The Two Confessions

by John Whitbourn

  Glances were exchanged at this definitive proof of company, even as the fact was swallowed. Samuel allowed himself a certain gladness that that hurdle was finally crossed.

  He obliged himself to finger through the selected books. He found pornography and theology in equal measures. Neither appealed. All the stationary - old, heavy, cream paper - was blank.

  The persona of the missing tenant loomed closer when Trevan observed his soldiers' distraction. On one wall were framed prints of Zeus enjoying gross indecencies with stableboys. Samuel marvelled at his men's priorities and relentless basic tastes.

  ‘Never mind that. Team of two: the cupboard.’

  They dealt with said small side door. Something flew out and a soldier shot it. The explosion sounded like the voice of God, its echo travelling out of the room to reverberate all round the cloister-cavern.

  Though only self-trained to speed and commitment, Samuel's response almost got him in on the act. He had to give conscious orders to his gun arm to stand down, his trigger finger to relax.

  ‘Team of three, outer door. Wizard, to me.’

  For once the magician just obeyed. He and Samuel stood over the now dead thing. The soldier's reflex-action pistol shot had opened up its chest.

  ‘Is... was it a man?’ Trevan realised his lip was curling in un-authorised disgust. He regretted the concealing powder smoke's swift dispersal.

  ‘No.’ The Wizard was cheerfully confident. ‘Men have faces.’

  It was an unanswerable point. This creature, otherwise plainly human in its nakedness, had nothing but a bland stretch of skin where features ought to be.

  ‘An altered man then?’

  Again, the Wizard shook his heavy head.

  ‘Nope. Demi-demon. This type is known, though rare. Domesticated, they can serve as guardians.’ He tested the chain and collar round the thing's bull-neck. The silver link led back into the 'cupboard', its former home.

  ‘What?’ Samuel queried. ‘With no eyes, no ears?’

  ‘They manage somehow. No one knows how. Its kind are rarely caught to make autopsy of. They kill and kill for delight, like foxes in a chicken-run. Those fingers can penetrate a steel helmet - and the skull beneath. I don't recall an English sighting for decades, but the Druze country is currently plagued with them apparently.’

  Samuel intended to explore its den but first glimpse of rag-clad bones and middens of the creature's filth served to dissuade.

  ‘Footsteps! Half a dozen - approaching.’

  The rearguard’s call was appreciated but hardly necessary. A thunder of heavy boots from beyond the door was audible to all. It at least killed what seemed like endless echoes of the pistol shot.

  ‘And fire: torches,’ another sentinel added, more calmly.

  ‘Stand and prepare,’ Trevan told the men at the outer door. ‘Remainder: half circle! Fire at clear targets on my order only.’

  For men up against the unknown, in the dark and under threat, they were all laudably smooth. True, all the noise was enough to waken the dead, removing any element of surprise they might have had: but Samuel had an inkling they'd lost that some while back. Any discouragement was counter-balanced by the vindication of his team. Like Gideon he'd chosen few but better. There was justification in them pressing on and down - if they were spared.

  ‘In sight - just,’ said the furthest man, balancing his pistol over a steady forearm. ‘It's men – or men-shaped. Moving fast. I could get one about... now.’

  ‘Hold fire,’ Samuel maintained.

  ‘Wise move, boss,’ said one of the old London hands. ‘They're ours.’

  ‘Who else would it be?’ said Trevan, dismissively. ‘If it is, let 'em in.’

  Apprentice-engineer Cook and his minders got a welcome back and were visibly glad to be there. Hearing the gunshot had set the seal on their loneliness and they'd hastened to assist - or at least share the general fate.

  Trevan briefly let them satisfy their curiosity. The dead thing was leered over and prodded. Then he cut through their whispered chinwag.

  ‘And?’

  Cook rose to the challenge. He could imitate the sound (if not substance) of command.

  ‘Yes,’ he confirmed. ‘This place is the same layout; or near enough. We can use my plan.’

  ‘The refectory?’

  ‘Right, yes, we found that; amongst other things.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘A mess: centuries of cannibal feasts by the looks: bones and clothes and mouldy stuff they couldn't finish. And there was a burrow up from one corner: animal work, with a live smell coming down it. Sort of sweaty pork. We... didn't really have time to investigate that....’

  ‘Good,’ said Samuel, covering their discomfort. ‘I think we've already met it. You did the right thing.’

  ‘Mention the wall,’ interjected a soldier - who wasn't going to have some boy sounding like his officer.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ said Cook, ‘that too. Someone's decorated a whole big wall there: like a mural.’

  ‘Of?’

  ‘Um... one of those things there was a statue of in the corridor....’

  ‘Giant, crowned, triumphant: striding over a landscape.’ The soldier had butted in again. Samuel remembered this man now: the dark-horse educated one from the interview with their 'lost sheep'. ‘Looked like Devon to me,’ he went on. ‘The demi-demon was leading an army and blackening the land.’

  ‘Humanity in retreat?’ Trevan suggested. ‘The rout of Christendom?’ He could well guess.

  ‘Pretty much. Superb detail. There's been a fine artist down here somewhen: total contrast to the surrounding squalor. Oh - and he had that symbol business on his crown: a human skull and bull's horns plus that symbol.’

  ‘He?’ Samuel asked. Above-ground would want every detail. There arrived an uncalled-for image of the Sicarii sinking his teeth into any gap.

  ‘Definitely!’ said the soldier. ‘Huge cocker rampant! And there was a great orange egg-shell cracking-....’

  ‘And an eye and teardrop,’ said Cook, trying to elbow his way back into the de-brief. ‘And toppled crosses and-....’

  Religion, religion, religion - ever the bane of Samuel's life. He suspected that here had never ceased to be a religious house - of one sort or another.

  ‘Right,’ he said, cutting across it all before everyone wanted a go. ‘I get the picture: if you'll excuse the pun. Leaving the decor aside, what more do we know? The plan's standard you say?’

  ‘I think so,’ answered Cook.

  ‘So the heart of the place will be where?’

  ‘Down - and tending west-wards. That's where the main parts will sit.’

  ‘Like?’

  ‘Well, um... the high altar, the quire, maybe the abbot’s quarters and....’

  ‘And the way there?’

  Trevan was keeping up the pace, but meanwhile Wulfstan was a whisker off incandescent at being so marginalized.

  ‘You don't need no book-study to tell you that!’ he said. ‘I scent a down-draught: outside and west-ways: I mean to say: left-ward. That's our path.’

  ‘Yep,’ Cook chipped in, liking his new prominence after years of dogsbody-dom. ‘We saw a deeper black outside on our way here: only we were hurrying and didn't-....’

  ‘Don't tread on my heels, boy,’ snapped Wulfstan. ‘I mentioned her first.’

  The slave's rebellion was crushed and the senior engineer present redeemed himself by being spot on when they checked.

  The stairs were broad and gracious - once upon a time. Now they were old and blemished by slapdash repairs. Their careless inheritors had stained them in numberless ways and the party weaved round various pools and packages, declining to enquire. The sordid descent continued for fifty steps.

  They then arrived at the edge of a square landing, just small enough to be declared empty by their torches. Corridors bisected the other three walls. Samuel had them form circle whilst the two engineer factions argued the way ahead.

  Wulfstan an
d Cook engaged in bitter whispers about which avenue to take, thus proclaiming neither was really sure.

  ‘Forward in column,’ Trevan ordered - since that happened to be the direction he was facing.

  It led on for a fair while through dust and dinge. Sometimes the way broadened into vacant rooms; other times they had to squeeze close, shoulder to shoulder. Samuel had Wulfstan as his partner. The Saxon was now grimly focused on being right and Trevan noted it for future reference. Injured pride seemed to be a marvellous motivator.

  ‘I think maybe we should have gone-….’ Wulfstan started to express doubts but then bit the words to death as their random path was rewarded.

  The corridor ended in an enormous chamber, though not quite so high and cavernous as the cloister cave. It was also far more elongated. One side wall comprised a long row of narrow doors.

  ‘The dormitories, or ‘dorter’,’ said Cook, from some way back. ‘Where the monks slept. There'll be a little cell behind each door.’

  Well, it was always good to learn new words, but the schooling could stop there. With a shock, Samuel found that his natural curiosity had withered, leaving only a boundless indifference about how Time had treated the monks' rooms. Doubtless they had new occupants and uses but he could live without finding out. He hoped that that was just caution, not cowardice….

  Either way, maybe the wobble was detected for, just as Samuel framed the thought and surprised himself, a fixture of the accommodation came out to say hello. Sort of.

  She must have been standing very still out in the darkness, listening to them, or perhaps watching with acclimatised eyes. When she did move her Judas chain instantly betrayed her presence.

  The girl ought to have been grateful not to be shot; a pale, clanking figure suddenly staggering into the light. But thereagain, given her plight, perhaps that would have been welcomed.

  The soldiers initially found grounds to hold fire in her gender and nakedness. Then it became clear she was more a subject for pity than fear.

  ‘Can you speak, my love?’ asked one of the softer-hearted men.

  She could and did. Sing-song words came from the beautiful but slack face, tumbling out of a meaningless radiant smile. They listened carefully but could not understand.

  ‘Welsh, I think,’ said Wulfstan. ‘Or maybe Kernoack.’

  ‘Anyone speak that?’ asked Trevan. This was unforeseen. Given his past experiences he'd demanded only fluent English speakers for this trip.

  ‘No,’ said the Wizard, not troubling to disguise his top-to-toe appraisal of the potentially pretty form. ‘But I misdoubt discourse would profit us in any case. Listen again.’

  They did. The chorus continued and soon became samey.

  ‘It's just repeated phrases,’ the Wizard confirmed. ‘A song or poem I reckon. Poor gorgeous raven-hair is no really longer with us, are you sweetie?’

  She looked through, round or over his direct question.

  ‘I thought not,’ he answered himself, and began a circle of inspection of the girl. ‘She's seen too much - or are you a devotee? Or else - oh, I say!’

  Samuel hesitated, but then looked as directed. A bright red and blue target was painted - or perhaps tattooed - over the cheeks of her backside. The soldiers forgot dignity and compassion and orders to scramble for a goggle.

  ‘And who keeps you in such servitude I wonder?’ asked the Wizard, not expecting any reply. He lifted the delicate silver coils of her chain with two fingers. It trailed back from her elegant neck-collar to some fixing point in the dark.

  She seemed to register his presence for the first time, and then lithely assumed the position of her calling.

  Discipline might have fallen apart there: for wildly varying reasons, but Samuel was equal to the moment.

  ‘Form column - to her left! Eyes front. Advance!’

  Trevan was last away and looked round at the young woman dwindling back into the murk. She hadn't even noticed their going.

  ‘Surely,’ said the Wizard, calling back to Samuel, ‘we can't leave her behind - ho ho! 'Behind' - get it?’

  That little bon mot sealed his fate. Trevan decided then and there the magician wasn't coming out of the labyrinth. He always knew his quest would demand blood sacrifice - and here was a worthy volunteer for the altar.

  What he thought was 'oh yes, you'll get it alright', but what he said - in tones of silk - was:

  ‘She left long ago. Only the body remains.’

  ‘But what a body!’ the Wizard persisted. ‘Our Christian duty surely dictates that we-....’

  Trevan levelled his gun at the man's pumpkin head. Only the magician's backward glance beheld.

  ‘Be quiet please,’ Samuel told him.

  ‘You wouldn't!’ The Wizard looked again. ‘You would.’ His tongue was stilled.

  Fortunately, their march-for-marching's sake also took them somewhere, so there wasn't the need to backtrack. A good-as-anywhere corridor led out of the dorter area and Trevan had them take it. He shouldered his way to the front.

  ‘Down and west, you say?’ Care was exercised to airily address both competing guides.

  ‘So I reckon,’ answered Cook, quickest off the mark. ‘We're looking for some stairs.’

  In lieu of that direct route they had the diversion of some rooms. Every so often and in the twisting and turning of the way, the corridor broadened out into chambers or whole interconnecting suites. Some were marked with the ‘symbol’ or sprayed with fetid colour; one or two even held dusty parcels of disconcerting shape - but principally they were void. The expedition was now accustomed to the prevailing decor and passed without prying.

  Until, that is, the Wizard just stopped beside one door. His sheer bulk blocked those following. One ringed forefinger was held aloft as though he was gauging the wind in this stagnant place.

  ‘There is... history here,’ he pronounced. Then, seeing his audience were unimpressed: ‘Past things of relevance to us.’

  Samuel trusted the man’s thaumaturgic judgement, if little else.

  ‘Right: front three: corridor ahead. Team of three to the door. Wizard and engineers to me. Rest: about face: corridor behind.’

  The door responded smartly to rough treatment and the delegated man rushed in. Since he then continued to live and breathe, Samuel and the Wizard followed.

  First impressions were of an armoury, but second thoughts deemed it a museum. Military technology didn't exactly race along in a world free of major wars for centuries past, but trends and improvements did come and go. The most casual glance could tell these stacks of muskets and side arms were archaic.

  ‘I think we've found the 1702 boys.’

  ‘Or the booty from 'em.’

  Samuel realised he hadn’t been party to this exchange. The two soldiers who spoke were having a military-only chat and appraisal. Up with that he would not put.

  ‘Amounts to the same thing,’ he said, butting in. ‘What good's a soldier without weapons?’

  They didn't like it - but didn't rise to it. Accordingly, he felt able to throw them a bone.

  ‘In your judgement: how many? And were they reused?’

  The two did a quick audit.

  ‘Arms for four-score, I reckon,’ said one.

  The other bent down and selected a gun at random. A dust-flood and flakes of old rust fell from it.

  ‘And that answers your second question,’ he said.

  ‘So,’ Samuel asked, ‘this accounts for all of them?’

  ‘Near enough. Except it don't tell us how far they got: just how they fared at the end.’

  ‘But there's no bodies...,’ Trevan's cavil was half-hearted and easily shot down.

  One of the soldiers stepped into the role of spokesman.

  ‘These were papal troops,’ he said. ‘So this stuff came off ‘em after death. No other way: not with them. Somewhere there should be a mountain of those they slew beforehand.’

  He turned out to be a prophet. Mere minutes and a few more turns
of the corridor separated them from the aftermath of battle.

  ‘Hell of a do!’ said spokesman soldier, smiling in appreciation.

  Samuel was no expert but saw what was meant. Events had literally brought the house down. The corridor had always widened into chamber-size here, but great gashes in the walls extended it further. There'd been a bad roof-fall and the rubble from that now formed a compacted mound. Everywhere there was bones; scattered about or in groups. Some protruded from the collapse material. A small percentage were still covered in cloth of faded red.

  Courtesy of a little thought and some wandering round, Trevan reckoned he could even see the flow of things. They'd fought their way back here; a rearguard had tried and failed to hold the far corridor. Then they'd been assailed by vast numbers; as many as would pack into the confined space - and more. Their perimeter shrank steadily: Samuel noted the tidemarks of resistance in tightening circles of dead. Finally, there was a last stand - and the defiant suicidal discharge of a powder barrel or some such. Judging by its effects on solid rock, that had swept the place clean of either side.

  Then, after the thunder of the roof's descent, there must have been silence: a victory of sorts for those who would never know. Samuel idly wondered if that triumph only existed now there were witnesses to it. Try as he might, he couldn’t deny a swell of pride in his plucky species.

  For this hadn't been a purely inter-human struggle: the adversary bones were plainly... other. They might well be akin; roughly the same stature, feigning similarity by flickering torchlight, but they weren't the real deal. Also, those who'd come after had visited their race-hatred on the human dead, nailing bodies to the wall in demeaning postures. Vestigial smoky-red tunics still hung there, but the owners had long since escaped, liberated in skeletal form to the floor.

  Samuel was returned to the present by the sounds of muttered prayer. Some of the soldiers were on their knees, commending the souls of the fallen (or leastways some of them) to eternal rest. The Wizard was with them. Wulfstan and Cook, in agreement for a change, both stood aloof. Engineers and suchlike lowly mechanicals were widely reputed to be infected with scepticism.

  ‘Alright, settle down,’ said Trevan, just loud enough to interrupt. ‘That's enough of that....’ He couldn't really afford to cause offence but there was a time and place for piety.