The Two Confessions

by John Whitbourn

  ‘You never asked.’

  Oddly, that was accepted as entire explanation.

  ‘Just you?’

  ‘No.’ The Elf shook his head. ‘We were merely passing. It’s mostly your kin – estranged kin. Bogomils.’

  ‘Oh, them.’ The Sicarii carried on scraping away, flicking soap-froth from the blade into a basin. ‘Much simpler. Any objections?’

  ‘None. We are no longer friends. Burn them out. I will show you how.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘We saw fit to save this one.’

  ‘So I see. Why?’

  The question was ignored as irrelevant. Again, the Sicarii refused to take umbrage; neither his perma-calm nor razor wavered. Instead, answer came to an unposed but more acceptable query.

  ‘The rest were lost,’ said the Elf. ‘He will tell you the details. I shall leave him with you but he must be removed soon. They will seek him. All those who know of him must also go. There can be no trail.’

  ‘I'll see to it,’ said the Sicarii. ‘But I repeat, why such concern for a 'newcomer'?’

  ‘We have further business with him. I'll call to collect. Meanwhile, he wants all kind of words: explanations even.’

  ‘Naturally.’

  The Elf smiled: a horrible sight. His teeth were all canines.

  ‘To you, maybe,’ he said.

  And with that they left, just as Samuel, in their company, had left the 'cathedral'. It felt uncanny: having to assume their presence, departing but unseen. Both humans agreed to leave an interval of silence. Then, the more assured or impatient of the two, the Sicarii spoke.

  ‘Well, did they?’

  Expecting more of a welcome, Samuel felt disinclined to stretch himself.

  ‘Did who what?’

  The Sicarii left off shaving and somehow, just by pausing, implied that cut-throat razors could have all sorts of uses.

  ‘Meet me half way, Trevan. I meant the 1702 expedition.’

  ‘Then yes.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘They did and then died.’

  ‘You're willing for our magicians to probe your bonce and check that?’

  ‘If need be.’

  Some final test was passed. White and gold teeth flashed in a smile.

  ‘God is great! Now Mott will be pleased with you. And I'm pleased with you. You shall be indulged.’

  The Sicarii took up a linen towel and started wiping lather from a newly smooth face. Then he went to the door and bellowed down the stairwell for tea.

  ‘Now, my hero,’ he said, returning, ‘apparently you want explanations. Very well: are you sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin. The Bogomils are....’

  U[U[U[U[U[U[U

  ************

  '… somewhen in the tenth century. A town in Macedonia called Bogomila is said to be his place of rest, where he went to his maker in the fullness of years, sadly later rather than sooner. A former shrine to him there has now been erased by his Imperial Majesty's triumphant forces.

  This turncoat shepherd and his disciples polluted their way through the Eastern Imperial provinces of Bulgaria and Thrace, even penetrating (le mot juste!) the capital, Constantinople. They foully preached an equal and co-eternal opponent to Almighty G*d, and ascribed this world to his evil invention, rather than the gift of our loving Father. It was also held (one shrinks to repeat it) that Christ both survived and descended from the Cross, to strive against his evil older brother, 'Satanael'. The invention of such baseless fantasies is still a cause for nauseous wonder.

  They accordingly abominate the symbol of the Cross and take all opportunity to slight it. This is one means by which you shall know them.

  … the latitude permitted by despising the material has appeal to depraved sorts, and in this manner they recruit. No action towards the flesh (deemed the enemy's realm) is considered sin, as they seek the swiftest route home to the purely spiritual hereafter. They likewise shrink from the proper functions of marriage, reluctant to create new life, and thus practise the sin of the Cities of the Plain. This is another infallible token. In the same manner, they are joyless beings, refusing G*d's myriad blessings such as wine and laughter and the pleasures of progeny. Their stolid misery may well mark them out for you.

  ... the most thoroughgoing are their 'Perfecti' who radically renounce the material by vow. Ever after they abstain from intercourse and eating flesh or any wholesome food. Some fanatics have even been known to truncate their extremities or self-destroy their G*d-given sight, blasphemously citing Biblical justification (Matthew, ch. 18, v. 8-9: ‘if thy hand or thy foot offend thee, cut them off, … thy eye offend thee, pluck it out.’)

  [NB. Inquisitors should prepare refutations against such satanic subversion of Scripture. 1 Peter, ch. 3 v. 15: ‘… be ready always to give an answer to every man that asketh you a reason of the hope that is in you with meekness and fear.’]

  Likewise, whenever possible this so-called elite sorcerously eschew the ground, to symbolise severance from this earth. These sort should not be hard to spot....’

  From: 'THE MALEFACTOR'S FOOTPRINTS: BEING A GUIDE (for Inquisitors & Reformers) TO PERVERSE SPIRITUAL STATES.

  Prescribed for use in the recovered territories of Magyar-land, the provinces ascribed to Buda & Pest, the former Turk-vilayets of Transylvania and Bosnia, the Free-cities of Szeged, Pecs, Debrecen and Kecskemét, and such steppe land beyond the Danube as may come back to the Christian fold and the custody of his Imperial Highness.'

  Resurgam Press. Vienna. 1848. Issued under Imperial licence.

  Withdrawn from circulation by Papal decree (Judex Crederis Esse Venturus) 1902.

  ************

  cHAPTER 38

  Foremost speaker's busy-ness was interrupted by his god's return. The eye burst into splendour again.

  He and the other floating ones quit their torturing of the negligent and sped back. The voice did not wait for them.

  ‘Where is the one?’ Plaintive tones were a shocking novelty. It sounded childlike and lost. ‘Why was he taken from me?’

  Then, in contrast, the god-venom spat forth in unprecedented quantity. Scores were immolated or dissolved.

  The dispersing congregation wavered - and then rallied, raising hosannas of welcome. There'd never been two such proximate visitations. This might still be the promised day of wonders.

  The ground-spurners crossed the zone of devastation, skimming over the joyful dying. They were rapt and oblivious.

  ‘Lord, lord,’ shouted Foremost Speaker, ‘we are blessed! Are we also forgiven?’

  There was no direct answer. Speaker's breath was always deliberately shallow (to show his disdain for the enemy's element), but never more suspended than now. Distant ructions from beyond the eye mirrored his own concern. It was bad enough that their pious solitude and pure worship be disturbed, or that they should quarrel with ancient allies. These things were surmountable; ultimately just seepage from the silly, pointless, world above. Time would erase them in due course. What Speaker really feared, a tiny worry possessed of giant strength, was that they had erred. It shackled him to the meat-medium and would not let him soar. Maybe they had missed the crossroads and now strode forever along a wrong way!

  Foremost Speaker punished the thought, exiling it along with other distasteful memories, like those of breeding and family, and the days before perfection. Yet sentence was disputed. The notion of ice-and-despair hammered for release with increasing force; its brain-cell prison door began to splinter.

  Then three words completed the work. Worst-suspicion acquired freedom and reality and mockingly capered about, turning everything to bitter regret.

  ‘He was here!’ confirmed the visitant voice from beyond the eye. ‘He was here....’

  ‘And we let him go...,’ said Foremost Speaker, before his god could.

  ************

  ‘He is our nemesis.’

  ‘Then remove him.’

  But the old Elf woman only spoke in jest, jus
t to provoke. She knew better.

  ‘The Ubiquitous Spirit would not permit, Joan, as you well know. Our survival is merely tolerated: nor can we expect favours. You yourself were present when that bargain was struck.’

  She persisted out of mischief.

  ‘So? We are tied but vermin are not. The life-haters were about the deed. You prevented them.’

  Samuel's recent saviour languidly swerved that dart also. His tribe-sister had a real talent to ferment trouble. He admired her for it.

  ‘That same Spirit would have thwarted them in some other way,’ he said. ‘Better the creature be in our charge.’

  ‘In our debt,’ said another of the older-breed present.

  ‘Under our guidance,’ added a third.

  The Council was in broad agreement, as always. Free from all passions, they could reserve conflict for entertainment only. Their rare civil wars were painstakingly choreographed.

  ‘Very well,’ Joan decreed, speaking for all. ‘He shall be kept from them. And diverted. Find out what the brute-beast wants. Then force-feed it. Stupefy the thing with fulfilment. Thereby save us.’

  The Elf emissary nodded.

  ‘It should be possible…,’ he agreed, as indifferent as ever.

  ‘Though the life-loathers will fight,’ said Joan, smiling. ‘Their search will be ravenous.’

  There was a second allotted to mild amusement. Then one Elf round the table succumbed to open laughter: a thin and unnatural noise. His lapse proved infectious, but they subsequently excused themselves. The balance of power had changed: that much was now accepted. Even so, there was still - grotesque - humour in lower life like humans presuming to oppose their betters.

  ************

  Father Omar felt the seizure coming. It gave fair warning in a moment of pure clarity: some final sunshine before nightfall.

  He made it to his bedroom chair and so secured dignity for when he was found. Then there was time for the ‘Last Things’, like thanking God for this concluding mercy and all His other blessings; of which there'd been many. He also prayed for forgiveness - and received grounds for optimism on that score.

  His brain was next commanded to release a clear memory of Jerusalem the Golden. It was just like being there. Only better.

  Omar was still beholding those beloved domes and spires when a giant pinched his heart.

  U[U[U[U[U[U[U

  cHAPTER 39

  The Sicarii somehow knew they were revisited, although Samuel couldn't see how. The Negro was prepared when the Elf was suddenly amongst them again without even a heralding displacement of air.

  ‘It's all go, innit?’ he (or maybe it?) said, in unkind mimicry of how humans sounded to him.

  The Sicarii also proved up to imitating London gutter-tones.

  ‘And even when yer get there yer don't fancy it, do yer?’

  Abandoning the Forge's supper, he walked over and shut the door to his room.

  Trevan forced himself to remain seated. His alarm had been momentary. There were callers he'd rather see, but days of confinement with the Sicarii meant any diversion was welcome. Trevan had had to recount his story till it wore thin; plus the Negro's company was like continually handling lit fireworks.

  The Elf slid a folded document onto the bedside table. It looked ancient though uncared for; thin and stained skin from some large animal. Once expanded Samuel saw that it was a map or diagram.

  ‘About your lost monastery,’ said their visitor, sans greeting or preliminaries. ‘The way-barriers are still maintained against you. But there are also ventilation ducts. Even they do not know them all. This plan does. Pour down sufficient combustibles and the Bogomils will burn.’

  ‘Thus saving the Inquisition the trouble,’ said the Sicarii, taking up the sheet and studying it with unfeigned admiration. His eyes tracked its extent. ‘Phew! There’s miles! Good job Mott stockpiled plenty of greek-fire.’

  Their guest leant over his shoulder.

  ‘And increase the proportion of oil to tar and sand, here, here and... here. It should find living things on which to adhere. Their roaming death agonies will spread the flames.’

  ‘Thank you, I'll see to it.’

  ‘Do so soon. They are preparing to move.’

  ‘Action this day.’

  ‘Splendid. And speaking of movement: what about this one's associates?’

  He meant Samuel, although his subject didn’t even merit a look.

  ‘Done,’ said the Sicarii. ‘Rounded up. Compensated. Placated. Intimidated. On their way to the ship. This hostel alone waits cauterisation.’

  ‘Eh?’ Samuel hadn't heard such orders given - but neither had he ever seen the Sicarii sleep: something he must surely do sometime. So, anything was possible. ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘I mean your family,’ answered the Sicarii, ‘your employees and all those you've impinged upon here. Trevan Farm's already to let. This place will have new owners. A bright new future awaits them one and all.’

  ‘Where?’

  Samuel could tell the desired response was 'what's it to you?’ For the moment though, he was important (for some reason) and had to be humoured.

  ‘Malta, probably.’ The Sicarii shrugged. ‘Or Rhodes, maybe: wherever they're needed.’

  ‘How about the Bosphorus?’ Samuel suggested. He’d thought of old Walter the London Watchman, and then of rifles and Tartars - and the Trevan Farm crowd in life-and-death competition with both.

  The Sicarii considered the idea - with growing favour.

  ‘Yes…, there’s pretty lethal. That’d do, I suppose. Why not?’

  Samuel was obscurely pleased. The least member of the family had finally made his mark on the rest. It didn’t occur to him that there were others - bystanders - who deserved better. His former Whitechapel colleagues, for instance. Samuel could at least have sorted Egypt out for Jimmy Smith. But he was only thinking of the bigger picture – and himself.

  ‘Have you got all you wish for from it?’

  It was still a shock for Trevan to realise that the Elf was referring to him, and that the Sicarii went along with such contempt for his own species. 'It'!

  ‘I think so, thank you: enough for my report to Mott.’

  ‘Then I'll take it, as agreed.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  The Elf reached out to Trevan: who could not prevent a flinching away.

  ‘One other thing - before you go,’ said the Sicarii, halting the pantomime. ‘Just what is it down there?’

  The Elf, gratefully it seemed, left Samuel alone. He looked down from his great height advantage and bared sharp teeth at the papal agent. It may have signalled amusement.

  ‘Just a modest afterthought,’ he mocked. ‘A casual request for knowledge that has eluded your... Church for a thousand years.’

  ‘But worth a try?’ said the Sicarii, smiling.

  ‘We are never unawares or careless, human.’

  ‘No, I know that. Still; is it their god down there?’

  The Elf considered blessing the dark, drawn, face with an answer.

  ‘No,’ he said eventually. ‘No, it isn't. They are deluded: not even deceived but deluded.’

  ‘So, what is…?’

  The Elf repented of his generosity and grimaced at the ceaseless opportunism of ‘vermin’. Did they never stop writhing about for advantage? Where was their dignity?

  Samuel's shoulder was again grasped in those crab-flesh fingers and they jointly left the scene. Once more the touch caused distress to its begetter, made skin slough off, and gold-bearing veins to sunder. The hold was maintained with difficulty - and not an instant longer than necessary.

  Trevan sought to free himself, not so desirous of rescue as before, only to find implacable strength within that grip. He was borne along like a kitten.

  Liberation only came when they were beyond the room, out of the Sicarii's searching gaze. His captor then actually staggered back from him, glad to put distance between them. Samuel noted it and w
as pleased.

  ‘I just don't agree with you, do I?’ he said.

  The Elf steadied himself against the landing balustrade and staunched his nosebleed with a ragged sleeve.

  ‘No, you do not. You are inimical, as I've said.’

  ‘So, why the concern? Am I for the chop now? Is that why he let you take me?’

  This caused a wry smile set amidst golden smears.

  ‘The predator-vermin could hardly prevent it. And I am conducting you from harm, not to it.’

  Samuel hid the cavalry charge of relief under a brusque question.

  ‘Why bother? Why help mere little me?’

  It all seemed terribly clear and simple to his companion.

  ‘Because others would make you more inimical. Then I would not be safe at any range.’

  The Elf set off down the wide staircase. ‘Follow me.’

  ‘At what distance?’ Samuel queried, determined to push his luck.

  ‘Five paces is optimum. My influence will persist, whereas you will barely nauseate.’

  ‘What about conversation?’

  Trevan saw the elegant shoulders shudder.

  ‘Only if you insist.’

  Insults aside, it was memorable stuff, passing through the Forge; its space and staff and clientele alike, unseen and unperceived.

  ‘Can I touch?’ Samuel had in mind a parlour maid he'd treated as invisible till now (which was somewhat ironic given his present state). Her soft-palmed charms had been just one of many stern self-prohibitions: secret tests of dedication now utterly redundant.

  ‘Not really,’ the Elf answered. ‘They – or perhaps we - are insubstantial. But the female may feel some mild sensation.’

  That gave Samuel pause.

  ‘How… how did you know I-....’

  The Elf strode on and right through the soon to be former-landlord.

  ‘Oh, farmyard thoughts are easy,’ he said, a Parthian shot delivered in passing; no credit claimed for his good guess. ‘They assault the air like shrieks.’