And straightaway I am back in the ruinous chamber in Mortlake Castle. But this time I am only an invisible witness to the events there, not John Dee himself any more.
And I see my ancestor, or the larva that for eighty-four years bore his name: Doctor John Dee, Lord of the Manor of Gladhill, upright in his armchair at the brick hearth, his blank gaze turned to the East, as one who has centuries of time for waiting. I see the dawn break once more over the rotten planks of the makeshift roof of this once noble seat. I see the first rays of the morning sun flit over the face which does not really look dead, but seems to be listening for something, leant back in the chair with the breeze playing in his silver locks. It seems to me that I can sense an alertness, that I can see hope, can see life in the blank gaze of the old man; and I am sure I hear a sigh of release from the sunken breast. – Who could say I was deceiving myself?
All at once there are four figures standing in the wretched hovel. I sensed rather than saw them emerge through the walls, each from a different point of the compass. They are tall, almost too tall for human beings, there is something unearthly about them. It may be that it is their garments that give them a ghostly look: they are dressed in long, blue-black habits with broad cowls across neck and shoulders. Their faces are hooded. They resemble medieval gravediggers, masked, hidden from view, just as the first stages of bodily corruption are.
They carry a strangely shaped coffin in the form of a cross. It is made of some matt, polished metal; lead or zinc it seems to me.
They lift the dead man out of the chair and lay the corpse out on the ground. They stretch out his arms to make a cross.
Gardner is standing at the dead man’s head.
He is wearing his white linen gown. The golden rose on his breast shines. In his outstretched hand he holds the dagger of the Dees with the spearhead of Hywel Dda, gleaming in the sunlight. Slowly Gardner bends down over the dead man and lays it in John Dee’s open hand. For a moment I seem to see the yellowed fingers tremble and curl around the haft.
Then, all of a sudden, the gigantic figure of Bartlett Greene shoots out of the ground, broad teeth grinning out of a flaming beard.
With a grunt of satisfaction the ghostly captain of the Ravenheads contemplates the corpse of his former cell-mate.
An appraising look, a butcher assessing the value of a carcase.
Every time Greene’s milky-white wall-eye passes over the dead man’s head, he blinks as if dazzled by an irritating light. He ignores the white-gowned adept. Soundlessly – like the speech in dreams – he talks to the dead John Dee – and I feel I am being addressed as well.
“All the waiting over at last, is it, old soldier? You must have waited and hoped the soul out of your body, old fool. Are you all set for your journey to Greenland? Come on, then.”
The dead man does not move. Bartlett Greene kicks roughly with his silver shoe – the flaky crust seems to have become thicker – at the corpse’s legs, which are stretched out straight along the ground. A puzzled look comes over his face.
“No cause to crawl away and hide in the decrepit hovel of this pile of flesh, my dear Sir. Come on, speak up! Where are you?”
“Here I am!” answers Gardner’s voice.
Bartlett Greene gives a start. He pulls himself up sharply to his full, massive height. He is like a watchful bulldog who hears a suspicious noise and looks up, growling:
“Who speaks?”
“I do!” comes the answer from the other side of the body.
“That is not my brother Dee,” snarls Greene. “You did not ask for this doorman to guard your threshold, brother Dee, not you, I know; send him away.”
“What do you want of one you cannot see?”
“I want nothing to do with invisible folk! Go thy way and let us go ours.”
“Very well. Go then!”
“Up you get!” roars Bartlett Greene, shaking the corpse, “up you get in the name of the Lady, to whom we are bound, comrade. Get up, accursed coward! It is no use pretending to be dead when you really are dead, my lovely. The night is over. The dream is ended. It is time for your journey; quick march!” With long, gorilla’s arms the giant bends over the body and tries to lift it from the floor. It does not move. Panting, he bellows at the empty air:
“Leave go, hobgoblin! That is cheating.”
Gardner does not move a muscle, motionless by the corpse’s head:
“Take him. I will not stop you.”
Like one of the beasts of the Apocalypse Greene falls upon the dead man; he cannot lift him.
“The devil take you, man, why are you so heavy? Heavier than damned lead. You must have managed to pile up a greater weight of sin than I would have expected of you! – Right then, up we come!”
But the corpse seems to be rooted in the ground.
“Weighted down with sin, you are, John Dee!” groans the redbeard.
“Weighted down with the rewards of suffering!” comes an echo from the other side of the dead man.
Greene’s face is a greenish hue and distorted with rage:
“Invisible deceiver! Nightmare! Goblin! Get off and I will pick him up with one hand.”
“It is not I that you must blame,” comes the reply, “not I; you have made him so heavy and now you are surprised?”
In Greene’s pale wall-eye there appears a venomous gleam of triumph:
“Then stay where you are till you rot, craven scum! – You’ll come for your cheese soon enough, my little mouse; we have your cheese safe
