“Good God,” said the apparition, bounding to his feet. Fantasy died a-borning; this was no slim, drooping hero of romance, but a very large young man with a sunburned nose and bushy blond eye-brows. An expression of utter panic came over his face as he squinted at her, and Carla realized that with the sun behind her he probably couldn’t see clearly.

  “I’m sorry I startled you,” she said, wondering how many more times she would have to apologize that morning. “I’m Carla Tregellas.”

  She went toward him, giving the leaning stones a wide berth, and reflecting on the fact that in this region her name was sufficient identification to most of the strangers she might meet—not a mere label, but a complete genealogy. It gave her a new and rather pleasant feeling of stability and pattern.

  The large young man jumped clumsily to the ground and extended his hand. His mouth had opened in a wide grin.

  “Of course you are,” he said. “I do beg your pardon for gaping. My name is Tremuan—Simon Tremuan. I was deep in my book, and with the sun making a halo around you, you looked like one of the elf people, sprung up out of the ground.”

  Carla found this pretty flight of fancy hard to reconcile with the round sunburned face and the warm hand that had enveloped hers. She glanced at the book.

  “Cornish Legends,” she read, and laughed a little ruefully. “I’m afraid I’ve had my share of them this morning. But if you are interested in the subject, I can give you a good one.”

  Simon Tremuan grinned more broadly.

  “Don’t tell me, let me guess. Mrs. Pendennis? My poor girl. I had hoped she wouldn’t hit you with that story on your first day here; it really has become an idée fixe with the dear old soul. Oh, now, please don’t look so offended. I assure you she doesn’t babble to the countryside at large. We’re old friends, she and I, and since I am the family doctor, she is inclined to confide in me.”

  “You’re a doctor?” Carla asked, and then made an apologetic gesture. “I didn’t mean to sound surprised.”

  “The village quack,” said Simon cheerfully. “No reason why you shouldn’t be surprised; I’m not really a very good doctor. I fell into it, as you might say. Took over my father’s practice.”

  “But you’re more interested in folklore.”

  “I’m interested in too many things,” was the candid reply. “If you want trivial information on any useless subject, ask me.”

  Carla laughed. “All right, I will. What are these stones?”

  “Lucky you, you’ve struck one of my hobbies. But won’t you take a seat? I am apt to lecture at length.”

  Carla looked helplessly at the stone the doctor indicated. Before she could speak, he had taken her by the waist and lifted her up onto the flat surface. He swung himself up beside her and looked at her complacently.

  “This is the remains of a very fine stone circle,” he explained, with a sweeping gesture. “The stones were all standing originally—that being at some time in the eighteenth century B.C. Only the two largest monoliths have remained upright, but not very upright, as you can see.”

  “You mean this place was like Stonehenge?”

  “Well—something like it. Stonehenge seems to have had something to do with sun worship. It may even have been a kind of astronomical observatory, though I’m skeptical about the grandiose claims that have been advanced for it.”

  “Was it a temple, do you think?”

  “Stonehenge, or this circle? The answer is probably yes to both; though I think archaeologists are rather too prone to claim an object has a religious function when they can’t think of any other purpose for it. Of course Stonehenge is much larger and grander than your monument, but Cornwall has more prehistoric remains than any other part of England—standing stones, pierced stones, monoliths, even a prehistoric village or two.”

  “You do know a lot about the subject,” Carla said admiringly.

  “Not really. I’m much more intrigued by local legends than by archaeological fact. It’s amazing what weird stories our ancestors invented to explain these—to them—mysterious structures. Names such as the Giant’s Punchbowl, the Devil’s Table, the Pixie’s Circle give you some idea of the traditions that have grown up around them. There’s a stone circle near Penzance that is called the Nine Maidens. Supposedly the girls did something frivolous, like dancing on the Sabbath, and were turned to stone as a punishment.”

  “Their God was a terrible person, wasn’t he? To think he would punish people for such trivial sins….”

  Her companion leaned forward and looked into her averted face. The position looked ludicrous, for he was wildly overbalanced; but his expression was quite serious.

  “Does it bother you?”

  Carla didn’t have to ask what he meant.

  “I guess it does,” she said, in surprise. “What kind of doctor are you, a psychiatrist? You’re digging up feelings I didn’t even know I had.”

  “I thought I detected the symptoms of a sudden attack of ancestral consciousness, that’s all. I’ve often wondered what it would be like to be free of all that—rootless, unbound by the past, as you must have been. Then to find yourself suddenly plunged into a tradition that goes back hundreds of years—to be part of that fixed, unalterable pattern…. It wouldn’t be surprising if you were more sensitive to suggestions simply because they are so new to you. You haven’t been immunized by experience.”

  “I was thinking along those same lines just a few minutes ago,” Carla admitted. “But about the advantages rather than the difficulties. It’s rather comforting to feel that you have a place in some larger order of things…. I never thought I’d feel this way. I always prided myself on my independence. But since I got here…Do I—I don’t really look like her, do I?”

  “Lady Caroline?” The answer was slow in coming. “You have the family features, certainly. But, my dear girl, I haven’t seen that old portrait for years. I thought Mrs. Pendennis had banished it to the attic.”

  “She had,” Carla said grimly, and went on to tell him about the housekeeper’s shock at finding the portrait in her room. Simon listened intently, a frown wrinkling his broad forehead; but when she had finished he said lightly,

  “I expect the maid fetched it, to cover a stain on the wall, or something equally harmless. Don’t worry about it. After all—even if the resemblance does exist, such genetic coincidences often occur. There’s nothing supernatural about it.”

  “You’re right. Thanks for the therapy. I guess I’d better be getting back now. I walked out on Mrs. Pendennis while she was telling her ghost story, and she may be wondering where I’ve gone.”

  Simon helped her down, his hands lingering.

  “Could I possibly persuade you to come and have your elevenses with me? The village isn’t far, and we can ring Mrs. Pendennis if you think she will worry about you.” Carla hesitated, and he added persuasively, “You really shouldn’t explore on your own. I could point out some of the dangerous spots.”

  “I assure you, I won’t take chances. I’m not the adventurous type. But,” she added, as his face fell, “I’d love to come.”

  “Wonderful.” He took her arm. “There is one place I must show you. It’s just down here.”

  Carla hung back as he led her toward the end of the promontory.

  “I have a poor head for heights,” she confessed. “Don’t go too near the edge….”

  “I wouldn’t let you fall. Not that there is much danger; this part of the cliff is comparatively stable. I only wanted to show you your private bathing beach.”

  He put his arm around her as she continued to look doubtful, and Carla was glad to lean back into its sturdy strength. The faint path she had observed led straight to the tumbled granite of the cliff, and continued vertically downward, winding back and forth between the rocks in miniaturized switchbacks. Far below, enclosed between curving points of rock, was a small bay and a sweep of shining silver sand. The water was soft jade-green; little waves washed gently onto the sand from the shallows.

  “The path is actually quite safe,” Simon said. “In daylight, at any rate; I wouldn’t risk it after dark if I were you. And if you stay within the bay the water is safe too—no currents, no undertow. Are you a strong swimmer?”

  “Not that strong.”

  “Naturally you mustn’t swim alone. That’s foolish anywhere. But it’s a lovely spot for a bit of private sunbathing. If you are addicted to basking in the altogether, I’ll not approach without giving a loud shout.”

  He grinned down at her, and Carla smiled back.

  “It’s a tempting thought,” she said. “I don’t suppose many people come here.”

  “The place is on your property. I trespass occasionally, and so do a few others, but the villagers prefer the public beach. I won’t say you might not find a pair of lovers now and then….”

  “They’re welcome to it.” Carla turned away from the awesome view. “Don’t worry, I won’t come alone, even to sunbathe. I told you, I am a depressingly practical person.”

  “You don’t look practical.”

  Standing close, still in the circle of his arm, she realized how very big he was. Her head barely reached his shoulder. One of his hands lifted the hair away from her ear and his finger traced its contours with a touch so delicate she scarcely felt it. After a moment he let her go, and said jokingly, “You have pointed ears. I knew you would. Are you sure you aren’t one of the pixies?”

  The hand that took hers, to lead her back from the cliff, was warm but impersonal. Carla wondered if she had imagined the intimacy in the subtle, imaginative caress.

  “I thought pixies were little men with long beards, wearing red hats,” she said.

  “No, no, you’re thinking of brownies or dwarfs. Some authorities think they are related, but I’m convinced that our local pixies are of a different species altogether. They were here from the beginning—before the Romans, before the Celts or even the Phoenicians. They never were quite human; and millennia of savage oppression turned them into something rather dangerous. Their crude stone weapons had no chance against the bronze and iron spears of the newer races, who hunted them like animals. Living underground, they became squat and dark and gnarled—”

  “I thought underground creatures became paler,” Carla interrupted. “Like the blind albino fish in subterranean pools.”

  Her companion threw his head back and roared with laughter.

  “Damn it, young woman, how dare you throw the cold water of biological fact on my poetic fancies? Don’t you believe in fairy tales?”

  “I think you do,” Carla said breathlessly. The doctor’s long legs made it hard to keep up with him. He heard her gasp, and slowed, as they turned onto the road.

  “The main road goes round the other side of the village,” he explained. “This is only a cart track…. Do I believe? No; but I wish I could.”

  They had reached the outlying houses of the village before Carla could think of an appropriate reply to this plaintive comment. The path became a cobbled street, plunging downward at a steep angle. At the bottom she saw the gleam of water and a flotilla of small boats drawn up on the shingle. A squat stone tower lifted up over the roofs.

  “It’s a pretty town,” she said.

  “There’s not much to see: a few shops, the church, an inn—we’re not one of the quaint tourist centers, but we get a certain number of trippers, mostly the young athletic ones with packs on their backs. Ah—good morning, Mrs. Marion. Fine day, isn’t it?”

  The woman he addressed had just come out of her house. Carla suspected that the broom she carried was only an excuse, but her curiosity was not rewarded. The doctor did not stop to introduce Carla. He took her arm as the street became even steeper. Finally they reached a house that was slightly larger than its neighbors.

  “Here we are,” he announced, and sniffed appreciatively as a warm rich smell of baking came from the opening door. “Ah, we’re in luck. Mrs. Chynoweth has made rock cakes.”

  The house was very dark. Carla thought it a pity that there were no large windows, to take advantage of the stunning view toward the bay, but she realized that dwellings exposed to the coastal storms could not afford such luxuries. Her eyes were still adjusting to the change of light when Simon led her through a door on the right of the narrow hall, and raised his voice in a shout.

  “Mrs. Chynoweth! I’m back, and I’ve brought a guest. Fetch out the good china.”

  Carla took a chair and looked curiously around the room. It had two small windows looking out onto the street; they were covered with machine-made lace curtains. The furniture was old and dark—a heavy sofa upholstered in worn maroon plush, two matching chairs flanking the fireplace, and a table covered with books and magazines. The mantel and the glass-fronted cupboards on either side of it were covered with a miscellaneous assortment of bric-a-brac, framed pictures, and shells. Simon seated her in one of the chairs. The other was occupied by a large malevolent-looking tabby cat.

  “That’s Tristan,” Simon explained, waving at the cat, which showed no signs of being moved by the introduction. “Very appropriate name. His amatory and pugilistic habits resemble those of his namesake.”

  “One does think of Tristan as a great lover,” Carla said, amused. “But surely he was also a perfect gentle knight—one of the Round Table types.”

  “You’re thinking of the glamorized Tennyson version,” Simon replied. “The original knights weren’t particularly genteel. Tristan was a Celtic tough guy, his real name was Drustans. He came from these parts, you know. There’s a memorial pillar near Castle Dor with a Latin inscription to Tristan, son of Mark.”

  “Son of Mark? I thought he was his nephew.”

  “He was, in the standard versions of the story. Actually, it makes a better yarn if he was his son, don’t you think? Frightfully Freudian, seducing his father’s young bride, and all that sort of thing.”

  “I don’t know about the Freudian part, but it does make sense,” Carla admitted. “Those tough medieval warriors must have worn out a lot of wives. They married girls of fifteen or sixteen; the girls had no choice in the matter. Married to scarred old men, buried in remote castles—if there was a good-looking young son of a former marriage hanging around, who could blame them for taking advantage of the situation? There were a lot of cuckolded kings in those legends, now that I think of it.”

  “It’s a frequent theme,” Simon agreed. He looked dubiously at Tristan, who was still occupying the only other comfortable chair; and Tristan stared back at him with cold contempt. Simon pulled up a straight chair and sat down. Carla laughed.

  “Chicken,” she said.

  “I wouldn’t disturb him for the world. We exist in an uneasy truce as it is; if I annoyed him, he might turn back into a Celtic knight at the full of the moon, and cut my throat.”

  The door opened and a woman entered, puffing under the weight of a heavy tray. Simon got up to take it from her, and she shook hands with Carla, smiling broadly.

  “This is a pleasure, Miss Tregellas. I had not hoped to see you here so soon. If I had known you were coming I would have cooked something better.” Carla looked speechlessly at the tray, which held enough food for two strong men, and the housekeeper went on proudly, “Fortunately we did have some clotted cream on hand. Mary said as how you were fond of it.”

  Carla responded appropriately; but after the housekeeper had gone she shook her head despairingly.

  “I can’t go on eating like this. I won’t fit into any of my clothes.”

  “You’re going to be wined and dined, whether you like it or not,” Simon said. “The Cornish are the most hospitable people on earth, once they accept you; and you are one of their own, the long-lost heir returned.”

  “I hope they don’t expect me to play lady of the manor.” Carla accepted a rock cake, thick with currants and still warm from the oven. “I’m not the type, even if I had the money to do it right.”

  “I’m not so sure about that.” Simon studied her thoughtfully. “I think you’d do an excellent job of it, if you ever decided to take it on.”

  “But I can’t. I’m just passing through.”

  “Then we must make your stay as pleasant as possible. Here, you must finish the clotted cream, or you’ll hurt Mrs. Chynoweth’s feelings.”

  “Impossible. I’m so full I won’t be able to eat lunch. Which reminds me, I forgot to call Mrs. Pendennis.”

  “There’s a phone in my office.”

  The doctor’s surgery and tiny office were across the hall. The surgery had the usual equipment, scrubbed till it shone, but showing the scars of long usage.

  “I’m not awfully up to date,” Simon explained. “There’s a good hospital in Truro; serious cases go straight there. All I really do is lance boils and splint broken arms. It keeps me busy, though, especially in summer, when the hikers walk along the cliffs in high heels. I’ll just tell Mrs. Pendennis you’re on your way, shall I?”

  “Please.” Carla waited while he made the call. She heard only his side of the conversation, but from the long silences, and the amused, rueful smile he gave her, she deduced that the housekeeper was irate at her disappearance.

  “She’s waiting lunch,” Simon reported, hanging up the telephone. “Can you find your way? I’ll go with you if—”

  “No, I won’t get lost. But I won’t be able to eat lunch!”

  “Run, and work up an appetite.”

  “Thanks, I will. And thanks for this. I enjoyed it.”

  “You’ll see me soon,” he promised, holding her hand a little longer than courtesy required. “We get very bored with one another here. It’s nice to have a new face to look at—particularly one as worth looking at as yours.”

  It was not a particularly clever compliment, but Carla liked it. She also enjoyed the nods and smiles she received from people as she climbed up the street. Every housewife along the way had decided to sweep her steps at the same hour. When she reached the road, she took Simon’s advice and began to run.

  Mrs. Pendennis was aloof and obviously offended when, panting and perspiring, Carla trotted into the house.

 

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