The Two Confessions
Page 30
‘Go forth, blessed one,’ said Spokesman. ‘Be yourself - and so be ours!’
Trevan wasn't going to turn down the chance. He'd obey the first part of the instruction - but as to the second….
What all-pervading revolution would it require, he puzzled as he descended the White Hart's stairs towards the street and freedom, to no longer be yourself?
************
‘Oh no, not now, Carol. For God's sake, woman!’
Samuel just wanted to get home, to lock the doors, load his gun and drink tea. The last thing he needed after a whole evening spent with outlander maniacs was to be accosted by the local madwoman.
‘It is!’
Short speech followed by silence was the last thing he expected of her. Trevan was taken aback.
‘What is?’ he asked.
‘For his sake,’ she answered.
‘Oh Christ!’ Samuel shouldered her aside and walked on up the High Street.
Mad-Carol was well known in Lewes. She sang nonsense all day long in never-ending private conversation, but was harmless enough save when she stole. The Justices had given up whipping her out of pity and exasperation. She slept with anyone for a brandy - and sometimes not even that. The nuns at St Anne's tried to take care of the young woman but they couldn’t cure her wanderlust.
‘Oh yes: for him too if you like,’ she called after him. Trevan half turned.
‘Look, it's late and it's cold, Carol. Just go away before I-....’
‘Listen to me, vermin.’
That would have stopped him in his tracks at any time, but her voice had also changed. Turning completely, Trevan saw she'd let her eyes go golden.
‘Ah...,’ said Samuel, understanding all.
‘Ah...,’ Carol mimicked, and smiled. ‘Yes indeed. They wish to speak.’
‘‘They’?’ he queried.
‘I'm only half-breed.’
‘I see.’
‘Their Ambassadress to Sussex.’
‘Who would have thought it?’ Samuel wondered whether he should bow.
‘Not you for a start.’
‘Nor anyone. Where?’
‘The Long Man.’
Samuel looked up and down the High Street and despaired at the stupid powers of habit. In the present context did it really matter if someone saw him consorting with Mad-Carol?
‘When?’
‘Whenever. They will see you arrive.’
What other options had he? Samuel nodded. ‘I'll be there.’
Mad-Carol sniffed the night air, a street-beggar looking into realms Mr Trevan, gent., was excluded from. And yes, sure enough, here was yet another one who knew Samuel’s future better than he did.
‘That’s right,’ she agreed, finding but not sharing the desired picture, ‘you will.’
U[U[U[U[U[U[U
cHAPTER 6
‘Ugh!’
It was as though the Elf had encountered a bad smell. He'd emerged from Windover Hill and the ‘Long Man’ at speed, only to fall back before the full Samuel Trevan experience. There was no opportunity to enquire how he passed through solid ground or whatever lay beneath the giant hillside chalk-figure. His present difficulties seemed too great to even permit conversation.
‘Sorry if I offend,’ said Samuel, insincerely. ‘I'll wear more cologne next time.’
The arrival certainly looked like Samuel's previous saviour and enricher, but gave no sign of recognition. Trevan had to concede that in their aquiline perfection the race tended to alikeness. Accordingly, it might well be someone else. Which would also explain his immunity to the hand of time. Whilst the Elf tried to compose himself, Samuel idly wondered what their womenfolk looked like and why one never saw them.
‘It is because,’ gasped his companion, recovering by sheer force of will, ‘they can grow partial to lesser breeds' carnal vigour.’ Greater control returned with every word and the usual disdain was clawed back. ‘Such as your own, for instance. Alas, that perversion is easily acquired but hard to remedy. We therefore seclude the she-elves, restricting their options to each other and our own cool flesh.’
‘I see....’ Despite his heavy burden Trevan could not help but be intrigued. He even overlooked the blatant trespass in his mind. Accordingly it occurred again
‘Murder that infant notion in its cradle, human. Even your proximity would cause them gross haemorrhage in those parts which most attract. Any Elf-mate would go gangrenous in minutes. I am hardened against you by spell and experience, and yet still I suffer. You have got worse.’
To be fair, it did look as though the Elf was afflicted. Sweat poured off him (though clearly not designed to) and he had to filter his words through a kerchief pressed to his nose. That gradually grew sodden as golden blood seeped through.
‘Presumably,’ Samuel tried to assist him, ‘that's due to this future everyone's on about getting closer.’
‘Presumably,’ snapped the Elf - and then started to gag. Trevan allowed a pause for him to throw up, though nothing came of the retching. There was time to look around and be reassured by Wilmington village and priory, their closeness and normality. The winter sunshine did them both favours, enhancing their rustic charms.
‘Well, anyway,’ said Trevan, ‘you wanted to see me....’
‘No.’
‘Oh.’ That knocked Samuel back. He'd just assumed that they were there to spoon-feed him the solution to his problems like last time. He frowned. ‘But your Ambassadress said-….’
‘You wished to see us. We pre-empted you. Excuse me asking, but would you mind retiring a pace or two?’
Samuel obliged and the Elf's hacking cough immediately abated. Each step away allowed a better view of the Long Man’s chalk outline extending far above them. For a moment Trevan imagined this encounter as a bird soaring over the Downs might see it: two tiny figures at the feet of a giant. He found that perspective helpful.
‘You know that they've found me,’ he said.
‘Yes.’
‘Which has brought back all this future business….’
The Elf took the air and heaved again.
‘Yes.’
‘Well, what are you going to do about it?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Ah...,’ said Samuel. Collapse of stout party.
‘True, we did not foresee their dedication. It was envisaged that you would live out your life in untroubled ease. Pardon me again.’ The Elf turned aside to spit out an unpleasant taste. It evidently proved impossible. ‘However, we were wrong. Yet confidence remains that they have left it too late. You are old now. There is not enough time to pivot history round you.’
‘Thank you.’
‘What for?’
‘It was sarcasm, skinny-ribs.’ Samuel deliberately stepped forward, causing the wet kerchief to be gripped tighter still.
‘Oh yes,’ came the muffled response. ‘I know: 'sarcasm'. Strangely enough, we can't master it. Yet it's the one vermin trait I rather like. Please go back.’
Trevan obliged once again, but only because he needed to hear more.
‘At the very least you could tell me things!’ He hated himself for the desperation in his voice.
‘Such as?’ asked the Elf.
‘You're the bloody mind readers: sodding well read!’
Likewise, he couldn't help but shout. The sound crossed Windover hill and the sheep looked up at them.
He meant the invitation literally and expected it taken up. Trevan lowered all guards and reserve, wondering if this was how his mistresses felt just beforehand. Which was not a nice notion to be framing as he detected silken Elven enquiry stroll through unmanned defences.
‘Gracious, human; that was easy. You were what you'd call ‘wet and willing’.’ The Elf was unmistakably crowing now, ransacking Samuel's private vocabulary and shining a light into the most secret corners. ‘Goodness me!’ he then exclaimed over some particularly sordid nugget. ‘How revolting!’
‘Answer me, you bastard, or I'll co
me and cuddle you.’
That received immediate reward; the invisible fingers directly restricted themselves to the matter in hand.
‘So yes,’ Trevan was told, ‘your Welsh wife was our half-breed - but you’ve long suspected that. She kept us informed and ensured you were not the occasion of harm. Your exchanging of body fluids drained away time and energy that might have been put to more pernicious use: from our point of view, of course.’
‘Of course.’
‘She trained in our Erotic College in Caerleon. A star pupil. Both a bishop and a Privy Councillor have succumbed to her delights. Fatally. You should be honoured to have her-....’
‘Which I do,’ Samuel snapped. ‘Incessantly.’ He’d sought to reverse the flow of crow - to nil effect.
‘... and survive to tell the tale. What else? Oh yes, that. Well, it may help you to imagine your persecutors' 'god' as the tiniest fragment of a greater entirety, inexplicably protuberant into this world. We suspect it is one of the self-aware universes. The portion here stands in relation to the whole as a grain of sand does to Pevensey’s shore. Its further penetration is forbidden by the Law. No, Samuel, I won't say whose Law....’
‘You mean can't.’
‘I admit we are just as subject to its arbitrary dictates as the 'demon' discussed. Do please excuse me....’ The Elf had to pause and wheeze as things indigestible racked his frame, but failing to dislodge them then gamely pressed on. ‘However, it revolts against the restriction for some reason: on rare occasion, in sleepy fashion. Why? That is such an idiosyncratic vermin question. You cannot just do or be, can you? Pitiful….’ He regrouped again. ‘Well, one presumes that the thing's motives are as random as its presence here, although I don't recall we've ever given it serious thought. Perhaps it derived a mission from the first surprised vermin met when it burned its way ashore. Your ‘heretics’ are prone to hiding in caves, are they not? And even universes can be terribly impressionable. Now please have compassion: kindly let me go....’
‘Nope!’
Curiously, the Elf seemed at home with such mercilessness: even cheered by it.
‘That's the spirit! Much more intercourse with us and you'll soon be just li-....’
‘I was always like this,’ interrupted Samuel. ‘I'm not your handicraft: and I won't be distracted either.’
The Elf fashioned a smile..
‘It was worth a try, Trevan-vermin. Very well then: yes, we really do think we've strangled that smoke-and-factories future. Readings indicate that we survive in more and more time-lines. We've had babies born to us recently; ones worth keeping. That's surely a sign.’
‘I'm so happy for you. What about me?’
‘I’ve neither wish nor skill to advise newcomer welfare.’
‘Try. Downgrade your sensibilities to animal-doctor level. I insist.’
Persuaded? Intimidated? The Elf looked to the cloudless sky for inspiration, and then, finding something he disliked in it, lowered his sights to the green Weald.
‘I still don't know what to suggest,’ he said eventually, with transparent honesty by Elven standards. ‘If you join them their ways would drive you mad. Bogomils would not be stable business partners. On the other hand, if you defy them they will... drive you mad. May I suggest a monastery?’
The sort of reply Samuel had in mind was said for him - or rather put into practice. Amidst more pressing distractions he'd barely registered the return of the 'buzzing' in his ears but it now forced itself on both their attentions. The noise grew loud - and then dominant - and then came screaming down the hill at them.
The creature was so near to taking form that they saw its shape and progress defined in mini suns sparked from the air. Small circles of turf browned and died at the touch of its feet.
On arrival, the Elf got similar treatment. He'd drawn a serrated knife from his boot but it couldn’t harm the maelstrom besetting him. There was time to pass the blade once, twice, through the enemy, but soon after his sword-arm was no longer available for use. The thing briefly tasted the limb and then cast it aside.
It isn’t true to say Samuel was rooted to the spot, although he chose to stay put. He'd simply seen the creature's turn of speed and decided there was more dignity in awaiting developments than flogging your guts out and still being caught.
Mention of guts made him look again at the Elf's dismemberment. He discovered that the species’ body cavities were curiously empty. They made little mess when disassembled: fastidious to the end.
There was every opportunity to wreak similar havoc on Trevan but he was spared. Two tiny red coals that might be eyes looked out at him from the tornado. Samuel saw hatred there, but behind that (fortunately) a far greater restraining fear. So instead they regarded each other - and entirely failed to bond.
For some reason Samuel fancied fetching the Elven weapon: maybe as a souvenir of an… interesting day - but the creature blocked his way. He experimented with other directions and was similarly barred. The thing's swirl grew angrier, raising dust and Trevan's remaining locks - incidentally revealing the origin of the 'faery circles' lately plaguing local farmers. Looking round for escape, Samuel noted one in an adjacent fallow field: a perfect circle of blasted grass. So that was where it had waited for them: perhaps listening, maybe reporting, before it swooped.
One route only was left open to him. Trevan was inexorably herded back to Lewes and his fate.
U[U[U[U[U[U[U
cHAPTER 7
‘We-don't-want-none!’ shouted Samuel. It was what lower-class Lewesians said to hucksters.
Back again, the callers' pale hides were proof against rebuff. They continued to occupy the threshold of Galen House.
‘We are not selling anything,’ replied the male, the one Trevan dubbed 'the Undertaker'.
‘Makes a change.’
‘We are tired of our visits,’ said the old man. ‘We also begin to tire of you.’
‘Good. So push off.’
‘More importantly, God wearies of you.’
‘It's not God: I've told you. Or even a god. You've been had.’
‘He spits on your stupid obstinacy.’
‘It's rude to spit,’ said Samuel. ‘Look, will it speed things up if I stick this gun in your face?’
‘No. Death is sweet liberation and thus holds no fear.’
Suddenly, all the ire went out of Trevan. He stared at the doorstep-missionaries with something approaching surrender.
‘Look,’ he said, nigh pleading, ‘I was having tea. With my wife. Say what you must and then go.’
Undertaker's face was still reddened from Samuel's scalds. His young companion (who'd had her bonnet as protection) was contrastingly white with cold or bad diet - or maybe anger.
‘We have something for you,’ she hissed.
‘I'd sooner have a farewell.’
‘It may come to that.’ The Undertaker stooped to open his valise. From that came a box: and from that - gingerly - a skull. He held it base up like a bowl.
‘No thanks,’ said Samuel, not looking. ‘We've got plenty of ashtrays.’
The girl produced an instrument also made of bone: a perforated patella nailed atop a femur. Their parody of a holy-water shaker. Undertaker took it in his free hand.
‘You frustrate,’ he accused Trevan. ‘You... disgust. I said that God spits on you. I meant it literally. You cause God to spew bile. See what you have done!’
The tool was dipped within the skull and then drawn out dripping with something Samuel had deliberately forgotten. It was the same stuff that had melted mine pumps and dissolved employees all those years ago. Trevan had zero wish to remember it, let alone renew the acquaintance.
‘Go or I shoot,’ he growled.
But he knew he wouldn't. Couldn't. They didn't care - but the Law did. The Law would hang him.
‘The remains of a perfecti may contain it,’ said Undertaker, indicating the skull, ‘but nothing else. Only piety is proof against the wrath of God!’
When he turned back the pair were packed up and ready to leave.
‘It is a terrible thing,’ said the girl, sounding genuinely sorry for Samuel, ‘to be spat at by the Almighty....’
************
Trevan couldn't argue with that. Galen House was going to collapse around their ears if the bombardment continued. Already the window frames were riddled with myriad pinpricks of corruption and threatened to fall out. An inspection of the outside brickwork revealed huge areas of honeycombing.
Samuel didn't believe it was all personally delivered: he patrolled the grounds day and night to fend off such attacks. Most of it must be a supernatural rain all the way from Welcombe.
Almost as bad was the stench. Neighbours first complained and then promised lawsuits. Samuel's best hope was that some immunity would develop - which was a sign of how low things and he had sunk. But day after day passed and the nausea remained ever fresh. Their very clothing became impregnated. People wrinkled their noses and avoided them on the street. Even Mad-Carol was more fragrant and socially acceptable than the Trevans.
Worst of all, the 'buzzing' - and thus presumably what it betokened - was now in the house.
Whilst servants queued to give notice, Melissa got out the scrubbing-brush and performed Trojan works of spring-cleaning. Her husband knew the effort was in vain but allowed the diverting activity. At least it tired her out, taking the edge off difficult questions and demands for explanation.
Then, one evening at dinnertime, the French-window just gave up the ghost and... melted into foul vapour. Fynn, dolling out onion soup for which they had no appetite, looked at the sagging gap for a spell and then simply walked out - out of the room and out of their employ. Samuel was almost glad of it, for the man's clanking armour-array of crucifixes, scapulars and amulets had started to annoy.