I could not concentrate on Breswick’s solemn words after that. My thoughts became a blurred collage of images depicting Lucy’s abduction and the devouring jaws of the beasts. In those few minutes—because the occasion provided adequate camouflage—I found opportunity to weep for Lucy again, but so passionately was my guilt and grief exposed, that the glances from Beatrice told me that she knew my tears were not for Elizabeth alone . . . She knew.
Eventually, chaperoned by a spirit of defeat, we walked slowly and quietly back to the school. Beatrice gazed back out into the grounds before we shut the door. I could see the longing in her eyes. She still wanted to leave. She needed to find her Lucy. But when the door was closed and bolted, the stare fell to me, and I had to look away.
“We need to talk,” Breswick told us.
“We do,” I said. “So much has happened in recent hours, we are in danger of losing our minds if we don’t.”
“Or our strength,” Stromany said. “I am hungry. I cannot think on an empty stomach.”
Beatrice surprised me with the effort of a smile as she looked from Stromany to Breswick. “I can make us something.” She wiped her eyes, then tried to inject some enthusiasm into her voice. “A stout stomach makes for a stout heart, I always say, and we’ll be in no shape to best the devil with nothing but acid in our bellies.”
A stout stomach makes for a stout heart. The words stung me. The last time I heard that phrase was from Lucy’s lips. I wrestled back the grief and nodded. We made our way to the kitchen, keeping our words light as we went, though most of the talk came from Breswick and Beatrice; Stromany was a man of few words, and I was struggling to maintain my composure.
“Sit yourselves down,” Beatrice said. “I’ll make some soup while you men talk.”
“We would appreciate your perspective also,” I said.
Beatrice did not answer immediately as she gathered tins from the cupboard, but when she did, it was a stony response. “When I have something to say, you can be sure I’ll say it.”
Breswick watched her carefully as she spoke, and I had another inkling that a secret had passed between them.
“So what should we do?” Stromany said.
“We must first examine the facts,” Breswick said.
“And only the facts,” I insisted. “We’ll leave any speculation to the end of our discussion. Agreed?”
“All the facts?” Beatrice asked as she emptied a tin of soup into a large saucepan and placed it on the stove.
Breswick coughed. “Only the facts of relevance.”
I breathed deeply. I could only guess at the agreement passed between them, but I was increasingly paranoid that Beatrice had accused me of more than a connection with Lucy. Perhaps she had suggested I was responsible for what happened to Stromany’s imposter, and perhaps even Elizabeth; her fear of Stromany certainly seemed to have been deflected, suggesting that she might be giving more credence to his insistence of innocence. And perhaps even Breswick had become suspicious of me too. His theory about possession may not have been isolated to Stromany, and though my separation from the group was brief, I could also be under suspicion.
“Three dead,” Stromany said.
“A darn sight more than three,” Beatrice corrected him.
“But three deaths relevant to our situation,” I said.
Breswick laced his fingers together over his stomach and leaned back in his chair. “Yes, Lord Hargraven, Charlie Nubbs, and Elizabeth Fortroy. But what connection do they have? We don’t know who murdered them. We don’t know why, and we don’t know if it’s even the same person responsible.”
“What we do know is that they weren’t killed by the creatures.”
Breswick corrected me, “Demons.”
I sighed. “That’s not an established fact. Creatures, beasts, or demons, whatever you want to call them. Does it really matter?”
Breswick closed his eyes in irritation, leaned forward, and tapped his finger on the table. “Dear fellow, of course it matters. If they are demons, then it brings us much closer to understanding their motivation.”
“And why does that matter?” Stromany said.
“If we know what they want, then we have a target. They want something, so if we prevent it or withhold it, we gain control.”
“You told us earlier that it’s possession of human bodies they want,” I said.
“Yes, but that is merely the means to an end.”
“What end?”
“That’s what we must find out. They use the darkest parts of our imagination to execute their plans, and some of us”—Breswick stared hard at me, then at Stromany—“may be more susceptible than others to demonic possession.”
“I thought you told us that those creatures were trying and failing and that they were unable to take possession because of their physical nature,” I said. “I don’t care for the insinuation, either.”
“I was not necessarily talking about you—it could happen to any of us. We are in unknown territory here and we cannot rule out the possibility that we are dealing with both physical manifestations and the traditional spiritual form of possession. Our friend Tarquin also warned us of this, with his ravings about the Innominatum. The fact is, Drenn, your weakened state and antitheistic views may have put you at a greater disadvantage than the rest of us.” He paused and splayed his hands on the table, avoiding eye contact. “We were not together when Elizabeth was killed.”
“I thought we were trying to stick to the facts, Breswick,” I said.
He nodded but resumed observation of me.
Stromany spoke then: “You think that any of us could be used by these demons?” The muscles in his jaws clenched as he looked at each of us.
“This is all speculation,” I said. “We haven’t ruled out the possibility that someone else is still in the house.”
“True,” said Breswick, “but we have covered most of the school and found no one alive.”
“And you don’t think they would be hiding?”
Beatrice ladled soup into five bowls and delivered two of them to the table in front of Stromany and Breswick. She stared at the remaining bowls, then with a grimace, poured one back into the saucepan.
“Poor Lizzy,” she said. “Why would anyone do that to her eyes?”
“Each of us represents one of the things in the verse required for salvation—eyes, strength, heart, mind, and bowel,” I said. “That is probably why they took Elizabeth’s eyes. They could be trying to deny us the things that Hargraven suggested we needed for our escape.”
“But how could Lizzy’s eyes help us anyway? Wasn’t it just a metaphor?”
Breswick received the steaming broth with thanks. “That’s right. It’s all symbolic. The eyes represent an unveiling of truth through foresight; the strength is one’s resolve to receive that truth; the heart is for compassion, because only those with a love for others can appreciate the sacrifice that our Lord made; the mind represents the conscious decision and will to turn to God; and the bowel, as we said before, is all about courage and discernment—having the conviction to turn from the temptations of the world.”
Beatrice brought the two remaining bowls to the table, placed one before me, and sat with hers.
“It was only ever intended as a way to reach out to Hargraven and rescue him from his obsession with the occult,” Breswick continued. “It was supposed to lead him to salvation.” He threw up his hands and shook his head. “So yes, in reality, Elizabeth’s eyes would serve no purpose at all, except in a figurative sense. Their removal must therefore be a figurative challenge also. A declaration that the enemy intends to thwart any chance of escape.”
Stromany gulped back the broth quickly and went to the pot for more as he spoke: “What about the metal bones?”
“Bones?” said Breswick.
“Yes,” I said. “Stromany and I found more of that metallic infestation out in the grounds, but much larger than what we saw in Hargraven’s laboratory. I think it’s what
spawns the creatures, and they definitely didn’t like it when we struck it. This . . . structure could be running underneath the entire school or throughout the whole village. I saw it infesting St. James’s Church on my way here.”
Stromany settled back to the table. “It may be a weakness.”
“Maybe so,” said Breswick, “but how do we exploit it? Did you damage it when you struck it?”
“If we did, it was not significant,” I said, “but there may be more effective methods at our disposal. Hargraven has generators, which means he must have a store of petrol nearby, probably enough for us to create a small explosion. Whether it will do enough damage is debatable, but—”
“—but at least it’s a start,” Breswick said, nodding.
“It may also be just enough to get them angry,” Beatrice said. “They’re quiet for now. I don’t reckon we should be antagonizing them.”
Beatrice made a good point. For all we knew the bony roots, or whatever they were, could run for miles under the village. I doubted our attack would do much good overall, and it could even make our situation worse.
“We have to do something,” Stromany said.
Breswick tapped the table. “Agreed.”
“I would rather know more about what we are dealing with before we make our attempt,” I said. “Which takes us back to the Moon Box. It’s our most realistic source of information at this stage. Is it still in the dining room?”
Breswick let out a long sigh, and Beatrice shook her head.
“I seriously believe that should be our next course of action,” I said. “We should open it. It doesn’t matter what date it is, we—”
“No!” Stromany brought his hand down hard on the table. “Would you receive a gift from the devil? I say we attack the bones.”
“It isn’t from the devil,” I countered. “I’ll grant you that it’s an ancient piece of engineering we know almost nothing about, but there is nothing supernatural about it.”
“Oh, hush now!” Beatrice said, “It’s the devil’s work and no denying it, and if there’s anyone here who would know, it’s Theodore Breswick.”
Breswick pursed his lips. “It must be demonic in design, Drenn. It’s certainly not of God”—he looked up at the ceiling and sighed again—“but if it will silence you, perhaps it should be opened, but only if we take the proper precautions.”
Both Beatrice and Stromany looked at him, alarmed.
“And what precautions should we take, exactly?” I said. “A sprinkle of holy water? Should we wear garlic around our necks or baptize it in anointing oil?”
“Prayer,” said Breswick. “We need to seek God.”
“Yes,” said Beatrice, nodding vigorously, “we should pray. Will you lead us, Reverend?”
I was not in favor of the suggestion. All too often I had seen ministers use prayer as a way to influence people to support their own actions, and I feared he would use it to further strengthen the others’ conviction, but I suspected that any refusal on my part would lead only to greater suspicion of my susceptibility to Breswick’s ideas of demonic possession, so I agreed.
The others closed their eyes and bowed their heads as Breswick led them in prayer. I, however, glanced about the kitchen, conflicted. Here we were, praying for guidance and salvation, trapped inside a gloomy stronghold with a murderer in our midst. Though it was true each of us had mysteriously survived against incredible odds, I still could not believe that any benevolent supernatural being was coming to our aid. There had been too much horror, and no other supporting evidence, to convince me otherwise. So many questions remained unanswered. From where did the mysterious infestation come? What was the source of the dreadful howl which seemingly warned the creatures away? And how did Hargraven think that Breswick’s verse would help us? My head ached again as I considered each piece of the puzzle, and with no answers, my mind wandered forlornly back to my family. I missed them desperately. If my wife had been there, she would have been praying with the others.
Moon Box Segment Translation 18
Innominatum rendered
The archaeological diary of Edward Cephas Hargraven
18th September 1891
We have discovered another body.
This one was concealed in a bloodred casket in a chamber next to the central hub containing the fossilized stamen. Unlike the other mummified corpses that had had their hands and tongues amputated, this one had been dealt with in a different manner. It was wrapped in white linen and a single eye was inked onto the victim’s forehead. In place of a pupil was a hole where a thick nail or similar object had been driven into the skull. Haynes tells us this is a statement of warning to those foolish enough to tamper with the mind of the Innominatum. The single eye, he says, is symbolic of the victim’s ability to connect mentally with this dark god, and the hole was the people’s attempt to sever the link with it.
The body belongs to the dark priest—the leader of the Innominatum cult, overpowered and killed before the dark powers could begin their work. Haynes also insists that the treatment of this individual being different from the others demonstrates their belief that there were two levels of control exerted by the Innominatum: direct possession of a host in which it could grow, and projected influence in which those affected were lured to some other purpose.
19
At the conclusion of our prayer, and after asserting that God would guide and protect our steps, Breswick suggested we continue with our plan to execute an explosive attack on the metallic infestation. Predictably, he declared that the Moon Box should remain unopened as it was not from God and would only place us outside His protection if we attempted to use it. I made up my mind to retrieve the box surreptitiously at the earliest opportunity.
Despite much heated debate on splitting our small group, it was decided that Breswick and Stromany would procure the petrol. Breswick insisted that this was not work for a woman and that Beatrice would be far safer within the school; God would watch over her. I was also to remain, not expected to do anything strenuous in my weakened state. In truth, I suspect it was Breswick’s intention to leave us alone together, and I found some small comfort in his confidence that I was not a threat to Beatrice. It wasn’t until the two of us were alone that I discovered why Beatrice had agreed so readily to stay behind: her desire to learn of Lucy’s fate was stronger than her fear that I may be a possessed murderer.
I was grateful to find amongst our gathering stocks of supplies discovered in the kitchen a bottle of aspirin; it did a great deal to relieve some of my symptoms, and as such, I felt better prepared for the tasks ahead. We performed the lamentable undertaking of moving Charlie Nubbs’s body from the drawing room to the cloakroom, as the drawing room would be a more comfortable place for us to stay than the kitchen. We took time to light more candles before the two men prepared to go outside. I exchanged firm handshakes with Breswick and Stromany. Beatrice hugged them, and reluctantly I watched them leave to find the generators.
Beatrice and I retreated to the drawing room near the entrance to the west wing, where we sat opposite each other, awkwardly wordless. We sipped at drinks, waiting nervously for the return of the two men, and with each passing minute the burden of my tale of Lucy’s death clutched at my heart, dragging it down so that it felt like a boulder in my stomach. There would be no better opportunity to tell her, but oh, the pain of that task! I could not bear it.
“It’s all right,” Beatrice whispered. “You can tell me.”
“I’m sorry, what?” I looked up at her, startled.
“You know what I want to ask you about.” She clutched at her tumbler and stared hard at the alcohol. “I’ve had time to think since we last spoke, and something I’m always telling other people is that it does no good to stew on something that’s bothering you, so I’m taking a dose of my own medicine and not letting this get to me. I can do sweet nothing to find Lucy right now, so what’s the use in getting uptight?”
She forced an unconvincing smile
as she looked up, and I nodded, knowing that her confession was not sincere. For all her words, I could see the agony in her eyes; she was attempting to give me the space I needed to open up.
“What I’m trying to say, Mr. Drenn, is that I don’t want you to feel under any pressure to . . . What I mean is that . . .”
Tears welled in her eyes, and she could say no more.
I drew in a long breath whilst she held hers.
“Beatrice,” I began. I received her hand and squeezed it as I held her hopeful gaze. “I did meet Lucy on the way here.”
Her jaw trembled, but she could not bring herself to ask anything else of me, and I knew I had to continue.
“She was the bravest little girl I’ve ever met.”
Her breathing came in short, sharp pants as she snatched her hand away and looked down. I could barely hear the single word of question from her lips: “Was?”
Then she looked up at me, and I could not endure her penetrating gaze. I simply looked down and repeated the word in a whisper: “Was.”
Beatrice sagged and, as if the word itself drew the life out of her body, loosed a long, low groan. Her shoulders slumped, and with the gentle patter of tears on the carpet came the deep, pained breathing one hears only in times of grief. All I could do was place my hands around her shoulders in a comforting gesture. I could scarcely imagine the enormity of her pain. I too had been separated from those I loved, yet it was something entirely different to be told that you can never be reunited. Even though the chances were remote, the hope of seeing my wife and daughters again sustained me. But for Beatrice, that hope had been shattered.
Dark Seed Page 16
