Ten Lords A-Leaping: A Mystery (Father Christmas) by C. C. Benison Page A
Authors: C. C. Benison
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scrambled under the hedge opposite. Tom sighed, adjusted the crutch under his arm, set to continue, but, again, an unexpected noise gave him pause. No pebble scraping this time, but a rustling and thrashing, of twigs snapping and leaves tearing, somewhere on the opposite side of the Labyrinth.
A dog?
A rogue sheep?
It was then that Tom felt the first intimation of impending trouble. The crackle of disturbed foliage stopped almost as soon as it started, but the rest of nature seemed to rise up in sympathy. Protesting birds streaked noisily into the sky in a dark plume of distraction, scattering to the trees. A jackdaw sounded its high, squealing distress call. And then, as abruptly, a kind of restorative peace settled on the landscape, but a falseone, Tom felt in his bones. Something or someone had surely violated the perfection of the topiary wall. Was he to encounter another creature, a more fearsome one than a cat, on the path to the centre? Or had some more fearsome creature retreated from the Labyrinth and padded silently away? Mind arrested from his own worries, concerned now that misadventure awaited, Tom limped his way more quickly along the coiled intestine of the Labyrinth. Glancing over the top of the penultimate ring, he thought he saw a blemish in the smooth topiary wall of the outermost ring, and when at last he looped around, he saw with sinking heart a dark scattering of leaves and bits of twig along the pale path ahead. In a moment, he was in front of the vandalisation itself, an ugly, ratted gash through the leafy wall. Someone—surely no animal would do this—had burrowed below its tidy trimming to escape. Fear? Panic? A labyrinth was not a maze. There was no reason here for the claustrophobic dread some suffered at Hampton Court.
Or was it a deliberate desecration?
Tom looked over the hedge towards Eggescombe’s park, misting faintly as the sun, now half a crimson ball, stirred heat into the air. Here, at the farthest point from the entrance, the Labyrinth revealed its purchase on a soft mound that sloped gently to the lawn below, to the ha-ha, and to the purpled silhouette of majestic trees in the middle distance piercing the shimmering grey sky. Nearer, his eyes settled on an ancient oak the mighty limbs of which embraced a marvellous white tree house that glowed softly in the new light. And nearer still, the pinnacled bulk of Eggescombe Hall, mullions turning to glittering diamonds. It was as magnificently timeless as it hadbeen yesterday. Only unpeopled. Utterly unpeopled. No sound, no motion suggested anyone but himself in this arcadian landscape.
With new concern, he shifted awkwardly on his crutch. Though he had yet again swung to the farthest reaches of the eleven circuits, he had come a good distance. In a few short turns, he knew, he would be ushered into the Labyrinth’s sacred heart, where, presumably—according to the most ardent fans of such things—he would experience a kind of rebirth, though the fanciful notion that a minotaur, half man, half beast, lay in waiting crept into his mind. He snorted at the absurdity. The sound was preternaturally loud in his ears. He continued on down the path, alert to other breaches to the peace of the Lord’s day, but none came, for which he was grateful.
Around the last bend, the path straightened, resolving into a short corridor into the Labyrinth’s green nucleus. A pale silhouette emerged from the black bath of shadow. The head’s fine features and slim neck—more discernible now as he pushed forwards—seemed to drink in the dawn light and gleam gently, as if lit from within. The marble face wore none of the mournful piety typical of such statues; the posture suggested nothing of the torment to come. The sculptor—Roberto, presumably—had rendered, with sublime skill, the sweetness of mother and child bound in love. The chubby-limbed child fairly gurgled with bliss; the slim mother, her youthful body draped in classic modesty, rejoiced
A dog?
A rogue sheep?
It was then that Tom felt the first intimation of impending trouble. The crackle of disturbed foliage stopped almost as soon as it started, but the rest of nature seemed to rise up in sympathy. Protesting birds streaked noisily into the sky in a dark plume of distraction, scattering to the trees. A jackdaw sounded its high, squealing distress call. And then, as abruptly, a kind of restorative peace settled on the landscape, but a falseone, Tom felt in his bones. Something or someone had surely violated the perfection of the topiary wall. Was he to encounter another creature, a more fearsome one than a cat, on the path to the centre? Or had some more fearsome creature retreated from the Labyrinth and padded silently away? Mind arrested from his own worries, concerned now that misadventure awaited, Tom limped his way more quickly along the coiled intestine of the Labyrinth. Glancing over the top of the penultimate ring, he thought he saw a blemish in the smooth topiary wall of the outermost ring, and when at last he looped around, he saw with sinking heart a dark scattering of leaves and bits of twig along the pale path ahead. In a moment, he was in front of the vandalisation itself, an ugly, ratted gash through the leafy wall. Someone—surely no animal would do this—had burrowed below its tidy trimming to escape. Fear? Panic? A labyrinth was not a maze. There was no reason here for the claustrophobic dread some suffered at Hampton Court.
Or was it a deliberate desecration?
Tom looked over the hedge towards Eggescombe’s park, misting faintly as the sun, now half a crimson ball, stirred heat into the air. Here, at the farthest point from the entrance, the Labyrinth revealed its purchase on a soft mound that sloped gently to the lawn below, to the ha-ha, and to the purpled silhouette of majestic trees in the middle distance piercing the shimmering grey sky. Nearer, his eyes settled on an ancient oak the mighty limbs of which embraced a marvellous white tree house that glowed softly in the new light. And nearer still, the pinnacled bulk of Eggescombe Hall, mullions turning to glittering diamonds. It was as magnificently timeless as it hadbeen yesterday. Only unpeopled. Utterly unpeopled. No sound, no motion suggested anyone but himself in this arcadian landscape.
With new concern, he shifted awkwardly on his crutch. Though he had yet again swung to the farthest reaches of the eleven circuits, he had come a good distance. In a few short turns, he knew, he would be ushered into the Labyrinth’s sacred heart, where, presumably—according to the most ardent fans of such things—he would experience a kind of rebirth, though the fanciful notion that a minotaur, half man, half beast, lay in waiting crept into his mind. He snorted at the absurdity. The sound was preternaturally loud in his ears. He continued on down the path, alert to other breaches to the peace of the Lord’s day, but none came, for which he was grateful.
Around the last bend, the path straightened, resolving into a short corridor into the Labyrinth’s green nucleus. A pale silhouette emerged from the black bath of shadow. The head’s fine features and slim neck—more discernible now as he pushed forwards—seemed to drink in the dawn light and gleam gently, as if lit from within. The marble face wore none of the mournful piety typical of such statues; the posture suggested nothing of the torment to come. The sculptor—Roberto, presumably—had rendered, with sublime skill, the sweetness of mother and child bound in love. The chubby-limbed child fairly gurgled with bliss; the slim mother, her youthful body draped in classic modesty, rejoiced
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