Horne inclined his head, acknowledging their words while his mind struggled to place them into any context beyond that which most immediately presented itself. He was still struggling when the woman spoke. ‘Besides, did your mother never tell you, it’s wrong to try and peek at your presents, before they have been distributed.’ She turned to look across the room; Horne’s gaze followed her eyes as they rested on Lady H_____, alone now, as she climbed the stairs on the far side of the room – and then, magically, she stood alongside Horne as well, looking at him with an amused sparkle. ‘Holding conversations with imaginary friends now?’
Horne looked around; the old couple had gone. He reached out a hand to steady himself, laid it on the Wishing Box. Its surface felt different, smooth, worn down by years of handling. Had there ever been any carvings on it, they had long ago been worn down to mere reflections. ‘I think the last few days are beginning to catch up on me,’ he murmured slowly.
‘I know what you mean,’ Lady H_____ smiled. ‘People are beginning to leave now; how about I instruct the staff to say my goodbyes for me, and we go up to bed? It would be horrid if you were to fall asleep before you’ve opened your present.’
‘Good idea. The strangest thing, though. I’d swear I saw you going up a few minutes ago. I saw you on the stairs.’
‘Maybe you did,’ Lady H_____ whispered in his ear. ‘You’d better run along and see if I’m there. I’ll join you in a moment.’
And true to her word, she was. And she did.
The Strange Case of the Rediscovered Heresy
‘So, you have Reverend Jardine sat stony faced while Horne read through the notebook.
‘And you’re certain this is an exact translation?’
The priest nodded. ‘My Coptic might not be perfect, it’s a long time since I needed to use it for anything but some light bedtime reading ...’ Horne raised his eyebrows and smiled. Only the Reverend Jardine would read Coptic before bed. ‘But even allowing for those passages where I struggled with a word or two, the ones that I underlined in my translation, the gist of the text remains unchanged. But, as you are aware, I did not come here to discuss the accuracy of my work. I came to ask you what I should do with it now it’s complete.’
Horne flinched instinctively. It had been many years since he last crossed swords with Jardine, during his last years at school when the redoubtable priest had been his sixth form language master. No more than four pupils had followed him into Coptic studies – the remainder preferred the easier passage of Latin and Greek. But Horne had long since mastered them; had grasped the other classical tongues as well. Coptic, the language of the first Christian authors, was the last frontier on the curriculum; and Jardine was the fanged and snarling beast who would ram its intricacies into the boys’ heads, if it was the last thing he ever accomplished in this world.
Clearly it wasn’t. More than two decades on, the man still struck a fission of fear in Horne’s heart of hearts, a memory of the lengthy debates that stopped just short of warfare, as teacher and pupil clashed over the precise meaning of a phrase or idiom. Reading through the notebook, comparing the translation with the painstakingly copied Coptic script that Jardine had placed on each facing page, Horne was well aware that another such conflagration might easily arise today. But it would not be of his making.
‘Tell me again, how you acquired the codex in the first place?’ He had already heard the story once, but Jardine clearly took such pleasure from the telling that the distraction would at least calm his temper. It would also allow Horne the time to think, without feeling the man’s eyes boring into his skull.
The story was simplicity itself. Browsing in a bazaar in Cairo, rifling through the leather bound texts that were simply piled high on barrows by men who cared nothing for their country’s heritage, so long as there were wealthy foreigners on the street who appeared to care more, one caught his eye. To the casual onlooker, it was scarcely different to any of the others – rotting parchment, scabrous binding, barely legible text, and Jardine himself was forced to concede that it was instinct, rather than knowledge, that drew his hand back to the once-discarded volume.
He picked it up; then, so as not to appear over anxious, he scooped up half a dozen more. They would, he knew, turn out to be worthless – just last night, he spent an hour commiserating with one poor chap who spent a sizeable sum on a crateful of parchments, only to discover that they were discarded examination papers from a nearby medical school. But Jardine was in luck. His vendor was anxious to get home before the evening rains; he took a mere handful of piasters in exchange for the books, less than he’d charged his last customer for two, and Jardine hurried back to his hotel to inspect his treasures.
Not one truly disappointed, but only one, the one, set his heart fluttering as he traced a fingertip over the fragile parchment, and read aloud the words. ‘At first, I thought I had maybe chanced upon the Paraphrase of Shem, perhaps a previously untranslated portion.’
Horne nodded. Among the Gnostic communities that flourished in the first centuries under Christ, and whose writings both foreshadowed and conflicted with the establishment of a single Christian Bible, the Paraphrase of Shem was a heretical work that raised the character of Derdekas from a minor role in Genesis, and credited him with the creation of the world. But what a creation it was, an orgy of cosmic hyper-sexuality in which sperm spurted and orgasms flashed, hymens popped and afterbirth flowed.
‘Darkness ejaculates mind into the womb of nature,’ Horne quoted in crisp Coptic. Jardine nodded. ‘I thought you might remember that passage. But no, it was not Shem, although the crudity and sexuality was certainly similar. For, further down the page, I saw the name Damaris. And again and again. Damaris, Damaris.’
‘Acts 17, verse 34,’ Horne offered. ‘Damaris was one of the Athenians who converted to Christianity as Paul of Tarsus was passing through on his way to Corinth.’
‘And that is all we know of her,’ Jardine replied. ‘Or, should I say, it was.’
Horne returned his attention to the pages on the desk before him. ‘Was, because you believe; no, you are convinced, that these pages represent ...’ Jardine completed the sentence for him. ‘You hold the Gospel According to Damaris.’
Horne remained silent. Most scholars knew, even if not all would admit, that the modern New Testament was simply a compendium of the most popular of some 30, even 40, different accounts to Christ’s life on earth, each attributed to one or other of the living prophet’s disciples. Most had long since been lost, suppressed at the end of the second century, when the Bishop Irenaeus published his Adversus Haeresis, and condemned all but four of the circulating Gospels – Matthew, Mark, Luke and John – as heresies. Those that had survived were now bundled to one side, to circulate surreptitiously as a Gnostic Bible of sorts, for the curiosity of scholars and advanced theologians alone. In theory, the addition of one more would make little difference to that state of affairs, all the more so since Damaris did not even meet Jesus himself. She simply took Paul’s word for it.
Where matters became more interesting, and the reason why Jardine approached Horne with his discovery, ahead of any number of respected Biblical scholars and authorities, was in the apparent nature of that word.
‘You are still familiar, I trust, with the Epistle of Titus?’
‘I am.’ Titus was another of Paul’s companions; he may even have been the man entrusted with translating Paul’s writings into Greek. One of the letters in the New Testament is addressed to him, and he is a recurring character in Corinthians and Galatians. But the Titus in whom Paul places such trust and love is a far cry from he who allegedly authored the Epistle. For no modern hellfire preacher, or evangelical monster could have conceived so furious a tirade against the pleasures of the flesh; no lecturer against the evils of drink, or lesson on the pains of syphilis could voice so vituperative a call to celibacy.
Even within the sanctity of marriage, there was no sexual act that he did not condemn, no unchaste
thought that did not lead straight to hell. ‘Those who are not defiled with women, shall God call angels, and those who have not abandoned themselves to men, He calls virgins,’ Horne quoted, and then rejoined, ‘The Gurlingites themselves could not have conceived a more fiercesome doctrine.’
‘Damaris, it appears, would agree with you. What you have before you are merely the first two sides of the parchment. There are eight more that I did not supply you, that I vouch would turn a sailor’s hair grey. It is my belief that her Gospel was composed in direct confrontation to Titus. Where, I regret to say, my scholastic instincts conflict with my religious beliefs is in determining which of the two speaks the true words of Paul – which, in turn, would echo the teachings of Christ Himself.’
A flippancy almost escaped Horne’s lips; he caught it as the Reverend’s eyes met his and he realised just how troubled his old schoolmaster was. Those other Gnostic texts that Jardine had devoured simply posed minor conflicts in his education, the difference between acknowledging what one was taught to be true, and understanding that sometimes, what we are taught can be wrong. One then either accepted or rejected the new material, according to one’s beliefs.
This, however, was different. For if Jardine had already rejected Titus as a falsehood (and, having met both the man’s wife and children, it was clear to Horne that he did), then he must accept this new text as a truth. And if it was half as licentious as the Reverend claimed it to be, that was something more serious than a mere hiccup in his education. It was a conflict of faith.
‘May I see a copy of the complete translation?’
Jardine reached into his bag. ‘I have one here. You will see that I hesitated to offer my translations of some words – for once in our relationship, I was anxious to determine what you would make of them.’
Horne opened this second notebook at random, scanning the text in search of a blank space, and then seeking the same spot on the facing page. ‘I would say ...’ – he paused, suddenly feeling like a schoolboy again, seated in front of his most demanding master, while a stream of foul language fought to flow from his tongue. ‘In the sentence where she writes of the “exquisite curiosity that is the – blank”, I would say the missing word, in as much as one can offer a direct translation of an unknown vernacular, would be “cunt”.’ He raised his eyes, and Jardine nodded. ‘Go on.’
‘The next sentence ... no, sorry, the next but one sentence, would certainly begin with the words “when sucking a cock”; and here, definitely is an “arse”.’
Jardine smiled. ‘Do you recall the time, shortly after you arrived at the school, I found you in the library, very diligently transferring knowledge from the dictionary to your workbook? You told me you were broadening your vocabulary and I was convinced that your obvious flair for learning had finally broken through your usual impudence and carelessness. And then I stepped behind you and saw just what vocabulary it was that you were so bent upon improving?’
Horne grinned back at him. ‘I do. I also remember what you said. “If you’re so keen on arses, maybe you’d care to experience how it feels to have yours thrashed.” And you dragged me to the headmaster’s office by my ear.’
‘Surely not. But no matter. One beating less is one lesson less, and who knows the man you might have become if you had not learned it? Why, I might now be sitting here with that dreadful Parkinson boy, while you could be labouring for pennies in a boot blacking factory.’
Somehow, Horne doubted that. The last he’d heard of Parkinson, the fool was on his way to debtors’ prison. But he said nothing and Jardine, perhaps sensing that Horne should be left alone to peruse the manuscript, rose to his feet. ‘I must leave you now. My train leaves at 4.30 and I promised my wife I would collect her some books from the Charing Cross Road. You have my card; I expect to hear from you the moment you have given the matter your consideration.’
Horne extended his hand. ‘You will indeed, sir. And thank you for thinking of me. After all these years, it was a pleasure to see you again.’
Jardine let out a hearty chuckle. ‘And I’d wager you never dreamed you would ever say those words to me. But likewise. And Ambrose? Thank you.’ The door closed behind him and Horne realised that it was the first time he had ever heard Jardine utter his Christian name.
Lady H_____ doubted that she had ever felt so contorted in her life, a human monkey-puzzle that stretched muscle and limb in directions she had never imagined possible. But, as she finally straightened herself out, every movement seemed to release one more shockwave of sensation from the most startling orgasm she had ever received and, for more than a few moments, she found herself barely able even to think, let alone speak, a coherent sentence.
Finally, she got the words out. ‘Where did you say you discovered that?’
Horne, no less exhausted, but glowing with the exultance of discovery, patted the notebook that lay by the bed. She knew the answer to her question, but she enjoyed hearing him say it regardless. ‘The Bible. Admittedly, a version of it that no one has read in almost 2,000 years, but the Bible nevertheless.’
He outlined the visit he’d received that afternoon, and laughed alongside his lover as he recalled the feelings of juvenile guilt that had coursed through his body as he made the first translations. But he could not shake the knot of sorrow that lay at the heart of the dilemma, the knowledge that a good man (for, despite his irascibility and penchant for corporal punishment, Jardine was just that) was undergoing the torments of hell as a consequence of the words he’d extracted from that ancient parchment.
‘What are you going to do?’ Lady H_____ reached for the notebook; lay for a moment flicking through the pages. ‘Granted, this isn’t the kind of material I’d expect to encounter at Sunday School ... oooh, I would like to try this one later, once you’ve got some strength back ... But that’s simply a matter of language. There’s a lot of things in the Bible which, if the language were a little less circumspect, could be described as equally unsuitable.’
‘I don’t think it’s the language that the Reverend objects to. The man was a Chaplain in the army, during the Afghanistan campaigns. I’ll wager he heard – and probably uttered – far worse back then. It’s the concept.’ He explained Jardine’s theory, outlined the loathsome Titus’ prohibitions on sex, and the possibility that Damaris was answering him back. ‘Which is all fine and well. The problem is, although the Bible doesn’t disapprove of sex – far from it; it isn’t exactly a license for licentiousness, either. And there are acts that Damaris describes that certainly are frowned upon – sodomy, for one; masturbation for another ...’
‘The question is, is it the Bible ... I mean God ... that frowns? Or the men who wrote and rewrote every word in the book, and who have carried on tinkering with it ever since? The way I look at it ...’
Horne took her hand. ‘Yes, how do you look at it? You go to Church every Sunday; you are always active in one or other of its committees and projects; you’re possibly the most devout person I know. What do you think I should do?’
‘God doesn’t play tricks on people. He – or She, or It, or however you want to style Him – doesn’t lay traps for them. If you had children and you handed them a box of Lucifers before you went out for the evening, the only possible reason you could have for doing that would be, so they could burn the house down, and probably themselves with it. Correct?’
Horne agreed. ‘But if you didn’t want them to burn the house down, you’d make sure the Lucifers were safely locked away at all times.’
‘Exactly!’ Lady H_____ clapped her hands. ‘God gave us cocks and cunts because He wanted us to use them. And not just to procreate. They’re there to have fun with, which is why He also gave us hands to hold them with, and mouths to kiss and suck them with, and the imagination to do so much more. People talk about Sin. As far as I’m concerned, the only true Sin is refusing to luxuriate in all of the bounties that He provided us with, and trying to paint Him as some kind of malevolent joker who has not
hing better to do with His time than try and catch people out. That’s what Damaris is saying. She isn’t simply contradicting Titus, she is condemning him as the worst kind of heretic there is.
‘And now, if you don’t have any further questions, I really would like to try this one, if only because I can’t see how it could possibly work.’ She dripped some spit on the tip of his erection, guided a nipple into the moisture, and began, very slowly, to swirl the two together. ‘Round and round the garden, like a teddy bear,’ she giggled, and Horne laughed too, as he wondered whether Jardine had actually placed any of these teachings into practice yet? But already it was becoming difficult to think, as the hypnotic sensations began to flow through his body; and, when he looked at Lady H_____, it was clear that she, too, had chased away any doubts she might once have had. Chalk another one up to Damaris. She really did know what she was talking about.
Horne had been dreading his next meeting with the Reverend Jardine. In a letter that he proudly considered one of the most erudite arguments he had ever delivered, Horne had outlined Lady H_____’s interpretation of the Gospel, without truly expecting the Reverend to even consider adopting the same viewpoint for himself, and when three days passed without so much as the courtesy of an acknowledgement, Horne could not help but fear the worst.
And then a card was delivered, inviting Horne to accompany its bearer to one of the tiny ecclesiastic club rooms that then dotted the London map, a venue of such exclusivity that Horne had never so much as glimpsed inside its mighty oaken portals.
Jardine was waiting for him there. ‘Ah, Horne. I was beginning to think you had maybe dashed off on another case.’
The Erotic Return of Ambrose Horne Page 10
