THE SON OF BOMALLY

 

                                                             Chapter 14

                                             The Daughters Of Bommally

 

David knew that time was running out, and that he might not have another opportunity, and before Margolan sensed what he was up to, he shouted “Help me father.” It was the loudest he had ever shouted, and his voice seemed to echo into space, but the response was immediate and astonishing. Out of the misty circle emerged people, a dozen or so at first, but they were quickly followed by hundreds more, then thousands, their numbers growing constantly. Men in their thousands but there were as many women.      Leading them was Gerald Bomally “I’ve been waiting for you to call me.” he said, looking at his son, and ignoring Margollan, who was snorting and screaming. “You nearly left it too late.”

          “I’m so glad to see you father, I felt that someone was on my side; but who are all these people?”

          “They are all your ancestors; the good halves of every pair of brothers down the ages over many thousands of years, and all their descendants through countless generations.  Margollan’s curse allowed only two sons; one good and one bad; so that the Bomally families would be in permanent conflict, but she seemed to forget about daughters, and they had children, and their children had children ad infinitum.

          “How many are there?” asked David, bewildered by the ever growing congregation.

          “I don’t know, they just seem to go on forever and they are all our ancestors.”

          “But how can they help us; you might be able to save me but what about my friends?”

          While they had been speaking the Bomally multitude had surrounded the ‘goddess of Death and the Slain’ in a collar of men who were ten; twenty; a hundred; a thousand deep, and in whose mental power she was held.

          “We can because our combined power of all these people is greater than hers."

          “But what about the bad halves; the evil brothers, don’t they just cancel out?”

          “Not while we have her surrounded.  They can’t get in and she can’t get out.”

          “But she will never give in.  She will find a way.”

          “Never is a time concept that has no meaning here son, but she will give in for her power is neutralised by the concentration of minds all around her, and we will stay until she relinquishes her grip on you and your friends.  It makes no difference if it is one second or a million years.”

          At that moment there was a strange movement amongst the multitude of David’s ancestors, a slight swaying of bodies as far as one could see, and now a sound; a sound of humming as the uncountable horde started to impose their will.

          “But how can you do it; I can see how you might save me, but what about my friends? ... she will never give in."

          "And neither will we." Gerald Bomally answered. "We will stay where we are until we force her, for all time if need be, for eternity."

          With that Gerald approached Margollan

          "You can have Richard, and welcome to him, especially now that I know he was not my son anyway.  But in exchange I want David’s friends restored to their former life."

          Margollan was shrieking with rage.  Normally she would have removed the troublesome man in a trice, but for the first time in her existence she was powerless.  All she could do was scream.

          Gerald Bomally was unmoved. “Give me what I want and you may return to that dark world of yours.”

          “Never.” It was like the roar of a hurricane, but Gerald remained solid, his son watching in awe from behind.

          “In all the many centuries of domination of my family you have slowly brought about your undoing.  The curse is at an end, and now we are strong enough to destroy you.”

          The humming and swaying by the multitude had increased in intensity, and was drowning out Margollan's wailing and screeching.

          Gerald and David were inside the swaying circle, along with the lifeless, though still standing Becky,  and the six bodies.  He hadn’t forgotten Jennifer Tyler, though he could not think how her body might be resurrected, but he included her in his thinking.  Also within the circle was Margollan herself, strutting first this way like the caged animal she had become.

          Gerald faced up to her and called out. "You will remain imprisoned here until hell freezes over, for these are the sons of Bomally, and the wives and the children of all the Bomally’s, almost as far back as time itself. Every single one of them has a score to settle with you.

          Suddenly Margollan stopped wailing and screaming and turned to face father and son.

          “So be it.” Then she smiled at them both. “So much alike, and yet so different. You would have stood well at my side; both of you; but why should I go on fighting you, the Bomally's have always been more trouble than they were worth... all the way back...”

          She seemed to drift into a state of melancholia, so out of character; David was alarmed

          “Be careful father; it’s a trap.  She would not give in so soon.”

          Gerald smiled at his son. “Time is different now.  It is neither long or short.  It is infinite, but what matters now is inevitability.”

          “I don’t understand, but please be careful.”

          “Your son was always the careful one,” Margollen addressed Gerald. “Never had your flair or daring.  Not like you, he never took a risk or gambled.”

          Now she was goading him, daring him to take a chance; maybe to take one step too far.

          “Yes I gambled, but only if I could afford to lose.  I cannot for the sake of humanity afford to lose this fight with you. This will not be a gamble.”

          The humming from the sea of Bomally faces had dropped to a quiet murmur as Margollan’s screeching had subsided, and now there was an expectant pause, everyone waiting for something to happen, and expecting that Gerald would make the next move.

          But he remained unmoved, facing his smiling adversary square on, not giving an inch.

          But it was the goddess of death who took the lead.

          “You win,” she said simply, almost brightly, as if it were a game of cards.  “Give me Richard and you can have the others; he’s worth more than them all put together anyway.”

          David watched and listened, still keeping his father between himself and Margollan.  Despite her smile and her beauty, and her apparent acquiescence he was afraid. Nothing she had said or done since she appeared gave him any reason to believe her. Neither did he understand his father’s explanation that time was infinite. As far as he was concerned she had given in to easily and too soon, and he did not trust her.

          “Get them back first.” he called out, anxious that his father might loose this game of poker against so skilful a player “I want them all here with me before we do anything else.”

          Addressing himself once more to Margollan, Gerald called firmly. “He doesn’t trust you ... is there any reason why he should?”

          Her smile had disappeared, and there was irritation in her voice.

          “I have agreed to your demands,” she said tersely “do you want it written in blood?”

          “There will be no more dealing, no more curses. You must understand it is over; for eternity.”

          Gerald took a step forward leaving David feeling slightly exposed. “Until my son’s friends are restored to life, and they are all out of your captivity, my ancestors will continue to engulf you.”

          “As you wish.” They were the last words David heard her speak, but she started to wail again.  Not the screeching as before, but a quieter, almost soulful sound, and very slowly she started to turn.

          There was a noise from the floor as first one and then another of the bodies started to regain life and consciousness, and then started to move.  One by one they revived, seemingly none the worse for their ordeal, and the two ladies, mother and daughter, found themselves wrapped tightly around each other, arms and legs intertwined like lovers before they carefully disentangled.

          Only Becky remained in her ‘dead’ state.  She had remained motionless throughout the entire proceedings following Gerald’s arrival, and though she was still on her feet, she seemed as dead as the others had been on the ground.

          And so she remained.

          David rushed to her, shook her by the shoulders and called her name, but to no avail.  She remained as she was; living dead.

          “Father; stop her!”

          Taking advantage of the activity on the floor, Margollan was fading away, no doubt seeking to escape. Indeed she was not far from having disappeared altogether.  In a flash Gerald's hands were in the air, and as if it were a signal the band of Bomally’s, who for a while had been almost silent, burst into sound, renewing the loud humming, and the swaying, just like before.

          But over-riding the Bomally choir was the sound of high pitched cackling laughter as Margollan, fully visible again, descended into uncontrollable hysteria.  At the same time the lifeless body of Becky moved, tottered, swayed, and fell to the floor in a swoon. But this time her unconsciousness was short lived. She soon recovered, alive again; restored.

          As David went to help her Gerald started to laugh.  “Just listen to Margollan, she’s having us on; playing a joke.”

          David was not amused, “Playing with us more like.” he said, but he was relieved to see Margollan was fully invisible  again, but the chorus of his ancestors was starting to fade. 

          As so many times in the past when dealing with ‘awkward’ customers Gerald had a final word. "Margollon  hear me and hear me good. My ancestors will always be with you. Take care or we will destroy you completely, now you may go."

          David watched spellbound as Margollan started to disappear until finally she was gone, and in her place lay the inert body of Richard, lying just where he had fallen.  Somehow he had almost forgotten about Richard.

          For a moment he had forgotten about his father, and was shocked to see that now their captive goddess was gone,  the family of ‘ancestors’ were fading too.  Leaving Becky for a moment he stood up and turned to find him.  He was there but like all the others he too was fading away, but he was smiling.

          “Don’t go yet father,” David called, almost in a panic, "there’s so much to talk about.”

          “There will be time; in your terms; one day - but now I must go; your mother sends her love; bye David.”

          David stood and watched until he was gone; savouring the last part of him to disappear, which seemed to linger for just those few extra seconds;  his smile.

          He looked around him, for as Margollan and then the Bomally’s had returned from whence they came, so too they were all back in the lounge of the old house.  It was as though they had never away, for indeed they had not, but it seemed almost like a dream.

          David shook his head.  Of course they hadn’t left, but he felt that they had been in a different place; a different time; a different universe.  Did the others feel the same?  He couldn’t tell, but they seemed to be reacting as though nothing had happened. One thing that was noticeable however was the raging storm outside.

          He didn’t get the chance to find out what experiences the others had endured, for suddenly, there was a huge flash of lightning, and an enormous crack of thunder.

          Drowned by the thunder David was sure he heard the sound of Margollan laughing, screeching in the wind and the rain that seemed to have come from nowhere. Was it just nervous imagination? He listened to hear it again but it was gone, vanished.

          Then he saw that Richard’s body was still collapsed on the floor; how long had it been since it had risen and by some evil power it had become Morgollan.  Nothing seemed real any more,  not even his brother lying where he had fallen. 

          One of the policeman was at his side.  “I think he is dead now inspector.” he said, looking up at Bryndle, just as another huge flash enveloped the house and lit up the night sky, followed in a split second by a crack so loud and so long that the house shook.

          “Never mind about that now,” he answered, "the house is on fire; we must all get out as quick as we can."

          With that they ran to the front door, only to find it locked. “Quick, the back door.” shouted David, but as he spoke a fireball engulfed the hall and staircase, and more flames were cutting off the way to the rear of the house. They could hear the sound of breaking glass; feel the rush of air fanned by the tempest outside, and in moments the fire was all around them, and was spreading like wildfire throughout the house.

          “The cellar” David shouted, “It’s our only chance.”

          In a moment they were all through the door and down the stone steps into the large cellar.  In its heyday it had been used as a food and wine store, a facility which Gerald had taken advantage of in more recent times.  All the walls were stone built, as were some of the ceilings.

           Bryndle reacted as though nothing had happened, his position restored as he took charge again. “In here.” he shouted, finding a room with a high, and fairly large window, but most important a ceiling of large stone slabs supported by stone pillars.  To his men and to David he gave his orders. "Find a ladder or anything you can to pile up against this wall, we should be able to climb out."

          They could not find a ladder so soon a pile of wooden boxes, beer crates, some old pieced of furniture, and any amount of assorted household items, discarded and forgotten over a hundred years, were quickly but carefully placed against the wall until Bryndle, precariously balanced, and with a small plank of wood in his hands, struck the bottom pain.  It shattered into a million pieces bringing in a rush of  warm, but fresh air.

          “You first Mrs Simpson,” he shouted after he had cleared the broken glass from the frame and was reaching down to take her hand, “and when you get out run like hell; as far from the house as you can.”

          He was just starting to take the strain as Mrs Simpson took her first step up the pile of assorted bits and bats, when there was an almighty crash, and a large piece of masonry fell to the ground, finally coming to rest across the window.  A cascade of burning embers came with it, and filled the little cellar with an eerie flickering light.

          It was a cruel blow; the only way out of the burning building was blocked.

          The stunned silence was broken by David.

          “There’s water in the next cellar, and there used to be some old hoses, it might help.”

          It was not said with much conviction, but it was better than doing nothing.  They found a hose and connected it to the tap.  The other end was pushed through an air gap at the base of the joining wall, and then rigged to a hook so that it sprayed the room.

          “Now all we can do is pray.”

          The sound of the fire raging above them was deafening, and none of them thought that they would live to see another day. More than one of them took David's advice and prayed a silent prayer. But the water spraying the cellar kept them from getting too hot, and the different sound was slightly comforting.

          Now they could do nothing now except sit and wait, and despite his fathers warning David felt that the fire was the work of Margollan, and hoped that she had done her worst.

          How long it was before help arrived no one could tell.  The ambulance, which had been called to take the injured Richard to hospital was first on the scene.  In due course it was joined by two fire-engines, the entire compliment of the little station at St Ishams, and its team of twelve part time volunteers.

          The noise above the group of trapped people made their shouts impossible to hear, and they prayed that the firemen would not give up on them.  Gradually the heat was building up and the spray from the hose pipe was no longer helping. Worse;  smoke in ever increasing quantities was finding its way into the cellar.  There was nothing they could do except wait and hope.

          So they just waited and hoped, but hope was a diminishing commodity, and one by one succumbed to the heat and lack of air. One by one they fell into a kind of unconsciousness, somewhere between sleep and death.

          But they were not on there own for unseen Morrigan was watching, triumphant.  This time she knew that nothing could save them, for no one could survive such an inferno.  Triumphant she left them to their fate and returned to her own world.  The world of perpetual darkness.

          It was eleven hours before they were found.  Eight bodies strewn around the cellar where they had given up the fight, exhausted beyond endurance and with skins burnt like roast chestnuts.  But they were still alive, their throats dry from the heat and smoke, dirty from the dust and the dirty water that was filtering through from the charred remains of the building above.  

          It was that dirty water which had probably saved their lives when the house water system gave way to the fire, and their own first line of defence dried up, the old hose having melted away.

          They could not believe they had survived, nor could they understand how. They could not know that David's father and all those many generations of his ancestors had formed a shield over them, protecting them from the worst of the fire.  Even so, two of the party had come very close to death. Mrs Simpson and one of the constables. 

          Ignoring his discomfort David would not leave until a search for Richard’s body was conducted. He hoped that his prayers, along with a Christian burial might even at this late juncture secure some kind of salvation for him.  He hoped too that even after all that had happened, his father would intervene on his behalf, in some heavenly court.

          Little was left of the old house.  Smoking timbers and blackened walls bore witness to the extent of the fire.  Daylight and clouds where once there had been floors and roofs indicated its severity.

          “You’ve all been very lucky.” the chief fire officer said  “We can’t believe that any of you got out, never mind all eight of you.”

          “But Richard wasn’t so lucky was he,” David replied  “he’s still in here somewhere.”

          “It’ll not be a pretty sight when we find him,” the officer said,  “but never fear, if he is there we will find him.”

          Later, after Mrs Simpson and the constable had been taken to hospital, and all the others had received medical attention, Bryndle returned to the still smoking ruin where David was looking in vain for signs of his brother..

          "What a night.” he said. “I don’t want to do that again, but I guess that pretty much wraps it up, but just in case don't leave town for a little while."

          “That’s a relief, it wasn’t just me then.” David replied a little warily, trying to draw the inspector into saying something about the gods. But Bryndle was not to be drawn.

          Trying again he enquired, “Have any of the others said anything about, you know, before the fire.”

          “Not a word.” The inspector said, tight lipped.

          “Perhaps it’s better if we leave it that way," David answered, but was puzzled that no one had mentioned anything of the horrors before the house burnt down. 'Do they all believe it didn't happen.' He pondered silently, keeping the last thought to himself, for he too was beginning to have reservations.

          Changing tack he asked,  "And what about Mrs Simpson and Mrs Tyler, what will happen to them?"

          "Who knows, but somehow I don't think they will be apart from each other for too long. They're were both trying to protect each other; both confessing their guilt, and I think they both believed the other was guilty of killing Gerald Bomally”

          “Don’t you?

          “Well they can’t both have done it, but since you ask, do you want to know what I think?”

          David didn’t respond to that question, knowing full well that Bryndle was going to tell him anyway.

          “I think; or should I say I don’t think,” he corrected himself  “I don’t think either of them did it.”

          David was stunned.  It had seemed so clear. Mrs Simpson, overcome with grief, love, anger, and jealousy, had lost control and killed the man she had secretly loved for over half of her life.  And then her daughter was trying to take the blame to protect her.

          “Well if not them;  who?”

          “Who knows, maybe we’ll never know.  Perhaps it was Richard after all.” 

          He gave David a wink, the first time he had ever seen him do that. "Got to go." he said, and then as he pulled away in one of the police cars, he said, “Got a hell of a body on her, that Sheela ...  I'll be in touch." 

          David was stunned, but at least now he knew that he had not faced Margoolan alone.

                                                                -oOo-                                             

                                                                

It wasn't long before Becky left her hotel, bags packed and heading for home, wherever that might be. But she knew that she must find a place somewhere where she could become herself again. Soon she would have a child to look after, and none of the things that had happened to her mattered any more.

          David was of course sad to see her go.  He would be alone now, for each and every person who had been part of his life, and who seemed to be part of the very fabric of the old house had gone.  But he knew that she needed time and space; that they both needed some a kind of freedom, to allow the wounds to heal. Wounds so deep they may never mend.

          But they shared one unspoken thought.  One day, who knows when, they might deserve each other; but not yet.  That day might be a while away. Not until they could look Mrs Simpson in the face, and not feel her pain.

          In due course Mrs Simpson and her daughter found themselves in court, but the charge of murder had been changed to that of manslaughter, following a carefully worded statement by Inspector Bryndle, which avoided any reference to ancient Celtic gods and family curses. Instead it placed all the emphasis on the unnaturally hypnotic personality of Richard Bomally.

          Although they both refused to retract their confessions of guilt, The inspector was able, with the help of expert witnesses to suggest that they might have been victims of auto suggestion. In the event they were fortunate that the prosecution did not adopt an aggressive posture, and their case was heard by a sympathetic judge.  They each received suspended sentences, with counselling.  Indeed, it was through the counselling that gradually they came to realize that despite their belief, and their confessions, neither of them had killed Gerald.

          When the penny finally dropped, and they could truly accept that what was in their hearts was what they should have known from the start, they fell into each others arms.

          “What a relief,” Mrs Simpson said  “to know that you didn’t kill him.”

          “How could I ever have thought you could do a thing like that?” echoed her daughter.

          But their euphoria was short lived when one uncertainty was replaced by another, spoiling their new found sense of joy. 

          “For if not us; who then?” each had asked the other. "Who hated Gerald, or loved him, enough to kill him?"

          Mrs Simpson was bewildered.  “There isn’t anyone left that I can think of except...”  But she couldn’t bring herself to say the name, and had to be goaded by Jennifer.

          “You must say it mother, or it will drive you mad.”

          “Well, the only one left is ... David.” she managed to say his name, but felt bad, as though somehow she had betrayed him.  And even though she had said it she was still unwilling to believe it. “No, not David; can't be David; he loved his father too much.”

          "Perhaps that's the key to it all." Whispered her daughter.

          So that question remained unresolved long after they walked away from the trial, and started to reconstruct their lives.

                                                     

                                                              -oOo-

          A year went by, twelve long and lonely months before David was able to return to the chapel at Dalimar.  It was an anniversary he did not wish to celebrate, and yet he was drawn to do so.

          Just a year but it seemed like a lifetime, and everything that he had loved in his life was gone.  It was a sobering thought as he drove into the little car park behind the chapel.

          All his family were gone; almost as if they had never existed, and with them, at least for now, all the good memories.  Only the bad ones remained.

          Mrs Simpson was gone, her tranquil life shattered, but she was free from the old house, so long a place of refuge for her, but a place which would have become her asylum.  At least now she had her daughter, a son in law and a grand daughter.  All her life she had longed to be ‘one of the family’; and at last, that wish had come true.

          The old house was gone.  A funeral pyre for Richard, even though no trace of his body was ever found. 

          ‘Bomally Buildings’ was gone.  Sold on the advice of his senior financial director.  The scandal and adverse publicity had seen its value plummet, and a rival, sensing a bargain and an opportunity had made on offer, albeit half what it might have fetched two years earlier.

          Strangest of all, the cottage at Dalimar was gone; burnt to the ground two days after the old house disappeared in smoke.  Said to be the work of a new upsurge of Welsh nationalism, but David never for a moment believed that. 

          Stranger still was that the remains of a single body found in the rubble and embers, was said to be those of a male about thirty years old, but had never been identified.  David could only wonder and hope, that maybe, unbelievably, yet somehow, Richard had found his way back and tried to severe the link, and Margollan’s hold on the family.

          “But how,”, he had asked himself many times “I saw him dead, and then consumed by the fire.”

          He smiled at the thought that such convincing evidence could so easily be discarded.  But after what he had seen he knew that anything was possible.

          He could only hope.

          But worse that anything else was that Becky was gone.  Becky; so beautiful, so lost in the fantasy into which she had been drawn, and so blind to the terrible things that were happening around her.

          He had loved her, and thought that she loved him, refusing to accept that she was playing a role.  That she was under the spell of an evil man, simply doing his bidding, had not been an easy thing for him to come to terms with. Not least because the evil man had been his brother

          But she had gone, and he did not know where or how she was.  He hoped that she had gone back to her Geordie parents who, he was sure, will have gathered her up in their arms.

          There had however been one communication.  One bright spot in his otherwise bleak and sombre existence.  He took out his wallet and from it drew out the card, slightly dog eared now after so many airings.

          It was a view from the cliff top in Scarborough, on the Yorkshire coast.  Written on it, in Becky’s stylish handwriting was just one paragraph.  David read it again, though he had read it so many times he knew every word.

 

                   Dear David

                   Just to let you know I have a son.  I may never know if his

                   father is you or Gerald, but Gerald is dead.  I have called

                   him David.

                   Perhaps one day David will get to know his ‘father’.

                   Love, Becky

         

          Many times he had considered that enigmatic phrase.  Which David, and which father?  He wondered again, as he had before, if Becky had been trying to tell him something from a distance, something that he had been too close to see.  Had she meant that one day he might see his son? Or was she saying that David had never really known his father?

          Perhaps he would never know, but at least he felt that the family curse had been expunged.  And for good measure, though the first male child of the next generation with Bomally blood had been born, there was little chance of there being another.

          Sadly he returned the post card to his wallet, sad that ‘his’ son would never know the joy of having a true brother.

          Dejected as always these days, he locked the car and then took the path around the chapel to where his parents were waiting, silently and patiently, for their only likely visitor. 

          He rounded the corner of the building and stopped, surprised.  He was not the only visitor after all, for there, kneeling by the grave with her back toward him was the figure of a young lady, quietly arranging some flowers.  After a moment he resumed and when he was closer a little cough ensured that she would not be startled by his sudden appearance.

          She turned and smiled, but it was a sad smile, her expression one of surprise David felt, rather than welcome.

          “Hello David.” she said, and then returned to her flowers.

          “Hello Lydia.” he responded, curious at this unexpected turn of events. It was then he experienced a sudden revelation. 

          “So you don’t hate him after all?” he said quietly.

          After a pause she answered just as quietly as was the question. “I never did. I always knew that Richard was behind it all; and if the chance ever come my way I would kill him. He was no better than a mad dog.”

          David smiled. He thought he knew the answer. “But when that chance came Gerald got in the way?” she continued.  Looking up at David Lydia saw him smile. She too was smiling; a soft sad smile. “He had suffered enough was all she would say!”

          "Goobye Lydia." There seemed to be nothing more to say as David walked away but he could not help recalling a question that Bryndle had asked during his investigation. “Who loved your father enough to kill him, rather than seeing him dragged through the mire, degraded and humiliated."

          At the time they both knew he was referring to Mrs Simpson. He smiled again as he walked away from the grave, leaving Lydia with her memories.

         “Right idea my friend," he said to the wind, and the other silent occupants of the cemetery, "but the wrong lady.”

 

                                                                The End

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    C Michael G Kimber 2003