by Phil Rickman
‘So how come you were over there?’ Robin had grabbed his chance to edge the talk away from religion.
‘Went over with my mother as a teenager. After her marriage ended. We moved around quite a bit, mainly in the South.’
‘Really? That’s interesting. My mom was English and she met my dad when he was serving with the Air Force in the north of England, and she went home with him, to New Jersey. So, like—’
‘And it was there,’ Nicholas Ellis continued steadily, ‘that I first became exposed to what you might consider a more “dynamic” manifestation of Christianity.’
‘In the, uh, Bible Belt?’ Snakes and hot coals?
‘Where I became fully aware of the power of God.’ The priest looked up at the veiled church. ‘Where, if you like, the power of the Holy Spirit reached out and touched me.’
No, Robin did not like. ‘You notice how the mist winds itself around the tower? As a painter, that fascinates me.’
‘The sheer fervour, the electric momentum, you encountered in little...’ Ellis’s hands forming fists for emphasis, ‘little clapboard chapels. The living church – I knew what that meant for the first time. Over here, we have all these exquisite ancient buildings, steeped in centuries of worship... and we’re losing it, losing it, Robin.’
‘Right,’ Robin had said neutrally.
Ellis nodded toward the ruins. ‘Poets eulogizing the beauty of country churches... and they meant the buildings, the surroundings. Man, is that not beauty at its most superficial?’
‘Uh... I guess.’ Robin considered how Betty would want him to play this and so didn’t rise to it. But he knew in his soul that what those poets were evoking, whether they were aware of it or not, was an energy of place which long pre-dated Christianity. The energy Robin was experiencing right there, right this minute, with the tower uniting with the mist and the water surging below. Sure, the Christians picked up on that, mainly in medieval times, with all those soaring Gothic cathedrals, but basically it was out of their league.
Because, Robin thought, meeting the priest’s pale eyes, this is a pagan thing, man.
And this was when he had first become aware of an agenda. Sensing that whatever the future held for him and this casual-looking priest in his army cast-offs, it was not going to involve friendly rivalry and good-natured badinage.
‘Buildings are jewellery,’ Ellis had said, ‘baubles. When I came home, I felt like a missionary in my own land. I was working as a teacher at the time. But when I was subsequently ordained, ended up here, I knew this was where I was destined to be. These people have their priorities right.’
‘How’s that?’
Ellis let the question go by. He was now talking about how the States also had its bad side. How he had spent time in California, where people threw away their souls like candy wrappers, where the Devil squatted in shop windows like Santa Claus, handing out packs of tarot cards and runes and I Ching sets.
‘Can you believe those people?’ Robin turned away to control a grin. For, albeit he was East Coast raised, he was those people.
‘Over here, it’s less obvious.’ Ellis shuddered suddenly. ‘Far more deeply embedded. Like bindweed, the worst of it’s underground.’
Robin hadn’t reacted, though he was unsure of whether this was the best response or not. Maybe some normal person bombarded with this bullshit would, by now, be telling this guy he had things to do, someplace else to go, calls to make – nice talking with you, Reverend, maybe see you around.
Looking over at the rain-screened hills, Ellis was saying how, the very week he had arrived here, it was announced that archaeologists had stumbled on something in the Radnor Valley – evidence of one of the biggest prehistoric wooden temples ever discovered in Europe.
Robin’s response had been, ‘Yeah, wasn’t that terrific?’
When Ellis had turned to him, there was a light in his eyes which Robin perceived as like a gas jet.
‘He said it was a sign of something coming to the surface.’
‘Them finding the prehistoric site?’ Betty sat up, pushing her golden hair behind her ears.
‘It was coming out like a rash, was how he put it,’ Robin said. ‘Like the disease under the surface – the disease which you only identify when the rash starts coming out?’
‘What’s he talking about?’
‘Man with an agenda, Bets.’ Robin detected a half-inch of beer in one of the Michelob bottles and drained it, laid down the bottle with a thump. ‘If there’s anything I can recognize straight off, it’s another guy with an agenda.’
‘Robin, you don’t have an agenda, you just have woolly dreams.’
‘You wanna hear this, or not?’
‘Sorry,’ Betty said, frayed. ‘Go on.’
Robin told her that when Ellis had first come here, before the Church let him go his own way, he looked after four small parishes, on both sides of the border. New Radnor was the biggest. All the parishes possessed churches, except one of these was in ruins.
‘But don’t take this the wrong way. Remember this is a guy doesn’t go for churches. He’s into clapboard shacks. Now, Old Hindwell is a village with no church any more, not even a Baptist chapel. But one thing it does have is a clapboard fucking shack. Well, not exactly clapboard – more like concrete and steel. The parish hall in fact.’
‘Is there one?’
‘Up some steps, top of the village. Built, not too well, in the early sixties. Close to derelict, when Ellis arrived. He hacks through the brambles one day and a big light comes down on him, like that guy on the road to Damascus, and he’s like, “This is it. This is my church!” You recall that film Witness, where the Amish community build this huge barn in, like, one day?’
‘Everybody mucking in. Brilliant.’
‘Yeah, well, what happens here is Christians converge from miles around to help Nick Ellis realize his vision. Money comes pouring in. Carpenters, plumbers, sundry artisans giving their work for free. No time at all, the parish hall’s good as new... better than new. And there’s a nice big cross sticking out the roof, with a light inside the porch. And every Sunday the place is packed with more people than all the other local churches put together.’
Robin paused.
Betty opened out her hands. ‘What do you want me to say? Triumph of the spirit? You think I should knock that?’
‘Wait,’ Robin told her. ‘How come all this goes down in a place with so little religious feeling they abandoned the original goddamn church?’
‘Evangelism, Robin. It spreads like a grass fire when it gets going. He’s a new kind of priest with all that American... whatever. If it can happen there, it can happen here – and obviously has. Which shows how right we were to keep a low profile, because those born-again people, to put it mildly, are not tolerant towards paganism.’
Robin shook his head. ‘Ellis denies responsibility for the upsurge. Figures it was waiting to happen – to deal with something that went wrong. Something of which Old Hindwell church is symptomatic.’
Betty waited.
‘So we’re both moving in closer to the church, and I’m finding him a little irritating by now, so I start to point out these wonderful ancient yew trees – how the building itself might be medieval but I’m told that the yews in a circle and the general positioning of the church indicate that it occupies a pre-Christian site. I’m talking in a “this doesn’t mean much to me but it’s interesting, isn’t it?” kind of voice.’
‘Robin,’ Betty said, ‘you don’t possess that voice.’
Ellis was staring at him. ‘Who told you that, Robin?’
Robin floundered. ‘Oh... the real estate agent, I guess.’
Furious with himself that, instead of speaking up for the oldest religion of these islands, he was scuttling away like some shamed vampire at dawn, allowing this humourless bastard to go on assuming without question that his own 2,000-year-old cult had established a right to the moral high ground. So how did they achieve that, Nick? By wa
ging countless so-called holy wars against other faiths? By fighting amongst themselves with bombs and midnight kneecappings, blowing guys away in front of their kids?
‘All right,’ Ellis had then said, ‘let me tell you the truth about this church, Robin. This church was dedicated to St Michael. How much do you know about him?’
Robin could only think of Marks and freaking Spencer, but was wise enough to say nothing.
‘The Revelation of St John the Divine, Chapter Twelve. “And there was war in heaven. Michael and his angels fought against the dragon, and the dragon fought Michael and his angels.” ’
Robin had looked down at his boots.
‘ “And the great dragon was cast out... that old serpent called the Devil, and Satan, which deceiveth the whole world. He was cast out... into the earth.” ’
‘Uh, right,’ Robin said, ‘I’d forgotten about that.’
‘Interestingly, around the perimeter of Radnor Forest are several other churches dedicated to St Michael.’
‘Not too much imagination in those days, I guess.’
Ellis had now taken off his beret. His face was shining with rain.
‘The Archangel Michael is the most formidable warrior in God’s army. Therefore a number of churches dedicated to him would represent a very powerful barrier against evil.’
‘What evil would this be precisely, Nick?’ Robin was becoming majorly exasperated by Ellis’s habit of not answering questions – like your questions are sure to be stupid and inexact, so he was answering the ones you ought to have asked. It also bugged Robin when people talked so loosely about ‘evil’ – a coverall for fanatics.
Ellis said, ‘I visit the local schools. Children still talk of a dragon in Radnor Forest. It’s part of the folklore of the area. There’s even a line of hills a few miles from here they call the Dragon’s Back.’
Robin shrugged. ‘Local place names. That so uncommon, Nick?’
‘Not awfully. Satanic evil is ubiquitous.’
‘Yeah, but is a dragon necessarily evil?’ Robin was thinking of the fantasy novels of Kirk Blackmore, where dragons were fearsome forces for positive change.
Ellis gave him a cold look. ‘It would seem to me, Robin, that a dragon legend and a circle of churches dedicated to St Michael is incontrovertible evidence of something requiring perpetual restraint.’
‘I’m not getting this.’
‘A circle of churches.’ Ellis spread his hands. ‘A holy wall to contain the dragon. But the dragon will always want to escape. Periodically, the dragon rears... and snaps... and is forced back again and again and keeps coming back...’ Ellis clawing the air, a harsh light in his eyes, ‘until something yields.’
Now he was looking over at the ruins again, like an army officer sizing up the field of battle. This was one serious fucking fruitcake.
‘And the evil is now inside... The legend says – and you’ll find references to this in most of the books written about this area – that if just one of those churches should fall, the dragon will escape.’
Then he looked directly at Robin.
Robin said, ‘But... this is a legend, Nick.’
‘The circle of St Michael churches is not a legend.’
‘You think this place is evil?’
‘It’s decommissioned. It no longer has the protection of St Michael. In this particular situation, I would suggest that’s a sign that it requires... attention.’
‘Attention?’
Robin put on a crazy laugh, but his heart wasn’t in it. And Betty didn’t laugh at all.
‘What does he want?’
‘He...’ Robin shook his head. ‘Oh, boy. He was warning me. That fruitcake was giving me notice.’
‘Of what? What does he want?’
‘He wants to hold a service here. He believes this church was abandoned because the dragon got in. Because the frigging dragon lies coiled here. And that God has chosen him, Ellis, given him the muscle, in the shape of the biggest congregations ever known in this area, given him the power to drive the dragon out.’
Betty went very still.
‘All he wants, Bets... all he wants... is to come along with a few friends and hold some kind of a service.’
‘What kind of a service?’
‘You imagine that? All these farmers in their best suits and the matrons in their Sunday hats and Nick in his white surplice and stuff all standing around in a church with no roof singing goddamn “Bread of Heaven”? In a site that they stole from the Old Religion about eight hundred years ago and then fucking sold off? Jeez, I was so mad! This is our church now. On our farm. And we like dragons!’
Betty was silent. The whole room was silent. The rain had stopped, the breeze had died. Even the Rayburn had temporarily conquered its snoring.
Robin howled like a dog. ‘What’s happening here? Why do we have to wind up in a parish with a priest who’s been exposed to the insane Bible-freaks who stalk the more primitive parts of my beloved homeland? And is therefore no longer content with vicarage tea parties and the organ fund.’
‘So what did you say to him?’
‘Bastard had me over a barrel. I say a flat “no”, the cat’s clean out the bag. So, what I said... to my shame, I said, Nick, I could not think of letting you hold a service in there. Look at all that mud! Look at those pools of water! Just give us some time – like we’ve only been here days – give us some time to get it cleaned up. How sad was that?’
Just like Ellis, she didn’t seem to have been listening. ‘Robin, what kind of service?’
‘He said it would be no big deal – not realizing that any kind of damn service here now, was gonna be a big deal far as we’re concerned. And if it’s no big deal, why do it? Guy doesn’t even like churches.’
‘What kind of service?’ Betty was at the edge of her chair and her eyes were hard.
‘I don’t know.’ Robin was a little scared, and that made him angry. ‘A short Eucharist? Did he say that? What is that precisely? I’m not too familiar with this Christian sh—’
‘It’s a Mass.’
‘Huh?’
‘An Anglican Mass. And do you know why a Mass is generally performed in a building other than a functioning church?’
He didn’t fully. He could only guess.
‘To cleanse it,’ Betty said. ‘The Eucharist is Christian disinfectant. To cleanse, to purify – to get rid of bacteria.’
‘OK, let me get this...’ Robin pulled his hands down his face, in praying mode. ‘This is the E-word, right?’
Betty nodded.
An exorcism.
9
Visitor
THE ANSWERING MACHINE sounded quite irritable.
‘Mrs Watkins. Tania Beauman, Livenight. I’ve left messages for you all over the place. The programme goes out Friday night, so I really have to know whether it’s yes or no. I’ll be here until seven. Please call me... Thank you.’
‘Sorry.’ Merrily came back into the kitchen, hung up her funeral cloak. ‘I can’t think with that thing bleeping.’
Barbara Buckingham was sitting at the refectory table, unwinding her heavy silk scarf while her eyes compiled a photo-inventory of the room.
‘You’re in demand, Mrs Watkins.’ The slight roll on the ‘r’ and the barely perceptible lengthening of the ‘a’ showed her roots were sunk into mid-border clay. But this would be way back, many southern English summers since.
Walking through black and white timber-framed Ledwardine, across the cobbled square to the sixteenth-century vicarage, the dull day dying around them, the lights in the windows blunting the bite of evening, she’d said, ‘How quaint and cosy it is here. I’d forgotten. And so close.’
Close to what? Merrily had made a point of not asking.
‘Tea?’ She still felt slightly ashamed of the kitchen – must get round to emulsioning it in the spring. ‘Or coffee?’
Barbara would have tea. She took off her gloves.
Like her late sister, she was good-loo
king, but in a sleek and sharp way, with a turned-up nose which once would have been cute but now seemed haughty. The sister’s a retired teacher and there’s no arguing with her, Eileen Cullen had said.
‘I didn’t expect you to be so young, Mrs Watkins.’
‘Going on thirty-seven?’
‘Young for what you’re doing. Young to be the diocesan exorcist.’
‘Diocesan deliverance consultant.’
‘You must have a progressive bishop.’
‘Not any more.’ Merrily filled the kettle.
Mrs Buckingham dropped a short laugh. ‘Of course. That man who couldn’t take the pressure and walked out. Hunt? Hunter? I try to keep up with Church affairs. I was headmistress of a Church school for many years.’
‘In this area? The border?’
‘God no. Got out of there before I was twenty. Couldn’t stand the cold.’
Merrily put the kettle on the stove. ‘We can get bad winters here,’ she agreed.
‘Ah... not simply the climate. My father was a farmer in Radnor Forest. I remember my whole childhood as a kind of perpetual February.’
‘Frugal?’ Merrily tossed tea bags into the pot.
Mrs Buckingham exhaled bitter laughter. ‘In our house, those two tea bags would have to be used at least six times. The fat in the chip pan was only renewed for Christmas.’ Her face grew pinched at the memories.
‘You were poor?’
‘Not particularly. We had in excess of 130 acres. Marginal land, mind – always appallingly overgrazed. Waste nothing. Make every square yard earn its keep. Have you heard of hydatid disease?’
‘Vaguely.’
‘Causes cysts to grow on internal organs, sometimes the size of pomegranates. Originates from a tapeworm absorbed by dogs allowed to feed on infected dead sheep. Or, on our farm, required to eat dead sheep. Human beings can pick it up – the tapeworm eggs – simply through stroking the sheepdog. When I was sixteen I had to go into hospital to have a hydatid cyst removed from my liver.’
