, “Do you think I shall ever be…”

“Forgiven?”

“No. I don't ask that much. But—if I could just be granted … some peace of mind.”

“Conscience is a merciless taskmaster, but perhaps, with time, you will be, my son. Certainly, your physical health improves. You may like to wait until you are fully recovered before you take such a solemn oath. It would be—”

“No, Father. I'll take it now.”

The priest stood. “As you wish.”

He left the small room where the sexton had lived, when he'd been able to afford a sexton, and walked in his dignified way into the sanctuary to get the beautiful old Bible that was used only for the various services and on such occasions as this one. Taking it reverently from the lectern, he paused, his thoughts on the man he had just left. Such a tragedy, that so fine a young fellow, who had certainly enjoyed all the advantages of birth and breeding, should have made such a shambles of his life. And ended so many others!

“Some peace of mind,” he muttered.

And, shaking his head, he carried the Bible back into the cold little bedchamber.

SUMMER, 1748

August had been blown in on a great gale which lashed the southeast coast from The Naze to Selsey Bill, and created havoc as far inland as London and Reading. Trees were uprooted, roads flooded, bridges washed away, and countless buildings stripped of roofs and chimneys. Within a week the weather did an about-face and became more normal. Temperatures soared and the southland sweltered. London was stifling, and all who could manage to do so abandoned the Metropolis in favour of country estates or the seaside.

After its fashion, the far west country followed a different pattern. Devonshire basked in springlike warmth and gentle breezes. In Cornwall the wind blew strong off the Atlantic, but the sun shone benevolently on the great breakers as they exploded in clouds of white spray against Penwith's rugged rocks and cliffs.