An icy November wind swirled the dense mist over Pendle Hill, almost obscuring the stone obelisk marking the summit. Professor Isaac Cedric Effingham, known simply as ICE to students and faculty at Merton College, Oxford, walked seven times around it, first clockwise, then anticlockwise as prescribed by the witches code of conduct, although he was not particularly superstitious. His heavy topcoat, sturdy boots and deerstalker hat helped keep out the bitter cold. Suddenly, he noticed a small wooden trapdoor at the base of the obelisk. How was that possible? he mused. How come he had never noticed it before? He’d been here so many times. He’d written the definitive work about the Pendle Witches. Bending down, he realized it wasn't locked. He pulled it open and the noise of chattering voices reached his ears.
After descending a flight of stone steps, and passing a sign that read, The Missing Bride Inn, he suddenly found himself in an oak beamed lounge, with logs crackling in the huge, open fireplace. People were sitting, standing, drinking, and laughing.
“Welcome.” A tall, handsome, tuxedoed, man behind a bar called him over.
“Welcome to the International Authors Association. We’ve been waiting for you. Come and have a drink. The first one’s on the house.”
Somewhat startled by being recognized, he replied, “I’ll have a martini.”
“And shaken, not stirred?”
“Well, yes, if you say so.”
“My name is Bond, James Bond,” the bartender said, offering his hand.
“That's an interesting name. I may have heard it before. Just can’t remember where. And you can call me ICE. Everybody else does.”
“Then you’re welcome, ICE, and I really like your topcoat.”
A loud guffaw erupted from a corner table.
“Sit down, Ernie,” a dark, curly-haired, pipe smoking, but pretty, young woman was shouting. “You’re just showing off again.”
“But you should have seen this matador.” The man had taken a table napkin, lowered it, and with his head following the movement, swung his arms in the motion of a slow sweeping veronica. Then gathering the napkin to his waist spun his hips making the napkin swing in the stiff arc of a rebolera as it passed the bull’s nose while he calmly walked away. “Absolute perfection,” he added. “Simply perfection.”
“Pay no attention to Hemingway,” she said as ICE and Bond arrived to see what the noise was about. “He can’t make his mind up whether he wants to be a bullfighter or a writer. He’s just published Death in the Afternoon, and won't shut up about it. He’s obsessed.”
“Maybe when I get some time, I should educate myself about the art. My name’s ICE, by the way, and it’s got nothing to do with the weather. My real name is Isaac, but nobody ever uses it. And you are?”
“Just call me George. That’s the name I write under. Surname, Elliot. Then she turned her head to search for the nearest spittoon.
“Don’t want to get into it just now,” she said, “but it really irritates me that publishers believe women do not write as good as men. In fact, I’m on a mission to liberate women and the book industry from male dominance. My books have had good sales, and people have given a positive reception to my last one, Middlemarch. But I want to be recognized for who I really am.”
“And with a passion like yours, I’m sure you’ll succeed.”
“Let me introduce you to a couple of other interesting people,” Bond said, steering him towards a man in naval uniform. "That’s Ian Fleming. He worked as an officer in the Royal Navy's Naval Intelligence Department. I have it on good authority that he also worked for MI 5. But more importantly, he attends these gatherings because he is writing a series of spy novels based on his experiences.”
The man smiled as they approached. “Nice boots,” he said, pointing at ICE’s feet.
Before he could respond, a tall, burly, bearded Scotsman in full highland dress complete with kilt and sporran interrupted them by slapping Bond on the shoulder.
“How about another wee dram of usquebaugh, James?” he said, using its Gaelic name. Then addressing ICE, “You should always carry a flagon of whiskey in case of snakebite, and furthermore, always carry a small snake.” A bellow of a laugh filled the room.
After moving to the bar, Bond poured the man a double measure of twenty-five-year-old, Glenmorangie single malt, which he grasped momentarily in his beefy hand, then shouted, “Lang may yer lum reek!”—(long may your chimney smoke.) And added, “The drinks are on me.”
It took several minutes before the cheering died down and James had replenished everybody’s glass.
“Who is that man?” ICE asked discretely.
“That’s Walter. Sir Walter Scott. He’s a prolific writer. His latest novel, Ivanhoe, has just been optioned by a Hollywood Studio for a huge amount. And apparently, he wants to play the leading role. Bond rolled his eyes and said, “Good luck with that!” He paused momentarily looking towards a woman sitting on her own.
“But you must meet Jane—she needs cheering up. She has been attending the meetings for years but is stuck and can’t finish her novel. She’s quite depressed.”
After brief introductions, a small petite woman in her thirties, quite pretty but her face now stained with tear marks, explained she had created five sisters in the Bennet family but couldn’t decide how the father’s favorite, Elizabeth, should get married.
“I have this strong-willed, charming but self-assured young woman who seems to push away her suitors. I can’t find the solution. Without a wealthy partner, her life will be ruined.”
ICE could see her lip beginning to quiver as she spoke, and reaching into her petticoat, she retrieved a dainty lace handkerchief. Then she looked pleadingly at ICE as if he might save her.
“It’s just a thought ma’am. but why not have your characters work together but as opposing forces? Have your female become humbler and more empathetic while maintaining her signature confidence in who she is. And have a suitor realize just how arrogant and assuming he has been.”
There was a short pause and ICE wondered if he had offended her.
“Oh, my goodness, Professor,” she exclaimed. “I do believe you may have given me the solution. However could I repay you?”
“Finishing your novel would be payment enough. And do you have a title for it?”
“Not yet, but I’m thinking about Pride and Patience or something similar.”
“Then, I wish you good luck.”
“So what’s next, James?”
“Well, we always invite a well-known writer as keynote speaker and this time it was a tossup between Harper Lee and her book To Kill a Mockingbird and Sally Rooney’s Normal People. We’re going with Sally since she wants to explain why writing novels for millennials, with little punctuation, is really hip. She’s standing near the bar with George Bernard Shaw. He’s probably trying to convince her to stop using the apostrophe in contractions. Boy, does he have a thing about that!
But look over there. We also always invite a magician to our events. and as you can see, it’s David Copperfield. He’s doing card tricks. I’ll introduce you.”
“Nice boots,” David said, “and I love the topcoat. Perfect for this kind of weather.”
“I wish I could stay for your show, but unfortunately, I’m expected back in Oxford. However I saw that amazing YouTube video where you walked through the Great Wall of China. Maybe you will do something equally dramatic on Pendle Hill, perhaps land a helicopter.”
“So sorry you can’t be here, and I’ll try to work that trick into my next act,” David replied. “But you and I will always be connected—by magic, of course.”
“So, what’s the history of this place?” ICE asked as Bond made another martini, shaken, not stirred.
“A man called Black Harry built the inn and called it The Pot of Gold. Some say they called him black, as he had a black patch over one eye. Others, that he had a long black beard. He never shared what had happened, but rumor said he lost his eye as a pirate with Long John Silver’s crew. They found buried treasure on an island, lots of gold coin. But they fought among themselves, and Black Harry took a knife in his eye. Only a few men lived to tell the tale and get back to England: Long John Silver with his parrot that cried ‘pieces of eight’ whenever they met a stranger, Jim Hawkins, a young man who had stowed away on Silver’s ship, Ben Gun who had been marooned for years but showed them where the gold coins were buried, and Black Harry.”
“The story is told that Black Harry built this inn with his share of the coins from the treasure island, and called it Casino Royale. From then on, some folks referred to him as Goldfinger. You have only seen a fraction of the inn. And if we’d had time, I would have given you a complete tour, for your eyes only. It is extensive and can house up to thirty guests. Harry married and had a beautiful daughter, Elvenia, which means magical, whom he adored. She met a sea captain, and they were married in this very room. Their initials are carved into the oak beam over the fireplace. As the guests were enjoying themselves, Elvenia and her husband played a game of hide-and-seek. It lasted for hours and into the night until all the guests had left.
For a final game, Elvenia hid in her husband’s huge sea chest, which was padded and comfortable, but once inside, it self-locked and she could not get out. Her husband, seeing that the locks were secure, never thought to open it. Nobody discovered Elvenia. Very early the following morning, while it was still dark save for the light from a full moon, the husband walked around Pendle Hill seven times, hoping, praying she would return. Unable to contain his grief he shot himself.
In despair, Black Harry set fire to the inn and rode off with his wife on his black horse. No one ever saw them again. Local people say that on a November night when the moon is in its first quarter, and you stand in the shadow of the obelisk and listen carefully, you can still hear a horse’s footsteps and two people loudly weeping.
“Sounds like Satanic Verses,” ICE said.
“Yes, but you have to live and let die,” Bond replied.
“And how did the inn survive?”
“Since it is underground, the fire damage was only superficial. The Association took it over, refurbished it and renamed it The Missing Bride. We meet here every quarter.”
“That’s amazing,” ICE replied. “But I really must go. I’m so sorry I’ll miss the presentation,”
“I’ll escort you to the stairs,” Bond said. “That’s as far as I may go. It’s been a pleasure ICE, and remember, you only live twice.”
The frosty night air hit Isaac Cedric Effingham with an arctic blast. He shivered and pulled his deerstalker hat closer around his ears. Then he realized he was no longer wearing his topcoat, and his bare feet were freezing. Looking around for the trap door so he could return for his coat and boots, all he saw was the cold, stone obelisk —and the mist.
About the author
Michael Barrington has written eight historical novels. Passage to Murder is a thriller set in San Francisco. Magic at Stonehenge is a short story collection. Take a Priest Like You is a memoir. He has published more than 60 short stories and also blogs on his website: www.mbwriter.net.
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