The Book of Sorren

The Witchwood Door

“Tell me Iona: Can one’s soul become old?  Can one’s soul become sick with grief?  Oh Iona, in truth the soul can become crippled with age just as a man is thus crippled.”

“Our soul is given to make us strong,” she answered the King proudly.  “Truly, our soul comes from the Lord.”

“My soul is so tired, Iona.  My soul is weak.”

“The weakness is not in your soul,” the servant said.  “The weakness is in your heart.”

In the heart of Castletown stands an old brick house tucked away within the narrow and winding lanes and byways of this royal, coastal town.  No one remembers who first built the house, for through a series of strange fires, questionable transactions and misplaced documents going back over a century, the information has been lost.  What sets this house apart from all the other old houses that speckle the town however, is the door.  Surely one of the most remarkable doors ever to have been carved, the door has taken on an aura, a mythological reputation that has grown stranger with each new telling.  Each new generation has claimed the mystery inherent in that door as their own until the legend of the door has become a manifestation of those that would want to claim it for their own, and the legend has become richer and richer through a gradual transmutation.

King Sigmus first showed it to his young son as they passed by in their black ebony carriage.  The boy could have been no more than seven or eight years old at the time.  The streets were so narrow that they had to creep along slowly to avoid crashing into discarded objects and children playing, for not many carriages passed by and the children loved to look at it.  The King pointed out the window.

“Look Bartholomew,” he said as he pointed to the house.  “Look at the door.  I think that it is the greatest door I have ever seen.”

Bartholomew quickly climbed over the seat and jumped on his father’s lap.  He peered through the window and smiled even before he knew what he was looking at, for Bartholomew was an enthusiastic boy.  What he saw was a large, oaken door flanked on either side by an enormous rowan tree the sides of which were embedded into and formed the very frame of the door, as if the roots had hungrily grown into the very substance of the house.  It was magical and impossible.  On the center of the door was a carved symbol.  Two large snakes were twisted into a strange patchwork of braided Celtic knots, one devouring while being devoured by the other.  The snakes were intertwined in such a way that they defied the nature of the space on which they were carved and emerged from a dimension that came from an inner surface concealed.

“Do you like it?” asked King Sigmus.

Bartholomew hesitated before he answered as if he needed to think about it before he could answer.  The boy was curious, for the door made him uneasy.

“Who lives there?” he asked.

The King was surprised by the question.  “What do you mean?” he said.  “The door . . .  Look at the door, son.”

The carriage continued to pass by slowly.  Bartholomew continued to watch the house until it was out of sight.  Then he looked at his father with a questioning look.

“Does a bad man live in that house?” he asked.  “I think that I don’t like that house.  I do not like the door, father.  It scares me.”

“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” said Sigmus with a cheerful laugh.  “It’s just a door, Bartholomew.  Forget about it if you want.”

King Sigmus could not have known the lasting impression that door would have on his son.  He could not have guessed the obsession to which his son would devote so much of his time pursuing.  The mind of a young boy is easily captured, and so it was with Bartholomew.

Bartholomew thought about the door often.  He would lay in his bed at night and try to imagine what could possibly be happening on the other side of that door.  And then he would fall asleep hoping that his imagination would take him to that place for him to wander through the lonely hours of the night.  There had to be a secret he believed, and one day he would know that secret.  Every time he and his father were in Castletown, he would beg his father to drive past that door, for he was no longer afraid of it now.  The house seemed to be abandoned, but though they never saw a person anywhere near that house, Bartholomew knew that it was not abandoned, and that behind that door was a person.  He even imagined that the person behind that door was looking at him at that very moment, and the thought excited him.

When Bartholomew was older, he would take trips to Castletown by himself and he would go to the house with the strange door.  By this time he had come to name the door.  He called it The Witchwood Door, for he was convinced that the maker of that door was once a druid.  Sometimes he would sit atop his horse, transfixed, and he would stare at the door for an hour.  Once he even sketched it into a notebook that he kept in his saddlebag.  Sometimes he would stop at one of the local inns and inquire about the house or the whereabouts of its inhabitants.  No one knew, or if they did know they would not say and he would have to go away even more spellbound.  On one day, the owner of a local pub drew a pint for Bartholomew when he stopped in to quench his thirst before riding back home.  He listened to Bartholomew for a minute, and then he said.

“There have been stories passed around about this house, and that is true.  But no one really knows for sure.  Used to be said that an old sailor lived there.  Some folks say he was a pirate.  They say that he came home from a voyage out to sea and that he had been gone many years.  They say he brought home boxes and crates a plenty.  Then one day was spotted two giant trees, one on each side of his door.  Folks say that the trees were there to guard his house when he was gone, but none ever saw him come home and none ever saw him come out.  Some folks say that he is still in there.”

“Is that what they say?” said Bartholomew as he took a long draft from his glass nearly emptying it in one gulp.  He finished it off before dropping it on the bar with a loud thud.  “Interesting,” he said, pointing to his empty glass.  “What do you say?  Tell me, when did all this happen?”

The innkeeper took Bartholomew’s glass to the tap and refilled it.  Then he came back rubbing his head as if the memory were so close and only needed to be dislodged. 

“I first heard this story from my father, and he first heard it from his father.  Like I say to you, no one really knows for sure.”

Bartholomew had heard this before.  This was a typical tale and he was bored with its predictability.  His disappointment set in even before he finished his drink.  “I don’t understand,” he said.  “You said that those trees protect his house.  How do they do that?”

“Those are not trees,” said the innkeeper slowly shaking his head as he wiped a stain from his bar.  The man spoke softly as if he were afraid they would be overheard.

This was unexpected.  Now Bartholomew suddenly was interested again.  Reaching into his pocket he threw down a piece of silver, surely more money than the innkeeper would see all day.

“Then tell me,” said Bartholomew eagerly.  “What are they?”

“Those trees are demons,” said the man decisively.  Then he swallowed hard.  “Brought back from the Orient they were.  They say that the sailor was a wizard, and I reckon that he was.  Those trees are his familiars.  You best stay away from that house, and don’t even look at that door if you want my advice.”

Bartholomew thanked the man for his advice.  Then he left.  In another part of town was an even dirtier, even darker and rundown tavern.  Ducking beneath the carved sign over the door that was broken and left swinging in the wind, he went in and was surprised at the wretchedness of the place.

“What do you want?” came a low growl from within the smoky interior. 

Bartholomew turned and started to leave, but then he stopped.  If need came, he could certainly take care of himself.  He never traveled without a weapon.

“It’s Prince Bartholomew!” someone shouted.

“I’m looking for information,” said the Prince.  “The house on Kirk  Arbory Street, the one with the door made from trees, tell me, does anyone know anything about it?  If you talk, I’ll buy drinks.”

A commotion arose throughout the tavern.  Bartholomew knew drunken chatter when he heard it.  Finally someone spoke up.

“Sure, I’ll talk,” he said.  “That is, if you still want to hear.”

“Then let’s start drinking, and you can start talking,” said the Prince to a rousing volley of drunken cheers.

The man that spoke was old.  His face was wrinkled and destroyed from the sun.  His nose was swollen, pock-marked and ugly, but he smiled, for even without teeth he could still be content.

“Legend has it that the trees were here before the house, even before Castletown was built.  And as the town was built up around the harbor, the house was built up around the trees.  The house itself is a harbor, and those trees are ancient berths to another place, a place that reaches farther than the sea.  Those trees have always been here.  Some folks say that they were here before the island was brought up from the sea.”

“And the door?” Bartholomew asked impatiently.  “What about the door?”

“That is not a door,” he said.  “It is a wall.”

“What are you talking about?” Bartholomew demanded.  “I have heard this all before, but I do not believe it.”

“He’s right,” said a short, paunchy man stepping out of the shadow.  “Let me tell you a story,” he began.  He looked around cautiously, taking everyone in with his eyes, as if they too were now included in his story.  “The pirate that lives in that house was a wizard.  No one disputes that far as I know.  They say that after coming home from the reach after so many years his face was old and wrinkled and ugly.  He was getting old and he feared getting old more than anything.  His young wife waited for him every day hoping he would come back home, and when she finally saw him she recoiled from his ugliness.  He assured her not to worry.  He had brought home a formula.  He had found a magic potion that could make him young again.  That is when he planted those two rowan trees you see guarding his door, but the enchantment needed one more thing to make it true . . .”

“A sacrifice?” said Bartholomew sarcastically.  “Is that what it needed, a human sacrifice?”  He was almost able to predict what the people would say.

There was a murmur through the crowd.  Some of the men were starting to grumble.  Arguments erupted and he could hear shouts and curses.  But the man was not finished with his story and he raised his voice the loudest.

“She danced naked in the moonlight, that’s what she did if you want to hear what happened!  Her skin was so pale that it glowed silvery in the moonlight as her tender feet danced and fluttered like the wings of nymphs.  The story goes that his young and beautiful wife was made to dance a dance of rejuvenation in the moonlight.  She danced without a stitch of clothing if you can even imagine such a thing.  The gods love pretty women, but they like them best when they are unclothed.”

“So do we!” shouted a drunken man nearly falling out of his chair.

“Then the old wizard took his young bride back into the house and closed the door for the last time,” said the short man.  “And so it is that the old wizard and his wife don’t get old . . . no . . . that happens to the trees.  It is the trees that age, and that is why they can never come out of that house again.”

“Are you telling me there was no sacrifice?” Bartholomew asked with barely concealed derision.  He was becoming irritated again.  “Tell me, how can the trees do such a thing without a sacrifice?  There is always a sacrifice.”

The men all looked at one another with surprise.  Then they thought for a moment before the room exploded in a fury of yelling and cursing. 

“Yes, yes I believe there was a sacrifice,” one of the men began.  Then he belched and reached for his drink.  “I think it was the devil . . .”

Bartholomew had heard enough for one day.  Now he was getting angry.  He left the tavern and jumped up on his horse.  He was just about to ride away when a voice stopped him.

“Wait,” said a very old man that suddenly appeared beside him though Bartholomew did not recognize him from the tavern.  The man motioned with his finger that Bartholomew was supposed to come closer.  “Go to the House of Keys,” he said.  “Ask them about Kelly Bournam.  Ask them to tell you what happened to Kelly Bournam.  Tell them to look in their books and tell you what happened to that poor child.”

“Can you tell me?” Bartholomew asked.

“I could, but you wouldn’t believe me.  Go to the House of Keys, Bartholomew.  Ask them about it.”  And then he turned and walked away slowly.

Bartholomew rode to Castle Rushen to petition the Keys.  The 24 Keys were not in session on this day.  Bartholomew was able to talk to a member however.  Captain Edward Christian received him in a small antechamber.  Tea was served because Prince Bartholomew was a dignitary and was always treated with respect by the Keys.  Bartholomew wasted no time in declaring the reason for his visit.

“You want to know about Kelly Bournam, is that right?” said the Captain.  “This is most unusual, you do understand.”

Bartholomew nodded.  He had gone too far to turn back now.  “Can you just look it up in the records?” he said. 

“In which records would that be?” the Captain replied. 

“Death records,” said Bartholomew.  “She did die, did she not?”

Edward Christian left the room to find the records while Bartholomew waited.  Almost an hour passed while he paced back and forth and regretted his damnable curiosity.  Then Edward Christian returned with a book under his arm.  He looked frustrated and his face was moist from perspiration.  He dropped the book on to a table like a man dropping a heavy load.

“Do you want to tell me what this is about?” he said brusquely all the while trying to hide his growing anger.

Bartholomew looked questioningly for he didn’t know what to expect, but he did not expect derision.  “I was told to ask about this person,” he said.  “I don’t know who the man was.”

Edward Christian sat down on a red divan facing the Prince.  “It seems that you have indeed dredged up a name from long ago, a name best forgotten I should think.”

Bartholomew looked on quizzically but said nothing.  Edward Christian continued.

“A rather curious entry indeed.  I shall read it in its entirety.”  And then he read the document carefully.

Kelly F. Bournam, maiden name unknown, born September 12, 1416

Married June 10, 1433 to Ambert P. Bournam

Died June 17, 1438

Cause of death: Extreme old age. 

The body was examined by Thomas Watten.  His report contained the following notes:  Plague-like sores, festering open wounds, signs of apoplexy.  Strange marks covereing her body, indicating possible possession by the Devil or consorts of the Devil.  Due to the shrunken, twisted limbs and emaciated condition of the corpse, nothing further could be learned.  The deceased is survived by her husband who is currently lost at sea and unavailable for purposes of identification.

Bournam House, the family estate survives in perpetuity through escrow accounts administered by Hermeodotous, Bradda Head.  Port Erin.  The body was given to Hermeodotous for special burial services contained in her will.

Note: Kelly Bournam was found mysteriously, unclothed on her doorstep between two gigantic Rowan trees which framed her door.  No explanation could be ascertained.

When he was finished reading, he waited for Bartholomew to say something.  He waited patiently, but the Prince was lost in thought.

“Is this what you were looking for?” he asked.  “It sounds like the poor girl did indeed have a terrible life . . . the little of it she lived that is.”

Bartholomew rode back to Ballasalla feeling uneasy.  He spent some time shooting arrows to take his mind off the growing realization that was trying to surface.  Later that day he went for a music lesson at the home of his music teacher.  They exchanged a cordial handshake which was customary for Bartholomew, and then they sat down to play a duet together.  Nothing more than a practice etude used for the purpose of instruction, the piece was fairly simple and allowed the musician the opportunity for ornate flourishes.  The etude was traditional, a fragment from an old folksong that Bartholomew had played many times.  But his mind would not allow him to concentrate to come to the place his music teacher was trying to lead him, it just seemed dry and pointless.  When they stopped to compare a discrepancy in the sheet music they were reading, Bartholomew asked Gustav Wilhelm.

“This music is old, Herr Wilhelm.  Is all music about holding on to the past?”

“Quite the contrary Bartholomew, you misunderstand me.  Music is about bringing the past into the present and making it relevant once more with a new generation.  One should never dismiss the past so easily, my friend.  But tell me, does this music sound old to your ears?”

“Pardon me, Herr Wilhelm, but this music sounds dead.”

Gustav laughed warmly and brushed aside Bartholomew’s impertinent remark.  He liked the young Prince and he was aware of his willfulness.

“It is not proper for a young man to think so keenly about death,” said the Music Master.  “The deeper you contemplate death, the closer it comes.  Believe me Bartholomew.  It is far better to think about life.”

“Does death seek us out then?” asked Bartholomew.  “Should we hide from death that it not find us?”

“Hold on, dear Bartholomew!” the Music Master broke in.  “What has come over you today?  Death is not a thing.  Death is not a thing like life, but the gradual giving back of what one has taken.  When we immortalize our beautiful thoughts with music, we are helping to sustain that . . . which is life.  The study of music is not meant to resurrect the past, my friend.  It is to honor the past.”

“But tell me,” said Bartholomew with feverish intensity.  “If we can hold on to life hard enough, if we can find a way to capture the essence of that which is life, can we escape death?”

“I am a music teacher,” said Gustav Wilhelm nervously.  “What you are asking me should more properly be asked of a man of God.  These thoughts are not thoughts that can bring you answers, Bartholomew.  These thoughts will only harm you.  I suggest you study the music of life and leave the music of death to the angels.”

Bartholomew went to his room and waited for tea to be brought.  He went to the window and opened the shutters.  Standing at the window his mind wandered and became lost in abstraction.  Alone in his room he felt small while the entire world was present just outside his window.  It was there, and it would be there when he was gone and turned to dust.  What purpose could it serve to know the world?  There was so much to know, so much to learn about the world, but even then, it was impossible to know more than a pencil sketch of a few things . . . that was all.  A soft knock at the door broke the spell that he had surrendered to.  It was the young servant Iona, bringing his tea.

“Thank you Iona,” he said.

She nodded and turned to leave.  Bartholomew started to close his door, but then he stopped.

“Iona!” he said as she was already walking away.

She stopped and turned around.  “Yes,” she replied.  “Is there something else you want, Bartholomew?”

Bartholomew stepped into the hall.  He didn’t really know what he wanted to say.  His overzealousness had caused him to leap before he knew what he was doing.  Embarrassed by his own foolishness and afraid he would frighten the poor girl, he tried to turn his back on her.

“Are you all right, Bartholomew?”

And then he asked.  “Would you want to live forever, Iona?  Tell me true.”

“No,” she said with a smile.  “I would not like that at all.  Is that what you wanted to ask me, Bartholomew?  Such a strange question for a man like you to ask.”  And then she giggled again and had to control her laughter lest the Prince think she was making fun of him.

Bartholomew beseeched her.  “But if you did, Iona.  Think about if you did.  You could be beautiful forever . . .”

Iona gasped.  She was surprised at her Prince, but his flattery was unintended so she had to forgive him.  She could see that the Prince was upset about something and needed to be alone, for this was another one of his moods.

“The world can only have so much beauty,” she said modestly.  “Ugliness teaches us to admire the beautiful things in our world for they are fleeting indeed I should think.  True beauty does not perish at the end of life, Bartholomew.  I would want to see all the wonderful things that are to come, for this world will go along just fine without me.  To live forever would be a curse.”  Then she smiled respectively and went on her way leaving Bartholomew alone in the hallway.

‘Alas,’ she was probably right thought Bartholomew.  ‘Why do I waste my time with such drivel?’  He drank his tea quietly.  Then he went to bed and found his dreams to be comforting, but near morning he was woken by the song of a bird.  And when he woke up, he had a new thought.  After eating a large breakfast he went to the stable and saddled his horse for a long ride.  He packed some food and a few bottles of beer in his saddle bags.  Then he rode to Port Erin to find this man named Hermeodotous.

The house sat alone on top of a high seaside cliff overlooking crashing waves and nesting peregrine falcons of Port Erin Bay.  A narrow path, or what had once been the remnants of a narrow path, led up to the large stone house.  Perhaps no one had used this path for many years thought Bartholomew curiously.  Walking his horse carefully over the uneven and rock-strewn path leading to the cottage he wondered what sort of man he would find.  After checking at several shops along the way he had finally found someone that knew the man of which he spoke.  The owner of a pub in the harbor where Bartholomew had stopped to ask directions knew of the man he sought.  He opened the door to his pub and went outside motioning for Bartholomew to follow.  Then he pointed to the top of the cliff at Bradda Head across the bay. 

“There it is,” he said.  “Hermeodotous lives in that there cottage.”

Bartholomew gave the man a coin and turned to leave.  He mounted his horse and prepared to leave.

“If you want my advice,” the man suddenly said as if the idea had only just occurred to him.  “If you want my advice, you will not go there.”

“Why not?” Bartholomew asked.  “You just pointed it out to me.  Why did you show me where it was if you didn’t want me to go there?”

“You look decent enough,” the man said finally as he clutched his pipe in his large hand.  “Something strange about that house,” he said.  “I wouldn’t go there alone.”

Bartholomew looked down from his horse.  He waited for the man to continue, wondering if it was worth his time to stay and listen.  After several moments passed without a word, he finally decided that the man possibly knew something about it.

“Can you tell me why?” he asked.  “If there is something you can tell me about that house I would welcome whatever it was.”

“No one has ever seen him,” he said cautiously.  “Not a soul has seen his face or heard his voice, and that’s a fact.  Some folk are strange in their own way.  This one is a mystery.  Ain’t no sheep on those slopes.  No chickens either.  He don’t grow nothing they say.  He don’t needs to grow nothing.  I’m asking you then, what does he eat?”

“How do you know he is there?” said Bartholomew.  “If no one has ever seen him, how do you know he is there?”

“Unholy business,” said the innkeeper, “Tis unholy business.  At night is when he comes to life.  At night is when he moves around, and you can see them.  Lights shooting from his windows like slippery lightning I tell you, slippery lightning.”

Bartholomew remembered those words as he rode up to the olden stone cottage on the cliff.  The two-story house was very tall and compact.  The construction was aged pepper-stone fitted and mortared in the old way.  Gothic arched windows protruded from the house and were in stark relief to the moldering stone walls that dripped with salty dampness brought in from the sea.  The tall gambrel roof was pitched sharp as a needle and small dormers protruded like peeping afterthoughts and made the house look dangerous and sinister.  In front of the house was a circular driveway that came up to the entrance under a canopy with Ionic columns to support such a large structure.  The flagstones were in disrepair and weeds had cracked and overtaken the careful symmetry, leaving only irregular stones in its place.  Jumping off his horse, he tied the reins to a column and went up to the door.  A large brass knocker was attached to the oaken door.  Feeling the coolness of the metal, Bartholomew gave a loud knock and waited to be admitted.

After several minutes it was clear that no one was coming to answer his persistent knocking.  He turned and looked around to see if there was any evidence of habitation.  Not a sign showed the smallest evidence that anyone had ever lived in the silent house.  Bartholomew decided to walk around the back of the house to see if there was anything of interest to him there.  Between the house and the cliff where a steady wind came up from the sea was a small patio area surrounded by hearty trees that acted like a canopy and shielded the center around which a table and chairs were positioned.  Then Bartholomew noticed that there was a man sitting at the table.  He was looking in the direction of Bartholomew as if he had been waiting for him the entire time.  Dressed elegantly in black doublet over a white shirt with puffs and a white ruff collar that surrounded his head with fiery points of red jewels, he looked aristocratic and daunting.  He sat with his legs crossed, revealing bright red hose and black pantofles with a silver buckle and a red rose covering his feet.  A thick, black belt around his waist held a scabbard and sword and a leather purse.  He had a narrow, Flemish face with a short, well-groomed goatee, hollow cheeks slightly blushed, and wavy black hair that fell about his shoulder.  He was looking intently at Bartholomew as he approached cautiously.

“Welcome to my home,” said the mysterious man.  “I have been waiting for you.”

Bartholomew bowed respectfully in deference to the man in his own home, as was his custom.  “My name is Prince Bartholomew,” he said.  “Pardon my intrusion, but I was merely trying to see if someone still lived in this house.  You are . . .”

“Lord Hermeodotous,” the man said proudly.  “I am the lord of this estate.”  Then he waited for Bartholomew to resume speaking.  When he did not, Hermeodotous said.  “You are surprised to see me.  I can tell by your expression that you did not expect to find me.”

“I have heard that you are . . . a very private person,” Bartholomew said.  “It is said that you are very reclusive, so you can imagine my shock when I should find you at home on the very first visit.”

“Do not explain,” he said with a casual wave of his elegant hand.  “I have my reasons for remaining private, and the remoteness of my house perhaps helps me to exaggerate my own uniqueness.”

Bartholomew saw that on his hand was the most exquisite ring he had ever seen.  The ruby was strikingly polished and fairly radiated with brilliance.  His eyes were drawn to it.

“It is a family heirloom,” said Hermeodotous.  “I have known many jewelers in my time.  But tell me, Bartholomew, what brings you to my home?”

Bartholomew didn’t really know how to begin.  He never really expected to talk with Hermeodotous.  In truth, he didn’t even expect that there was such a man.

“I saw your name in the death registry for Kelly Bournam,” said Bartholomew.  “You are Hermeodotous, are you not?”

“Yes, I am,” he answered with a smile. 

Bartholomew looked annoyed.  “But how can that be?” he asked.  “The reference was to a man that lived in 1438.  How old are you?”

Hermeodotous laughed.  “Do you think I am a wizard, Bartholomew?  Look at me young man.  Do I look old to you?  You must understand . . . I am Hermeodotous VI.”

“Of course,” Bartholomew agreed.  “The death certificate said that the Bournam House of Castletown would remain in perpetuity, and that the executor would maintain the estate in all matters.”

“That is true,” said Hermeodotous.  “I am the executor.”

“And yet you conduct all your business from this house?”

“Yes I do.  I like my privacy, as you can see.”

“This is none of my business,” said Bartholomew as politely as possible.  “But do you know anything about the history of the Bournam House?”

“Tell me what you would like to know, Bartholomew.  I know everything about the house.”

“I’m interested in the door, Lord Hermeodotous.  What can you tell me about the door?”

“Ah, yes the door.  It is an exquisite door indeed.  Solid wood, carved from between two magnificent trees.  The door is remarkable indeed.”

“And the trees?” Bartholomew asked with growing interest.

“Rowan trees,” Hermeodotous answered casually.  “I should think that you would know that.  I do not know just what you are asking.”

“I’m talking about magic,” Bartholomew announced suddenly.  “I’m talking about black magic.”

Hermeodotous raised an eyebrow.  He cocked his head and looked at the Prince thoughtfully for the first time.  His gaze was penetrating.

“Bournam had a wife, a young wife,” Bartholomew continued.  “By all accounts, she was a dazzling beauty.  She died horribly, Hermeodotous.  She died of old age, and if her death certificate is accurate, she was hideously deformed.  There is a contradiction here.  Do you know what could have happened to her?”

“I was not there,” said Hermeodotous with a lack of concern.  “Remember Bartholomew, I am Hermeodotous VI.  But you must have a reason for coming here.  Surely you would know that I could not possibly know the answer to your questions.”

“Yes, of course.  But tell me Hermeodotous, why is this house being maintained in such a fashion?  Why do you not sell it?”

Hermeodotous smiled and even tried to conceal a snigger.  “So Prince Bartholomew,” he said.  “The truth comes out at last.  You think that the black magic you referred to is coming from me.  Is that correct?”

Bartholomew gasped and backed away like he had been blown by a powerful wind.  Hermeodotous continued to speak.

“You have brought your suspicions to my door.  You have brought your suspicions and you have implicated me.  I say, you are a very resolute man, Bartholomew.”

“There is something evil about that door,” Bartholomew said almost like a plea.  “I cannot rest until I find out what it is.”

“And if you do find out, what then?  What happens when you determine that it is not evil?”

“Corruption of nature cannot but be evil.”

“Is it evil to live forever, Bartholomew?  Tell me then, if our soul be immortal, why not our body?  And if our body should perish . . .  are we the more noble by the act of dying?”

Bartholomew stared at Hermeodotous with a growing understanding.  The more he spoke, the more certain Bartholomew became of his suspicion.  An understanding was beginning to develop between the two men, an understanding that was implied, not spoken.  Bartholomew feared to say the words that would verify his suspicion, so he only looked around the edges.  Hermeodotous decided to penetrate Bartholomew’s thoughts and find out where they were focused.

“What if I told you there was no reason to die, Bartholomew?  What if I told you that dying served no purpose?  Tell me then, would you consider me a necromancer?”

“How old are you?  How old are you really?” said Bartholomew through tightening lips.

Hermeodotous laughed out loud and looked at Bartholomew with knowing eyes.  “There is only one Hermeodotous,” he said.  “But why do you look so pale, Bartholomew.  You suspected me all along, did you not?”

“What are you?” Bartholomew said apprehensively.  “Are you a wizard?”

“You could call me a wizard if that would help you to understand.  That is a name that has been used to scare people.  Yes, some would call me wise, but I do not like the word wizard.”

“Are you not afraid to admit such a thing to me?”

“Tell me, why should I be afraid, Bartholomew?  I have not told you a thing yet.  Anyone can claim to be a wizard, and there is nothing unlawful about that.”

Bartholomew threw his hands in the air.  “Then what?” he said.

Hermeodotous rose from his chair.  He walked to the edge of the garden and looked out to sea.  The warm air blew through his hair and made him look absolutely wild.  Like the air itself, he seemed to waver like something airy, incorporeal.  He spoke into the open air as if Bartholomew was not standing beside him.

“I am a member of a society, Bartholomew,” he said didactically.  “I am a member of a very secret association of men such as myself.  I tell you this because as you know, there are many secret societies abroad and I am not revealing anything by telling you this.  Ours is a very old tradition, Bartholomew, much older than you can imagine.”

“And the Bournam House is connected to this society.  Is that what you are saying, Hermeodotous?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes,” he said sternly.  “You see, the society of which I am a member, have come to identify qualities of nature that go unnoticed except during the most extraordinary circumstances, such as during a thunderstorm or an astral alignment.  This is what we do.  We are men of learning foremost and we have made some startling connections between the physical world, and the non-physical world.  Do you follow me?”

“The non-physical world?” Bartholomew repeated suspiciously.  “Are you a neo-Platonist then, Hermeodotous?”

“Oh yes, Plato’s world of forms,” Hermeodotous answered with a smile.  “That is a very good guess, Bartholomew.  I see that you are a man of learning as well.  For Plato, this world of forms was a mathematical abstraction, real, but only insofar as the rational mind that could advance an explanation.  Plato believed in perfect forms, believing everything else to be but an imitation.  But for the members of my society it is more real than the ground on which you stand.  Would you like to see it?”

Bartholomew was becoming more and more uncomfortable.  Perhaps he had made a mistake in coming alone.  He found himself face to face with something that frightened him.  He spoke cautiously.

“Is that door part of all this?” he asked carefully.

“It is,” Hermeodotous answered.  “Do you want to know what lives behind that door, Bartholomew?  Would you like to see it?”

Bartholomew stared but was silenced by a revulsion that was rising up within his mind.

“Come Bartholomew, where is your sense of adventure?  This is a secret that I know you would appreciate.  Has your curiosity, the very same curiosity that has brought you to my door, suddenly become sated?”

“What is behind that door?” Bartholomew finally said. 

“Why don’t you find out, Bartholomew.  I don’t think the door is even locked.  Go and find out.”

Later that night when Bartholomew lay in bed thinking about his conversation with Hermeodotous, he was haunted by an uneasy feeling that something bad was going to happen to him.  He had discovered a secret that perhaps should never have been uncovered.  The room was dark.  It was late into the night and the servants had gone to bed hours ago.  The sound of the wind outside his window was getting louder though he wasn’t expecting a storm during the night.  Bartholomew knew that sorcery was practiced on the island, but he never expected to confront it directly.  Magic was a part of the history of the island and it was present in almost all of the lore that was known and taught to eager children.  He turned over in bed and faced the window.  Faint starlight peeped in from outside.  Suddenly he noticed something that he had been listening to for a long time but had only just crept into his consciousness.  The wind was making a particular sound, a sound that seemed to whisper to him.  It was whispering his name.  He held his breath to be certain it was not the faint beating of his own heart, but there it was again.  He pulled the covers up to the top of his head to block out the sound and that is how he fell into a fitful sleep.

Bartholomew was woken during the night by the sound of furious knocking on his bedchamber door.  The knocking was persistent and anxious.  Scurrying to the door as fast as possible he opened it.  His servant Sorren stood there in his nightshirt.  His eyes were dazed and bloodshot and Bartholomew could see that he was distraught.

“What is it, Sorren?” he asked.

The poor man was shaking.  He could speak only with great difficulty.  Reaching out imploringly he said.

“There is something in the castle, sir.  Something is here.”

“Calm yourself and tell me what you are talking about,” said Bartholomew reassuringly. 

“There is a wind loose in the castle, a terrible wind sir.  I felt it only a moment ago, yes I did.”

Bartholomew opened the door wide and motioned for Sorren to enter.  “Come in here and tell me what you are talking about,” he said.  “Now then, tell me about this wind.  When did you see it, and tell me where you were.”

Sorren was a servant but he was also a friend to Bartholomew.  The two of them had hunted together and Bartholomew had taught Sorren how to read.  He knew that Sorren was no coward, so whatever it was that had spooked him was something to be taken seriously.

“I didn’t see it, sir.  I felt it just a few moments ago while I was up in the north tower.  That is where I felt it.”

“What were you doing in the north tower, Sorren?”

Sorren started to answer, but he was so nervous that his words sounded incoherent and jumbled.  He tried to speak.

“. . . I was just . . .”

“Never mind,” said Bartholomew.  “I do not need to know what you were doing.  That is your business.  But tell me about the wind.  Tell me truthfully, for you have nothing to fear from me.”

“I was in the tower,” he began.  “I had a candle with me to see through the darkness.  Suddenly I feels a gentle wind, a wind like the breath of a baby, in my face.  That is when my candle begins to waver and I thought it would go out.”

“As you know Sorren, there are drafts in the castle and sometimes the wind blows with such great force . . .”

“It was not that kind of a wind, sir.  This wind was unnatural.  I stood still and did not move, but it was the wind that moved all around me and I can all the time feel a gentle touch of air surrounding my body and prickling my skin.”

“And then you came running here, is that right, Sorren?”

“No sir,” he replied.  “In truth I was too scared to move, so I just hided myself in the darkness and cupped my hands around the candle.”

“And then, what then Sorren?”

“That’s when I saw the vapor, sir.”

“The vapor?  Speak up Sorren!  What vapor?”

“I knows magic when I see it, sir.  This was magic, bad magic.”

Bartholomew was getting frustrated with having to drag everything out of the man with such an effort.  “Tell me about it, Sorren.  I need to know everything you can remember.”

“It was green like the color of trees in the springtime.  There it was, but there was a hidden fire inside and the edges, they glowed like swamp light.  I watched it move and it moved along the floor slowly, changing shape and shifting direction like it was looking for something.”

“Or someone?” said Bartholomew.

Sorren looked down in shame.  “I hid from it,” he said.  “I escaped and then I came here to tell you.”

“You’re safe,” Bartholomew assured the frightened man.  “It was looking for me, not you.  Sorren, tell me now, where did it go?”

“I looked.  It turned to smoke, Bartholomew.  Then it was gone, disappeared into the air.  It disappeared right into the air.”

“Go back to bed now, Sorren.  You’re safe now my friend.”

Sorren relaxed now that Bartholomew had taken charge.  “What are you going to do, sir?” he asked.

“I’m going to the north tower,” said Bartholomew with purpose.  “I’ll get to the truth of this, Sorren.  Of that you can be sure.”  Then he smiled reassuringly to Sorren and whisked out of the room.

The north tower is a circular tower gained by climbing a long, circular staircase.  The stairwell is narrow, little more than a tunnel carved through thick stone as it ascends toward the topmost chamber.  Torches were fastened to the walls but were seldom lit, for the tower was never used but for secret, private purposes known only to God.

Bartholomew slowly ascended the narrow staircase.  He carried a candle in his hand, and in his other hand he held a dagger lest he be surprised and suddenly overtaken.  His heart was racing.  Now he knew that he had penetrated too far into the mystical world and that it was brought upon him by his strange obsession with The Witchwood Door.  He could not think about that now however, not until the specter was expelled from his home.  The faint light from his candle made his own face glow eerily in the darkness, and now he was himself a ghost, a ghost chasing a ghost.

At the top of the tower is a chamber.  Bartholomew entered the chamber and found that it was empty.  There were windows facing out from the castle.  Bartholomew saw that they were closed.  He went to a table and set down the candle.  On the table was a book.  Sorren must have left it behind.  Bartholomew picked up the book and opened it.  Now he knew what Sorren was doing up here and why he was reticent.  It was not a written book, but a book being written.  It was a book of poetry that Sorren was writing.  Bartholomew put the book on the table.  No, he would not intrude upon the secret thoughts of his friend and loyal servant. 

Bartholomew walked around the tower.  “Show yourself,” he said out loud.  “Do you expect me to wait for you now?”

And then he noticed movement near the window.  At first it was amorphous, a wavering fog left over near dawn, but slowly it began to congeal into something solid, something dense.  As expected, the form slowly turned into the form of a man, and in a few moments Hermeodotous stood before him.  Though his body looked solid, it had a quality of airiness and seemed to be merged with two alternate worlds at the same time.  Bartholomew’s fear and apprehension now turned to anger.

“What do you want?” he said angrily.  “You have scared my servant half to death.”

“But I see that you are not frightened,” Hermeodotous responded.  “That is good.  I see that you are a very special man, Bartholomew.”

“Do you think that you could harm me in my own home, Hermeodotous?”

“There is much I could do,” he said.  “But the real reason I am here is to make you an offer.”

“You travel in strange ways, Hermeodotous.”

“Count Bournam would like to meet you, Bartholomew.  He has invited you to his home, and I am here to extend that offer to you.”

“Has Count Bournam risen from the dead?” Bartholomew said derisively. 

“I asked you before if you wanted to know what was behind the door that so interested you, Bartholomew.  But as you will remember, you chose not to answer.”

“If Count Bournam is alive, tell me, why did he not come here himself?”

“The Count does not like to leave his home,” said Hermeodotous.  “He prefers the hearth to the heath in truth.  Now then, will you come?”

“I will not,” said Bartholomew.  “Your magic does not interest me.  Take it away and come to me no more.”

“Are you not tempted, Bartholomew?  There are things for you to learn that would certainly be irresistible to you.  Would you like to travel the way I do?”

“In the name of Christ, I ask you to depart from this castle now!”

Hermeodotous laughed.  “I am not a demon,” he said.  “There is no reason to evoke the name of the Lord.  You ask me to leave, therefore I will leave.  But remember, Bartholomew.  Now that you have this knowledge, you can no longer be safe.”

“What does that mean?” demanded Bartholomew.  But the shape of Hermeodotous had already dissolved into the empty night air.

 Bartholomew could not sleep the rest of that night, and all the next day he paced his room trying to decide what to do.  He knew that he could never be free from this menace and that he would constantly be haunted with new fears and apprehensions.  For the first time he began to consider the possibility that what Hermeodotous said was really true.  An involuntary shiver went through his body.  Then his decision was easy and he started to make preparations.

A dog barked nervously as a large cloud passed over the moon.  Bartholomew crouched down in the darkness and opened the shutter on his lamp enough to see through the almost pitch blackness.  He waited behind a tree just outside the Bournam House.  Even in darkness he could sense the evilness of this house as if an atmosphere of doom surrounded the very space itself.  Taking a few deep breaths to steady his nerves he went slowly up to the door.  Come what may, tonight he was to be finished with this wretched house.  The darkness made what he was about to do easier as his invisibility somehow justified his intrusion.  Just a faint beam of light guided his footsteps to the door.  He set down the lamp and reached for the knob.  It felt cold to the touch.  Slowly he turned the knob until he felt a soft click.  The door was not locked! 

Suddenly he was overcome by such a wave a nausea he nearly collapsed.  The feeling of terror was visceral, and like a knot in his stomach twisting tighter and tighter he nearly doubled over in pain.  No, he could not enter the house. He had not the strength to push the door further.  Then his vision faltered and the door seemed to spin.  He took his hand off the door and stepped back.  Then, reaching for the lamp, he turned the flame as high as it would go.  Finally he did what he had come to do, and with a sudden calculated movement he smashed the lamp into the door.  It erupted into flames.  Bartholomew was blown backward by the intense burst of heat and fell to the ground.  

The Witchwood Door burned.  Bartholomew knew he should run, but his eyes were transfixed and he watched it burn without the power to look away.  The flame engulfed the door like liquid, becoming watery and unstable as the flames snapped and licked at the night air like jaws.  Bartholomew thought that the flame resembled the outline of a man.  He feared for what he had done.  Crawling away on his hands and knees he tried to escape the burning door.  When he was almost to the street he looked back once more.  He watched as the flames died, or by some power had become absorbed into the door and finally were extinguished.  He turned his back on The Witchwood Door and did not look back.  When the last flicker of fire was extinguished, the cloud passed to the other side of the moon.  Moonlight pierced the night sky and came to land on the smoldering door.

Prince Bartholomew came once again to the stone house on the cliff and reined his horse.  As before, there was no sign of life.  He knocked at the door for several minutes before walking once again to the little patio in back of the house.  Sitting down at the stone table he waited.  The wind blew dead leaves about and they settled on the table.  Bartholomew could not understand the veritable feeling of decay that rose up within him, and he shuddered.  Then he heard a voice.  It was the voice of Hermeodotous, but it was thin and weak.

“Congratulations to you Bartholomew, you have destroyed me.”

Bartholomew turned his head, and there he was.  The change was astonishing.  Though he still wore the same clothes as before, now they seemed worn, frayed, and served only to hide but not to ornament his once beautiful body.  And now his acute, Flemish face was emaciated and ugly, burned almost beyond recognition.  His body was shrunken and his skin was transparent, revealing swollen blue veins like thorns tracing his hands and face.  His hair was completely white.  He staggered toward Bartholomew and Bartholomew’s eyes were drawn once again to the brilliant ruby ring.

“Have you come in good will to wish me farewell?” said Hermeodotous.  “Do you like what you see?”

Suddenly Bartholomew felt a surge of remorse, and just for a moment he regretted what he had done.  He spoke quietly, and with growing sympathy.

“No one should live forever, Hermeodotous.”

“How long have you known the truth?” Hermeodotous asked.  He sat down next to Bartholomew, but to the Prince he was but a wisp of smoke.

“You forgot something,” said Bartholomew uneasily.  “You forgot to bury yourself.  Where are they interred?  You forgot to bury your ancestors, Hermeodotous . . . Count Bournam.”

Count Bournam laughed and his fragile body nearly collapsed.  “Yes, yes indeed Bartholomew.”

“Why did you invent such an elaborate illusion?” Bartholomew asked. 

“The illusion extends further than you know, Bartholomew.  But let us part as friends, for in truth I have no desire to kill you after what you have done to me.  Soon I will be gone and the world will forget about me.  In truth, I am weary of eternity.”

Still Bartholomew was uneasy.  He was not satisfied.  “What happened to your wife, Count Bournam?” he asked.  “I will not rest until I know the truth.”

“You would not want to know the truth,” Count Bournam replied pointedly.  “Some things are better left unknown.”

“I will not let this stand,” said Prince Bartholomew defiantly.

But even as he spoke the image of Count Bournam began to fade.  In a moment he was gone, leaving the Prince alone with a gnawing desire to know the truth.

The Prince rode to Castletown as fast as possible for it was getting late.  Dismounting his horse in front of the Bournam House he went to the door and pounded.  No one answered.  He pounded again, but this time instead of waiting he kicked the door with a tremendous blow until it gave in, and then he entered.  Once inside, he closed the door behind him and went forward.

He took a step and then he stopped and listened.  It was quiet, too quiet he thought, deathly quiet.  The shadows were lengthening for the sun was setting fast.  Dull splinters of light pierced through the drawn curtains and illuminated the fine particles of dust stirred up by the Prince’s intrusion.  Everywhere the furniture was covered with oilcloth.  The house was deserted.  Thinking that he had made another mistake he turned to leave, but he had a queer feeling that he was being watched and he continued his investigation.  He stepped through the great-room into an anteroom and stopped.  On the floor before him two corpses lay in a thick layer of dust.

Faces down, the corpses were lying close together as if death had come suddenly and swiftly.  Prince Bartholomew stood over the ghastly finding and like a tableau in death, he could not help but think he was seeing something planned, something arranged.  Carefully he put his boot on one of the corpses and turned it over.  He was shocked to find that it was a woman.  He knelt down next to the corpse to get a closer look.  The face was mummified with thin, translucent skin drawn taught over dissolving bone.  He shuddered.  Then he heard a footstep.

“Do you like what you see, Prince?”

Prince Bartholomew stood up and faced Count Bournam who watched him through the archway.  Bartholomew looked at the second corpse and then at Count Bournam.

“That presumably is you,” he said.    “Is this a proper burial, Count?”

“Look carefully at me,” said the Count.  “Do you like what you see?”

Prince Bartholomew looked but said nothing.

“Now, turn and behold my wife, Kelly Bournam.”  The Count pointed his finger like a specter.  “Turn Bartholomew, turn and face my wife.”

Slowly the Prince turned around.  At first he saw nothing until the voice of the Count said: “Come my dear.”

And then into the waning light Kelly Bournam stepped into the room.  Her beauty was overwhelming and unnatural.  The Prince gasped audibly. 

“Do you like what you see, Bartholomew?”

She was unclothed and seemed to glide into the room like an angelic apparition.  Such perfection, such heart renting perfection the Prince could not have imagined.  She wafted through the room within a glorious nakedness that was proud, unashamed.  A tear formed in the eye of the Prince for had never beheld such utter beauty.  Kelly Bournam danced and gently pirouetted through the waning gloom and the Prince stood captured in her strange aura.”

“Does she look dead to you?” said Count Bournam.  “Now, turn and look at me!” he demanded.  “Look what you have wrought.”

Prince Bartholomew tore his eyes away from the beautiful apparition of Kelly Bournam and faced the Count.  His ugliness was even more striking now.

“Tell me, Prince . . . is it evil to want to live forever with this?” and he pointed to his beautiful wife with his once elegant hand.

The Prince once again drank in the splendor of the beautiful Kelly Bournam and his heart ached for her.

“Now, look at me again, Bartholomew.  See what you have done.  Look at me and see the evil you have caused.  See me as my beautiful wife now sees me.  I have hurt no one in this life, of that I give you my word.  The evil here has been committed by you.”

Prince Bartholomew’s head fell down in shame, for he knew that the Count spoke the truth.

“Yes, I am a wizard if you would prefer to use that word.  But now you have destroyed me Bartholomew, as you have destroyed my wife.  To make up for this evil you will do as I order . . . you will kill my wife and me.”

“No, I will not do that,” the Prince said through clenched teeth.

“You will,” the Count insisted.  “When you have considered what you have done, you will do as I ask, of that I am certain.  But this time finish the job that you started.  It is not the door, Bartholomew.  No, the life is in the trees.  I saved our spirit in the trees outside of this house.  When you kill the trees you will release us from this agony.”

“No, no, no . . .” the Prince continued to say.

“You must poison two large nails with the essence of the deadly nightshade.  When the moon is high you must drive the nails into the trees.  Only then will we be released.  You must make this sacrifice.  This you must do.”