The Second Sleep

by Robert Harris

  He unwrapped the two remaining volumes and chose the oldest-looking to examine next. The register opened in 1927 and had been kept consistently until 2025. The final entries were for September and October of that year and consisted solely of burials – twenty in all, mostly of children: an astonishing number, he thought, for such a small community – and then there was nothing but blank pages until an entry made more than a century later, dated according to the new calendar, scratched in charcoal, in a shaky hand, and in the crude capital letters that were a feature of early post-Apocalypse writing:

  BAPTISED 8 MARCH ARD 795, JOHN SON OF PETER KERN, FLETCHER, AND HELEN, HIS WIFE, OF ADCUT, THIS PARISH

  The calendar had been reset after the Apocalypse so that it started in the year 666: the numeral assigned to the Beast of Revelation, whose appearance in the New Testament had foretold the ruin of the world at Armageddon. Let him that hath understanding count the number of the beast: for it is the number of a man; and his number is six hundred threescore and six. So if this entry had been made in ARD – Anno Resurrexit Domini, the Year of Our Risen Lord – 795, it meant that the recorded life of Addicott St George had restarted 673 years ago, 129 years after civilisation had collapsed into chaos.

  The entries that followed were intermittent – sometimes one a year, sometimes none – roughly written by a stick of charcoal to begin with, and then by what looked to be a blotchy quill pen dipped in some kind of home-made ink – a mixture of soot and glue, he guessed, or plant dye – that looked similar to the writing in the very first volume. Only at the end was there a sign that the parson of St George’s had finally acquired a modern steel nib and access to iron-gall ink. That was in the middle of the last century.

  The current register ran from ARD 1411 to the present day. The writing of the first two parsons who had kept it was crude and in parts illegible. Then Father Lacy’s hand took over: very small and neat, the script of an intelligent and meticulous mind. It filled many pages, unchanging over more than thirty years. Fairfax recognised some of the local names from the previous day’s burial: Fisher, Singer, Gann, Fuente … The final entry was for a service of marriage between George Shorcum of Vine Cottage and Mary Creech of The Piggeries that had been performed three weeks earlier. He started with that and worked his way backwards, trying to find some clue in the tidy columns that might explain why Lacy had taken the precaution of hiding the registers. But he could see nothing obvious in the columns of names and dates, and after a few more minutes of fruitless searching, he sat back in the dead priest’s chair, defeated.

  There were scholars in the chapter house, cleverer men than he, who had devoted their lives to combing the Scriptures for hidden meanings. If there was a mystery here to decode, they would be the ones best able to find it. The prudent course would be to take all four volumes back with him to the safety of the cathedral and explain the situation to the bishop. It would probably be even wiser if he pretended he had never looked at the books himself.

  He started packing them back into their plastic sacks. But when he came to the register covering the ancients’ twentieth and twenty-first centuries, he paused. Outside in the passage, the long-case clock ticked heavily; the silent countryside pressed against the leaded window. Something stirred in his mind. He glanced across at the display cabinet and let his eyes travel up to the communication device with its inscrutable dead black mirror face. The period before the Apocalypse, not the present, was the old man’s obsession, and it struck him that by concentrating on the most recent entries, he might have been looking in the wrong place.

  He set the book down on the desk and opened it again. He turned to the final lines, and ran his index finger up from the bottom – up over the terrible record of burials of the autumn of 2025, up to the flurry of christenings and marriages of the summer that represented the final days of normality. He wondered who had written them. The writing had a feminine quality: for that brief period before God’s wrath descended upon the Earth, when there had been women priests, perhaps the village had had a female parson? He imagined the unsuspecting parishioners going about their lives, making their arrangements – welcoming a baby, embarking on a marriage – with no inkling of what was impending.

  His finger travelled on up, retracing time, back through the spring of that year, through the quiet winter and the preceding autumn of 2024 … He turned back one page, and another, and nothing stood out as significant until he came to July 2022, and then he experienced for a second time the strange sensation of a fingertip touching his face, for on that date a marriage had been solemnised in St George’s Church, joining in holy matrimony a Mr Anwar Singh, ‘computer programmer’, of Clerkenwell, London, to a Miss Julia Morgenstern, ‘web designer’ – an occupation, surely, for a spider rather than a human – whose address was given as ‘Durston Court Lodge’, and whose father’s occupation was recorded simply as ‘university professor’.

  For several minutes he sat motionless, unsure what he should do. In the end, he took a sheet of writing paper from one of the desk drawers and dipped the nib of his pen in the ink pot.

  The Parsonage

  Addicott St George

  Thursday 11th April ARD 1468

  My lord bishop,

  I send you God’s greeting and beg to inform your lordship that yesterday I fulfilled the charge you entrusted to me and carried out the burial of Rev. Thomas Lacy. By ill chance, a heavy storm that same afternoon closed the single road out of the village and obliged me to abandon my journey home.

  Today I was called upon to perform an urgent baptism of an infant on the point of death and secured her immortal soul. In addition, I have visited the sick and performed several pastoral duties that of necessity have been neglected since Rev. Lacy’s death. I have found the parish to be in sore need of Christian succour. Therefore, I propose to offer Holy Communion on Sunday before my return to the cathedral.

  I trust this course of action will meet with your lordship’s approval.

  I beg to remain your lordship’s humble servant in Christ,

  Christopher Fairfax

  He read the letter through carefully. He had left the content deliberately vague lest it fall into the wrong hands. He wondered what the bishop would make of it. With him, one could never tell. He might tear it up in a rage and throw the pieces at the dean: ‘Can none of your priests obey even a simple instruction?’ Equally, he might pass it across his desk with a nod of benediction: ‘This young man shows a true sense of vocation.’ Either way, Fairfax felt he could not remain absent from the cathedral for two more days without sending an explanation for his absence. He was conscious that committing such an act of insubordination entailed a risk: it gave him a stabbing pain in his bowels merely to think of it. But on his return, what a tale he might be able to lay before the bishop!

  He folded the letter three times until it was small enough to fit into the palm of his hand, then flattened it and wrote ‘The Right Reverend Bishop Pole, Exeter Cathedral’ on the outside. He held the stick of sealing wax in the candle flame, twisting it as it melted, and sealed the packet with first one red blob and then two more. It bestowed, he hoped, a suitably impressive look of confidentiality and authority.

  He opened the door a fraction. Agnes was in the kitchen. That was unfortunate: it meant it would be impossible for him to replace the registers in the stable without her seeing him. Yet it did not seem wise to leave them lying on the desk. He looked around the study, and in the end he hid them under the couch.

  ‘Mrs Budd, might I beg a favour?’ He tried to make his tone nonchalant.

  She was staring at the plate rack, a dish and a cloth in her hand, seemingly lost in a reverie. ‘What is it, Father?’

  ‘To stay a little longer, if my presence is not too great a burden.’

  She turned round. ‘How much longer?’

  ‘Three nights.’

  He had expected she would readily agree: had she not expressed a hope that he might take over the living? Instead he was d
isconcerted to find her regarding him with even greater suspicion than before. ‘First one night became two, now ye wishes two to become five?’

  ‘Once again I seem to have allowed the time to get away from me …’

  The excuse sounded feeble even to his own ears, and there could be no doubting her distrust as she folded her arms and scrutinised him. ‘But there’s time to get to Axford, Father.’

  ‘It’s not solely a question of time. It must be some days since there’s been an opportunity to worship here. I have decided it is my duty to offer the parish a service on the Sabbath.’

  She could scarcely argue with that. ‘Aye, well that’s true. A communion would be welcomed.’

  ‘Good, then it is settled. In which case, I have a letter that must be sent – today if possible. How is the dispatch of mail arranged in the village?’

  ‘John Gann’s boy at the forge takes a bag to Axford to meet the mail coach most afternoons.’

  ‘Excellent.’ He started to move away, and then turned back as if a fresh thought had just occurred to him. ‘There is one other thing – I wish to pay a call on Lady Durston. How best to find her house? Durston Court, I believe it is called.’

  ‘The Court lies a good mile outside the village. Just past the forge, there’s a lane to the right.’ Suspicion was replaced by a look of undisguised curiosity. ‘She’ll be expecting ye, Father? If not, ’tis a good long walk for nothing.’

  ‘I am invited, if not expected. She asked me to call on her if I happened to stay in the parish any longer.’ Another lie: he would be busy in his prayers that night. ‘Besides, even if she’s not at home I shall be glad to stretch my legs now the rain has passed. Is her husband away? He was not in church, I think.’

  ‘No, sir. She’s widowed. Sir Henry has been dead the past five year.’ Obviously she wanted to add something else, although it took her a moment to muster the courage. ‘Forgive me, Father, for putting the matter plainly, but if ye’s to lie under this roof for three more nights, it would be best if ye went careful with Rose. She’s but a silly girl, and I fancy has an eye for ye. It could be a trouble for a man such as thyself, sworn to the pure path, especially one with an occasional liking for drink and dancing.’

  So that was the cause of her dark looks! He was relieved it was only that, even as he felt himself colouring with embarrassment. He held up his hand. ‘Say no more of it, Mrs Budd. The warning does you credit. I greatly regret my behaviour last night. I am sorry. It will not happen again. And as for Rose, I shall be on my guard against offering even the slightest encouragement.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  Lady Durston

  IT WAS IN a spirit of considerable anticipation, albeit edged by a certain mild apprehension, that, a few minutes later, Fairfax set off from the parsonage to walk to the forge and thence to Durston Court. He was wearing the traditional wide-brimmed ecclesiastical black hat known as a saturno, much favoured by the rural clergy of an earlier generation, an example of which he had found in Father Lacy’s wardrobe. He was glad of its protection, despite its lack of fashion, for the afternoon was warm and cloudless. The flag of St George on top of the church tower flapped in a breeze that he calculated by the position of the sun was blowing from the south.

  He had gone no more than fifty yards along the lane towards the river when yet another boom shook the valley. It felt louder than the previous day’s explosion – more menacing, as if the village was under bombardment and the enemy’s artillery had moved closer overnight. He guessed it must have been amplified by the wind. It lifted the rooks from their nests in the high trees and distributed them like blackened fragments of debris above the churchyard.

  None of the women in the row of cottages opposite the church appeared to have noticed. They were seated on their stools on their front steps in the sunshine, working their spinning wheels, entirely absorbed. It was the same tranquil picture all along the main street – no menfolk anywhere, just the women working their feet on their treadles, conjuring thin white thread out of clouds of pale grey wool, young children playing in the small front gardens or at the side of the road, a couple of babies in their cribs in the shade beneath the apple trees. One of the spinners looked up and nodded to him as he passed. He nodded back. She could be Jane Tunstall, he thought, whose stillborn son was buried unbaptised in 1597, and her neighbour might be Ann Shaxton, recently married to Thomas Turberville, or she could be Margaret Robynns with her baby Alice asleep beside her. More than a thousand years had washed over England since those days, a civilisation had fallen and another had been reborn, and life went on in Addicott St George as if nothing had happened.

  In the spray beneath the bridge a rainbow arced. A glitter of plumage like a bird of paradise seemed to hover over the torrent and then, when he took another step towards it, to vanish. The phenomenon was so striking he paused on the embankment and repeated the process several times, summoning the brilliant colours and then banishing them, summoning and banishing, until he realised his behaviour was attracting the amused attention of some of the women, whereupon he crossed quickly to the opposite bank. He passed the entrance to the lane that led to The Piggeries and presently in the distance heard the clink of a hammer striking metal.

  The forge was set back from the road at a crossroads. A horse in the forecourt stood tied to a wooden pole that was perhaps twelve feet high, from the top of which, suspended by chains, hung a large yellow plastic scallop shell of great antiquity, battered and much-repaired. The double doors to the smithy were folded open and the glow of the furnace silhouetted the squat figure of John Gann working at his anvil. In one gauntleted hand he wielded a hammer; in the other, a pair of pincers gripped the flattened tongue of red-hot metal he was beating into shape.

  ‘Mr Gann!’ He stepped into the heat of the forge.

  The blacksmith looked up at the sound of his name, raised a glove to shield his eyes against the glare of daylight and squinted in Fairfax’s direction. As soon as he recognised him, his expression cleared. ‘Good afternoon to ye, Father!’ He plunged the metal into a tank of water, sending up a great gout of hissing steam, and came round the anvil towards Fairfax. His torso was naked beneath his leather apron, although his hairy black arms and chest were so matted with sweat Fairfax thought at first he was wearing a woollen jersey.

  ‘That were a merry night last night! Never seen a parson dance afore!’ Gann grinned, showing big teeth – horse’s teeth – stained brown by his strong tobacco. ‘What can I do for ye, sir? Horse need a-shoeing afore ye sets off?’

  ‘It is your other service I stand need of, Mr Gann. A letter of mine requires delivery.’

  ‘To where, might I ask?’

  ‘Exeter.’

  ‘Well now, let me see about that.’ Gann pulled off his glove and wiped his hand on the side of his apron. He took the letter and peered at the address. He made no attempt to disguise his interest and gave a low whistle. ‘My lord bishop? Is there trouble, Father?’

  ‘Not at all.’ Fairfax was tempted to tell him to mind his own business. ‘I merely need to let him know my plans.’

  ‘That means ye’ll be staying longer?’

  ‘A few days, I think.’

  ‘So ye likes it here?’

  ‘Yes, I like it well enough.’

  ‘Well then, let me cast your fortune: if ye don’t leave now, ye never will.’

  For a moment, Fairfax was not sure he had heard him right. ‘That sounds an ominous prophecy!’

  ‘Not at all. Just the way of things in our valley. Place tends to get a hold of folk if they stay too long, and then won’t never let them go.’ Gann’s dark grin gaped again – friendly or menacing Fairfax could not decide. ‘Good, then. Let’s find the lad.’

  He followed the blacksmith outside. Two large pits were set into the forecourt, each about eight feet deep – one half covered with planks – both shelved around the sides almost to the surface with boxes of tools, horseshoes and nails, and lumps of scrap metal. In the fully unc
overed pit was a youth of about sixteen, who climbed a ladder when his name was called – ‘Jake, come on up here, boy!’ – and stood respectfully with his cap in his hands as Gann gave him his instructions.

  ‘Take this here letter and give it to the mail clerk at the Swan and tell him to be sure it meets the coach to Exeter.’ To Fairfax he said reassuringly, ‘Coach ain’t due till four, so there’s time aplenty so long as he gets a move on.’ He pretended to aim a kick at the boy. ‘Well, go on, take the father’s letter and get on that horse!’

  Fairfax said, ‘And the cost?’

  ‘Five pounds for the coach mail. Four for the horse hire. And then whatever ye cares to give the lad.’

  ‘Would a crown suffice for his trouble?’ Silence. ‘Ten shillings?’ Silence. ‘A pound?’

  ‘Aye, I’d say that’d do well enough. Say something to the father, Jake.’

  ‘Thanks, sir!’ The boy touched his forelock.

  Ten pounds! It was robbery. It left only ten to get him home. But the young priest was too fastidious to haggle, so he counted out the coins from his purse, then watched Jake swing himself up easily into the saddle, clatter over the cobbles and disappear into the road. Gann trickled his share of the money into the front pocket of his apron and patted it appreciatively, like a man who had just eaten a good meal. ‘So, Father, will ye take another pipe with me? I’ll find us something milder than the last.’

  ‘It’s tempting, but no, I must get on.’

  Fairfax stepped off the forecourt and stood at the corner of the two roads. He eyed the narrow lane. He knew that Gann was watching him. He had an uneasy sense that he had trapped himself. So be it, he thought: by God’s will he had managed to so contrive things that there could be no turning back now. Narrow is the way which leadeth unto life, and few there be that find it.

  The blacksmith’s voice called after him, ‘’Tis the wrong path, Father: the parsonage is back there,’ but Fairfax pretended he hadn’t heard and set off up the track.