The Summoning

by Robert Wingfield

  Francis was also concerned about the direction King Henry’s life was taking. There had been a change of heart in the Vatican against his divorce, and he could see the gathering storm for the king, and England, and subsequently the Church.

  Brother Francis lay on his bed in the dormitory. Nobody, except presumably the demon, could see him, but out of either respect or aversion, the canons had left his cot unoccupied. Francis was depressed and deadly tired, and he determined to let his life slip away. Could a body, caught between the two worlds, die? He was going to give it a try.

  He was still there several weeks later, between life and death. He could not live, but he realised he also could not die. To his dismay, he found that in this state, he was unable to move; he alternately cursed and prayed with frustration. This was probably the ordained time of his death, he reasoned, but he lay in a hell of suspended existence.

  There was a scuffle from the cloister stairs. Francis was only slightly disturbed. It was noontide. The chimes of the sext bell still echoed around the building, so it was unusual for anyone to be around the dormitory at that time. He watched as two canons carried a third into the hall.

  “He weighs a ton,” muttered one of the bearers. Francis recognised him as the new prior, John Colfox. “Drop him on Brother Francis’ bed, rather than dragging him to the other end of the dormitory.”

  “But we vowed to keep the cot empty because of the association with that witch. It could be malign.”

  “This is a house of God; how can it be evil?” said Colfox, ironically. “Do as I say, Brother William.”

  “As you wish.”

  “No, please don’t,” murmured Francis—nobody heard.

  “It will be the death of me.” The stricken canon weakly crossed himself as he was dropped on top of Francis’ shade.

  “A plague on you,” whispered Francis, in his ear. The canon started, and a shudder went through his body.

  “He can stay there until Father Thomas sees him,” said the prior.

  “What happened?” Another man appeared on the stairs.

  “None of your business, Brother Richard,” said the prior. “We are awaiting the abbot, but if you must know, Brother Galfridus, here, was working in the kitchen-garden and simply keeled over. I can’t think why; he isn’t old.”

  “Leave us.” Abbot Corveser pushed his way past Richard and bustled into the room. “This is where you sleep, is it?” He regarded the long dormitory, with the cots spread out at intervals. “It’s a bit opulent. I will have to look into providing more frugal lodgings. You brothers can all return to your duties. I will take it from here. Shoo!”

  The canons scattered, leaving Corveser alone with the afflicted Galfridus. He knelt beside the cot. “Brother Galfridus, can you hear me?”

  Francis was in the uncomfortable position of sharing space with Galfridus, and also having Corveser breathing in his ear. He tried to move out of the way, but his life-force was spent. As he lay there, though, he felt a strange increase in the energy in his body.

  “Galfridus?”

  “Yes, Father?” The canon tried to stir.

  “What happened?”

  “I was in the garden, Father, setting comfrey, and everything went black.”

  “Can you move?”

  The man sharing Francis’ space struggled. “No, Father. I’m held. I think there is something here with me.”

  “Demons?” Abbot Thomas crossed himself.

  “No, Father. I am not possessed. There is no evil spirit here, but there is something. We vowed to keep Brother Francis’ bed empty on account of the death of the lady...”

  “You imagine it, Brother, unless there is something on your mind? Although I fear you may have tilled your last soil. The ague is upon you. I will hear your confession.”

  “Bless me, Father.”

  “Tell me your sins, my son, that you may be forgiven.”

  “They are great, Father, and have been a burden to me.”

  “Tell me all, Brother Galfridus.”

  Francis listened in growing dismay as Galfridus outlined the mischief he had been involved in with the prior, and subsequently Abbot Hunt during his time at the abbey. When he got to his involvement in the demise of Ankerita, Francis snorted with disgust. The abbot heard the sound and gazed with concern at where the sick man was lying. There was a snigger from the rafters above the bed. Corveser peered upwards. “Who’s there? Come out.”

  Nothing moved. Shaking his head, the abbot returned to his patient. Galfidus was breathing more painfully as a paralysis slowly wrked its way up his body.

  “A brain fever,” said the abbot. “I had no idea you were such an sinful man. Lie there. I will send the canons to feed and clean you, but be warned, if you do live, you will be banished from this abbey. No one must know why.”

  Galfridus grunted weakly, and the abbot left the room, muttering supplications.

  “You were poisoning my lady knowingly,” said Francis, directly in the invalid’s ear.

  The man jumped, hearing the voice clearly. “Mother of God: demons in my head.”

  “In a way, yes,” said Francis, angrily. “Demons here to claim your soul.”

  “Forgive me.” Galfridus tried to clasp his hands together. “Who are you? What manner of demon are you?”

  Francis felt the man’s life-force. It was still strong, despite his current condition. “I cannot forgive you,” he said, “but I see it is not yet your time to die; you are, however, to be crippled, and cast out for your sins. Perhaps this is fitting punishment for your evil. Evil is as evil does, as evil looks.”

  “Crippled and outcast,” echoed Galfridus. “I cannot live like that.”

  “It will be less than you deserve,” said Francis. “And you can be assured that I will be watching you suffer.”

  “No, I cannot. If I am unable to support myself, I do not want to live. Take my soul if you want to.”

  A change came over Francis. He could see the life-essence of the monk, deep inside his body. He felt he could reach out and touch it, and take it. He absorbed a little amount, and found he could move. He stood up beside the cot, and stretched his arms.

  “Who are you?” Galfridus was trembling as he perceived Francis take shape.

  “You knew me as Brother Francis.”

  “Hah,” Galfridus seemed to relax. “Not a demon. Then you are not dead. The affliction must be playing on my mind.” He struggled to sit up. “I feel better already.”

  Francis felt the energy drained from him as Galfridus struggled to take it back.

  “You are the renegade who was consorting with the witch,” continued the monk. “Are you going to murder me, and add that crime to your sins?”

  “That is not why I am here. I heard you confess that you were responsible for poisoning Lady Ankerita.”

  “Acting on the abbot’s orders, but yes, I did it willingly. The family demanded it... and she spurned my advances.”

  “And for that, you ended the life of the most lovely of women?”

  “She was only a woman,” said Galfridus. “What purpose did she have?”

  “I worshipped that lady.” Francis’ tears welled up.

  “Thou shalt have no gods but me,” Galfridus quoted from the scriptures. “You are bearing false witness.”

  “You know what I mean. You were wrong.”

  “And you are weak.” The canon sneered. “Who are you to tell me what is right and what is wrong?”

  Francis felt more life being reclaimed from him. He sagged briefly, and then fought back. He reached right inside the body of the man on the bed. Galfridus gagged.

  “Who am I to tell you?” echoed Francis, the anger building. “You dare to mock me. I am your confessor and executioner.”

  He took hold of what life energy he could see inside the man, and squeezed it. Galfridus struggled, but the grip was relentless.

  “You said you wanted to end it all,” sai
d Francis calmly, “so I help you on your way.”

  He took a deep breath, and ripped the remaining vitality away from the monk. In an instant, he found himself looking down on a lifeless corpse. He inspected his hands. They were no longer ancient. He was again the man from two years before. He had stolen those years of life from Galfridus. He could move again. He was free.

  Present Day

  A

  nkerita lounged in a comfortable armchair in one of the downstairs rooms of her new home, a glass of White Zinfandel in her hand, and one of the CDs from the car on the music centre. “I still don’t see why this pink wine is called ‘White’.”

  “No matter,” said George. “Do you like it?”

  “Lovely. Makes me feel all warm and tingly. Are you sure you won’t join me?”

  “No, I can’t touch the stuff,” said the man, sadly. “That’s what did for me in the first place. If ah have one, ah’ll have the bottle, and then another and then another. Trust me, ye dinna wan’ a see me like that.”

  “No, of course not.” Ankerita yawned. “Sorry.”

  “My fault, keeping you talking,” said George, getting up. “I’ll show you to your room. I should be going out to my job.”

  “The shop won’t be open surely?”

  George grinned, “Night shift.”

  “I see. Aren’t you a bit overdressed for that?”

  “I’ve got to get changed of course, or people will never believe I am a proper beggar. Come on, follow me. I’ll get you bedded before I leave.”

  Ankerita tried to stand, but her legs refused to work. She giggled stupidly. “‘Bedded’ sounds funny. I might need help.”

  “Sorry, Caileag, I didn’t realise you weren’t a drinker.”

  “I used to be.” Ankerita recalled the time when she shared her existence with the psychic, Tox, lying in her grave. If she got tipsy, she only had to relax and let him try to take his life back. As soon as he did, the alcohol would confuse his poor mind, and she could stop him from changing places with her. It also worked for the drugs she had been pumped her full of. Without Tox to take the hit, she would be a drug-raddled prostitute, or dead by now. She chortled at the irony, as George helped her upstairs. She was already dead, and had been for five-hundred years. She shouldn’t be here at all.

  “You can have this room,” said George. “It’s one of the master bedrooms, has an en-suite and a lock for privacy.”

  “Do you have to leave me?” Ankerita slurred. “I don’t want to be on my own.”

  “You’ll be fine. Turn the key and leave it in; it’s a good stout door. The owners were preparing for a siege, I think.”

  “It’s a big dark house.” The girl groped for a light-switch. “Are you the only one living here?”

  “And you, now.” George flicked it on for her. “House sitting is your job too, if you want it.”

  “Thank you. You are wonderful.” She tried to put her arms round the man’s neck. He grinned, fended her off.

  “You’re drunk, Caileag. Lie down and sleep it off. You deserve a rest. Is there anything I can get for you?”

  “Clothes, toothbrush, shoes, peace of mind... a reason to live.” Ankerita suddenly became morose. “I really don’t know why I’m here.”

  “Don’t talk like that.” George wagged his finger, “You’re here for a reason... we all are. You just don’t know what yours is, yet. I’ll get you some stuff from the shop. Come on; you’re all in.” He lifted the girl as she faded, and carried her to the antique four-poster bed against the wall. “What size are you?” He pulled the quilt up around her.

  “What?” Ankerita snuggled down and closed her eyes.

  “What size?”

  “Ah, eight and five,” she murmured.

  “Come again?”

  “Size five shoes...” Her voice tailed away.

  George smiled down at her, asleep, and suddenly a look of intense sadness crossed his face. He turned away and closed the door quietly behind him.

  It was two in the morning by the bedside clock. Ankerita woke with a start, her head pounding. “So thirsty...” She stopped and listened. There were footsteps... in the passageway outside her door. She called. “George, are you back?”

  There was no reply.

  She slipped out of bed, and found herself on hands and knees as her legs gave way. The floorboards outside creaked again; footsteps seemed to be getting nearer. Ankerita dragged herself upright on the bedpost, and staggered to the door. She turned the key to lock it, and listened. She could hear what sounded like hoarse breathing.

  “Go away. If that’s you George, please stop prowling. You’re scaring me.”

  There was still no reply, and the footsteps seemed to recede, until the house was silent again. Ankerita trembled, but was desperate for the toilet. She stumbled to the bathroom and bolted the door.

  After sitting for ten minutes, drowsiness crept up on her again, she was cold, and her legs started to go numb. Armed with the toilet brush, she quietly undid the bathroom door and listened. The house was silent, apart from the occasional creak as it cooled from the warmth of the daytime. Autumn was setting in, and the nights were getting colder. She shivered, and hurried to the bed. It still retained a small amount of warmth. She pulled the quilt tightly around her, and listened intently. The house was still silent.

  “I shall never sleep,” she muttered to herself, as she closed her eyes.

  In what seemed like a single moment, morning sunlight was streaming in through the window. Someone was knocking at the door.

  “Who is it?” she called nervously.

  “The Scottish rugby team, come to give you your bath in asses milk,” came George’s voice.

  “What?”

  “It’s me. Who were you expecting, considering we are the only occupants of this mansion?”

  “Are you sure?” Ankerita got reluctantly out of bed and shuffled to the door. “Is it really you.”

  “It was last time I looked. I’ve got food ready for you.”

  “I can smell it. Is that bacon?” Ankerita’s mouth watered.

  “Full Sassenach breakfast,” came George’s voice. “I’d have done a proper Scottish one, but I can’t stand all that haggis and black-pudding stuff.”

  “Right. I’ll be down very soon. I’m starving.”

  “Was that you on the landing last night?” Ankerita paused, her mouth full of sausage and mushrooms.

  “Aye, I got in about four.” George took the percolator off the stove and poured a coffee. He placed it on the table beside her. “Sorry if I disturbed you. I tried to be quiet.”

  “No, this was about two. I heard someone walking up and down the corridor.”

  George looked concerned. “Are you sure you didn’t imagine it? There’s nobody apart from us in the house.”

  “There were footsteps, I heard footsteps, and someone breathing outside my door.”

  “Can’t be. Are you sure? When I left you, I made sure the place was locked up tighter than an Englishman’s wallet. It was still barred and bolted when I came back.”

  “I definitely heard something.”

  “I’ll check the security footage,” said the man. “If there’s been anyone around, the cameras will have triggered.”

  “We have security? More than locks?”

  “There are cameras outside the house.” George gazed out of the kitchen window. “They are connected to the internet. Everything gets uploaded into the ‘Cloud’.”

  “Cloud?” Ankerita shook her head. “I am totally confused. Thou dost speak most strangely, sir.”

  “It’s a remote data storage space. The owners set it all up, but I can access it through my Android.”

  “There you go again; thou talketh bollocks.”

  “A clever phone,” said George. He smiled and brought a large device out of his pocket. “What time did you say?”

  “About two.”

  “Right.” H
e tapped the screen and smeared tomato sauce across it. “Should have washed ma hands. Never mind. I’ll give it a rinse after. Hmmm.”

  “What?”

  “Something on the camera covering the back garden.”

  “Other than the sauce, what have you got?” Ankerita tried to see the screen.

  “Look.”

  “Ah.”

  “Yes,” said George, “for a wildlife documentary, it has a lot to be desired, but I didn’t know we had badgers. Does that help to set your mind at rest? Perhaps you heard them?”

  “I don’t know. It’s getting vague, what I heard. Maybe it was a dream after all. Have we no cameras inside the house?”

  “Apart from the spy devices in your bathroom.”

  Ankerita’s mouth dropped open.

  George laughed. “Joshing with you, lass. Of course we have none in the house. There are some motion sensors, but they are only activated when the alarms are set.”

  “Can we see if anyone was outside my door?”

  “No need, and just as well really. The owners can call up footage off the cloud too. I don’t want them spying on me inside the house either.”

  “If they can see what’s going on, do they know I’m here?” said Ankerita nervously.

  “You came in with the car, so it’s unlikely,” said George. “You’ll be fine here, if you don’t wander off by yourself.”

  “I’m trapped?”

  “Think of it as lying low,” said George. “If you want to go, though, you can just go. I’ll leave you a key. I can show you how to deactivate the camera covering the front door. I’ve got it set up so that I can leave without them seeing me.”

  “Buttons to press?”

  “No, I do it through an app on the phone. Switch it off when I’m out at night and back on again once in the road.”

  “I’ll nod and pretend I understood all that.” Ankerita chewed thoughtfully on a piece of toast. “Please simply tell me, am I safe here? Yes or no.”

  “Yes,” said George. “Safe as houses.”

  George returned later that day. Ankerita was studying the Book of Ghosts on the table when he staggered into the kitchen, his hands full of packages. “Stuff for you,” he said.