Delicate Indecencies

by Sandy Mccutcheon

  ‘You will find it a difficult step to take,’ cautioned the abbot. ‘But he who walks the path of the flagellant walks the path of the Lord.’

  He laid the wooden-handled flogger on the escritoire. ‘Pick it up, Brother Dominic.’

  It was the first time he had been addressed as brother and, determined to live up to the honour bestowed upon him, Dominic stepped forward and firmly grasped the rough wooden handle. The dozen or more strips of leather were bound to the wood with copper wire and a single thong of thinner leather was attached through a hole in the handle. As Dominic slipped his hand through the thong he experienced a surge of energy and felt his face flush. In his hands, he knew with absolute certainty, he held the weapon to drive out Satan. Not only would he be purified, he would also be emulating the Lord Jesus. Had the Romans not whipped our Lord on his dreadful journey to Golgotha? Had they not raised great welts on his body? Had they not drawn blood? And as Jesus had suffered, so too would Dominic.

  ‘Brother Dominic, there is another matter . . .’

  Dominic struggled to pay attention. ‘Yes, Father?’

  ‘It appears that the authorities on the mainland are concerned about your disappearance.’

  ‘No, Father!’ Dominic cried out. The rush of energy he had been feeling drained away in an instant. No, they could not take him back. This was where he belonged. ‘Please, Father —’

  ‘Brother Dominic! Control yourself.’ The abbot strode around the escritoire, his face darkened with anger. ‘I can’t stop them taking you from the abbey. You are under age . . .’

  Dominic fell to his knees and prostrated himself. His mind was spinning in confusion. Why had the abbot called him brother and given him the whip if he had to leave? ‘Father,’ he wailed, ‘I would rather die —’

  ‘Silence!’ The abbot stood above him and glared down. ‘Now, listen. I believe you have the calling but you cannot be seen here. I understand that they will come on the regular ferry service next week. When they arrive you will not be here so I will not be placed in the position of having to lie. Tomorrow Brother Simon will guide you through the caves to Stormcliff Cove on the ocean side of Gissing. There is a small stone hut there, cold and rough, but it will serve. Many years ago it was used as a lookout for the whalers. Brother Simon will visit you every week to bring provisions. But you will observe strict rules.’

  ‘Anything, Father,’ Dominic said gratefully.

  ‘You will pray, and discipline yourself with renewed vigour.’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘You will spend no more than one hour a day outside, and never if there is a passing ship. You will not light a fire at any time.’

  ‘No, Father.’

  ‘You will obey Brother Simon’s instructions for they shall have come from me. And when I consider the time right, I will send for you. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’ Dominic kept his face to the ground, but he sensed the abbot bending over him and felt a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Now get up, Brother.’

  Dominic clambered to his feet. His feeling of gratitude was overwhelming but he had no idea of how to express it, so he simply stood, tears streaming from his eyes, the flogger clenched tightly in his hand.

  ‘I have great hopes for you, Dominic.’ The abbot was standing very close, his voice a terse whisper in his ear. ‘Do not disappoint me.’

  ‘No, Father.’ No, he wouldn’t let the abbot down. Neither would he betray his vocation.

  The three months Dominic spent at Stormcliff were a constant misery juxtaposed with flashes of bliss. For much of the time he was hungry, and for all of it he was cold. The tiny single-room stone cottage was too low for him to be able to flagellate while standing so he spent hours on his knees.

  After the first few days he found that the whip’s leather tongues were too soft so he devoted many hours to experimenting and modifying them. First he cut them thinner and then he knotted the ends, but it still was not satisfactory. He complained to Brother Simon, who listened sympathetically and returned the following week with a very different instrument. Instead of flat strips, the leather tapered from pencil thickness down to braided tips.

  ‘But it is too long for me,’ Dominic protested.

  ‘Then I shall assist.’ Brother Simon smiled kindly and indicated that he should kneel.

  Dominic had never experienced such pain as those first dozen or so strokes. But then his cold skin warmed up and he found himself calling to Jesus as Brother Simon put his considerable strength into developing a rhythmic fore and backhand. Suddenly he was transported — the floor beneath his knees was not the floor of the hut at Stormcliff Cove but a Roman cell, and Brother Simon transformed into a cruel Roman centurion. Beneath the lash it was the body of Christ that was suffering. A web of welts sprang up and flowed with holy blood. The leather was sodden with blood and yet nothing could stop his spirit flying high and free in triumphant glory. And the pain had gone, replaced by such peace, such harmony, that words were insufficient to express it. Instead he felt music rising through him, swelling in a slow crescendo; the rhythm of the whip joining that of his heart until they beat as one. And as the blows rained down on him with increasing intensity he found himself singing one of the old hymns from his childhood: My heart is weak and poor / Until it master finds / It has no spring of action sure / It varies with the wind; / It can not freely move / Till thou hast wrought its chain; / Enslave it with Thy matchless love, / And deathless it shall reign.

  Over and over he sang until he felt himself floating away from the pain. Finally, exhausted and dripping with sweat, Brother Simon knelt and washed the blood from his back.

  The days between Brother Simon’s visits were miserable. No matter what he did, he was unable to emulate the ecstasy of those intense sessions.

  At the end of the three months Dominic received permission to return to the monastery, where Brother Simon indicated that he would be disposed to visiting Dominic’s cell on a regular basis. It was common for the monks to join one another in prayer and night-time vigils, and given the cell walls were built of thick granite they knew that, if they were discreet, there was little chance the other monks would learn of their ritual. In order to make it easier for Brother Simon, Dominic constructed a large wooden cross and installed it in his cell, bolted to the wall. At the end of each arm of the cross he placed large tallow candles, so that there would be suitable illumination.

  When Brother Simon arrived he would tie the naked Dominic face-in to the cross with lengths of coarse hemp rope and together they would sing, ‘Bend me, bend me to Thy will, / while in Thy hand I’m lying still.’ Then Brother Simon would strip to the waist and commence the flogging.

  From time to time he would walk to Dominic’s side to inspect the results of his work. It was during one of these inspections that he noticed Dominic’s arousal and from then on would administer some stinging blows to the offending member with his hand. Through all of this, Dominic, having attained a state of grace, continued to sing hymns or psalms. The first time Brother Simon saw him ejaculate during a flogging he punished him so severely that he was unable to sleep on his back for a week.

  Two years elapsed before the event that brought this stage of Dominic’s life to an end; two years during which Dominic delved deeper and deeper into the mysteries of what he termed his ‘holy agony’. Then one day he was summoned by the abbot and introduced to a stocky bearded individual whom he had seen on Gissing from time to time.

  ‘The doctor tells me he has never examined you, Brother Dominic. You will accompany him to your cell.’

  ‘Of course, Father,’ Dominic said.

  The man smiled, picked up a black bag and followed him out the door. ‘It’s just a checkup.’

  The doctor didn’t speak further as they walked back across the courtyard to the low-roofed building that housed the cells. As they entered the room he glanced at the imposing cross bolted into the wall, but if he thought it strange he kept his thoughts to
himself. He placed his bag on the bed and instructed Dominic to undress.

  ‘Your back is a mess,’ he said curtly.

  ‘Flagellation is part of my calling —’ Dominic began.

  ‘I understand about self-flagellation, young man. The welts are vertical. You, on the other hand, have horizontal welts from your back down your buttocks to your legs. That is not self-flagellation.’

  ‘Please, you mustn’t say anything. Brother Simon would get into severe trouble with the abbot.’

  The tears flowed down Dominic’s cheeks and he threw himself to the floor and held the doctor’s feet, imploring him to not give them away.

  The doctor knelt and gently took the boy’s face in his hands and tilted it towards him.

  ‘Your back is festering. I am going to ask the abbot to release you into my care until it is properly healed.’

  He stroked Dominic’s cheeks and wiped away the tears. ‘Being flogged is important to you, isn’t it?’

  Dominic nodded, knowing he would endure anything as long as he could continue his quest.

  ‘Then trust me. I will not betray Brother Simon to the abbot.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Dominic sobbed. ‘Thank you so much.’

  The abbot took some persuading, but in the end Dominic was given permission to leave Gissing on the return ferry. As soon as they arrived on the mainland, the doctor took him to his palatial home in the suburb of Lakeside and installed him in an almost perfect replica of his cell on the island.

  Like that cell, although the rest of the house was lit electrically here there was only a single candle. The doctor lit it and watched for a moment as it burned, its flame straight and pure, undisturbed by any movement in the air. He ordered Dominic to disrobe and lie on the bed, then proceeded to rub an antiseptic ointment onto his back and buttocks. ‘This will soon mend,’ he said. Then, to Dominic’s horror, he felt the man attach something to his neck.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Dominic turned and sat up.

  The man was standing at the end of the bed holding a chain, the other end of which was attached to a collar around Dominic’s neck.

  ‘I am going to train you.’ The man smiled sweetly and tugged at the collar, jerking Dominic forward. ‘Gissing was just an apprenticeship. You can forget all that nonsense about Jesus. From now on I am your master. You will serve me without question and in return I will initiate you into realms of pain and humiliation you have never dreamed of.’

  Instead of protesting and struggling to free himself, to his absolute amazement Dominic felt himself shiver with excitement. He saw that he was stiffening in arousal. He slid from the bed onto his knees and bowed his head in total submission. ‘Yes, Master.’

  The doctor glanced at Dominic’s erect penis and shook his head. ‘I am afraid I will also have to restrain your hands. Under no circumstances are you to touch yourself without my permission. Is that clear?’

  ‘Whatever you say, Master.’ Dominic blushed.

  ‘And you will refer to me as Master Francis.’

  ‘Yes, Master Francis.’

  ‘I shall call you Viola. Do you understand? From now on you have no other name.’

  Master Francis delved into his bag and removed a set of leather manacles. Pushing Dominic’s hands behind his back, he quickly buckled them to his wrists. ‘You may rest tonight but tomorrow I will start your training and I will require total obedience. Any sign of resistance and you will be punished severely. I hope I make myself clear?’

  ‘Yes, Master Francis.’

  Though his arms ached from being restrained behind him, Dominic eventually fell asleep, but it was a sleep visited by troubled dreams. He fought battles with demons and angels for a prize that eluded all of them: the body of Christ. Then it was his own body, finally where he had always wanted it — nailed to the cross. When he awoke in the first light of dawn he knew that something had died in the night.

  Dominic had gone and Viola, stiff and cramped, his arms aching intensely, was alive and ready to serve his new master.

  The horror of Viola’s story unsettled Teschmaker. His sleep was disturbed by dreams that twice during the night shocked him awake. Neither time could he recall what he had dreamed. Finally he slept deeper and this time the dream stayed with him, strange but not horrifying.

  Teschmaker stood on the outside of a circle of people. It was a garden party, elegant, expensive. Beyond the large marquee manicured lawns and hedges ran away to a horizon of thick forest. He felt isolated from the group; their faces grimacing practised niceties and well-rehearsed wit. He looked down and saw his clothes were worn and stained with dirt, his shoes covered in dried mud. He felt rather than heard the voice.

  ‘Why not?’

  It didn’t seem strange that the voice, if that was what it was, should come from the beautiful mare that stood so close behind him.

  ‘Because . . .’ Teschmaker began, and was about to say that it had been his father’s chaos that he feared. But instead he looked into the large dark eyes — eyes so large he saw himself reflected in them.

  ‘He let his feelings rule him.’

  He stepped away from the horse with a sudden fear of this irrational intimacy.

  ‘Feelings?’ The horse moved closer and rubbed its nose against Teschmaker’s back.

  In front of him some of the people turned and eyed him with suspicion and distaste, while behind him the horse moved closer, bringing its head over his shoulder.

  ‘Come.’

  The horse pushed with its head and suddenly, powerless to resist, Teschmaker found himself astride the mare and moving through the crowd. Then with a powerful surge forward they were over the stone wall and off across the fields. But it was not the ride or the horse that seduced him but the sensations that swept through him. He became one with the animal and felt . . .

  ‘I feel . . .’

  ‘And I.’ The horse’s thought now his own. ‘A Centaur knows no closer bond.’

  So sweet. So indescribably sweet.

  He dreamed and became aware it was a dream and fought to stay asleep; to stay at one with this being which he loved so improbably, so deeply. But failed. He awoke feeling cheated.

  After breakfast, while Viola instructed Norman and Gerard on the best way of restraining Doctor Orpheus, Teschmaker roamed the house, unable to concentrate on any one task. For a while he watched the intricate rope work.

  ‘It seems a very complicated way of going about things,’ he commented.

  But was immediately rebuked by Norman. ‘Viola says that doing it this way will make him think it was somebody from within the group.’

  Viola had a point for, as far as Teschmaker could see, no normal person would use a single piece of rope in such a manner. But he had to admit when he returned twenty minutes later that the end result was very impressive. Norman and Gerard had tied Viola in a foetal position, arms behind his back, with the rope work laced from crutch to neck. He murmured his acknowledgment of their accomplishment and resumed his pacing.

  For a time he sat at his computer and pulled up every note he had made about Jane Morris. Then he logged on to the internet and found the photograph of her with Oliver that he had first seen what now seemed a very long time ago. He stared at the grainy image and knew that whatever it was she was involved with didn’t matter. He was, if anything, more attracted to her now than when he began his quest. Back then it had been sheer curiosity and a way of taking his mind off the sudden loss of self-esteem he now reluctantly admitted he had experienced at the time of his redundancy. But that curiosity had grown, fuelled by a feeling that there was unfinished business between them. Her anger at him and . . . She was beautiful. Maybe it was nothing more than lust, impure and complex.

  As he turned off the computer he noticed his hand was shaking and realised again why he so hated introspection. If he felt such disquiet at examining his own life, how must Viola feel? It was, he thought, a wonder that Viola had emerged from his trials and tribulations even mildly sane. He c
ould not begin to imagine what effect such experiences would have had on himself. And Jane — was there something in her past that he had overlooked, some event that had set her on the path to bondage and submission? He found himself at the back door, gazing out at the weeds that had sprung up to claim the remains of Gwenda’s once-neat garden. Maybe we are all capable of voyaging down those paths and are restrained only by circumstance. Without Gwenda, would he have sought out more exotic pleasures? No. He shook his head, no. But maybe he had sought out Gwenda as an antidote to the chaos that his father’s drunken binges had wreaked upon his childhood. He remembered his mother standing in a doorway screaming at his father, ‘Go away, you’ve made my life a fucking hell.’ Had he? Or had she, in her turn, sought him out to fulfil whatever promise she thought life had in store for her? Where did it end? He knew with sudden bitter clarity that nothing he could do would alter one bit of any of it. Damn Viola! The man’s story had struck a nerve and catapulted him deep into his own head. It was no place to be — the outside world was bad enough.

  Teschmaker returned to the kitchen, scrubbed the benches and made a pot of tea. There were still half-a-dozen muffins left over from the previous afternoon and so he buttered them and gave each a neat dollop of guava jelly. After the tea had brewed he loaded everything he needed onto a tray and took it through to the lounge room.

  ‘Norman is sooo good with rope,’ Viola exclaimed excitedly, his eyes shining with pride at his pupil’s handiwork.

  Teschmaker looked at the scene before him and wished himself miles away. He felt like an exile in his own home. I don’t know these people, he thought, suddenly homesick for anywhere else: for a doss house, a park bench or the gutter. La nostalgie de la boue. I’ll get a babysitter and go out to the pictures. It was an insane thought but he was tempted; the notion of these intruders in his home as children was very close to how he felt. But he was feeling drained as well; weary, exhausted by everything. Maybe he should pack the whole thing in, sell the house and move to Europe. But even as he thought it, he knew he wasn’t ready to settle anywhere. Contentment was a country for which he had never had a visa. He sat on the edge of the table and placed the tray in front of him.