Gods, Dogs and Englishmen

By Dominic Hope

There is something strange about the delightful Dorset village of Honeycombe. Why are there many more dogs than people? Why are the inhabitants even more unwelcoming now than usual to visitors ( unless there is a ritual sacrifice in prospect)? What occult hold does their long since dead benefactrice, Lady Augusta Ghilbourne, still have over the villages? How many must die to keep the dogs happy?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Martin
• Release date: Feb 12, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301609086

Dominic Hope

Dominic Hope has a very wealthy, beautiful wife and an extremely strange dog. He is glad it is not the other way round.

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GODS, DOGS AND ENGLISHMEN

Dominic Hope

Copyright © Dominic Hope 2004

All rights reserved

The moral right of the author has been asserted

Cover copyright ©Robin Matto

www.robinmatto.com

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher

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Table of contents

Introduction by Dominic Hope

Part One

Chapter01 How it began in April 1994

Chapter02 The dark shadow

Chapter03 Lady Augusta

Chapter04 Cenred

Chapter05 Acts of doG

Chapter06 Lady Augusta’s deeds

Chapter07 The Covenant

Chapter08 The Meeting

Part Two

Chapter09 April

Chapter10 May

Chapter11 June

Chapter12 Lady Augusta’s Vision

Chapter13 Eleonor Lavage’s Garden Party

Chapter14 August

Chapter15 The Feast of Diana

Chapter16 Cenwulf’s sins

Chapter17 October

Chapter18 The Inner Sanctum’s dirty deeds

Chapter19 November

Chapter20 The Covenant of Souls

Chapter21 December

Part three

One

Two

Three

Four

Postscript by Dominic Hope

‘I had rather be a dog and bay the moon - ’

Shakespeare: Julius Caesar

Introduction.

The day before my uncle, Ernest Hope, died from a heart attack he posted this typescript to me. Soon after receiving it I discovered, to my great surprise, that he had bequeathed to me one of his beloved Labradors, Ruby. It was not until I read his typescript that I realised what he had in mind, if indeed, my poor old uncle had anything left of a mind at the end.

I think he intended me to read the typescript as fact but obviously it is a fiction or I might have locked it away from view for even longer. However, I have been thinking of late, and I have decided that since this is a fiction I owe it to the memory of my Uncle, and to the memory of Ruby and for the sake of her first puppy, Jasmine, one of my beloved dogs, to do my best to see that his typescript is finally made available to be read as fiction.

Dominic Hope

Part One

Chapter 1

How it began in April 1994

My name is Ernest Hope: Major, retired, married for an eternity to wife, Hortense. We have two sons, both in their early forties who, in spite of their extremely expensive educations, never fail to disappoint, and three black Labradors - India, Jade and Ruby - who never fail to delight.

We named our sons Cenred and Cenwulf after early Saxon Kings. These were dignified and distinctive names until British Rail chose to attach them to two new Isle of Wight ferries in the 1970’s: our Heritage is steadily debased by just this sort of inappropriate naming of the commonplace. Even the word heritage is now thoroughly debased by inappropriate use.

We are a very tight little community here in Honeycombe. The miracle is that this little piece of rural Dorset, surely the most perfect of Dorset villages, indeed the most perfect of English villages, has remained unspoiled, thus far. To say that this calm and contained idyll is a veritable English Paradise is no exaggeration, but can any Paradise stay calm and idyllic forever, with thronging hordes never very far away? Is not every Paradise ultimately a magnet whose very lines of force are defined by rejected hordes wailing around each pole? And does not every Paradise harbour forbidden knowledge, awful secrets?

You might possibly challenge that generality but concede that every Paradise on earth is deeply flawed by the inevitable snakes. I am afraid there must always lurk a pullulating morass of temporarily displaced pollution around each perfect place. Might I even venture to suggest that discarnate entities are attracted to the vicinity as well, mischievous and malevolent as the proverbial Serpent. The Paradise of Honeycombe is no exception.

Each Earthly Paradise also has its quota of original sin, or forbidden knowledge, to test the mettle of the occupants until it finds them wanting. These are testing times. I fear that some of us will be tested relentlessly until we are found sorely wanting. Some of us may be expelled from our Earthly Paradise if we are not very careful: me in particular.

Beneath the surface of every putative Paradise flows the dark currents of desperate unresolved battles, for all the Powers that be abhor a Paradise. It is hard enough work to make a Paradise in the first place and even harder to sustain one. We villagers of Honeycombe are battling on three fronts now: the usual battle to keep outsiders clear of our Paradise; the usual mortal battle against age - against sinking exhausted into oblivion - and now an unusual battle, the battle to keep ourselves in Paradise. We are fighting these three desperate battles and I am very much afraid that some of us might lose on all three fronts.

The light really is special here: the microclimate benign. Our gardens and our pets really do thrive. This is no accident: the location for our putative Paradise was selected with all of that in mind. There are no unusually rampant incurable, virulent diseases, no deadly insects, and no vicious wild animals, except, that is, for the dog in the village pub. There are the odd few vipers in the bracken on the hill but they flee at the first hint of an approaching human. No one in Honeycombe has ever been bitten by a snake, by dogs, oh yes, time and again, but by snakes, no. The British government is flawed but as good as one can ever expect a government to be. This is as close as one would ever get to Paradise, this side of death. And for certain reasons beyond the norm, we all have every hope of continuing here in Paradise long after death, so it is essential that we maintain this place as our Paradise and do not let it slip into a hell.

We are proud of our exclusivity and we do our best to preserve it with our hermetic Neighbourhood Watch scheme - always ready to pounce - even the weakest link, the frailest little old spinster here is ever vigilant. It is frequently misty and the road signs here are overgrown by lush hedges: the letters obliterated by rampant mould. We scarcely exist as a real place to the passing motorist. If you don’t want to be noted and reported to the Police as a suspicious person then drive your vehicle on through without stopping, not that there is anywhere in the village to park except for the small public house car park, and that is strictly for patrons only. Just outside the village the roads are too deeply incised through high, tree shadowed banks and too narrow for even the stupidest tripper to risk parking.

St. Mallory’s, our pretty little Saxon church, sits on a flower laden kink in the otherwise straight, through road; the neat lines of thatched or stone roofed cottages with their lovely gardens may be tempting to the summer tripper but the road is narrow with double yellow lines down both sides. There is no place for you to stop: drive on.

The Wedge and Feathers, our thatched public house, is the least captivating aspect of the village to my mind, with a wild dog baring its teeth outside at most times of the day and night. Thanks to its car park it is a vulnerable point in the village but if you do use the small car park then you must use the pub and the landlord, Rolf Cuffle, has his own methods of putting off strangers. It may be commercial suicide but he is ignorant and lazy, unlike us, he’ll always be a tenant. Anyone foolish enough to risk pub grub at The Wedge and Feathers will discover the food to be tasty but expensive with rather small portions and rude service from the grubby landlord. He has his own agenda; he is not one of us. Eat up quickly, shudder, and then drive on.

We do not want anybody to stop, unless we have a ritual sacrifice in prospect, and then we only need one person: a person who will never be missed. We do not want to be beset by gawping trippers shambling around in track suits or singlets and shorts, ice cream dribbling down the arms of their numerous children. Neither do we want refined appreciative visitors; we are complete just as we are. Most days of the year we do not need anybody or anything else at all.

We have a shop but even if you drove through slowly looking for it you would not necessarily discover it, and if you did, where would you park? It has no shop front: the door is always shut and dark. Supposing you blundered into the unlit shop by mistake? You would find just toilet rolls, sugar and milk on display, with no visible service. If somebody did eventually shamble out from the back into the so-called shop to serve you, then you would discover the milk to be spoken for and the toilet rolls and sugar too. The message is clear, unless we need a victim, it is our milk, our shop, our Paradise: BEGONE. Drive on.

We number about fifty permanent residents here in Honeycombe, including the occupants of the few big houses scattered within a half mile of the church. Most of the houses are close by each other, either side of the single road bisecting our village, but a few more are hidden down deeply incised narrow gravel tracks that descend steeply down through tunnels formed where overhanging hedge meets overhanging hedge. Each track is well signed at the top: PRIVATE, NO RIGHT OF WAY.

We are not a young village. We do not have a baby among us. The last baby was born here twenty years ago, a most unwanted intrusion into Paradise, a short lived intrusion, a terrible mistake. We do not need babies with all our lovely dogs. We all have dogs and another common link besides - I should not say common - an aristocratic link: Lady Augusta Ghilbourne, our benefactress, who died some twenty years ago.

You see it really is such a great shame that we cannot all be allowed to go undisturbed about our lives as usual in our idyllic village. It has worked so well, particularly for the last twenty years when we thought our lives were under our complete control. Why shouldn’t we carry on, literally, in perpetuity? But now there are an increasing number of complexities threatening our simple lives and the man responsible for most of the present trouble is our Rector: The Reverend Gerald Hawthorne. Recently he had a fit, or brain storm, and stumbled upon things that should by right have stayed concealed forever.

We never did suggest that our Paradise was of God’s making; Gerald was not misled. But now he suspects that this Paradise might be, so to speak, of ‘Dogs making’ instead, and in a way he is right. There is no going back now because, unfortunately, Gerald Hawthorne has suddenly decided to take exception to our dogs, a very foolish thing to do in view of their immense significance to us. The future of our souls depends more directly on our dogs than Gerald’s soul depends upon his God, but he must never know that or we’ll all be lost. The question is: what must we do to stop him from discovering our secrets?

Matters reached a critical point today, the first of April, 1994. I called the first compulsory meeting of all the villagers for twenty years; I had to spell out the terrible threat to us all, initially to the very roofs over our heads, but ultimately to our eternal souls. From today onwards I regard it as my duty to document this whole sorry affair until the end. If it all goes wrong then at the very least it could spell the death of our village: the last perfect English village. Some may say it will be our own fault if it dies, my fault in particular, which is why I must set the record straight here and state my case to you, whoever you may be who reads this. I shall assume you are a hostile reader, or at the very least, a juror.

Whoever you are, you may feel excluded from our village but this is your Heritage too, just like Stonehenge, so by definition of course you are excluded and for the same reason, just think how you would spoil it if we let you all in willy nilly? You might feel a tad resentful but you must consider that we are living here on your behalf. There will never be anywhere like Honeycombe again, oh I know it is unfashionable to stick up for good old privilege, decorum, breeding but when it has all gone it will be gone for good. Why shouldn’t a few of us still be above the petty concerns of hoi polloi? We are privately funded, we pay any rates and any taxes due, we expect nothing from you in return but that you leave us alone, forever.

We will not give up without a good fight but if you are now able to read this then I suppose the village of Honeycombe will be Paradise no longer and I will be gone. Like it or not that will be your loss too: the failure of the experiment.

The original idea for our village was that it should be peopled with English Country archetypes, how ironic then that one of those supposed archetypes, the English Vicar, should be the cause of our undoing, but please do not be under any illusion that this is the archetypal tale of village squabbles around a church, or anything to do with witchcraft for that matter, witchcraft is mere child’s play compared with our Occult involvement. And do not dismiss us because we are all old, that is the point, we are none of us far from embarking upon the greatest adventure of all: Death.

I should say that for all my Occult persuasions I do believe there is the One Supreme God, way above all the rest, way way way above all the rest, so far away as, effectively, to be of no consequence. Just take it from me that you have an awful Hierarchy of intervening discarnate entities to worry about and placate before you ever need to bother about Him. And likewise, He has them all to worry about as well, and pretty worrying some of them are, before He ever has a chance to think about such a minor speck in the Cosmos as a supplicating Human.

If you really want to pray direct then just say: ‘Thank You Lord’, it might just percolate through. As for any other prayers: prayers for help, prayers for health, even the most selfless prayers for others, be warned, it is the lower, mischievous, often malevolent orders, that hear your prayers, and if they choose to grant them, watch out for the bill.

Our prayers were granted, but we didn’t understand what we were doing when we prayed, we didn’t realise there was the Hierarchy. Now I understand it all, I see why it has all gone wrong. We have been in limbo, paying nothing whilst, unbeknown to us, the debt has been mounting. We really do have to watch out now. Somebody will have to pay.

Chapter 2

The ‘dark shadow’.

It all began in the most trivial of ways on January 3rd of this year, 1994, so much trouble in so few months. Who would have thought that the standard butt of English farce, the Vicar, would make a farce of the eternal prospects for our souls? We only tolerated him here to give us provenance; he was a decent enough chap, but a fool. I suppose the worm was always in the bud; he only lasted as long as he did, suspecting nothing, because he was a fool.

It happened on January 3rd, we were all having drinks at the Herriots’ in Honeycombe Manor, to the west edge of the village. There was the usual group: Giles Waverley-Wynn and Simon Monticle, the retired antique dealers, from Bullwyn House; the Duncton-Joneses, he sold his family manufacturing business long ago and retired young, they live at the Old Rectory; there was Stone, professional violinist from Linney House; Misses Coates and Clerry-Powell, Allan Hodge and Melanie (the youngest among us and the newest recruits) my brother Henry (ex army, retired Civil Servant), and of course our Rector, Gerald Hawthorne and his wife Grania, from the nearby Stonepack Rectory. They are the only outsiders we have ever tolerated in our midst, but it was symbiosis: who would suspect us regular church goers to be so deep into the Darkness and yet, seemingly, hand in glove with our Rector? The impoverished and seemingly harmless church mice, the Hawthornes, were happy to have the chance to participate in our wealth and privilege and ask no questions.

We were sipping our drinks and warming ourselves in front of the massive fireplace in the splendid old hall when I saw something ridiculous happen: the glass in Gerald’s hand seemed to fling its contents upwards into his face and a split second later it was as if his legs were plucked out from under him by unseen hands. But Gerald was made of stern enough stuff not to be floored for long. He pulled himself together immediately and rose to one knee, I thought it was for the purpose of retying a shoelace, but then he dropped on to his other knee and stayed there for several minutes, as if in prayer.

Gerald is a large, rather ungainly man and this was clearly not an easy manoeuvre. I would not have given it another second’s thought had Gerald not confided to me several days later that this awkward moment on his knees was of momentous import to him. Having, as he claimed, been floored by the Holy Spirit, he was then spoken to personally by God, Who proceeded with the unprecedented act of speaking directly in Person to the humble Rector, rather than through the usual channels of the vast ecclesiastical hierarchy that never seem to filter down to grassroots level. Gerald knew all about the ecclesiastic hierarchy, stultifying as they were, but had he known about the Hierarchy of discarnate entities, would he have sought to become a Vicar, would anybody?

Surprisingly God, according to Gerald, did not say a word about loving one’s neighbour, or avoiding Gluttony and Sloth. He did not mention Adultery or Envy; the Rector does not, to my knowledge, covet his neighbour’s wife in Stonepack, Mrs Carnubie (undeniably vivacious though she still is, in spite of her advanced years), nor does Gerald covet any of the asses in the local Donkey Sanctuary.

According to Gerald, God steered clear of all the normal territory covered by Himself in testaments Old and New and went straight off on an entirely different tack. Apparently He said to Gerald: ‘THEY WORSHIP DOGS INSTEAD OF ME.’

After hearing that Gerald struggled to regain his feet and his balance; he felt rather dizzy. Initially he put it all down to the Amontillado, but musing on it afterwards he decided he had undoubtedly heard the Word of God. Obviously it was some mischievous woodland deity hissing in his ear, annoyed at the number of our dogs that cock their legs against trees, or maybe one of the naughty throng of river Naiads, tired of so many of our dogs swimming in the Honeycombe stream to wash themselves. We all walk a tightrope trying not to offend the unseen. Some, or maybe all of us, have failed, and Gerald, the believer, the fool, was the obvious instrument to beat us with; they are not without mischievous humour, some of the discarnate entities. As soon as Gerald struggled to his feet, following the apparent revelation, he looked with eyes newly opened at Harvey’s dogs, and then later, at everybody else’s.

Two days later, after giving the matter much thought, Gerald came alone to supper with us. After one of Hortense’s famous Stroganoffs, not to mention wines from my cellar finished off nicely with Vintage Port, Hortense retired to the kitchen to wash up and we relaxed with the three girls stretched out on the rug between the fire and us. I noticed an uncomfortable look on Gerald’s face as he looked at them.

‘Anything wrong Gerald?’ I asked and then he told me all the stuff about being spoken to by God, and what God had said to him. He could see my confused expression when he stopped and mistook it for embarrassment. He stood up and apologised: ‘should have kept it to myself’. I tried to soothe and distract him.

‘Sit down Gerald. It’s the strain, just had your busy period, Christmas. Roaring fire, wine, standing up too quickly, you just had a funny turn at the Herriots. Understandable. Had one myself a couple of years ago. Ask Hortense. End of a splendid meal at the Masseys, over at Under Bower and I just fell face first in the Brie, paralysed all down one side for a week, couldn’t speak for ten days, kept thinking I was still in Malaya for a month then, hah, right as rain again. Don’t worry, I won’t breathe a word.’

Now, if Gerald had left it at that I should not have breathed a word to anyone, let alone committed this to paper now, but no, he did not leave it at that.

‘I most certainly did not have a funny turn Ernest.’ He blustered. ‘My Redeemer spoke to me and I have seen the way you all literally seem to worship your dogs.’

‘I think you are being ecumenical with the truth.’

‘I never realised this before but now my eyes have been opened and I see there is something very strange about this village, very strange indeed.’

‘But, but, but... what?’ I spluttered. ‘Ah, you mean Waverley-Wynn and Monticle at Bullwyn House? You know all about them, maybe they are unashamed homosexualists in private, but it has never stopped you and Grania from enjoying their excellent taste and lavish hospitality at Bullwyn House whenever it is offered.’

‘I do not mean them. Not just them anyway. I never realised it before, Ernest, but all these dogs... you have three, Miss Clerry-Pole has seven, no less, it goes on and on: must be hundreds of them in Honeycombe. Is there a single house in the village with less than two dogs? Is there one household that is not deranged by dogs?’

‘What? Deranged? How dare you.’ I roared. Tell me my son’s are imbeciles and I will sadly acquiesce. Tell me my lady wife is a trollop and I will calmly assert that you are probably mistaken but say a word against my dogs and you will make an enemy for life.

‘Withdraw that Gerald and I will not say another word upon the matter.’ I hissed between my gritted teeth with the commendable self control inculcated into every fibre of an English Officer.

‘I cannot Ernest. I believe I have heard the word of God and I must discover what He wants me to do about it. These past few days I have walked around with eyes and ears open and I realise, compared with my other Parishes, that there is something very peculiar here: a great dark shadow seems to be cast over everything. Can’t think why I never noticed it before.’

‘We are in the depths of the cold dark tunnel of winter, Gerald: the grimmest time of year.’

I looked down at my girls, sleeping again, whimpering and shivering every now and then in their sleep as they chased imaginary rabbits through the Elysian Fields of their dreams and I looked at Gerald.

‘It is in times like this that we need the warmth and solace of our innocent creatures, yet you point an accusing finger. Shame on you.’

He rose to his feet again.

‘You give your lives to those animals Ernest. All of you in this