Original subtitles

Mother...

Wake.

Time to go down upon our journey...

on the earth.

Mother, no. Sleep on.

Mother...

my work for you on earth is ready.

Wake and come.

No, Mother. Do not hear him.

Mother, sleep until the light and spring are strong again.

Then wake.

Mother... wake now!

Mother?

For love of the earth, you know my brother's joy is waste and desolation.

Do not wake into his shadow.

Magog.

Magog. Magog.

How did I not cast those fragments of you in that sea?

Why did I not leave you where you were?

Von Drachenfels. who?

Albrecht Von Drachenfels.

I'm sorry, darling. You'll have to due me in.

The crazy organist. Stage name, of course.

Looks very haunted.

Laura and I once actually saw him play.

He improvises blindfold.

Monstrous music. Spits blood on the keys.

The lot. A real throwback.

Now there's a figure we must have in a film.

If only we can find a stow.

Dr Von Drachenfels?

I am right?

I'm sorry. I intrude.

Forgive me.

I don't know.

I'm saying it's quite a settled job. We'll have a nice time there.

The verger's keys.

- Skov-stjerne. - Forest Star.

- Curious thing, Sonia. - Hmm?

Last night I left my pills in the car.

You went on the car deck?

What does Drachenfels want on the car deck at two am?

His pills too? We're all the same drug culture.

I saw him walk aboard at Esbjerg.

He doesn't have a car on board.

I should check your boot.

I hope not.

"I hope not."

How English can you get?

Ooh.

What did you want to say to me?

You are a musician?

I by to be a musician. Yes.

Who are you?

Gwen...

Meredith.

Meredith. M-E...

- You play the organ? - I tn;.

I study to.

You are too retreating as a person.

You are the giant in my world.

I wanted to ask...

It was only an excuse to talk to you about that text.

I don't know whether you play that.

One work only I never play.

The so-called Toccata and Fugue in D minor of Bach.

Bombast. The day I play that,

the torturers have cut my brain.

You smile. And are sad?

My, er...

I have, er...

A man I know feels something like that.

Gideon. He's an author. Very exact with words.

If ever he has to utter a false confession, he says he'll begin,

"I address you on this media due to my desire..."

Deliberate bad grammar for some to hear.

This cannot be his true self speaking.

- Who is this true self? - He's an author.

Oh. Him.

You love this man and his words are shaping yours.

- About what does he write? - The paranormal and the unexplained.

novels. He's very successful.

Carl Nielsen, Commotio.

What did you wish to ask me?

There seem errors in the text.

Er... for instance...

This C in the bass. Surely that should be sharp.

And these others natural?

And the Ds, the same pattern.

I saw the manuscript in Denmark.

That's not what he wrote.

But what he means. His own good grammar, yes?

Cancer was eating him. He wrote in haste.

I've not played this in years.

Perhaps I should now. Thank you, Gwen.

Music to take me from the earth

at this great final

harmony.

Miss Meredith, have you a car on board?

I'm making for Liverpool if that's...

No, no, no.

Visit me. Soon.

I invite you.

And bring the work to play for me. Yes.

Gwen, face your giants each day. I face mine.

That arrogance where true humility begins.

Arrange this.

The moment you are home. I wish this.

Also, your...

this Gideon, bring him too.

Soon, Gwen. Soon.

Remember me.

What was all that about?

The coldest feeling.

Ship empty.

I, alone.

- We're so behind. - No one can help the fog of the North Sea.

So much for making Dartmoor while the daylight lasts.

- I have to get to Belfast yet. - Another ferry? Poor man.

We're all late now.

- Sure I can't offer you a lift? - No, honestly.

Oh, well.

What horror is this you've made me do?

What hell let loose on these...

and on the earth?

And am I free?

Who is this?

Fog, customs.

No. I shan't stay over.

I want to get stuck in on that script for Sonia.

My chance to show them all I'm alive and kicking.

Curious thing, on the Ferry.

You know who I saw?

Six or seven hours, I reckon.

I'll be there before light.

No, don't wait for me. I'll feel I have to hurry.

Well, you know what I mean.

Sony, Laura. There's some sort of old woman out here.

I think she wants me off the line.

See you.

Be there, Not be there, Which do I want him?

There, to answer.

Not there, his talking to me, still to come,

Where is your life, Gideon?

Bit morbid, Gideon, isn't it?

I'm a writer.

I collect these things.

Mr Harlax... Forgive me. I'm presuming you are Gideon Harlax, the novelist

No. Please, listen. There's something you say in all your books

A pattern, a logic in even the most senseless things that happens.

My husband has just drowned himself.

Gideon? Jed, Jed Thaxter.

When are you coming up to the northern wastes?

You promised,

Get that back off your back, whatever you're writing.

Come and sit in on my film class

Hitchcock: The Moral Camera,.

Gideon? This is Gwen,

What are you letting me in for, Gwen?

This what you're gonna play him?

B double flat? Why not A?

A B flat value is depressed.

You touch the A key.

Mechanical coincidence.

Drachenfels.

Preposterous name.

He said through the village.

We should be near the sea.

- What's the matter? - Shh!

Some instrument he's built.

I thought I'd need the organ at Axancaster Abbey.

I hear nothing.

She hears.

Gideon, the sounds are holding her.

Trust sounds I cannot hear?

They're in the air.

- Now look! - Oh! Come on, Gideon.

I'll get the department to make you an ultrasonic whistle.

Your personal magic flute.

Come on.

Ow. Oh!

- That I hear. - Oh!

- You're sure he said... - Miss Meredith?

Mr Harlax?

Dr Von Drachenfels is delighted you have come.

Gwendoline.

And Gideon,

who would use bad grammar if he must speak false.

Someone has been describing me.

I am no musician, sir.

An honour to meet you.

The instrument of my trade. Quite like yours, I discover.

Keyboard, touch.

Ever quiet.

A simple act,

a total change of voice.

Type style, voice. Nice metaphor.

But always the same word, Gideon.

Always the same word. On your machine, not so.

There can be variations.

If I type an italic, for instance, my oblique stroke key comes up with a sharp sign.

I must leave you two to be musicians.

One we love,

withdrawn,

within, beyond our reaching.

A prisoner... in his own nature.

The ancient Greeks said such a man was in the thrall of Artemis.

What love shall rise.

Since your return from Denmark, you are well?

Why, yes.

Truly?

When I got home, I felt a terrible depression.

I wanted suddenly to end my life, but that I love him.

Good.

Tell it me.

This ending. Not so expressive.

After the stretto, entry on entry.

Complexity so awesome...

Yet all we must hear is elegy.

Till at this ending, wholeness, stillness.

All pain contained.

Even, perhaps, a... fearful joy.

Air is death.

And death...

That death we die.

That ends.

Also that death whose grave bonds form around us as we live.

Once, long ago,

I heard a mere voice, "He is dead," speaking of me.

My true self. Telling.

Then... love surprised me and my astonished heart.

I'm sorry.

I would offer hospitality but...

And Gwen must not be sad.

What I do, I do to make you free.

Remember me.

He said...

"I must speak alone,

"with the composer only.

"I am not one born to tell the world."

Gwen...

So... if I had thoughts of being another Gillian Weir...

I'd not expected anything so... absolute.

I don't understand it. Not what he said.

Something...

He's still the musician, but something's changed.

I left the music. It's...

It doesn't matter. I'm not going back.

You didn't forget the music.

He made a point of keeping it.

That seems irrational.

You did well.

I had to speak true. Allow me still that.

But it was perfect.

She will wish to forget you.

The mischief of your encounter on the fern; is undone.

Separate rooms.

One voice, one heart, this prisoner here.

Yet she lives.

While you obey...

Gideon, why are you afraid of feeling?

I am a man of deep feeling. How else could I write?

In your life.

As though... as though when you first opened your eyes,

the light of this world so burned you...

Gwen, love... why this attack?

It's not an attack.

Oh, Gideon.

Did you once feel?

Were you so cauterised?

Gideon...

what is your pain?

I have no pain.

As you watch this man, remember,

from his sick fear of falling,

the woman he loved has hurtled from the tower to her death.

She returns from the dead, or is this she?

We should be warned.

Here is no reality.

And yet we would dream...

He takes her in his arms...

Now... see.

Supreme gesture of all art.

The camera, moral eye, encircling them.

Slow, vertigo...

engulfing us.

Also, the camera consecrates.

It tells us we do right to dream, and, for our sanity,

must learn to fall.

The background changes.

We are in the tower.

Miracle.

That fatal moment is restored to him.

This time, he shall took down and not be shaken.

This time...

his love shall live.

We are not in the tower.

We are in the here and now.

The perfect circle that seduced us brings us home,

into the real

And who is she?

What is her reality?

We are in the world.

All questions still to answer.

I'm a dead man, Gideon.

I hear this voice, in my head.

He's dead.

I even catch myself saying it aloud.

He's dead.

Jed's dead.

My true self telling me.

My feelings for anything human...

all dried up.

Only a 360 shot from Vertigo can bring the living water to my eyes.

I'm cauterised.

Jed...

being gay is not the end of the world.

Forget it.

What's this? German film?

Danish.

Gideon?

An image. For you to use.

And from the real world.

Really haunts me, what that man did to himself.

This place near?

Miles off his route.

So far from home.

Old man and woman brought up here from Southampton

to identify their son.

Very bleak.

He chooses Wastwater.

Grimmest of the lakes.

North. North as he can find

to go and wait.

Sat smiling, cap in hand.

For ice to come.

Don't we all?

You see the world too much as image of yourself.

Don't pick it.

All that labour to be born.

- Bluebell? - What, in September?

actually... I don't know.

Don't know what this is.

Seems so old.

Flowers are growing smaller in our pollution.

Know that?

According to Erlik, all creatures that live on effluent and waste are waxing large.

The housefly shall weigh down the rose.

And our acids blow northeast

to burn the Scandinavian forests

even as we speak.

They seem so... innocent of that.

Sad you can't stay. Live novelist.

Stir the English department up a bit.

Back to the anvil Sony.

Bloody book.

Don't you feel self-conscious, driving this?

What?

It moves like a Saracen tank.

Parading the ghetto of the world.

It was just alienated.

- Strange about Denmark. - What?

Nothing. Give my love to Hitchcock.

Take mine.

Take care.

Gwen?

Did you hear from Drachenfels at all?

Why should I?

Your music. Why has he kept it?

He wants us to go back.

I'm sure of it.

You go on your own,

I understand that.

No, I do.

If I were to...

call by on him, as it were...

can... can I go in your van?

Whatever for?

Well, mine, it does announce me, rather.

..only half a mile away. A further incident took place...

It can't be Friday. I have to go out to the tower.

Site meeting with my architect.

Though I could...

An eyewitness said that it appeared to be a conflagration...

Great. Thanks, Gwen. See you soon.

Questions will undoubtedly be asked in the House

as to Whether this is a renewal of the Troubles of two years ago,

So What are you going to do when you get there?

I don't know,

- What's this? - Try it on Drachenfels' dog.

I promised.

I had it made for you.

Yes.

Dr Drachenfels?

Shh.

Ahh. This fugue on which you have been so diligently working,

when am I to hear you play it?

It is for your concert at Axancaster, is it not?

Gwen.

Gwen, the things you collect.

The life of a man.

Do forgive me.

I have a problem.

How many letters in the Greek alphabet?

In literature or epigraphic?

Including qoppa, sampi and digamma, 27.

But in the literature, these are extinct.

Then there's archaic script.

I can read some.

Alpha, A-P-T...

R-T. Artemis.

Isn't that a space programme?

A goddess.

Oh, yes. The virgin huntress.

That's one of her guises.

In the Bible she's Diana of the Ephesians.

Wild and cruel.

A tower-headed goddess who demanded self-castration from a man.

Also, she's the moon.

She hatches each new creature into being.

Her arrows are the shocks and pangs of birth.

Virginity, castration, pregnancy.

All the one goddess?

One of the enigmas of Greek religion.

So many contradictions in her.

The Church simplified her to the Virgin Maw.

Her Celtic name was Morgan Le Fay, enchantress and witch.

And to the Norsemen, she brought fertility...

or death, when angered.

The Magog of the damned.

Look!

Be good enough.

Write out all these Greek letters for me

with their English values.

Which values?

How could that be automatic?

Beta, for instance.

You want “be“ or “we“?

Or mu-pi as it is in modern Greek?

What am I to do with omega...

Excuse me.

Nothing is simple.

You said you could help me.

I've, er...

I've never actually thought of music saying anything before.

I'm afraid I rather use it to keep the world out.

Madam, I, erm...

I've slept rough in my girl's...

in my wife's van.

I haven't washed.

Madam, I... I'm the wrong sex.

I mean, you're the wrong sex.

I mean, for me.

Madame, I...

You are not supposed to smoke in here!

Young man!

If you must fantasise, do so elsewhere.

Hey.

My fugue! My Greek! My blood!

Hey!

A pattern, a logic

in even the most senseless things that happen.

My husband has just drowned himself.

I had come to loathe my husband, Mr Harlax.

I mean, physically be revolted by him.

I could look at him and think only of the functions.

Where we had been once

so bodily enthralled.

Your husband made that?

That was the shock film of its generation.

Waves of it reached even me in my teens.

That was then.

Since the slow grind into decline.

Helpless, I despised him for it.

For him I'd sacrificed any creative hopes I might have had.

Oh.

He was what you would call a good provider.

I'll have to sell this place.

It is unkind of me to burden you with this. Irrational.

It is irrational that I am here.

You say there is a pattern to his death.

But not such a pattern as you mean.

I...

I believe your books are very nearly true,

but that at the last, they are mistaken.

The pattern is not demonic, supernatural outsiders.

The energy and waste of it is in ourselves.

So, what...

larger logic do you see now in your husband's drowning?

On the phone, you described it to me as a senseless act.

On the surface, yes.

He was in a very positive state of mind.

The last time he... spoke to me.

He'd just landed from Denmark.

Setting up a film.

Suddenly, he was full of projects.

He'd seen a famous musician on the ferry. Old organist.

Thought he could exploit him in a horror stow.

No.

Deep in him,

my husband was already dead.

The pattern is not of angels, nor of dark powers moving us,

intervening in our world, controlling us.

It isn't what we learn...

from what happens to us, from what is real,

how we grow wiser for it,

how we grow.

I think that Tristram somehow encountered in himself that deeper wisdom.

He was dead.

And so his suicide was true.

Do you grieve for him?

For him.

It was so... undone a man.

Yet I rejoice, because at the last, he proved so true.

Now, day by day, the blackness of his death diminishes.

And I'll wait from it the flash of a new white star.

All my bad history, I'm free of it.

I'm given a new future.

I must use it bravely.

The book of the true pattern.

Use it right.

The images in themselves tell us nothing.

It is we must look at these and recognise,

as with our dreams.

A good card.

He mows down all that is sick, to be reborn.

A good card.

Such balance.

So serene.

And the head, not ruling overmuch,

if this way out.

Beware the world.

Beware of the angry moon.

Beware... the tower.

But always the same word, Gideon.

Always the same word,

On your machine, not so,

M key.

A key.

Magog.

I've got the story, What?

Where are you speaking from?

"Ceg-uffen." Where?

"Ceg-uffen" North Wales

- Where I always come. - Learn to pronounce it

Ceg Uffern. Hells Mouth

Listen, I'm scrapping the book. This is the story'

The man's disturbed.

Who? Drachenfels.

Wanted a pagan relic so compelling, he had fantasies of stealing her.

Lurking, he says, in the Esbjerg Museum till after dark.

Smashing her glass case and making off with her.

Then a new dark stranger shadowing him

so frightens him he cancels his flight and comes home by sea.

How you met him.

Gwen?

On the ferry, sudden waking vision.

Himself burned at the stake, choking, buried alive,

falling through space.

So he says he shatters her, five fragments of Magog.

He even describes them. Black wooden canted hands, feet, head, in a shiny cabin sink.

Classic hallucination, that. So vivid.

Passed out, he says.

Came to, around him everywhere, vehicles stacked.

Car deck. Two am. Fragments of the goddess gone.

Of course they were gone.

But he's not free of her. Oh, no.

Back home at Dunsdyke, the sinister angel from Denmark has arrived before him,

masquerading as the wife's new doctor.

But it was Drachenfels' agent.

- Dark, pale man. - Drachenfels is haunted,

Drachenfels is haunted, all right, but Gwen, be rational.

I mean, it all goes back to Mrs D, doesn't it?

In her day, it seems, a great Wagnerian singer.

You know that!

Now living dead in some sort of sterile unit.

Perhaps the glass museum case reminds him of that.

Excites all his morbid guilt at her condition, I don't know. Some deep problem.

What interests me...

I can take his hallucination and match it up with something actual from my coincidence file.

It's the pattern I've been looking for.

What a narrative scheme! Real lines of force.

I've only four suicidal acts so far.

He has five fragments.

But four is neater.

- Gwen? - Why are you telling me this?

Why? But you gave me the stow, love.

You involved me with the man.

I'll owe the book to you. I'll dedicate the book...

I gave you something else. Much you valued that.

- What? - Something I had made for you.

You left it in my car.

Silly little gift.

Foolish, really.

Gwen, I...

Oh, Gwen, love, stop it.

Gwen, give it a rest, love, do!

Gwen! For pity's sake, get off my back!

Gwenville.

The tower!

The strangest feeling.

Last twilight of the earth.

Oh, be there.

Be there!

- Northwest College of Music, - Miss Meredith.

- I'm sorry, she's... - Can you get a message to her?

It's very urgent. To stay clear of her car...

Listen! To stay clear of her car and on no account...

Can you repeat the name again?

Meredith!

Gwen Meredith.

M-E-R...

Hello? Hello?

My eyes. I can see.

I can see!

My van blew up.

Virtually my home. All my work.

Welcome, Gideon, aboard.

You're going to be out of action quite some while.

Gideon?

Gideon, that is your name?

You were asleep so long. I mean, days, weeks, you were asleep.

I had to be a father to you.

All myself.

You are Gideon, a writer of books.

You were working in your Dormobile.

On a cliff top across that sea.

Your van blew up.

You do not remember?

What is the matter?

Cold.

Cold? What is that?

Cold.

I'm not of your earth.

I do not know this cold.

It is to kill...

this dragon,

for all her power to flow in man and man to live...

While he, my brother of the night...

would have the dragon go on living, to devour.

The men here all die so soon.

It is the sea.

Here... should be my mother's village.

Here she should lie... at peace.

Somewhere here, an older place.

Here is where my mother must be brought to lie.

It is her resting place.

Gideon, remember that.

You move.

You walk.

You stand.

So... so...

I am... a lame man.

I am...

This... shore...

it is so lovely.

All this place.

And you.

Can we stay here?

Always?

Gideon. Gideon, wake.

Oh, Gideon, my love. Wake up.

Put on your child.

You must leave now. It is time.

Where are we going?

Across the water, to a city that my brother has made sick.

Then I shall catch the sickness too.

You had the sickness once.

You are immune.

Why must we go?

My brother drives us out.

Your coat.

Doubted, you shall feel... What is it? Cold.

- Helith? - Yes.

You make no picture in the glass.

That's right.

We will come back, though.

We do come back.

please, I'm sorry.

Helith! Helith!

Please, let me through!

Please, did you see a man in white?

With golden hair?

Please!

Please, sir. Have you seen...

Have you seen a man?

Please! Please, have you seen a man all dressed in white?

Please?

Please to write?

Your name.

Please to write?

Write?

I study your language.

I wish to make practice in your beautiful English language.

But you... you...

There's something I must tell to you.

You are in danger. Something I must say you.

- Cathedral. - OK.

Cathedral. Tomorrow. The big church.

No! No, stop him!

You mustn't let him do that!

What city is this?

What country am I in?

So hungry.

I dreamed this.

I wake soon,

by the sea.

Oh, the sea.

Impossible!

The more I loose, the more you awake.

We have to fall.

To fall is better than to hang.

Hold me.

Trust me!

No!

Hold me!

Hold me!

My love.

My angel.

Oh, my joy.

You're here.

My love is living. You are here.

How can I care about this earth?

Down there, on your city motorway,

a coach had slowed up in the fog.

All drivers behind came ramming into him and each other.

At 60 miles an hour.

You are worse than fools.

You've lost all reality of those with whom you share the light and air.

You all deserve the coming wrath.

Oh, Helith. My love.

I have so needed you.

I have been so frightened and alone.

Hungry.

And I have done such...

sin.

The girl from the tower.

I lost you. I turned to you and you were gone.

Oh, never go from me again.

Promise me.

- I must go back. - No.

To my strange shore.

My.. far shore,

where there is no time,

no living, no death,

no end and no beginning.

To anything.

The misery of that.

No.

I have stayed with you too long already.

No, Helith. No!

I came only to hold you through the night.

To set you on your feet again.

What road you take is yours to choose.

Your day was long coming.

It is here.

Go, then.

Go now!

My love, what is the matter?

Cold.

Cold.

Then you are of this earth too much already.

Stay.

Whoever you be, from whatever shore

you have come your journey, you are here.

I have come my journey. I am here.

Cold.

This pain.

I bring my coat to warm you.

Oh, man.

Good man.

I dreamed I was a man and people reached to me.

A woman and a man both reached to me

and I said no.

I thought I was a wise man.

I was not wise at all.

Why am I so wracked and shaken?

Feel salt water breaking in my head,

and I... am being born.

I am the sea...

Oh, poor cold angel.

Live in this world and I shall make you man of clay.

My work is done.

There is a game you play as children.

Count down from ten.

Only do not come seeking.

Remember me.

And for yours Come along now'

All right?

9907, what brought you here?

I chose to come,

Why was that?

The world... too much.

How did you come here?

White...

white...

And where are you now?

By the sea.

0848. Why do you raise your arm?

I choose to,

Where are you?

Where were you before?

White.

All white.

The sea.

Where are you now?

The world,

The sea,

You struggle so to live.

Die, damn you.

Die.

Where have I been?

Who am I?

Gwen!

Do you hear me?

Gwen?

Oh, if you hear me, show, reach.

Stand.

Gwen...

that you are looking at is not the sea.

Gwen. Not the true sea.

Listen. Listen.

Gwen. Gwen!

Gwen, hear me!

- Seal the project. - I'm sorry?

Seal. Immediately.

There's still one transport due up out from there'

Cancel. Keep it below. Seal now.

The technology will not permit that,.

Override.

Impossible. The release shaft must open for each upcoming transport

until the phase one programme is complete

Aside from any question whom this last transport will be bringing.

Well, expedite those to the surface, then seal!

Jed?

Jed?

Jed?

Jed, Gideon.

Gideon.

Come on.

Jed, why you do you lean your head upon your hand?

Head fall off. Heavy.

Snap my neck.

Why is your head heavy?

From keeping all my foulness in.

What is this place?

- Jed, how are you here? - Of my free will.

Look at me.

Jed, tell me who you are.

I am of the chosen.

You all shall stumble, grow blind.

And the earth shall be ours.

Jed, what has been done to you?

What did... Oh, Jed, where are your tears?

Tears burn!

We have to be men of steel and ice and walk immune

amid the separation of the earth.

No, Jed. No.

Nurse!

Yes?

Oh, Gwen.

This makes it two of us.

You bring back all my pain.

Where's old Hitchcock now?

Hold it!

Oh, dear.

Oh, dear, oh, dear, oh, dear!

Hey!

"Gravesend."

"Mansfield."

"Milton Keynes."

Travel warrants. What are these?

What the hell place is this?

How'd you come to be there?

- White. - What?

All picture is white.

We have sealed, Phase one complete,

Good.

I must say, /.,,/ must say, it's... better for everyone this way,

Really, it is better.

How have I so loathed the world?

I am what I am

and man will have me triumph.

So man.

So world.

Just a hangar that closed behind us as we came.

Barriers that opened for us.

Not for us. For whom we bring.

Atrocity beneath. Above, this all we see.

Burn them! Sink them!

Perhaps they'll suffocate.

What use?

There are more like those already in the world.

Cover this blood.

Anyone I see from now on...

Where are we?

If I at least knew the stone. If only I'd learned the stars.

Is northward where we want to be?

Ohh!

I show up so, this white!

There was a village here.

Capel Celyn.

Entire community.

Water now, for Liverpool and Birmingham. Our cities.

Gwen?

We have to get ourselves back into the world.

You say that?

We should be on the road by now.

Still 60 miles to Ceg...

- Ceg Uffern. - No.

Gwen. Just to see.

See that the old place is still there.

Gideon, all that's gone.

That.. freedom. Innocence. Gone.

Freedom gone? How are we here?

We're on the wrong side of something now, in this world.

We are its enemy forever.

Gwen?

Why was your car at the tower?

How came you to be in that... place? Happen at my tower?

Why did you go to the tower, Gwen?

What compelled you there?

Anyway, the tower's finished for me now.

50 near that... place.

For all I know, right over it.

There's some such place beneath us everywhere.

And there are other towers.

What does that say?

Memorial chapel.

The real church is beneath the water.

My gran was moved out when the valley was drowned.

Little girl

15 other families.

She always wore red.

Red Gran.

On her marriage day, after the service, she ran off up the hill.

They all did that, the brides.

The men had to come after. Catch her to bring her home.

Did any get away?

Sometimes they hid.

A girl, Angharad, did that on her wedding day.

Never was found.

It's a very old motif, told the world over.

The bride hides... in a chest or a tree.

The lock springs,

or she is trapped forever and suffocates unfound.

What does that stool mean?

What do you mean, "mean"?

A stool is a sequence of fictitious events.

- How can it mean? - Why, then, is it told the world over?

What is so true about it that we recognise?

Does it mean, when a girl marries,

she must bury herself alive till the end of her days?

A stem; is a stow.

Oh, but if we hide in our virginity, Gideon,

close ourselves away from that hunter

who must ravage us and loose us, we suffocate and die.

Gwen, what is this?

You know as well as any, I'm no virgin.

Oh, we can perform the act of love,

just as there are public virgins who spatter us with moral filth.

So a man can come and come and come,

and still his manhood not be loosed,

his self not given.

You always need a super intelligence in your books from outside the earth.

Step in to save man from his folly. Why?

Because in your world, man himself is not mature enough.

In your stories that are only stories,

man is a moral child because you who tell them are yourself a moral child.

Those who so love your books are moral children too.

For them, the world's too much.

So Craven said, some angel, supernatural, to intervene.

Your works are a satanic force.

You hobble us.

Appease us with maps.

Not of the world we're truly in.

You diminish our responsibility.

In your own writing, you endanger the earth.

The globe rolls over into the dark and we bleat, "No angel came."

There is no angel.

Only our own powers.

From our own inner space.

By our thwarting and waste of these comes death into the world.

I'm sorry, Gideon.

My love, I'm sorry.

No. No.

Let's go home.

Where's that?

And the rest of the programme is as published in Radio Times.

It just came. Came over on the radio.

- Drachenfels. - What, is he dead?

How far is Axancaster?

From here? Fen country.

All Wales to cross. Then across all England.

It's what he's playing. I believe you.

And he's changed the programme to put it in.

I believe you, Gwen. I trust your instinct.

If we do get there...

when.

What do we do?

The change of item in this evening's relay from the Fenland festival.

In his inaugural recital on the restored organ of Axancaster Abbey,

Albrecht Von Drachenfels will now begin his programme

with the Toccata and Fugue in D minor of Bach,

The Toccata and Fugue in D minor replaces the item...

To me he said it.

"The day I play that, the torturers have cut my brain."

He calls to me,

yet what help to him can I be?

Tonight, you shall play as you have never.

And that's your service to me done.

- What have you sought of me? - Your music.

- Why? - What you have sought.

For her... to go on living.

Once there was a boy whose little sister lay very sick.

"Doctor, Doctor, shall she die?"

"When the leaves fall from their tree, about that time."

The boy went. Secretly.

He climbed the tree, and out along its branches,

fastening its leaves with string.

fr; a programme of works by Liszt, Max Roger;

and the Danish composers, Buxtehude and Carl Nielsen,

Commotio of Nielsen.

Music he said to choose for the last that he might ever play.

Music to take him from this earth.

But we begin with a work by Bach

which Dr Von Drachenfels is substituting for the item advertised.

The Toccata and Fugue in D minor,

He says, "Gwen, hear me. Help me."

Perhaps he wants to die.

Everything he said that seemed so willful, now I begin to understand.

"Remember me."

What music's this?

It's Franz Liszt.

Ad Nos, Ad Salutarem Undam.

To Us, To The Redeeming Waters.

The Abbey.

Nielsen.

What is this?

Along the drove? Toward me.

White horse, white rider.

There's nothing there, Gideon.

The rider has no head.

There's nothing, Gideon. Trust me.

Who are these children?

Band of children robed in white.

Gideon, there's nothing.

A banner. Writing on it.

The children of... Asrael

Gideon, you are inventing these.

Asrael is a name for the angel of death.

You are creating these yourself to hold you back.

They are phantoms. Drive through them.

Mow them down!

Up, Gideon. Look up toward me.

Don't took down.

What's happening?

Gideon, you have to see.

The audience in the Abbey here at Axancaster now await expectedly...

The recital's over. So why is he not moving?

..Von Drachenfel's performance tonight will end.

That display of virtuosity and musicianship

with which the name Von Drachenfels is popularly most identified.

In the tradition of the great organists of the past,

he will compose a piece at the keyboard as he plays.

The passacaglia, a rigorous and ancient form

much favoured by the classical composers,

is a set of cumulative variations

in which the theme itself is heard throughout

as an ostenoto or a ground, a repeated...

He's going to improvise.

He'll be composing as he plays.

- Why? Why? - ..blindfold, like his old, blind master,

he will extemporise a passacaglia and fugue

on a theme especially devised for tonight's occasion.

The theme will now be played to him.

Ahh.

Magog.

There you are.

Stop him, Gwen! Stop him playing!

Stop him!

Forgive me.

Gideon. Let go.

Hold on, dear boy.

For love of the earth, let go.

Aah!

The light.

In the east.

"Magog's grav."

Bet er Magogs grav.

She say it's Magog's grave.

Who... who was Magog?

- Hvem var Magog? - Det ved jeg ikke.

She doesn't know.

I limp on two legs now.

Balance of a sort.

You never said what happened to you.

You've told me nothing of your stow.

We have each come our journey. We are here.

What happened to your coat?

I...

gave it to a poorer man.