by Heide Goody
Ben nodded along with her until that last word.
"Spontaneity? No. I’m not a big fan of that. I’m not a fussy person, but I do like to know what’s coming."
"I know," said Jayne. "Wife, tick. Kids, tick. Favourite park bench, tick. Mobility scooter, tick. Don’t tell me, you’ve already picked out where you’re going to be buried."
"No. Although I do have a favourite bench in Sutton Park. I’ve always thought that, when I’m old, I’d sit there and I’d –"
"Stop," said Jayne. "Stop there."
"What?"
"I don’t want a life that’s all planned out. You may have had enough adventures and incidents to last a lifetime but I haven’t. I want surprises."
"No, I don’t like surprises," said Ben.
Jayne’s foot connected with something in the grass, something heavy and unyielding and she stumbled forwards. Ben caught her by the elbow and stopped her falling.
Jayne shook herself, smoothed out her dress and looked down at the object in the grass. It was a heavy cloth bag. She picked it up – it was surprisingly heavy – and opened it.
"What is it?"
Jayne did not reply. Her brain was still processing the possibilities. She reached in and touched one of the coins.
"What is it?" asked Ben again.
"Um," said Jayne. "It’s gold. The biggest pile of gold I’ve ever seen."
"Well, of course," said Ben, "there are good surprises."
~ooOOOoo~
While Europe’s The Final Countdown had the hardcore rockers on the dance floor, Michael ran into the refectory, sword in hand.
"Fire!" he yelled.
More than a few wedding guests pointed unnecessarily at the flaming sword. A couple screamed.
"Not this fire!" he yelled. "The monastery’s on fire!"
Brother Sebastian stabbed at his laptop keyboard, killing the music.
Novice Stephen stood at a respectful distance from the man with the burning blade.
"Where?"
"The orangery. But it’s kind of spreading."
Stephen looked round.
"Where’s the abbot?"
"Gone."
~ooOOOoo~
Nerys ran, panting, down a corridor that was thick with smoke. The fire had spread with astonishing ease, considering this was a stone building and a damp one at that.
She wasn't sure where Clovenhoof was, but with the visibility as poor as it was he could be right behind her and she'd never know. She had a vague idea that the air might be clearer near to the floor. Was she supposed to crawl along to avoid smoke inhalation?
As these thoughts were crowding her brain, she collided with someone else in the corridor. She landed with a loud oof, and found herself on top of an astonished monk.
It was true. The air down here was a bit clearer. She looked across at his face, angled, as she was around his navel and had a strong sense of déjà vu.
"Trevor, have we met before?" she asked. "Because from this angle you look awfully familiar."
"It's Stephen," said the monk, clearly a little winded. "And, yes, we did meet."
"I’m trying to remember."
"There was a time when, for reasons that escape me, I found you attractive and we ended up in bed -"
"Oh my life! It was true about you going off to become a monk!" she cried. "I heard it but I didn't know whether to believe it."
"Yes, all true," said Stephen, dragging himself from under Nerys's body.
"I mean it’s one of those things people say. I think I should be insulted. Was it because of me?" she demanded. "Was it?"
He looked at her for a long moment.
"You really want to talk about this right now? You want to know whether the trauma of you practising your sexual techniques upon me was enough to drive me to a life of celibacy? You want to risk your neck in a blazing building because your self-indulgent ego demands the answers NOW? You really are the most sickeningly selfish woman I have ever met. How can you live with yourself?"
Nerys crawled after him on her elbows, eyes watering, coughing as she went.
"I'm gonna take that as a yes," she said.
~ooOOOoo~
Michael waved the guests onward, through the kitchens.
"This way!"
Even here, some distance from the origins of the fire, there was a faint haze of smoke in the air. There were coughs from some of the more elderly guests.
Michael realised there was a smile forming on his face and he quashed it quickly. This was an emergency situation. He had a purpose. He was doing good. This filled him with an inordinate sense of satisfaction, joy even, but it was hardly appropriate to let it show.
He led the guests on, down the steps to the larder and then out through the scullery and then out into the monastery gardens and the cool night air.
"Come on, come on," he called, patting people on the back as they piled out, monks and wedding guests alike.
Against, the not quite black sky, smoke billowed above the monastery. Sparks of orange fire danced above the roofing tiles.
Last out through the door was resident DJ and entrepreneur, Brother Sebastian.
"Is that everyone?"
Sebastian shook his head.
"The abbot and the prior can’t be found. Novice Stephen has gone to look for them." He scanned the people milling on the lawn. "The brothers are all here. And four of the wedding party are missing but I think they were elsewhere in the grounds."
He pored over a sheet of paper attached to a clipboard, moving away from the tetchy guests.
"So glad to see that you are in control of things," said Manfred, approaching. "Is that a list of the people that we have here?"
"No," Sebastian said, reaching into a pocket and thrusting a crumpled sheet towards Manfred. "That's here. No, I'm doing some quick calculations on the cost of the damage. It's just possible that this fire could work to our advantage you know. I took out some extra insurance just recently."
Manfred shook his head incredulously.
"What about the priceless artwork? Those tapestries are irreplaceable, if it is just possible that I can rescue some of them -"
He made to re-enter the building but Sebastian moved to stop him.
"No brother. They were already damaged, they are worth more to us if they are destroyed."
Manfred made a noise like a sad kitten.
"This is so shocking, that we should stand by while such woeful destruction takes place. I had to do this once before you know. My grandparents' house was set ablaze and my grandfather's collection of wooden squirrels was sadly lost. Oh -"
He turned to Sebastian, distraught.
"There is a factor that we have overlooked, and I fear, my friend that it is a significant one."
Sebastian raised his eyebrows and waited for Manfred to fill in the blanks.
"You will remember that one of our many small efforts to create some wealth for our order was my apparatus for the distillation of apple brandy -" began Manfred.
"The still!" yelled Sebastian. "Oh, this could be disastrous!"
"Hold on," said Tony Kitchen, who'd been listening. "Let's just keep calm and think about a few things. See how dangerous it really is."
The two monks turned and looked at him, expectantly.
"Number one," said Tony. "Has your still been working at all within the last day?"
"Yes," chorused the two monks.
"Right, ok. Next question," said Tony. "Did you already create some alcohol, and are the bottles stored nearby?"
"Yes!" chorused the two monks again.
"Hmmm, in that case, I think I know what we need to do," said Tony, nudging Pam, who looked at him with a tired smile.
"Very good," said Manfred, with a relieved smile. "What is that, exactly?"
"We need to run, RUN! Far away. It's going to blow!" yelled Tony.
Brother Sebastian held his phone aloft.
"I will call the emergency services, let’s get these people mustered down o
n the shore."
"I believe I can help you with that," said Michael, striding over.
"This way!" he yelled to the eighty-odd guests and monks. "To the beach!"
He held his sword aloft. Now, in the night air, the flaming sword was a torch, lighting the way.
The guests and monks obediently followed Michael down the beach path, a winding exodus in posh hats, morning suits and smoke-damaged habits. Some were less obedient.
"I don’t know who put him in charge," said Agnes Thomas loudly.
"I think he’s just being decisive, Agnes," said Pam Kitchen.
"And he has got a flaming sword," added Ewan Thomas.
"Clever that," said Tony Kitchen. "Reckon it’s a special effect of some sort?"
"Or magic," said Ewan.
"Maybe it’s for cutting the wedding cake," suggested Pam.
"It’s flashy, that’s what it is," said Agnes. "I told you he was up to something… poofy."
"I don’t think fiery swords could ever be described as poofy, Agnes. We should form a human chain, see if we can't get some buckets of sea water onto that fire. It would be a tragedy to see a fine old building like that seriously damaged," said Ewan.
"Brilliant, just brilliant. I could add salt-water rot to smoke damage of all my clothes. Honestly Ewan, you can be so clueless," said Agnes. "These shoes are practically ruined already from walking around on stones and sand."
~ooOOOoo~
Clovenhoof moved along a corridor filled with swirls of smoke. Had the abbot left already? No, there he was, edging between scaffolding poles and the far wall. Clovenhoof sucked in his belly and edged after him. It was a tight squeeze.
He saw that Nerys was at the other end with the young monk who insisted on being called Stephen.
"Nerys, stop him! He's coming your way," Clovenhoof called out.
"What's going on?" asked Stephen, looking from Clovenhoof, to the abbot to Nerys.
"Let me explain," called Nerys, while Clovenhoof concentrated on manoeuvring through the scaffolding. "Right, listen up, Stephen. You need to know that your Abbot is ancient."
"What?"
"He was born before the time of Christ and he killed his brother. Then he resurrected him so that he could sustain the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil with his blood. That's pretty much what he's been doing ever since."
"Nerys," said Stephen. "Are you high on smoke fumes? None of that made any sense at all. We have to get out of here." Stephen looked up at Brother Sebastian’s dodgy scaffolding. "This place isn’t safe."
"No, look, I know it sounds a little bit unlikely," said Nerys, "but if you'd seen some of the stuff I've seen in the last year, you wouldn't be fazed." She cast about for a convincing argument. "Right, tell you what, if you can think of any time you ever saw evidence that there was someone else in charge of this monastery since it was built then I'll shut up."
Stephen opened and closed his mouth a few times and then made a huffing sound.
"Oh, this is ridiculous. Father Abbot, tell them they're being silly. I have no idea what went on here in the past, but I only arrived here within the last year, so how would I?"
Abbot Ambrose remained silent, and continued his progress between the scaffolding.
The only sound that could be heard above the ominous crackling of the approaching flames was Clovenhoof's grunts as he tried to shimmy through as quickly as he could.
"Stephen," Clovenhoof called. "The abbot has been playing a dangerous game. What would happen if the world found out that Bardsey holds the key to defeating death? People out there might think they want immortality but it's not all it's cracked up to be, I can vouch for that."
"Don't you think I'd like to die?" hissed the abbot. "It's all I've dreamed of for centuries, but nobody will touch me. No one. Vengeance seven times over! The Deluge didn’t drown me. Starvation won’t touch me. I'm obliged to keep my secret to protect my brother and you won't stop me. I'll leave this place and start again somewhere else. It's what we've always done."
Stephen stood before him, wide-eyed as the abbot emerged from the scaffolding.
"No," he said, firmly. "I'm sorry Abbot, but it seems to me there are some definite problems with this situation, so I think you'll need to stay here until we can find someone in a position of authority to decide what's best."
"Fool!" yelled the abbot and pushed Stephen against the wall, the wicked point of the pruning shears against his chest.
Nerys acted quickly and without thought. She delivered an enthusiastic kick to where she guessed his groin was under that habit. She tugged briskly on the back of his collar at the same time, to yank the shears away from Stephen. The abbot was lighter than she'd imagined, and she pulled him straight over as his knees buckled with the pain. She tripped over him and landed on top, realising too late that the pruning shears were pointing directly upwards.
Flames crept along the floorboards of the almonry and raced across the tapestry of the crucifixion. They encircled the sixteen wooden casks that Brother Manfred had stored by the cupboard door, each one filled with sweet, life-giving liquor.
There was distant boom and a hot wind swept through the corridor.
Nerys lay on the floor, a ragged hole in her dress, blood flowing rapidly across the stone floor. Stephen was already by her side.
Clovenhoof roared and rushed the abbot. Ambrose was crawling away back towards the scaffolding. Clovenhoof pulled out a length of timber that supported a wall-brace and repeatedly clubbed him with it. Blow after blow after blow.
"Don’t. Hurt. My. Friend!"
The abbot went down, gasping in pain.
"Vengeance…" he croaked.
A rumbling sound cascaded through the stonework overhead and the scaffolding started to buckle where it was now unsupported.
Clovenhoof looked up, stepped out of the way and, with a foul grin, gave the stonework a helpful poke with the wall-brace. The masonry thundered dully as it came crashing down. When the dust cleared, the abbot was gone, buried under tonnes of fallen stone.
Clovenhoof dusted off his hands. Above him, the stonework groaned.
"Vengeance seven times over?" he muttered.
He looked straight up, through the thousand tonnes of unstable masonry, through the heavens and right into the heart of the Celestial City and the Throne of the Almighty.
"Really, mate?" he said, directly to the Other Guy. "Come and have a go if you think you’re hard enough."
The stonework creaked and settled and then fell silent.
"Damn right," he said.
There was a gaping hole in the outside wall. Smoking was pouring out, fresh air wafting in.
Clovenhoof dashed to Nerys's side. Stephen was dabbing ineffectually at the blood that was rapidly pooling in her lap.
"Can't believe you've killed me again," she croaked.
"What?" said Clovenhoof. "You can't blame me for this!"
"Can," sighed Nerys, "and will."
"No!" yelled Clovenhoof. "Don't you die!"
"There's a lot of blood here," said Stephen. "I think these are serious injuries. Nothing's going to save her other than a miracle."
"Either a miracle, or some cockeyed throwback to the days when fruit couldn't just be fruit," Clovenhoof exclaimed. "We need the apples!"
Clovenhoof looked back up the blocked corridor.
"The tree's completely incinerated and the orangery's burned down. Do you store them anywhere in the monastery?"
"No," said Stephen. "The abbot never let us eat them. No wonder he was mad when we made the jam. He used to feed them to Brother Arthur all the time though, I bet he's put some on the boat with him."
"Boat?"
"Yes, I saw him loading up a boat earlier. It seemed like a strange thing for him to be doing."
"Right. Wait here, both of you. Make sure you keep her talking, I'll be right back."
Clovenhoof leapt out through the hole in the wall and disappeared into the night.
~ooOOOoo~
> The guests assembled on the beach, huddled together.
It was not a cold night but there was a persistent breeze coming in off the sea and many of the women’s dresses were thin and offered no warmth. More than a few wives had their husbands’ suit jackets draped over their shoulders, leaving their husbands to feel all chivalrous and slightly chilly.
Michael stood down by the shore, watching the faint pinpoints of lights of Aberdaron, wondering when help was going to come.
Ewan and Tony strolled down to join him.
"All right, son?" said Tony.
Michael nodded.
"You did a good job there," said Ewan. "Leading everyone out."
"Thanks."
Ewan nodded at Michael’s still-blazing blade.
"Tony and I were wondering, well, debating more like. How does it work?"
"Work?"
"I proposed the blade is hollowed out and that gas is fed up through the blade via the hilt, perhaps from a cylinder concealed inside your suit," said Tony.
"Whereas," said Ewan, "I said that it was more likely that this was an ancient magical blade."
"More likely?" said Michael.
Ewan shrugged.
"Legends abound in these parts. Round here, you can throw a stone and, like as not, it’ll land on the tomb of some prince or king. You’re standing on Avalon after all."
"Isle of apples," said Michael, thinking about the orangery, now a fiery ruin, and the tree that had grown in it for centuries. "Merlin’s house of glass."
"Of course," said Tony with a meaningful waggle of his eyebrow, "what with there being a fire in the monastery and you holding that thing, the authorities might have a few questions."
Michael looked at his sword and grimaced.
"Oh, dear."
"I’m sure it wasn’t your fault, son," said Tony.
Michael sighed.
"Well, it was fun while it lasted. Stand back, gentleman."
"Why?" said Ewan but did as he was told.
Michael positioned his feet carefully, drew back his arm and threw the sword out to sea with all his strength. It pinwheeled through the night sky, end over end, an orange disc of fire, and then arced down into the dark sea with an audible hiss.
