Shrine

by Herbert, James

  Maybe he just didn’t like being part of the gathering, part of a crowd that seemed – to him – to be mindlessly repeating words as though they were a magic formula, a collective petition of adoration. It began to unnerve him. Fenn neither believed nor disbelieved in the existence of God: either way, it meant little to him. Find your own morality, your own code; then stick with it. So long as nobody else got hurt (too badly) you were doing okay. If there was a God, He was big enough to understand that. It was man, mortal bloody man, who created the myths. What Supreme Being could encourage let alone appreciate this dogmatic repetitive ritual? What Almighty Power would encourage His own creation (whom, so the rumour went, He had created in His own image) to toady up to Him so they could have a slice of the heavenly action when their number was called? It didn’t make sense.

  Fenn glared defiantly towards the altar. There were lots of other things to toss in for debate. Like idolatry, theological misinterpretation, and naive symbolism. Like birth control, confession and penance and absolution. Like bigotry (who says you have to be a Catholic to get a foot in the gate?), ceremony, solemnization, and in-bloody-fallibility. Original Sin, for Christ’s sake! And not to mention the Church’s view on fornication.

  He began to smile at his own indignation. Nothing like a good church service to stir the emotions, for or agin.

  As Father Hagan read from the Gospel, Fenn looked at Sue and surreptitiously reached for her hand, squeezing it softly; she ignored him, intent on the priest’s words. He let his hand drop away, surprised.

  The sermon began and Fenn paid scant attention, although he studied Hagan with interest. It was strange: the priest didn’t look so invincible now. His face looked strained and he still glanced towards the side, at someone sitting in the front pew. Once again, the reporter tried to see for himself, and this time he could just make out the back of a woman’s head between the shoulders of a man and woman sitting in the second row.

  She was wearing a bright pink scarf. Maybe the priest didn’t like pink.

  Fenn shifted his feet, becoming restless. If he were a smoker, he’d be dying for a cigarette. Was it sacrilege to chew gum in church? He decided it probably was.

  The priest’s words seemed hesitant, as though even he were not convinced. But as he spoke and developed his theme, his words became stronger and Fenn could almost feel the sense of relief that passed through the congregation; they obviously preferred their sermons hard and unrelenting. Father Hagan’s voice subtly rose in pitch, at one moment accusing and the next coaxing, then reassuring, returning to a more reproachful tone when things were getting too cosy. Fenn enjoyed his technique.

  The service went on (to Fenn, on and on . . . ) and he regretted having arrived for the full Mass. His idea was to soak up the atmosphere of the Sunday service, maybe chat to some of the people afterwards; but the prime purpose was to get to the priest. He intended to have a long talk with him when Mass was over, wanting to find out how the little girl was. Had she returned to the church? Had she spoken again? Now he wondered if he wasn’t suffering too much for the sake of his craft.

  He sneaked another sideways peek at Sue, feeling a trifle embarrassed by her obvious reverence towards the surroundings. Once a Catholic, always a Catholic. He hoped it didn’t mean she was going to kick him out of her bed that night.

  The church became particularly hushed. Father Hagan was doing something with a highly polished chalice, breaking what looked like a white wafer into it. The Communion, that was it. Drinking of wine, breaking of bread. Christ’s blood and body. What did they call it . . .? The Eucharist.

  All heads were bowed and the people standing around him sank to their knees as a tinkling bell rang out. He looked down at Sue in alarm and she motioned with her eyes for him to get down beside her. The stone floor hurt his knees.

  He kept his head low, afraid to offend anyone – particularly HE WHO SEES ALL – until he heard movement around him. Looking up, he saw that people were stepping into the aisles and forming a double-line queue leading up to the altar rail where the priest waited with silver cup and Communion wafers. An older man wearing a white cassock attended him at one side. The procession of people shuffled forward and the organ wheezed into life once again.

  Several people were sitting now and a few of those at the back of the church had risen to their feet, not prepared to suffer bruised knees any longer. Fenn considered their judgement to be sound and rose himself; Sue remained kneeling.

  Singing began and the congregation moved down and around, approaching the altar from the centre aisle, returning to their places by the side aisles. Fenn saw the pink scarf moving along the bench towards the centre and instantly recognized its wearer as the woman who had come with her husband to collect the little deaf and dumb girl from the priest’s house a few nights before. The priest had been looking towards Alice’s mother throughout the service.

  The pink scarf joined the other bowed heads in the slow-paced procession and disappeared completely from view when the woman knelt to receive the host from the priest.

  It was then that a small figure rose from the spot where the woman had been sitting throughout the Mass. She stepped into the side aisle and looked up at a statue before her; then she turned and walked towards the back of the church. Fenn recognized Alice. Her yellow hair was parted in the centre, two long plaits resting over her shoulders; she wore a maroon raincoat, a size too big for her, and long white socks. Her hands were clasped together tightly, fingers intertwined, and her eyes looked straight ahead and at nothing in particular.

  Fenn stared, aware that something was wrong. Her face was pale, her knuckles white. He realized the priest had been watching her, not her mother.

  And Father Hagan was watching her now.

  The Communion wafer hovered tantalizingly above a gaping mouth, the receiver’s tongue, draped over a lower lip, beginning to twitch. Alice’s mother, kneeling beside her fellow-communicant, was too lost in her own devotional prayers to notice the delay in proceedings.

  The priest looked as though he was about to call out and Fenn saw him visibly restrain himself. A few other heads were turning to see what was provoking such riveted attention from their priest, but all they saw was little Alice Pagett, the deaf mute, walking towards the back of the church, presumably to join the queue for Holy Communion. Father Hagan realized he was delaying the Mass and resumed the ceremony, but his eyes worriedly followed the girl’s progress.

  Fenn was curious. He thought of stepping forward to block her way but knew that would be stupid: she might just be feeling unwell and in need of fresh air. Yet, although she was pale, there was a look of happiness on her face, a faraway joy in those vivid blue eyes. She seemed to see nothing, only what was beyond her physical vision, and the notion disturbed Fenn. Could she be in a trance? She bumped into no one, nor were her footsteps slow or dream-like. He looked down at her as she passed, and half-smiled, not knowing why.

  The organ played on and voices rose in communal worship, emotions high at this particular point in the Mass.

  No one seemed to notice the other children leaving the pews.

  Fenn looked from left to right in surprise. The kids – some no more than six years old, others up to twelve or thirteen – were slipping away from their elders and making their way towards the church exit, the infant exodus largely unnoticed because of the throng of people in the centre aisle.

  Unlike Alice, there was nothing trance-like about these children. They were excited, some giggling, as they skipped after the deaf and dumb girl.

  A mother realized her offspring was trying to make an escape (a common enough occurrence with this one) and swiftly caught him. His howl of rage and struggles to get free shocked the mother. People around her, other parents, began to realize what was happening. They were startled at first, then confused. Then just a little angry. One father forgot himself and called out after his departing boy.

  Father Hagan heard the shout and looked up. He was just in time to see
the small girl in her maroon raincoat and long plaits pull open the church door and disappear into the bright sunlight. Other children rushed after her.

  The voices grew weaker as people became aware that something was amiss. Soon only the plump nun at the organ, lost in her own rapturous praising of God’s benevolence towards mankind, was singing.

  Fenn suddenly became alert. Christ, he had almost been in a trance himself; it had taken an effort of will to snap out of it. He moved swiftly to the door and pushed one side open. The light stung his eyes for several moments, but a few rapid blinks allowed him to see clearly once more.

  The children were running through the graveyard towards the low grey-stone wall at the back.

  Fenn stepped from the porch and followed, his footsteps quickening when he saw Alice clamber over the wall. The other children began climbing over too, the smaller ones helped by their bigger companions.

  A hand grabbed the reporter’s arm.

  ‘Gerry, what’s going on?’ Sue stared after the children, then at him as if he would know.

  ‘No idea,’ he told her. ‘They’re chasing after the little deaf and dumb girl. And I think I know where she’s going.’ He broke away, running now, anxious to get to the wall.

  Sue was too surprised to move. Voices from behind caused her to turn her head; bewildered parents were emerging from the church, looking around anxiously for their missing children. The priest pushed his way into the crowd, saw Sue standing on the path leading through the graveyard, then looked beyond at Fenn’s retreating figure.

  The reporter skipped over fresh molehills, stumbling once but managing to keep his feet. He practically fell against the wall, his hands smacking its rough top. There he stood, drawing sharp breaths into his belaboured lungs, his eyes widening.

  The girl, Alice, was kneeling before the crooked oak, just as she had on that dark chilly night less them a week ago. The other children were spread out behind her, some kneeling as she was, others just staring. Several of the younger ones were pointing at the tree, laughing, jumping little steps of delight.

  Fenn’s eyes narrowed as he studied the object of their attention. There was nothing else there! Just an old tree! It wasn’t even beautiful; in fact, it was bloody awful. What was the fascination?

  Someone bumped into him and he looked round to see Sue had caught up with him once more.

  ‘Gerry . . .?’ The question froze on her lips as she saw the children.

  Hurried footsteps behind them, other bodies brought to a halt by the low wall. Fenn and Sue were jostled as parents pushed to see what had become of their offspring. A mild shock ran through the gathering crowd. Then a hushed silence. Even the organ had stopped playing.

  Fenn became aware that the priest was standing beside him. They regarded each other for several moments and the reporter thought he detected a touch of hostility in Hagan’s gaze, almost as if he suspected Fenn of having something to do with the phenomenon.

  Fenn looked away, more interested in the children than the priest. He reached into his pocket and drew out a cheap, pocket-size camera; he clicked off four rapid shots, then leapt over the wall.

  Sue, irrationally, tried to call him back; for some reason she was afraid, or perhaps just shocked, and it was the sense of fear that kept her quiet. The people around her grew restless when they saw him enter the field, and they seemed reluctant to follow. Scared, like her, or perplexed. Perhaps both.

  He approached the first child, a boy of eleven or twelve in duffel coat and jeans. The boy was smiling, just as Alice had smiled that first night. He appeared to be unaware of Fenn, and the reporter waved a hand before the boy’s eyes. A brief frown crossed the boy’s features and he jerked his head aside, trying to get a clear view of the tree.

  Fenn left him, went on to another child. A girl this time, squatting in the damp grass, a look of bliss on her face. He crouched beside her, touching her shoulder.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked softly. ‘What can you see?’

  The girl ignored him.

  He moved on and watched a five-year-old clap his hands together and sink to his haunches with glee; two girls, twins, holding hands, both smiling; a boy of about thirteen, on his knees, hands held together before his nose, palms flat against each other, lips moving in silent prayer.

  Another boy, this one in short trousers, his knees smeared with mud from where he had obviously fallen, stood hugging himself, shoulders hunched, a wide grin on his face. Fenn stood in front of him, deliberated obscuring his view. The boy stepped sideways, still grinning.

  Fenn bent down so that his face was level with the boy’s. ‘Tell me what you see,’ he said.

  One thing was sure: he didn’t see Fenn. Nor did he hear him.

  The reporter straightened and shook his head in frustration. The little faces around him were all smiling. Some wept, but they still smiled.

  He noticed the priest was climbing over the wall, others following his example. Fenn turned and walked swiftly towards the girl in the maroon coat, the deaf and dumb child, who knelt some yards before the other children, close to the oak tree. He moved in front of her, but to one side so that he did not block her vision of the tree. Crouching slightly, he aimed the camera and shot two more frames. Straightening he photographed the rest of the children.

  Then he turned and photographed the tree.

  The parents and guardians were among the children, claiming their charges, taking them up in their arms or hugging them close. A girl, not six yards away from Fenn, swayed, then fell into a heap on the soft ground before her distraught mother could reach her. Another younger girl followed suit. Then a boy. The five-year-old who had been clapping earlier broke into hysterical tears as his mother and father approached him. Many of the children began to weep, worried voices dispelling the uncanny silence that had prevailed as the adults tried to comfort them.

  Fenn’s eyes shone with bemused wonder; he had a story, a great story. He was witnessing the same kind of hysteria that had swept through a crowd of over three hundred children in Mansfield a few years before; there had been a mass collapse at the Marching Bands Festival. This wasn’t on the same grand scale, but the events bore some similarity. These kids were being affected by whatever was going on inside Alice Pagett’s mind. Somehow she was transmitting her own hypnotic state to them, making them behave in the same way! Jesus, some kind of telepathy! It was the only explanation. But what had induced her delirium – if delirium it be?

  Father Hagan strode through the concerned families and swooning children, making straight for Fenn.

  The reporter was tempted to snap off a quick picture, but decided it wouldn’t be the right moment; there was something daunting about the priest, despite his worried manner. He slipped the camera back into his pocket.

  The clergyman disregarded Fenn and knelt beside Alice Pagett. He put an arm around her, his hand covering one shoulder completely. He spoke to her, knowing she could not hear, but hoping she would sense the kindness in his words.

  ‘Everything’s all right, Alice,’ he said. ‘Your mother is coming, you’re going to be fine.’

  ‘I don’t think you should move her, Father,’ Fenn interrupted, crouching low again so he could look into Alice’s eyes.

  The priest looked at him in a strange way. ‘Weren’t you the man who brought her to me the other night? Fenn, isn’t it?’

  The reporter nodded, still watching the girl.

  ‘What’s your game, Mr Fenn?’ Hagan’s voice was brusque. He rose, pulling Alice up with him. ‘What have you got to do with this business?’

  Fenn looked up in surprise, then stood himself. ‘Now look . . .’ he began to say when another voice spoke.

  ‘She wants us to come again.’

  Both men were shocked into silence. They stared down at Alice.

  She smiled and said, ‘The lady in white wants us to come again. She says she’s got a message, Father. A message for all of us.’

  Fenn and the priest were not aware
that the crowd was hushed again, that everyone had heard Alice’s soft-spoken words even though it should have been impossible over the frantic hubbub of anxious voices.

  The priest was the first to speak, his words hesitant. ‘Who, Alice?’ Could she hear him? She had spoken, but could she hear? ‘Who . . . who told you this?’

  Alice pointed towards the oak. ‘The lady, Father. The lady in white told me.’

  ‘But there’s . . . no one there, Alice.’

  The girl’s smile wavered for a moment, then returned, but was less strong. ‘No, she’s gone now.’

  ‘Did she say who she was?’ The priest still spoke slowly, keeping his voice low, gentle.

  Alice nodded, then frowned in concentration, as though trying to remember the exact words. ‘She said she was the Immaculate Conception.’

  The priest stiffened, blood draining from his face.

  It was at that moment that Alice’s mother, her bright pink scarf hanging loose at the back of her head, rushed forward and threw herself on her knees, pulling Alice to her and hugging her tight. Molly Pagett’s eyes were closed, but tears poured from them to dampen her daughter’s face and hair.

  Wilkes

  So the mother took the little lad and chopped him up in pieces, threw him in the pot and cooked him in the stew.

  The Brothers Grimm, ‘The Juniper Tree’

  He closed the door, not forgetting to lock it. Then he switched on the light. It took no longer than two seconds to cross the small room and slump onto the narrow bed.