Dawn - at eventide

DAWN – AT EVENTIDE

A MESSAGE TO MANKIND

BY

Geo. F. Tytherleigh

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2012 by Geo. F. Tytherleigh

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Cover image: Mahbub Hasan, Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 Unported license.

DAWN – AT EVENTIDE

Based on a legend of France which had its

sequel in the First World War.

Dedicated to those whom the

war bereaved

in the true knowledge

that the fullness of time

brings recompense.

An hour to go…

…The sun goes down

I wonder if we face towards home?

…If we lose our way

In the light of day…

What shall we do when night has come?

Chapter 1

Explanation

From one point of view, the history of Modern Science is the story of how the acuteness of man’s senses has been increased by the invention of scientific instruments. On the astronomical scale, we can receive sense impressions from stars so distant in space and time that millions of years elapse before the light from them reaches our eyes. On the microscopic slide, we see in as great detail as we shall ever manage to see. If science is to describe the Universe as it is exposed under the dissecting knife and the object of philosophy is to fit this experience into a framework of knowledge and understanding as a whole, then scientists, with their ever widening field of perceptions will find themselves passing across the frontiers of philosophy, and philosophers, with such knowledge before them, are driven to immerse themselves in Science.

(FROM A REVIEW OF PROF. CEM JOAD’S

PHILOSOPHICAL ASPECTS OF MODERN SCIENCE. 1932)

The peculiar (as that word would be used in its general sense) thing about the story that follows in these pages is its mixture of fact and fantasy. It is as well that the reader should know at the outset that there is a substratum of fact and actuality in the setting and the characters. There really exists a peaceful village set in the heart of a great forest, where two soul and body weary soldiers went on a certain day when the tide of war was turning in the allies’ favour. But it is also true that they went, but did not return. It is likewise true that although they really existed, you will not find them here. And though it must remain obscure what did happen to them in the end, the fact that they lived, and that they experienced certain of the events described here is the reason for what has been written.

Let that suffice. But, if you read diligently and with a mind attuned to the starlit silence of the skies as well as to the fretful friction of earthly energy, then you will not fail to read the message that runs between the lines; a message maybe that the world stands badly in need of these days, when materialistic thought and action brings such unbalance, and works to defeat the finer purpose of the greatest sacrifice of life and limb the world has ever known. A materialism that builds a fear in the hearts of men of a final, far more terrible world conflict, in which mankind shall go down in unspeakingly hideous death and destruction, to the dust.

In the late summer of 1933, having a period of leisure before me, I felt an urge to go again across that fateful strip of water I had not sailed since the day of my demobilisation. It was the fulfilment of a promise of each year’s making, that somehow or other had never fructified; now at last to see its consummation.

I knew things would be different after such a lapse of years; but I knew also there would be some places, some well remembered spots, that the finger of time and ever working change would have left untouched, or nearly so, and I was of a mind to seek them out, and let myself slip back and live again, in remembrance, the fateful days of the greatest tragedy that overcame the world. What would I find, I wondered, to jolt my memory and bring the press of incidents crowding back again?

Well, so it happened, but not quite as I had thought.

On the third day I had come to a place where, on the outskirts of a great forest, and amid perfect rural surroundings, the tall chimneys of a sugar refinery reared themselves up against the pale azure of a cloudless summer sky. I had been stationed here awhile and had formed some pleasant friendships, and was curious to find out if any with whom I was then acquainted, were still alive and in the vicinity.

As I dropped down the long straggling road and glimpsed the haphazard collection of yellowish clay and black beamed habitations, an incident came back to my mind in relation to the place that had had an element of mystery about it.

It concerned a violent storm after a day of sultry heat. Away in the heart of the forest was a village; a picture of wonderful natural beauty, which, in its seclusion, formed a peaceful setting in great contrast to the stress of things outside. The storm had partly destroyed it; the fire being attributed to the lightning, as several places and a number of trees were struck. Two of our men who were known to have gone through the forest to the secluded village, never returned; and it was assumed they were either killed by lightning in the forest or had been involved in the disaster which had overtaken the village. No actual clue as to their disappearance was found, but, and here is where the element of mystery came in, among the charred bodies found in the debris of a fine old château that was involved, fragments of clothing remained intact, which undoubtedly identified an English soldier.

This was not the most curious thing. The searchers were mystified to find what was patently the charred remains of a long bow, banded with gold and silver, and an arrow of like make. These were quite close to the body, as though held in the hands of the dead man when death came to him. The other man was anxiously sought after. It transpired that he was a not unimportant personage, who had been attached to the Air Force for special duty. There was some ado about his disappearance. Nothing was discovered however. His disappearance was complete. Neither was anything definite brought to light. Albeit, there were many things mentioned at the time that caused a bewilderment of mind. It was said, I remember, that during the height of the storm, before the fire came that swept through the village, a column of smoke was seen rising from the château and that a horseman, resembling in appearance an English soldier, had come riding madly through the village from the direction of the château, and, without pausing in his maddened course, had gone headlong towards the old church that was at the other side of the village. Immediately afterwards there had come a fearful flash of lightning, accompanied by crashing thunder, and, so ‘twas said by those who witnessed it, a bright shaft of light had come down through the enveloping darkness and for a moment had illumined the vicinity of the church. This was dismissed as the imaginings of the fear filled minds of those who related it. Nothing more was seen of either man or horse or of a young woman who belonged to the château; a kind of ‘Lady Bountiful’ to the villagers.

I have recited these details at some length because they are necessary as a prelude to what follows.

Seated in the general room of the small hotel cafe of the village lying adjacent to the sugar refinery, sipping a glass of wine in abstract rumination, my attention became attracted to a remarkable looking woman who entered. She glanced round as if seeking someone then came forward to where I was sitting and regarded me rather intently. She was young; that I could readily deduce, yet her eyes and the lines of her face showed sadness and suffering, and I could see wisps of white hair straying from under a capacious sun hat. She had been greeted pleasantly, and sympathetically, by the proprietress from an inside room. The woman’s presence seemed to arouse me. I made an effort at conversation. But my French is not good. She seemed not to understand, shook her head, smiled at me rather wistfully, and went into the interior. Soon after I saw her go by the window near where I was seated, and I watched her figure for some time as it receded along the road leading in the direction of the forest.

From the very moment I saw her enter until she disappeared round the bend of the road and was hidden from sight I felt a constraint upon me, a strange presentiment that I had come upon a link with the past, and that my feet had walked back through the years.

As I turned my eyes from the point of the road where she had gone and was settling back into my chair to resume my ruminations, I became aware of another presence. Just as you sense a being near you, without actually seeing anyone. I slewed round cautiously and found an old man dressed like a priest, standing nearby, and looking down at me with wise and searching eyes. I had not heard the sound of footsteps. Certainly my attention had been concentrated on the young old woman; but, even so, one can usually hear other sounds. The floor was of tiling and would have echoed the softest footfall. But there had been no sound. I returned the old man’s searching gaze direct, and was about to speak, when, quite abruptly, in good English, he said:

Did Germaine speak to you?

Pardon, m’sieu, I said, but who is Germaine and, for that matter, who are you?

She who was here, he said, ignoring the latter part of my question.

You mean that sad looking young woman who has just gone? No, she did not speak to me, merely shook her head at my bad French. But why do you ask?

He looked at me intently for a moment, then:

You are English, he said. Did you serve in the war, my son?

Why, yes of course.

Hereabouts, by any chance?

As it happens, yes. I was here awhile, in a large encampment near the forest. That explains my presence here now. I am revisiting the scenes of those days.

That is excellent, he said.

Excellent, I replied. Why so?

Because it is a coincident.

Coincident! In what way?

At what period of the war were you stationed here? he asked. Although he spoke gently and with the manner of the aged, gravely and deliberately, he had assumed the role of interrogator. I bowed to his venerability.

Let me see, I said. It would be in the summer of nineteen-eighteen when the Germans went back after the failure of their last effort. The time that a remarkable storm swept over this part of the country, which caused some deaths and much damage hereabouts. Maybe you will remember that.

As I mentioned the incident of the storm, the old padre, (for that is what he looked like, or a priest) started perceptibly and his gaze became more intent. Slowly, he drew forward a chair, and seated himself near to and facing me. He seemed to prepare himself for something he meant to unburden from his mind. Speaking slowly and stressing his words, he said:

Do you remember any incident, any remarkable happening connected with that great storm concerning the supposed death or disappearance of some of your comrades? They never returned was that not so?

I expect I showed surprise. Certainly I felt it. I began to arouse myself. Here was a curious reassembling of the past. Perhaps the old man had some knowledge that might prove of interest in throwing light at last on what had remained so long obscure.

Oh, yes, I said, I well remember. It caused some consternation at the time. I have a recollection of the two men. One a big, handsome fellow he was; superior, above the average. Attached to us for special duty. There was some bother at his disappearance. The other, an older man, was an exceptionable type too I believe. The men discussed him a lot after the affair. Regarded him as a sort of a wiseacre. He had an intense attachment to the forest, into which he went on every available occasion; nature study and what not. Such details are a clear remembrance in my mind; but their going and not returning on the day of that terrific storm did not come under my immediate notice. I was not in camp. Out on duty transport somewhere. I heard all about it when I came back.

The old man sat listening with profound attention to my every word.

Do you remember their names, my son? he asked.

I reflected. No. Names always escape me. The younger man, I think was known mostly by a nickname Michael, I think it was. Yes, Michael. They called him that, I fancy, because of his appearance. His companion had a name common to his country but it eludes me.

Michael! Michael! You say the one’s name, the younger one, the big, handsome man, his name was Michael? Are you quite sure?

The old man’s eyes showed animation, although he kept a calm exterior.

Yes, I am almost certain of that. I do not remember his real name. I do not think I ever heard one; I did not come into close enough contact with him, he was… But tell me, I went on, before he could resume his questioning, Why are you so anxious to know if I remember these things? Is there anything you know about the affair? Has anything been discovered in the long years that have elapsed, to clear up the matter? They were posted as ‘Missing, believed dead.’ There were many such in that ghastly business. One never knew. So few have come back. There was an enquiry into the matter, but I was sent elsewhere and heard no more.

The old man sat silent for awhile. He still looked at me, but now there seemed a contemplative mood in his regard. Then he launched a question, which took me completely by surprise and was disconcerting.

My son, he said, and there was profound earnestness in his voice Do you believe in God?

I am afraid I stammered my reply.

Well, I do not confess to any disbelief that is, in the theory of Divinity if that is satisfactory to you. But what bearing has such a question on what we are discussing?

Have you any faith in the continuance of one’s inner being, or soul, after the death of the body that is earthly and material?

The question nearly floored me. But I perceived he was exploring my mind on the question of belief.

That is rather more difficult to answer, I said, but I would be relieved if you would give me some idea as to why you ply me with such questions. Have they some bearing upon the mysterious disappearance of the two soldiers?

You, yourself, he said know the curious part of the story. Was it really believed at the time that the charred body in the château was that of one of the missing men?

Yes, I think so because the body was undoubtedly that of a man of like calibre. There was something weird about the whole business. If my memory serves me, the two men had formed a close friendship. The minor details escape me but the younger man was keen to go to that village in the forest. Michael, as we may well call him, was regarded by those who came into close contact with him as something of a visionary; a man preoccupied with matters relating to scientific philosophy, not a spiritualist; one interested in scientific investigation and psychology. Something must have happened to him that took a grip of his imagination. That is as much as I can tell you, I think. I do remember though that great grief was caused by the death of the occupants of the old château. We learned that they were the last of a very old family, who had held the love, respect and service of the peasantry for many generations. The war had taken a heavy toll on their men folk. These things I heard afterwards. There were some rumours about legends being fulfilled. The villagers, of course, were worst in that respect. Spoke about visitations and of the whole incident as being a sign from heaven, indicating a climax to the war. True it was, the war did not last much longer; for in the November of that year, as you know, the armistice was signed and as we also know, at no great distance from this spot.

The old man had sat listening to my reminiscing with close and rapt attention, nodding acquiescence, and regarding me with grave and, it seemed, indulgent eyes. I thought I had detected also a shadow flit across his features as I spoke of what rumour had said as to a visitation from heaven. Then came another surprise question:

Have you, my son, ever at any time in any way, witnessed what is defined as psychic phenomena?

I sat up at this, and began to think hard. What was the old man after? I thought. There was a growing significance in his strange coming upon the scene, and in these questions he was putting to me.

No. No, I replied, rather guardedly. Er, that is, not more, I suppose, than comes to most people at some time or other, that we usually define as the strangely coincident or even as the inexplicable. If you were to ask me to give you real instances of my having had experience of psychic phenomena, I am afraid there is very little I could expound upon but there have been such matters brought to my notice. Then :

Have you ever studied metaphysics and allied subjects my son?

A little, rather haphazard and at random, I said. But such questions puzzle me; I am wondering what you are leading up to?

Maybe, then you have studied philosophy and may know the Classics?

Yes, I said diffidently; but I lay no claim to being a scholar or to having had the advantages of a first class education. I follow an occupation that is an education.

He nodded, just as though he knew and understood.

But you are interested in some particular matters of the mind?

Yes, I said, readily, I am interested in astronomy on the scientific side and in sociology on the more material plane; I love the Classics but am afraid I do not study them often or diligently.

You have studied enough then to admit, without cavil, the general thesis of the indestructibility of matter. Yes? he queried.

‘Why, Yes! That is readily conceded.

Then what do you suppose happens to the grey matter that constitutes the brain when a human being dies?

I looked hard at the old man. What was he driving at? What was his purpose here, and who after all was he, that he should come upon me with such questioning? He seemed to read my thoughts, for he smiled back at me; and his smile and bearing had charm and reassurance.

I cannot say, I said very slowly, beyond that, with the rest of the fleshly matter, it must putrefy, and in course of time unless embalmed or preserved, go back into the earth and become part of it again in its changed constituents.

Do you believe in the power of the living mind in the living body to transcend over the material attributes of flesh and blood and bone?

Well, yes, I said, but only in special circumstances.

Can you define that acceptance and its qualification?

Yes, I said, I have come in contact with the work of the Psychical Research Society and have read a good deal also of the work that is essayed by the National Physical Laboratory. What I have learned has truly amazed me and though one is always inclined to scepticism on account of the known fakes, and fraud that is perpetrated, one does not readily scoff at or ridicule the considered judgements of the great physicists who have ranged themselves on the side of the admission of psychic phenomena, going along their avenues of research, with the sincerity of purpose these investigators have in seeking the profound knowledge of life’s inner meaning. To me, dreams have significance in what they sometimes yield in prophecy and pre knowledge. But, I broke off abruptly, again I would ask you sir; what have these questions to do with the subject that engendered this conversation; the incident of years ago in the war, of the two soldiers going to the secluded village in the great forest, and never returning?

Again the old man ignored my question, and digressed.

Are you staying here tonight? he asked.

I am almost certain to, I replied. There are some places I wish to visit hereabouts and some people I want to renew acquaintance with, if they are still there. But I am not hurrying; I am taking it leisurely, up to the region of the Hindenburg Line, or a little beyond. Yes, I expect I shall remain here tonight.

Then came the final questions, that truly bewildered me.

M’sieu, said the old man, speaking more as man to man, and less like a father to a son, and with a softer intonation in his voice. Do you think you understand, or that you wish to understand, the meaning of true love?

What do you mean by that? I asked.

I mean, do your heart and mind cherish within their inner recesses a feeling, a consciousness of deep, profound and all consuming regard for any one of your kind. If you are married, for your wife; if you are to be married, for the one you would mate with. If your life has been lived beyond such phases and you have suffered losses, for the ones, who are the issue of your mating; sons or daughters; and if not any of these, then for the one who is your nearest, dearest friend; one who has stood by your side in the darkest hours of tribulation and trial and not faltered, but looked you in the eye, true and unflinchingly, and smiled and put forth the hand to lift your stumbling feet to surer ground again; one who, when all the earthly, material things had seemed to turn to ashes and were as nought to lift the mind from the deepest depths where death was a welcome escape, has spoken the words that brought the light of hope back into your eyes and lifted your heart to the heavens once again for if such a knowledge has come to you then you have been blessed by the nearness of true love.

He paused just for a moment; then he went on:

But true love cannot reach its highest state of consummation without other things, other states of mind and body that bring a realisation of man’s affinity to Infinity. His mind and his heart must bear company with the majesty of all Creation, for the Creative Power within him that urges him to continuity comes out of and is the essential part of the vaster Creation that stretches outwards beyond the conception of his mind’s present development. For if that part of him is of the true essence of the purpose that underlies it all, then there must be an agency that can link it up to the greater Creative Power. Some day, science will determine what they now speculate upon, as certain; the Fourth Dimension for instance, and on that day much that now seems inexplicable and unacceptable will be rendered simple and as a patent truth. But Faith alone renders minds capable of seeing that what is to be has always been so; but mankind is not yet ready for the key or the solution; when he progresses to this point, man will be able to grasp and understand these truths through simple mind processes. And until the day of determination comes, Faith alone can hold one to the inner knowledge of Creative Power and Purpose, and where that Faith is there also is true Love.

The old man ceased. He seemed moved within himself at the fervency of his declaration, and I too was moved. It became apparent to me that he was approaching something of great importance; that my presence seemed to be prompting him to unburden from his mind. Yes I confess, I was not prepared for the finish to that unlooked for and unexpected meeting. And therein lies the purpose of all that goes before and what there is to follow, in the pages that were written to unfold the inner significance of this strange episode of the Great War.

After a moment of tense silence, the old man rose and, coming to where I was, stood over me. Looking down, in a compassionate and benevolent way at me. He then stretched forth a thin, white, delicate hand, laid it on my brow and blessed me. I sat silent, a little overawed by his presence, a little mystified and embarrassed. I am not religious-minded but I felt the great sincerity that was in the action and in the import of his words. Then:

When you go to your rest to night, he said, and there was an added emphasis in his utterance, I would deem it a great favour, my son, a great service to myself and to my fellow men, if you would place a good quantity of writing paper at your bedside. Just that. For thou shalt be the mouth piece and the medium to convey to many minds the lesson that teaches men their way to Immortality. On the morrow, when thou shalt be awakened, the task will be finished. And as it is set forth let it go into the form of the printed page, for the leavening of the evil that men do in their earthly pride and ignorance and foolishness; seeking as they do, a paradise here, when paradise is out beyond the stars and in the hearts of those who walk in peace with God, seeking only Love in Faith. Adieu, my son, you will never behold me as I am again; thou art the agent. May it be that I have chosen well.

He bent his aged head and I felt his lips upon my troubled brow, for his words were strange and had a meaning that made my heart contract. He was like a high priest putting a charge upon a chosen medium; and such I felt myself; I knew that I should comply. With one last look at me that I fear I cannot well define, he raised an arm and pointed out of the window to the great forest, now looking deep and mysterious and all embracing in the dying light of day.

There, he said, Thou seest.

His voice receding, I looked where he pointed long and earnestly. A heavy silence supervened. I became held in an abstraction of thought and on me there fell a great peace. When the spell had passed I looked for him; but the room was void of any presence. From the interior I caught the plaintive notes of an old French ballad, sweet and soft and low.

That night I went to rest early. I placed the many pages of virgin paper there beside my bed. I did not know, how could I know, what was to be the outcome of such instruction and command. Whether I liked it or not, there was something about that strange meeting, here, where my footsteps had trodden those years before; those awful years, when man forgot his manhood and his God, and the world was plunged into the mightiest mischief that had ever beset it; something that told me I must comply.

The morning came. I had slept over long. They were disturbed at my non appearance. When their knocking brought consciousness to me, the sun had crept up into the heavens, and man and beast were abroad in all the activities of life. But my body and mind were weary and unrested, for on the table, on the floor, spread about in littered disorder, were the written pages.

They are here.

Read them if you will…

Chapter 2

THE STORY THAT IS WRITTEN

THROUGH THE FOREST--------

TOWARDS HOME.

(France. 1918)

If I am required to believe that some portion of my present being will go on existing and preserve its consciousness after my body has decayed, then my imagination is distressed and my mind recoils. But, if I am led to consider how again and again it is true that the heights of personal life are only scaled through humiliation, the best only realised through the defeat or exhaustion or surrender of the good and I am asked what I should infer from this as to the effect and meaning of the law which decrees the giving up of life itself then indeed I see a glimmer of light upon the path ahead. What if all the goodness of this world of our experience, a goodness achieved with such infinite labour and still so inexplicably mingled with intolerable wrong and bitter disappointment, were a treasure provided by God for sacrifice, so that through sacrifice it should be recovered pure and glorified and whole?

‘Life after death – Christian Sacraments’ by Canon Quick. The Listener, November 29, 1933

The last lorry of the convoy, whitened by chalk dust over bespattered mud and grease, in keeping with the line ahead, eased down to slow and stopped. A moment of quiet; the panting throb of engines alone disturbing the softened solitude of a waning summer evening. Then shouted queries mingled with sharp staccato orders; and a host of khaki clad figures tumbled and spilled over the sides of the vehicles. The peaceful rural roadway of a few moments previously became alive with a swarming, chattering, whistling, shouting, laughing, rumpled crowd of Air Force units pulling and tugging at kitbags, blanket rolls, skeleton kits, and all their minor impedimenta, with a general scrambling for water bottles to drain the last dregs.

As the lorries cleared their human contents, the raucous voices of the non toms, gave tongue, and a medley of orders brought some semblance of quiet to the scene.

All out! All out! Stand clear! Move to left of the road!… Damp kits! Stand by!… Stand by!… Stand easy!

The serpent line of dust grey vehicles dull and drab against the hazing summer landscape moved again, slowly accelerating, and passed on and down the winding, white road, leaving a long irregular line of men and material like a crinkled smudge of brown and grey in a setting of green and golden-yellow and reddish brown and white.

Among the varied assortment of this human wad convoy that had exited from the last of the convoy forming the rear end of the contingent, was a figure that caught the eye, by reason of somewhat distinctive bearing and no less distinctive behaviour. A fine head crowned with wavy brown hair over a full, healthy countenance, clear cut profile, with smiling features, almost insolent in their aspect of indifference,