The Second Sleep

by Robert Harris

  At the end of the prayer, to his surprise, it was Rose who stood and walked past him to the organ. Somewhere, unseen, the bellows wheezed and clattered. She played the opening bars with delicate precision, then paused. The mourners rustled through the pages of their hymn books. The ancient tune began.

  Of the Father’s love begotten,

  Ere the worlds began to be,

  He is Alpha and Omega,

  He the source, the ending He …

  As he sang, Fairfax let his gaze travel across the congregation. Despite the foul weather, upwards of a hundred people had turned out to pay their respects – ragged, skinny, weather-coarsened country folk, drably dressed, with an ugly scattering of disfigurements that told of hard births, heavy work and poor diets. Nevertheless, their voices rose in tuneful acclamation. The rain thumped down on the roof.

  At the end of the hymn, he nodded to the woman in the front pew, whom he took to be Lady Durston. She rose to her feet with her Bible open. She was at least a person of quality. He could tell at once by the upright way she carried herself, as well as by her costume. She wore a tailored jacket and ankle-length skirt of dark green velvet, both somewhat frayed and faded but obviously expensive and doubtless once fashionable. Her hair was russet, gathered up beneath a matching velvet bonnet. She mounted the pulpit with confidence and took a moment to gather her concentration before she spoke.

  Behold, I shew ye a mystery: We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed, in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trump (for the trumpet shall sound), and the dead shall be raised incorruptible, and we shall be changed …

  She read the lesson faultlessly in a clear and pleasing voice and returned to her place. The man next to her – her husband, presumably – patted her gloved hand approvingly. Fairfax climbed the few steps to the pulpit and placed his notes on the lectern.

  ‘Friends, we have come together this morning to bid farewell to Father Thomas James Lacy, cut off at the age of two score and sixteen by an evil chance—’

  Somewhere at the back a man said loudly and mockingly, ‘Evil chance!’

  Fairfax stopped and looked up to see who had spoken. The congregation stirred and turned. A few muttered in annoyance; some told the man to hush. He was seated at the back, half hidden by a pillar. Fairfax tried again. ‘Father Lacy, cut off at the age of two score and sixteen by an evil chance. His death reminds us—’

  ‘“Chance” is falsehood, pure and simple!’ The accent was educated, the voice loud, albeit thinned and tuned to a higher pitch by old age. ‘No, I shall not hush!’ he protested irritably to someone nearby. ‘It’s you who all should hush and wake up to the truth!’

  A murmur of conversation broke out all around the church. Fairfax could hear his heart beating in his ears. ‘Please, friends, recall the gravity of our purpose—’ But his voice was lost in the hubbub.

  Suddenly the man sitting next to Lady Durston threw down his hymnal and sprang from his place. His face was rough and his muscular shoulders and neck were out of proportion to the rest of his body, red as brick. He put Fairfax in mind of a minotaur. As he stalked towards the back of the nave the congregation fell silent. He reached the cause of the disturbance, leaned down and communicated something briefly and quietly. His bulk obscured Fairfax’s view of what was happening. There was a noise of movement. A few moments later, two figures passed through the shadows at the back of the church, one apparently leading the other. The door opened and then closed again. Lady Durston’s companion watched them go, arms akimbo, then let his hands fall loosely by his sides, turned and marched back up the aisle. He retrieved his hymn book, resumed his place and nodded to Fairfax to continue.

  Fairfax ploughed on through the remainder of his address. ‘His death reminds us that the Lord may call us to His judgement at any moment. So teach us to number our days, that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom …’

  He spoke of the sacredness of service, of the long and quiet value of being planted in one place, of the shepherd and his flock, and expounded various other pieties, and when it was over, he realised his hands were clenching the lectern so tightly they were spread stiff as griffin’s claws. He came down out of the pulpit and announced the second hymn. It seemed to him to be sung with a certain collective defiance that was intended to show disapproval of the heckler. When it was finished, the coffin was lifted back on to the shoulders of the pall-bearers and Fairfax led the procession out of the church. He looked around for the mourner who had interrupted his sermon, but apart from the sexton and his boy, there was no one in the churchyard.

  The rain was still falling, chill as winter, cold as death. It spattered the pages of his prayer book. Wooden planks had been laid around the open grave. They sank beneath his weight. Mud oozed up between them. Water was running down the mound of excavated earth and pooling in the bottom of the pit. He worried that if he left it much longer, the coffin might end up floating, and decided he should make a start on the committal prayers even before the last of the mourners had arrived at the graveside.

  Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up, and is cut down, like a flower; he fleeth as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay …

  The pall-bearers laid the coffin across two lengths of rope and inched it over the open grave where it hung briefly suspended before they started to lower it in a series of jerks. When it was about halfway down, one of them paid out his rope too quickly. The slippery hemp ran through his hands, the coffin tilted and dropped the last couple of feet and landed with a splash. Had he not been responsible for the ceremony, Fairfax might have conceded that the scene had a certain grim comedy.

  The mourners filed past, each taking a handful of soil to throw into the grave. Lady Durston paused the longest, tugging off her green calfskin glove and digging her hand, regardless of the dirt, into the chalky earth. She let it trickle through her slim fingers on to the coffin lid, gazed down at it for a moment or two in profound contemplation, then lifted the bottom of her skirt and stepped away.

  Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of His great mercy to take unto Himself the soul of our dear brother here departed, we therefore commit his body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ …

  He gabbled through the Lord’s Prayer and the collect and by the time he came to intone the blessing, most people had abandoned decorum and were running for cover. The instant he closed his prayer book, the sexton and his boy began shovelling soil into the grave pit, working with such haste that within less than a quarter of an hour the mortal remains of Father Thomas Lacy were entirely buried – vanished to join the millions of other bones that had lain ten thousand years or more beneath the ancient Wessex ground, and whose voices had called to him so urgently while he was yet alive.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  In which Fairfax’s plans are thwarted

  THE WAKE WAS held in a two-storey thatched building that belonged to the church and stood on the opposite side of the graveyard to the parsonage. The church ale-house, as it was known, like the priest’s house, was many centuries old – leaning sideways, its sagging walls shored up by timber buttresses along a southern flank that was a patchwork of ancient yellow stone, pale cement and modern brick, the whole edifice licked by tongues of dark green ivy. And yet it too felt solid, as if it had finally settled and would stand for several more centuries yet.

  A large log fire was burning in the open hearth. Beside it stood an iron spit, long enough on a feast day to roast an entire pig. The room was fuggy and noisy. Mourners crowded around the fire to dry themselves. Clay pipes had been lit. Smoke mingled with the steam issuing from their wet clothes. Agnes and Rose were bent over a trestle table, uncovering dishes of food. Beneath the table, children played. A queue of mostly men and some women waited to fill pewter tankards from barrels of ale and cider.

  Fai
rfax observed the scene from just inside the doorway. He was looking for Keefer. Certain formalities needed to be completed before he could get away – filling out the register, signing it, having it witnessed – for which he needed the assistance of the clerk. Then he would take to the road. The weather was foul, but so be it: he was young and fit and unafraid of a drenching. More than ever he was determined to be in Axford by mid afternoon.

  Unable to locate Keefer, he took a few paces into the room, and for the first time his presence was noticed. The volume of conversation dropped, as if they were ashamed of their levity. Faces turned sombre. Heads were briefly nodded.

  ‘Father.’

  ‘Father.’

  ‘’Twere a fine service, Father.’

  ‘“A word fitly spoken is like apples of gold in pictures of silver.”’

  ‘Thank you. My blessings upon you.’ He tried to acknowledge them all with a single gracious turn of his head. ‘My lord bishop wished me to convey his sorrow at the loss of so long-serving a priest. May he now enjoy the rest he deserves.’

  ‘Amen.’

  ‘Amen to that.’

  He crossed himself.

  ‘We was just discussin’ that feller what cried out in church, Father.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Fairfax. He swung round to the speaker, an old man with a mass of white whiskers. ‘Who was that?’

  ‘None knows.’

  ‘He weren’t from round ’ere.’

  ‘He’s buggered off now, whoever he were.’

  ‘Not just one man. Two of ’em, ’twere.’

  ‘Anyways, Captain Hancock soon sorted him out.’

  Fairfax wished he had got a proper look at the interlopers. ‘What do you suppose he meant when he said that Father Lacy’s death was no mere chance?’

  The old man said cheerfully, ‘Oh, that he were taken by the devils, no doubt about it.’

  ‘The devils?’

  ‘The devils that sit in the Devil’s Chair.’

  ‘And what is the Devil’s Chair?’

  ‘The name of the place he fell – a lonely, fearsome spot.’

  One of the women cut in briskly, ‘Pay him no mind, Father. He’s just a nervy old fool.’

  ‘I ain’t nervy! Devils exist and ’tis heresy to say otherwise! Is that not so, Parson?’

  ‘There is evil in the world, no doubt of that, sir, whatever form it may assume.’ Fairfax was suddenly anxious to extract himself from the discussion. ‘I mustn’t interrupt you any longer. I was looking for Mr Keefer.’ He was met with shrugs and blank faces. Nobody had seen the clerk since the burial.

  He went over to Agnes, who was cutting a pie. ‘A handsome spread, Mrs Budd, most fit for the occasion.’

  ‘Ye’ll take a piece of pie, Father?’

  ‘Thanks, but no. I must be on my way. That was beautifully played, Rose.’ The girl smiled faintly and glanced down. Fairfax turned back to Agnes. ‘Where is Mr Keefer?’

  ‘Gone to church, sir, to fetch the register.’

  ‘Ah,’ he exclaimed with relief. ‘So that is where he is! In which case, while I wait, I will indeed take a piece of your pie, if I may, to fortify me for the journey.’

  ‘Will ye say a few words of grace for us, Father?’

  ‘Gladly.’ He banged a knife against a glass jug and the noise of conversation quickly ceased. He bowed his head. ‘Bless, O Lord, this food for thy use, and make us ever mindful of the wants and needs of others. Amen.’

  ‘Amen.’

  The chatter resumed. He picked up his plate and dug a fork into the pie. He was hungry; he was always hungry, yet he remained as thin as a stray dog. His body seemed determined to make up for all the food it had missed during the years when he was at the seminary. And a very good pie it was, of game and hard-boiled egg, and to wash it down he consented to take a tankard of ale, which Rose went and fetched for him.

  Seeing him standing there, eating and drinking, the local people became emboldened, and more of them began edging over to him to thank him for the service – one or two, very shyly, at first, but after a while a small crowd was gathered. Agnes introduced them: George Revel and George Rogan, who were farmers; John Gann the blacksmith, who had served as one of the pall-bearers; Alison Kern and her sister Mercy, who were wardens of the light before the statue of the Virgin Mary; Jacob Rota, the night soil man; Jack Singer, a shepherd, his face browned by a long life lived outdoors, and his friend Frank Waterbury, the rat-catcher, who tended Our Lady’s sheep on behalf of the Church; John Lusty and Paul Fisher and Paul Fuente, weavers …

  Fairfax didn’t catch every name and occupation, but it was clear their lives had all been touched by the old priest in some way – christened by him, taught by him at the village school, married by him, their parents and their siblings and even – tragically and quite commonly – their children buried by him; and slowly, as they reminisced, Father Lacy began to come alive, to assume a personality, and he regretted that he had not had the opportunity to collect their memories before he wrote his eulogy.

  ‘He loved this valley – knew every inch of it …’

  ‘He were a great one for walking …’

  ‘Went everywhere on foot …’

  ‘Can’t recall as I ever saw him on a horse …’

  ‘It were that what did for him in the end, of course.’ This remark, from Gann the blacksmith, was greeted by wistful nods.

  ‘A very learned sort of a gentleman …’

  ‘Never without a trowel and a little bag to put his discoveries in …’

  ‘Best of all he loved the little ones in school …’

  ‘Do ye remember when we was little how he used to give us a shilling if we brought him a treasure?’

  ‘Half a crown if it were something good …’

  Fairfax’s interest was aroused. ‘What manner of treasures were these?’

  ‘Oh, anything from the ancient time – coins with Old King Charles’s head on ’em. Bottles. Bits of glass. Rubbish mostly.’

  ‘Remember that old doll I found in Tremble’s meadow? He loved that! Gave me a pound for it.’

  ‘I suppose he could come over as a little bit strange, if ye didn’t know him …’

  ‘More so latterly …’

  ‘Not all liked him for it …’

  Fairfax interjected. ‘In what regard?’

  ‘Well, there’s always folks that talk – more so in a cut-off little place like this.’

  ‘What sort of things were said of him?’

  There was a hesitation, glances were exchanged.

  ‘It weren’t my opinion, but some said he neglected the Scriptures in favour of his own ideas …’

  ‘It’s true his sermons were of a peculiar sort …’

  Rota, the night soil man, who had a bad case of the cross-eye, folded his arms and said significantly, ‘I heard tell the bishop sent a priest in deep disguise to spy on him for heresy …’

  ‘I heard t’same …’

  Fairfax looked from one to the other. The bishop had mentioned no such investigation to him. He fell silent as he pondered this, and someone else – it was the blacksmith, Gann – began pressing him to try a pull of tobacco. Fairfax waved it away politely, but the blacksmith was insistent: ‘I grows it myself. Ye’ll not smoke better this side of Axford.’

  Reluctantly he took the grubby long-stemmed pipe and wiped the tip. The tobacco was strong – too strong: it burned his mouth and made his eyes water. He started to cough like a schoolboy trying to smoke for the first time, turned his head away and blindly handed it back.

  ‘Now, John Gann,’ came a loud, stern voice, ‘don’t ye go poisoning the father with your noxious weed.’

  The effect of the intervention on the little group was immediate. They glanced behind them and parted – as if by Aaron’s rod, thought Fairfax – turning away and returning meekly to the fire without another word.

  ‘I trust they’ve not been boring ye with their local tales.’ It was the man who had risen from his plac
e in church to silence the disturbance. He advanced and stuck out a strong, square-wristed hand. ‘John Hancock. And this,’ he said, with the flourish of a collector presenting a prized possession, ‘is Sarah, Lady Durston, of Durston Court.’

  ‘Why he must always mention my house in the same breath as my name I cannot think.’ Lady Durston smiled at Fairfax and offered him a gloved hand. ‘Sometimes I believe he regards it as my principal attraction.’

  ‘Ye know very well that’s not the case!’ Hancock seemed irritable, as if this was the continuation of some earlier quarrel. ‘I don’t know why ye say such things.’

  She ignored him and continued to stare at Fairfax. Her eyes were a striking bluish-green; her features firm-jawed, sharp-cheeked; her complexion pale, freckled, in keeping with her red hair. She was in her thirties: married, he assumed, but not apparently to this man. Her glove concealed her wedding ring finger.

  ‘It was kind of you to come all the way from Exeter to our little church.’

  ‘The visit has been most memorable. And thank you, your ladyship, for your reading.’

  ‘She did it well. I told her as much, did I not, Sarah?’

  ‘Will you be staying long in the valley, Mr Fairfax?’

  ‘Alas, I must leave today.’

  ‘Then the loss is ours, for we are short of educated company.’

  ‘Not that short!’ said Hancock. He laughed to show he meant it as a joke, revealing a gold tooth, but there was no humour in his face. ‘If ye mean to go, go now, sir. There’s but one road out this time of year, and a treacherous way when the rain is heavy.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s wise advice. And thank you for quelling that noisy fellow in church. He seems entirely unknown in the village.’

  ‘Never seen him in my life before, and never shall again, I’m confident.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘Because I told him if he could not hold his tongue I’d put my fist between his teeth and hold it for him.’

  Sarah Durston caught Fairfax’s gaze. Her eyes widened slightly in shared amusement. Fairfax said, ‘Well, if you’ll forgive me, I must attend to the register and then be gone. Lady Durston.’ He nodded to her. ‘Captain Hancock.’