by Heide Goody
Nerys looked across at Jeremy and Michael. Unmasked, they were staring at her like a couple of whipped puppies.
"I suppose," she said. "But…"
"Take it from me," said Lennox. "If they start pulling any of that Rosemary's Baby or Bruce Almighty shit, I'll bar them just as soon as look at them."
It was surprising how heavy gold was.
The accumulated gold of centuries stored in the caves beneath Bardsey Island wasn’t just heavy. It had an inertia that was not just physical, but psychological, even mystical.
Abbot Ambrose emerged from the dark, battered door in the cloisters with a satchel filled with Greek gold staters over his shoulder. It was night and there was neither moon nor stars in the cloudy sky above. The brothers had retired to bed and the abbot was very much alone.
The abbot made his way round to the prior’s house, which he and the prior had shared for countless years. En route, he passed the latest of Brother Manfred’s tapestry restorations. For once, the restoration work appeared to contain no film actors or celebrities. It was a depiction of King Arthur and Merlin, Arthur come to the isle of Avalon, grievously wounded by his final battle at Porth Cadlan, his sword Excalibur clutched at his breast, Merlin reaching his final resting place, in his glass casket beneath the island, his staff clutched in his hand.
The image amused the abbot. It was a kaleidoscope of the truth. The dying man, the immortal, the piece of wood, the sword, the house of glass. It was all true, just none of it in the right place or order.
Being Arthur and Merlin, the warrior and the wizard, had been an adventure although both of them had been glad to put it aside. The personas of Saints Veracius and Senacus, quieter and humbler figures, were more to their tastes and their life on Bardsey had been a variation on that ever since.
The abbot pressed on to the prior’s house, silently let himself in and went up to the bedroom he shared with his brother. The prior, propped up against a mountain of pillows, appeared to be asleep. A single candle sputtered and flickered in the windowsill, casting a faint orange light.
There were several stout crates throughout the prior’s house, steel-bracketed chests that had come to the island over the last few months and which the abbot had spent the recent weeks filling. The abbot opened the lid of one at the foot of the prior’s bed and tipped in the night’s haul, adding the Greek gold staters to the huge pile within.
The prior’s eyes opened.
"I’m sorry, Arthur," said the abbot. "I didn’t mean to wake you."
The prior said nothing. He hadn’t spoken in decades but the abbot knew how to read his every expression.
"I’m nearly done," said the abbot. "Another month or so and we’ll be ready to leave. I thought Africa. Or South America. There are some charming, isolated communities in Peru and Chile."
The prior didn’t offer an opinion.
"And I’ve been thinking. Maybe we really should approach one of those biotech companies. Have them analyse and synthesise the fruit’s properties. Get you sorted once and for all."
The prior’s brow twitched.
The abbot turned to the washstand and the blemish-dotted mirror above it. He reached up and removed the wig to reveal his bald head. He scratched at the large fan-shaped mark on his crown. It itched constantly. He didn’t recall itching being specifically mentioned as part of the curse.
"We need to get you sorted," he said, turning back to the prior. "I cannot do this alone. I need you, brother."
He went to the bedside cabinet, put his wig in one drawer and removed a folded leather doctor’s kit from another. Within it were several large syringes, dressings and a rubber tourniquet.
"If we got the science boffins to sort you permanently, we wouldn’t have to go through this rigmarole, would we?"
The abbot pulled the prior’s arm from beneath the covers and rolled up his nightshirt sleeve. The prior’s arm was riddled with a trail of needle puncture marks, the most recent covered with small dressings, older ones marked out by red dots or tiny scars.
The abbot readied a syringe to draw blood.
"You’ll feel a small sting," he said, as he always said, "but you’ve felt worse."
Chapter 10 – In which a wedding takes place
Had she not known what she now knew, Nerys would have been able to take the time to enjoy the moment.
The rooms at the monastery, where the advanced wedding party had stayed the night before, were not the draughty medieval cells Nerys had feared, but cosy, well lit and styled with an elegant minimalism. The refectory, despite its name, was not some grotty canteen but a high-vaulted hall, laid out perfectly for the wedding breakfast and reception. And Bardsey Island itself, the summer sun peering at it through thin clouds, illuminating the rich greens and delicate greys of its landscape, was almost breathtakingly beautiful.
Stood on the beach on that glorious morning, waiting for Owen’s boat and the other guests to arrive, Nerys should have been able to take the time to enjoy the moment. But she now knew things she could not now unknow and they were at the front of her mind.
She leaned sideways to whisper in Michael’s ear, so that the others couldn’t hear.
"So, where is Heaven then?" she said.
"What?" said Michael, picking lint off his fascistically pressed suit.
"Where is it? It’s not in the clouds and astronauts have been into space and they’ve not seen it."
"I don’t think we can talk about Heaven’s location in physical terms," he said.
"You mean it’s not real?"
"It’s real."
"Real like an idea is real? Is it that kind of thing?"
"No, it’s really real."
A hundred yards out, Owen’s boat rolled gently in the swells. There were more than a dozen passengers in the stern, several trying to stop their floppy wedding hats blowing away.
"What religion are you anyway?" asked Nerys, trying not to sound like she was asking a door-to-door salesman which company he represented.
"I don’t have a religion," said Michael. "I serve – served - no, still serve – the Almighty. Faith and religion are human concepts."
"Yes, but you’ve been going to St Michael’s church, so does that mean Christianity is the one true religion?"
"It’s not that simple."
"Isn’t it?"
"God’s truth isn’t written in words. It is written in archetypes and metaphysical absolutes."
"Nah, you’re talking bollocks now."
"Look. It’s like… it’s like… you see the waves? The sunlight reflects off the water."
"It’s very pretty."
"It is and it’s always changing. The Almighty is the light and religion is the surface in which His reflection is seen. And, depending upon where you’re stood, the light appears different, but it’s the same light."
"Ah," said Nerys nodding. "Same but different. All religions are equally true. I get it."
"Ugh! No! All religions are not equally true!"
"But-"
"No," said Michael firmly. "Religion is not some New Age hypermarket pick ‘n’ mix. It’s not a buffet where the Buddha, Vishnu and Jesus meet for wine and nibbles."
"Sorry. I just thought you said…"
"That’s not what I’m saying at all. Don’t make religion out to be a sickly sweet Land of Do-As-You-Please where whatever you believe is true. Humans don’t decide what God is like. They don’t get to pick where they go when they die. There is the unalterable truth which is the light and there is the water and there is you."
"Right?" said Nerys, hoping for more, but Michael was now clearly irked.
"Humans," he muttered. "Always fixated on the little details. God’s glory is not about churches and words and symbols. It’s not about… stuff. Do you think my name is really Michael? Do you think I really look like this? The real me?"
Nerys prodded him in the lapel, leaving a dent in the white material.
"Yes," she said.
Michael growled qui
etly and tried to smooth his lapel.
"Look, it’s your sister’s special day. Let’s focus on her, shall we? Anyway, are we still meant to be fake boyfriend and girlfriend?"
"We’re fooling no one with that, are we? You’re quite clearly gay. Are angels allowed to be gay?"
"Oh, it’s all but compulsory for angelic beings to maintain a happy and optimistic attitude."
"Not that kind of gay," said Nerys, but Michael wasn’t listening.
Jayne and Ben stood at the tide line, a significant and calculated distance ahead of Michael, Nerys and Clovenhoof. Jayne had wanted to meet Ben’s parents alone but, if she was going to meet them for the first time on her wedding day, then the meeting was going to be as intimate and personal as it could possibly be.
The wedding service, to be conducted by Abbot Ambrose in the monastery church, was not until the late afternoon and it would have been both unlucky, impractical and downright risky to come down to meet the boat in her bridal gown. However, Jayne had chosen her current outfit – stylish but modest, flattering but not flaunting – with enormous care. First impressions and all that. She had also already chosen her opening words of greeting to them and, now, as Owen tied up and positioned the gangplank, she rehearsed them under her breath.
"Mr and Mrs Kitchen. Welcome. I am so glad you’ve been able to come and share our special day. It’s an absolute pleasure to meet you."
"It’ll be all right," said Ben quietly, giving her hand a gentle squeeze.
"You reckon?" she said. "Your parents have been crammed onto a boat with mine for the last half hour. Anything could have happened."
"I’m sure they’ve all been really nice and friendly. This is them."
First down the gangplank was a woman in a green dress the colour of toothpaste and a man who Jayne immediately saw was a thinner, more round-shouldered and crumpled version of Ben. Desiccated, thought Jayne automatically, like a salted and dried Ben, preserved for longevity.
Ben’s mother was fussing over his dad with a tissue as they struggled up the stony beach.
Jayne held out her hands in greeting.
"Mr and Mrs Kitchen –"
Mrs Kitchen rolled her eyes at the pair of them.
"Your father and boats!" she sighed and gave Ben a perfunctory kiss on the cheek.
Jayne saw the smeary stain on Ben’s dad’s jacket and caught the acrid scent of vomit.
"It’s the up-and-down-iness," said the older man with a foolish smile, as though his seasickness was an unavoidable and ultimately humorous mishap.
"Then just aim it over the side," said his wife. "Away from the boat and that new suit. Away. I hope you know what kind of a man you’re letting yourself in for."
It took Jayne a moment to realise that this last comment was aimed at her and then struggled to be certain if it was a reference to Ben or his dad or both of them.
"Um. I do. I think," she said. "It’s a shame we couldn’t meet before today, Mrs Kitchen."
"Pam."
"Jayne. I gather you’ve been on an extended holiday recently."
Pam gave her a drolly exasperated look.
"I wouldn’t call it a holiday," she said. "Trawling up and down the East Anglia coast and looking at World War Two radar installations."
"Fascinating," said Jayne with a wry smile.
"Isn’t it just," said Ben’s dad. "I’ve brought photos if you’d like to take a look."
Ben opened his mouth to say something but, before he did, Pam slapped her husband’s arm.
"You’ll do nothing of the sort, Tony," she said. "This is meant to be a happy day. Jayne, you look absolutely divine. That dress. Stylish but modest."
"I was going for flattering, not flaunting."
"Perfectly achieved, my dear. Now, I’d best take this great galloon and see if we can’t sponge that sick out. Up this way?"
Jayne nodded and gestured to the uneven path leading to the monastery.
Pam paused as she passed them and looked Ben up and down.
"You have got some proper clothes to wear for the service, haven’t you?" she asked him.
"Yes, mom."
"Ironed?"
"Yes, mom."
"Good."
Ben’s dad, Tony, gave his son a conspiratorial waggle of his eyebrows and then dutifully followed his wife up to the monastery.
"Your mom," said Jayne.
"Yes?" said Ben.
"I like her."
"Good," said Ben. "She’s the only one I’ve got. Here’s your mom."
"Yeah, I like her less," Jayne muttered.
Agnes, Ewan and Lydia crunched up the stony beach.
Ewan shook Ben’s hand and kissed Jayne.
"It’s years since I’ve been to Bardsey. I was just telling your mother."
"Repeatedly," said Agnes. "At least you didn’t throw up on the boat like that other chap. Still, at least it stopped him talking about… I don’t even know what he was talking about. I switched off."
"That’s my father, Mrs Thomas," said Ben.
"Of course," she said. "That explains a lot."
She appraised the soon-to-be-weds critically.
"Hmmm. And this is it. Today."
Jayne could hear the unspoken words loud and clear. Not too late to back out. You’re making a mistake.
"Still," said Agnes, "at least it brings the family together. On a damp rock. In the middle of the sea."
Jayne looked past her parents and Lydia, past the aunts and uncles who were coming off the boat.
"No Catherine?"
"Your sister sends her apologies," said Ewan.
"She’s very busy," said Agnes. "Can’t expect her to attend every social event offered to her."
"This is not a social event," said Jayne irritably. "This is her sister’s wedding. But I see you’ve managed to bring the neighbour’s dog."
Jessie, the border collie, was frolicking in the surf, running up and down the beach.
"We did not," said Agnes. "I didn’t even see it on the boat. It’s probably a bad omen. My God, what is that man wearing?"
She pointed at Clovenhoof and his unusual all-white outfit.
"I believe it’s a wedding smoking jacket with Bermuda shorts," said Ben.
"Wedding smoking jacket?" said Agnes. "I’ve never heard of such a thing."
"No. He made it himself."
Agnes glared daggers.
"And he had to come, did he?"
"He’s my best man," said Ben.
"Really? He’s the best man you’ve got?"
Ben looked at his neighbour, who was currently flinging stones at passing seagulls.
"Without a doubt," he said.
Nerys had walked back to the monastery in a less sunny mood than she felt the day deserved. Her mother’s customary greeting hadn’t helped. A hand on the shoulder, a sympathetic smile and "I see the weight loss isn’t coming along as quickly as you’d like it to."
Nerys shook her head. No, she was used to that. The thing that had made her really angry was Michael’s vague and cagey answers to her questions. How dare he imagine that he’d throw her off the scent with a few long words and some metaphysical bullshit. What a pompous twat!
She froze. Did God see her thoughts? Was she committing a sin right now?
She had walked through the archway to the cloisters where there were some welcome drinks for the wedding guests. The others had all taken drinks and seated themselves on benches laid out in the inner quadrangle. She approached the young monk who was serving the drinks.
His face was familiar. She'd heard the others call him - what was it? Trevor.
Surely, a monk would have spent time researching and understanding the practicalities of his chosen religion.
She went up to him.
"It’s Trevor, isn’t it?"
"Stephen," said the monk coldly.
"Sorry. I thought it was Trevor."
"Still can’t get it right, eh? I wondered when you’d finally speak to me."
Nerys frowned.
"There are some things bothering me. You’re very perceptive."
"Things bothering you?" he said, with a small scoffing laugh.
"Yes, indeed. For instance, does God see my thoughts?" she asked him. "Does he know what’s in my mind?"
"What? Oh, I do hope not," he replied. "For your sake."
What a strange thing to say. Still, he spoke with clarity and confidence, so Nerys pressed on.
"What kind of thought would be a sin, then?" she asked, taking a flute of champagne. "If I think of doing something bad, and then I don't do it, then surely that isn't a sin? It means I resisted the temptation, doesn't it?"
"Does that ever happen?" asked the monk.
"What?"
"You, resisting temptation."
Nerys considered the question for a moment as she sipped her champagne. A small part of her brain was wondering why this young monk was challenging her in such a cheeky (but undeniably accurate) way.
"I do. I sometimes shut my mouth when I'm tempted to tell my mother what I really think."
The monk nodded.
"There are other kinds of temptations - " he started.
"I have another question," said Nerys, leaning over the table. "About getting into Heaven. When you repent your sins, how sorry do you really have to be?"
He looked at her in surprise.
"You have to be truly, genuinely sorry of course."
"Yes, but what does that really mean?" she asked. "I'd be genuinely sorry for my sins, if they meant I couldn't get into Heaven, obviously. But only sorry like I was for parking illegally after I got a ticket. It's not the same as that twisted feeling you get in your stomach when you really, really regret something, do you know what I mean?"
"I know exactly what you mean," said the monk. He stared at her, an earnest expression on his face. "In my experience, it can take a long time to get over things that -"
"How about blaspheming?" asked Nerys, cutting across him as a fresh worry surfaced. "Does God really care about that stuff? I mean, I know that monks don't do things like that but nearly everyone else does. Are we all barred from Heaven? Is it really worse to say 'Jesus Christ' than it is to say 'fuck' or 'bollocks'?"
