Tim Gardiner
View from a Hill
This unholy pilgrimage is fraught with danger. The small village of Upnor, nestled on the west bank of the Medway Estuary, has become notorious for the disappearance of outsiders. Rumours of murder abound, often associated with the charismatic countess of Upnor Castle. Some say she is a master of the undead, commanding a legion of vampires or a coven of witches. A deep cart rut jolts the carriage, splashing mud onto roadside poppies. Two wooded hills dominate the horizon, Upnor lodged between.
I’m also to investigate the disappearance of my predecessor, Sir Richard Lee, a distinguished archaeologist in the employ of the British Museum. We’d been friends since college, he was like a brother to me. The truth of his fate is mine to piece together. Pulling up outside the Tudor pub, I pay the coachman and continue on my way. The cobbles have been washed clean by the morning’s heavy rain, weather-boarded cottages swept clear by the strong breeze. In an attic window, a young boy watches me walk past in the fading light. The Manor House is suitably grandiose; its porch embellished with oak carvings of owls and snakes. The old post office is the loneliest building, a raised bay window showing no sign of habitation.
The castellated walls of the countess’s residence stretch down to the shoreline, buffered by samphire and sea aster before acres of grey mud, exposed at low tide. A small blue boat is marooned at the base of the castle walls. Ringing the bell by the main gate, my call is answered swiftly by a servant, leading me to the library where I wait for my hostess. The opulent repository houses thousands of books, the countess is obviously an avid reader. But it’s hard to imagine anyone getting through such an extensive collection in one lifetime.
Without me noticing, my hostess has entered the library. Framed by the doorway her sleek frame is striking, hands neatly folded behind her back. An immaculate scarlet tunic, fastened to a neat fold-down collar, befits her status as the head of the Upnor Estate. The aura of confidence is further enhanced by long blond hair and blue eyes which fix mine with unerring intensity. An uncomfortable silence is broken by her soft voice, which is both soothing and pressured. Every so often, an awkward smile punctuates the words.
Over dinner, we politely discuss matters of archaeology. She’s invited me to Upnor to enquire over her purchase of a lithium quartz skull from the British Museum. I ask why, but the countess dismisses my inquiries. A charming host, she quickly shifts the discourse to the more mundane matter of purchase price. She seems prepared to pay well for the skull which I have in my luggage. The contract agreed with ease, I ask about tomorrow’s dig. The countess informs me that Tower Hill is the location of St. Mary’s Cross, access to the wooded summit denied to all but the most privileged by the Upnor Estate. I dare to venture on the disappearance of Sir Richard. The countess becomes at once unsettled, nervously fiddling with the ornate gold brooch on her chest, perfectly positioned over her heart. Sensing my host’s unease, I pry no further and we return to trivial issues.
Her servant shows me to a room overlooking the estuary. It’s a warm summer night and sleep does not come easily, thoughts racing. I can’t help feeling that Tower Hill was where Sir Richard vanished. The Castle gate will be locked at this late hour, so I leave by the window; a short climb and I’m in the boat which has now floated close on the high tide. A short row and I reach the shore at the bottom of the cobbled street. The waxing moon is sufficient to light my path up the hill past the Castle and Manor House.
The oak wood by the Tudor pub is where my exploration begins on Tower Hill. My gut instinct and the countess’s reticence tell me that Sir Richard was murdered. Glow-worms light the path through the wood, reminding me of childhood holidays in Selborne. I’m soon in the summit clearing of the chalk hill. Despite the darkness, I note evidence of excavation, small mounds of piled earth at varying stages of revegetation.
A mausoleum is located on the far side of the glade. It’s quite unlike any that I’ve seen. Stone vipers coil around the pillars, while a large bird of prey sits on the plinth. Years of weathering have taken their toll on avian features, making it unrecognisable. The unearthly screech of a barn owl sends a chill through me. The hollering continues as I leave the summit and trace my path back to the village using the glow-worms as guiding lights again. Rushing along the main street, the barn owl passes overhead before diving into the Castle grounds. The small boat is still there and the tide higher than before so I have little difficulty in reaching my window.
Over breakfast, the countess is once more the image of perfection. In her white dress, zig-zagged with black stripes, she’s as beguiling as yesterday evening though less talkative, a stern expression held for what little talk there is. Keen to commence the day’s business, the countess leaves to ready the coachman and horses. Our ascent of Tower Hill via the well-made pony track is swift and turbulent due to deep ruts. Once the dig tools are off-loaded, the servant returns to the Castle with the coach. Choosing a scruffy patch of untouched fescue grass, I begin to dig. It’s a muggy morning with high thunderclouds forming; sweat is soon dripping from my brow. The countess watches, amused at my sluggish efforts, as if she knows the futility of my endeavour. By noon, I’ve dug a three foot deep pit, the friable soil being at odds with the impenetrable chalk soil beneath.
Taking a drink of water at lunchtime, I enjoy the view hidden from me last night through a gap in the lime trees. It’s a wide panorama of the estuary, shallow timbered hills, and the peninsula beyond. Momentarily distracted, I don’t notice that the countess has gone, replaced by a long viper slithering through the grass in my direction. As fast as I move, it moves faster. At the edge of the clearing, it plunges fangs deep into my leg. Shocked and convulsing with pain, my body drops to the earth beside the pit. The snake slowly metamorphoses into the elegant form of the countess, hands triumphantly placed on hips.
She smiles smugly, the pleasure of killing is hers again. I realise too late, that the countess lured me to Upnor with the promise of the cross and the profitable sale of the quartz skull. Sir Richard and countless others have met the same fate, feeding her insatiable appetite for death. The venom does not kill quickly, the shape-shifting countess taking time to enjoy the suffering of her prey. Reveling in control established over many centuries, the countess calmly places me in the pit. I don’t resist any longer; submitting to her hand’s caress, the ice in pale eyes.
shallow grave
the rise and fall
of my chest
the closure
of butterfly wings
About the Author
Dr. Tim Gardiner is an ecologist, editor, poet, and children’s author from Manningtree in Essex, UK. He has been widely published in journals and anthologies. He is a former co-editor of the tanka prose section of Haibun Today.