The Two Confessions

by John Whitbourn

  ‘Is he dead?’ asked Samuel.

  ‘Worse. I saw him glimpse the gates of Hell and heard his eternal howl commence. One was tempted to freeze him then, at the extremity of pain and fear, so that he might know the state longer. I resisted: Christian charity and all that.’

  ‘What now?’ Samuel was shocked to hear himself relinquish exclusive command, but couldn't help it. 'Mundanes' were often undermined by their first encounter with tooth-and-claw sorcery.

  ‘Now? Well, now-...,’ The Wizard's superior tone was drowned out by an all-pervading roar from nearby. That first keening was joined by a second and then a third. It was pure savagery and hunger and Samuel had never heard the like. The Wizard apparently had. His ruddy face turned ashen, his smile became resigned.

  ‘Now?’ he whispered, once the sounds abated. ‘Now we die….’

  Trevan tracked the direction of his gaze. A group of larger shapes had lumbered into the far chamber: lumpen figures like two fat men melted together. They were surrounded by a cloud of smaller forms, implausibly skinny, their stick-limbs clicking a brisk drumbeat against the stone floor. After them came a group of human musketeers, though these now seemed an almost negligible problem. A glimpse of orange reinforcements in the background merely restated the bad news.

  Ignorance could sometimes be an advantage in matters magical. It was now the Wizard's turn to be at a loss, whereas Samuel merely saw more targets.

  ‘Reload,’ he ordered.

  ‘No.’ The Wizard's countermand was so soft yet so final as to demand a hearing. ‘No point. But let's spin it out. We go.’

  Whereupon the magician abandoned all restraint and his companions too, swiftly shifting for himself along the directest route away from the foe. Authority was abdicated back into Samuel's hands and he felt the return of will. The party were turning widened eyes towards him, not the Wizard's broad back.

  ‘Follow,’ he ordered. ‘For the moment.’

  They turned in good order and raced back, flowing through the alleged 'abbot's office'. The Wizard was awaiting them at the far door. From rearward came the sound of stamping, tapping and booted pursuit.

  The next room was much like the one before, if less thoroughly ravaged.

  ‘The abbot's chapel,’ said Wulfstan, self-indulgently usurping the deceased Cook's role.

  He was probably even correct, though they had little enough time to check that. Nearby was a double bed, newly vacated by the looks of it, with silken - though obscenely fouled - sheets. A marble dildo, likewise stained, lay on the pillow. At the far end was an altar, now drowned in innumerable layers of thick black and red gloop. Atop was a fine, gold, 'Whore-of-Babylon'; the naked lady herself astride a six-headed, cock-studded, steed. At any other time it alone would have been an answer to Samuel's dreams, once melted down and resold. Now it was just a taunting part of the furniture, useless even as a barricade.

  ‘Close the door,’ ordered the Wizard, who now seemed just amused by it all, ‘and I'll weld it shut.’

  Trevan was chuffed to note nobody move.

  ‘Do it,’ he seconded. ‘Let him.’ They obeyed.

  The Wizard was too far gone to register the slight. As soon as the barrier was swung in place he span his podgy hands in faster and faster motion round where a lock ought to be. Singing rapid gibberish to himself he then tied an invisible knot.

  It was a solid door and muffled the sounds from beyond. They could just about hear the approach of heavy strides. Then silence fell.

  Suddenly the door blazed white. There was the smell of flash-fried meat. The previously heard ‘famished roar’ was repeated, carrying on further up the scales to convey agony.

  The Wizard's smile failed to convince himself, let alone anyone else..

  ‘It'll take two, maybe three, goes from a padfoot,’ he admitted. ‘But no more….’

  ‘A what?’ asked Samuel, feigning mere curiosity.

  The Wizard didn’t/wouldn’t hear.

  ‘And they've raised up marool: those'll sneak in somehow.’

  ‘I said 'what'...,’ Samuel repeated.

  ‘Constructed men,’ the magician spat, impatiently. ‘Indestructible. And a Padfoot's only part this-world. If you're taken they say it-....’

  ‘Enough!’ ordered Trevan - and the Wizard complied. They had sufficient problems to hand without inciting imagination to make more. ‘So, we move on?’

  ‘I should.’ His old adversary no longer sounded much interested. He'd obviously made his own calculations. Samuel added that to the charge list: he'd no patience with despair.

  ‘Column: to my lead,’ Trevan commanded. ‘Stragglers: you're on your own.’

  That was only fair enough and they set off with morale brittle but intact. It even survived a second thunder-crack and glow of light from the door behind. This time the yowl of pain was less prolonged.

  ‘Strike two. One to go!’ said the Wizard (in-between puffs), in mock-merry voice.

  Praise be, there was an inviting avenue of escape, a corridor opposite the sealed but buckling door. They took it and pelted down the ensuing route. It curved back and forth like a serpent and was paved with mummified body parts. They trod them into dust underfoot.

  There was no notice of the door's surrender, only the return of the pursuers' song. They were clearly both fleet and familiar with the way, for soon acclamation celebrated each sighting of their prey. The corridor's convolutions made the glimpses brief, but they were gaining and grasped every chance. A lucky first shot took a soldier away from all his present woes. Another stumbled over him and had to be left behind.

  They could have saved themselves the shame of such callousness. Wulfstan was no longer keeping count but around four-score gasping paces on, harsh geography brought the curtain down on their writhings for life. The path passed through a high arch and then ended, protruding a few pointless feet over an abyss. Samuel - just - skidded to a stop.

  ‘Cack!’

  His heartfelt comment on fate journeyed into the void - and was met with laughter. Down below flared into abundant light.

  Trevan had been to the opera - once. It was in London, with Mr Farncombe, back in the days when Samuel was still trying to impress. He recalled little of the ordeal save being in the dark, perched high above the action, wondering how on earth he'd come to this.

  That memory now returned.

  Beneath him, a great audience had gathered for this final act and every face was turned towards Samuel Trevan.

  U[U[U[U[U[U[U

  cHAPTER 36

  One soldier, nobler than any of them, said ‘Oh, sod it!’, fired his last pistol into the crowd, and then followed that up with his body. Both struck home, both caused injury, but produced only hilarity from the unafflicted. They then applauded him as he lay broken and expiring on the hard ground.

  Meanwhile, above, the rest of the invaders allowed themselves to be taken - at the very moment their mission was fulfilled.

  The 1702 expedition had been successful. Spectacularly so. Nothing remained of the area where the high altar once stood, save for a smooth scoop out of the floor to mark the cleansing explosion. Deep and matching scars in the walls and high ceiling testified to its force. Those who came after had been obliged to build anew rather than pervert the old.

  Trevan and co. were hauled back from the ledge by humans: ordinary looking West-country folk bar their hot eyes. The weirder members of the hunt were drawn off by rough orders, to cavort and howl their frustration in the background. Samuel was thankful for that if nothing else.

  He'd considered a last stand and all the clichés about selling life rather than giving it away, but the moment passed. They'd seen how far that got their predecessors. When it came to it Trevan found he preferred little hope over none.

  The others were taking their lead from him again and so went along with being abused and bound in ropes that shone with grease and other things. The Wizard had some kind of amulet put round his bull-neck and instantly an indefinable part
of him was snuffed out. The threat of sorcery being put to rest, the enemy visibly relaxed. Then those captives saying their prayers were particularly battered.

  There transpired to be a quick way down to the underground cathedral; a concealed door just a short space back along the corridor. They stumbled or slid down the ramp thus revealed, arriving a third of the way along the chamber's length; a tangled, undignified heap to be booted upright and into order.

  Those hot eyes - above hungry smiles - were the common feature, even more so than the uniforms. Otherwise, the hundreds present looked drawn from every place and calling. Samuel spotted the full gamut from workman's cords to silken dresses peeping out from beneath the universal grey gowns.

  Their previous captors had not followed them down but there were new volunteers in plenty to rush forward and hold them fast. Their hands caressed even as they pinched and gripped.

  That brief glimpse from above assisted Trevan to make sense of the scene - and being trussed so firmly there was little else for him to do. Towering above all, high into the vaulted roof space, was the mound of rubble erected where the altar once stood. A mixture of rocks and carved work, held in a secreted matrix, it rose to a narrow point four or five times man height. Resting precariously atop was a huge quartz-stone, fashioned into the semblance of an eye. Directly behind, the same ovoid shape but much magnified, formed the entrance to a cave hollowed high in the far wall. Straining his vision, Samuel reckoned he could see the brackets for the former altar-screen all around it. The blank eye now stared out from where saints and Christ-in-glory once faced the congregation.

  In fact, saints were conspicuous by their absence. Either they'd been 'rescued' by the explosion or else expelled afterwards. Ditto the rood screen and choir stalls and almost every other pious feature. New figures now occupied the wall niches: animals and men or mixtures of the two, rendered in some black substance, engaged in equally black acts. A few, the more honoured in position and execution, did not indulge but stood in attitudes of serene detachment, extending their arms. Their truncated arms.

  Samuel was naturally fearful of his circumstances: held in multiple grips like a pig on its last walk, and buffeted with anti-blessings. Yet he retained control till spotting the broken crosses. The central monument bristled with them but many others, just as mutilated, randomly adorned the walls until lost into the murk above. He'd not seen that symbol treated thus before, not ever, and though it shouldn't mean anything to him any more it did. It took that to bring home how far these people had travelled from normality. More than a lifetime’s journey.

  It had been a mighty church once - and still was for a new confession; a veritable underground Exeter cathedral. The star-map of torches and tar-pots all along its sides and walls barely lit its extent, leaving only the central candelabras descending on thick chains to spread a zone of perfect illumination. Samuel pondered how all had been ignited at once to greet him, and reluctantly danced around the answer of sorcery.

  Confirmation of that came when, with one accord, the wall of people in front parted as though compelled by magic. Gliding down the avenue thus cleared there approached a stately party of both sexes. They trod the air inches above the floor, the pale bare feet not troubling it for support. Calm gazes and beatific smiles regarded the prisoners all the while, quite unlike the humid yearning of the mob. They differed also in their gowns of blander grey, and in their want of hair and hands.

  A few others, wearing smoked glasses, apparently lacked sight instead and were led by the rest – as best their own affliction allowed. These bore before them the orbs through which they’d once seen.

  The foremost and oldest, a skeletal man, glided straight to Trevan. He gazed into his prisoner’s eyes and within seconds Samuel submitted. He couldn't stand against such impossible serenity. It was also unpleasant to note the shrivelled things strung round the man's neck and recognise them as amputated fists. Most of the new arrivals wore them. Trevan's head needed to be forced back to eyes-front.

  The old man raised one smooth stump and gently stroked the captive face. He seemed more loving than hostile.

  ‘Undiscouraged one,’ he said, in tones of pure Somerset. ‘Sooner than expected one; uninvited but welcome guest. We are here for you. Come to wisdom!’

  ‘Wisdom,’ confided another, coming closer, ‘is sweeter than life.’ She might have been a beautiful young girl once, before she was starved and mutilated.

  ‘Bogomils!’ boomed a familiar sarcastic voice from along the line. ‘I know you - and you are Bogomils!’

  The old man’s smile did not falter at all. He travelled sideways to hover inches from the Wizard's face.

  ‘Correct,’ he said, as though delighted with a pupil's leap of reasoning. ‘Just so. Loving followers of Brother Bogomil: or 'buggers' as you see fit to term us.’

  ‘For such you are.’ The Wizard was steady and defiant. Samuel didn't think he had it in him.

  ‘For such we are,’ agreed the old man, not in the least offended. ‘Or at least those of us who are not yet perfecti. We eschew the flesh of the other god and sow our seed in barren soil. The cycle is thus broken. It is warming that you know so much of us.’

  ‘I ought to,’ said the Wizard. ‘For I've warmed many of you. In Rome I had the honour to be a Palatine inquisitor. We burnt you in batches!’

  Samuel fully expected that would do the trick and send them on by the shortest route. He'd almost welcome it, for this recent news had puked all over his last spark of hope. He knew of this sort, recalling Father Omar speaking about them (in decently vague description). They were life-haters and numbered amongst the dualists (whatever that meant, but it was something bad - though not people who fought duels). They were kin to the Cathars, who’d thought this world had no good in it (and so were done a favour when crusaders sent them all to the next one). The classification and family tree didn't bode well.

  Samuel tried to wonder what Melissa might be doing right that moment, so that his final thought might be of her. There were tales of messages being passed that way in dire extremity....

  Meanwhile, the handless man didn't mind at all. None of the floating ones did, nor any of the congregation in earshot. They merely smirked or mouthed quiet prayers.

  ‘Doubtless they died thanking you,’ countered the old man. ‘Forgiving you and blessing you for their release. Is that not so?’

  The Wizard's silence admitted the uncomfortable fact better than words. Then, one foe vanquished, the old man air-walked back to Trevan.

  ‘We preach Christ-uncrucified,’ he told him. ‘We serve the one-of-two gods whose domain is pure spirit.’

  ‘Whereas you,’ said the emaciated girl, ‘are slaves of the meat god. Therefore, out of our love for you and all, we desire to give liberation.’

  That sounded quite promising but the Wizard spoilt things – albeit with more cause than usual.

  ‘She means kill us, in case you haven't twigged,’ he said. ‘You're kindly offering to free us from the material world, aren't you?’

  The girl's eyes didn't shift from Samuel, though they shone brighter and her smile widened, as if offering her sweetest favours.

  ‘Where you can sin no more,’ the old man confirmed. ‘For doubtless your sins are already great. Happy cattle-humans, we give you the chance to curtail your wickedness!’

  ‘Sleep and sin no more!’ chanted some of the front row, in what was clearly a familiar worship phrase.

  The less stoic among the captives began to struggle, but to no avail and at the expense of dignity. Main speaker looked a little disappointed at the lack of thanks.

  ‘Compose your last words,’ he said, in a harsh voice that sounded more like his everyday manner. ‘Bring 'em forward.’

  The relative quiet ceased, replaced by an insect buzz of anticipation. Cacophony was added at the fringes by admittance of a tide of demi-demons, flooding in through burrows as well as more conventional entrances. They swarmed on the edges of the assembly, a white an
d green and orange surround to the sea of grey; pushy but careful to keep a respectful distance from acknowledged racial superiors. Their scent preceded them.

  Trevan and colleagues were dragged along a Red-Sea-style pathway, and all along hands competed to touch and fondle them, particularly their behinds and parts. At the very least it was an undignified way to go. Wulfstan spat great gobs of retribution but that only seemed to further excite them.

  ‘Sin no more! Life breeds sin!’ was repeatedly hurled at them - with apparent good intentions.

  ‘Two-godders!’ someone shouted back. ‘Cross-snappers!’

  Samuel admired the Wizard's nerve in trying to goad, but it had the same small effect as the engineer's spittle: a few grimaces, one or two frowns, but nothing more. He was bundled forward just like the others.

  The gunpowder scoop around the monument was full of dead things and bits even the demi-demonry couldn't stomach. Fortunately therefore, being made to bow low on its edge, honouring the white quartz eye, proved just a pause in the procession when they feared being pitched in. The congregation of hundreds followed on, shuffling in their wake.

  There was a ramp of packed stone leading up to the sister-eye in the wall. Around it waited groupings segregated from the generality. A few were further handless ones, too weak to move and laid out on stretchers, but others were a contrast and challenge to all else on view. Samuel caught brief sight of flamboyant silk attire, and found irrational consolation in it. Even worn and muddied colour was seized upon in the present context: proof of a warmer world continuing elsewhere.

  Then closer proximity snatched even that fig-leaf of comfort away. The wearers were unnaturally tall, and their milk-skinned faces regarded him through unkind eyes of gold.

  ‘Soul-less! Soul-less!’ taunted the Wizard, employing childish singsong tones. It nevertheless seemed appropriate. The Church discouraged belief in Elves, or even mention of them in anything else than nursery rhymes.