‘Remember boys, the slightest spec of dirt and I’ll make you feel like you’re sitting on the hardest of pews for a month!’
A flake of mud did fall from my shoe, but I kicked it in the direction of Stubbs. Weirton didn’t notice. Soon the rest of the lads had shoved and jostled into the church’s main part, followed by the girls who’d tutted and scrunched faces as they demurely scraped their shoes, looking with distaste at the lumps of graveyard dirt stuck to the metal apparatus: all the evidence they needed to confirm the beastly nature of us boys. Weirton came last, after having cleaned his shoes – their black spotted by clots of cemetery brown – in a series of brisk scrapes.
I glanced around. I stood in a cavern of spartan beauty. Crossed with their lead, the windows seemed to sieve the murkiness from outside. The cloud, the fog, the cemetery’s miasma were all filtered to allow only the purest light into God’s sacred dwelling. I did wonder if we might see the Lord in His holy home, but nothing divine showed itself. I supposed – with so many churches – He’d plenty of houses to choose from. The ceiling was vaulted with wooden beams: a long pattern of diagonal crosses – crosses just as sombre as those Weirton etched on the brother’s work. At the building’s end were heavy wooden railings, behind which steps rose to a platform crowned by a simple table, spread with a green embroidered cloth, upon which a silver cross stood. The whitewashed walls closed in a hushed semi-circle around this sacred object, their many thin windows pouring down light in reverence. Stubbs saw me staring in that direction.
‘Know why those railings are there?’ he asked.
‘Cos we’re not allowed to go past them.’
‘It’s a lot more than that – don’t you remember the legend?’ Stubbs said, face dropping into a serious expression. ‘If you go farther than them and you’re not a priest, God will shoot a bolt of lightning down to burn you up! And then he’ll let the Devil come to carry you off to hell!’
‘Whoah!’ I said, recalling that story.
I didn’t doubt Stubbs’s words although I was intrigued at the unusual cooperation between God and his arch enemy. Maybe even Satan himself would be aghast at such an outrageous intrusion.
‘Would Mr Weirton be allowed to go there?’ I asked.
‘Dunno,’ said Stubbs, ‘maybe not even him. See that hand hanging there?’
Stubbs pointed to an object suspended from the church roof that dangled just before the altar’s forbidden precinct. It was a gauntlet from a suit of armour, spotted with rust and what looked suspiciously like scorch marks.
‘That belonged to a knight,’ Stubbs said, ‘one of the greatest in the world. He thought he was so good and that God loved him so much that He’d allow him to step beyond those railings. He tried it and – well, that’s all that was left. They hung it up as a warning to others.’
‘Everybody come over here! Gather round!’
We jumped as the headmaster’s voice rolled through the church – that building making the shuddering baritone even louder. All the kids obediently massed around Weirton.
‘OK, children – find any object you like and reproduce it: it can be drawn or rubbed. Maybe the pews or those marble tombs or these graves here on the floor …’
Weirton’s bandaged hand flew, jabbing to each side then pointing down at the fading lettering of the slab he stood on.
‘You can sketch the altar if you like, just don’t go too close – don’t go beyond those rails.’
Stubbs and I swapped a look – knowing the reason for Weirton’s warning.
‘Or you could draw that gauntlet hanging in front of it. But I wouldn’t try to touch it if I were you. You know, there’s a special legend about it …’
There was little hope of us touching it when it hung so high on its chain. Weirton could have probably reached it with a stretch, but we kids had no chance. I thought Weirton would tell us the same as Stubbs had, but what he said was quite different.
‘There’s a good reason why it’s hung up there. It belonged to a knight, who apparently met a terrible death. And the legend says that if anyone puts that glove on, they will die soon after.’
I shivered in the cool church, my heart struck up its boom.
‘A few jokers, a few clowns have tried it. All of them died within a month of slipping that gauntlet on – just one month! So, I’d avoid getting too near it! OK, children, let’s start our sketching!’
As we beetled around the church, I ensured I went nowhere near the altar and my heart banged if I saw any of my classmates doing so. I drifted around for a bit, but some strange fascination made me draw that dread glove, though from a safe distance. I sketched the chain, the fingers that still seemed tensed in agony. I pressed my pencil harder to show where the divine fire had scorched the metal. A deep voice made my body jump, my heart leap.
‘That’s excellent, Ryan,’ Weirton said, as his tie-bandaged hand rested its weight on my shoulder. ‘When you’ve finished, there’s plenty more of interest here. This is a very old church. Do you see those crosses painted on the walls?’
Down the church’s sides, fading red crosses marked the flaking plaster.
‘They’re called corn crosses – people painted them to scare off devils. Or you could sketch those tombs.’
The tie-wrapped hand left my shoulder, pointed to the building’s other side. I sucked my breath in. In the whitest marble were sculptures of a knight and his lady. They lay on boxlike shelves, the knight above. Their chiselled faces were serene; their palms pressed in eternal prayer. Surely he was not the knight who’d been destroyed near the altar, as he had both his hands left to praise the Lord.
‘Sir,’ I asked, ‘are there bodies underneath those statues?’
‘Yes, Ryan –’ Weirton smiled ‘– you know, sometimes with these old tombs there are cracks you can look through and actually see the skeletons. I don’t think you can with those, but you might like to have a peek – sketch anything if you can see it.’
Propelled by the force of Weirton’s desire, I wandered across the aisle, past the first row of pews and came to a halt well on the safe side of the altar rail. As Weirton had predicted, no cracks offered a way into the couple’s calm sealed eternity. I wondered if they were from the time of King Arthur. A sword of white rock lay by the knight; the lady’s pallid breast was jewelled with chains and gems. Maybe they’d lived long enough ago to remember Noah’s Flood; maybe they’d even known Mr Davis when he’d been young. Soon my pencil was carving lines into the white paper to model that tomb’s lines of white stone. After several minutes, I was jolted from my task.
‘No, don’t!’ Jonathon pleaded.
I turned from the pale beauty of that sculpture to see the brother and Jonathon twisting, hands locked, as if doing some vigorous dance. Jonathon was trying to pull away, but his brother’s grip held him as Darren circled the pair jabbing his fists at Jonathon’s side, back and belly.
‘You bloody idiots!’ I hissed. ‘Weirton might see you!’
The little group froze; all eyes turned towards the headmaster. Weirton was in the church’s opposite corner, his back to us, criticising the picture of Suzie Green. His good finger lunged at her miserable bit of paper, his tie-wrapped fist shook in the holy air. Perkins, heels balanced on the flagstones, added her gaze to the adult pressure bearing down on Suzie. Weirton’s rumbles juddered through the church.
‘Suzie Green, I have never before seen such a disgraceful attempt at drawing! What on earth is it supposed to be? It is simply atrocious!’
Suzie’s grey face wobbled; her tears started. Pathetic, I thought, and with not even the slightest walloping. Weirton wrenched her sketchpad from her hands, flicked through it.
‘And this one you did outside – terrible! Looks nothing like that grave you were sketching! Come on, let’s take a look at it and compare it to your dreadful picture!’
Weirton grasped Suzie’s collar and half-dragged and half-walked her from the church. Perkins glanced about confusedly then followed th
em through the door, leaving us with no teachers.
‘Hold him!’ Darren yelled.
The boys jerked back into their grappling dance. Soon Jonathon was tiring while the brother’s grip got stronger. Darren flung punches into Jonathon’s back and stomach. Jonathon squealed, twisting as he struggled against the brother’s grasp.
‘Leave him alone!’ I shouted.
Darren swivelled at my cry, which the echoing church made louder, more urgent. He left Jonathon, stepped towards me. I dropped my sketchpad and pencil, raised my fists, but Darren was quicker. An uppercut socked my chin, sending me sprawling against the marble tomb. I lay, propped on its bottom shelf – one arm looped over the lady’s praying hands, the other resting on the contours of her hair. My dazed fingers played across the grooves carved by that ancient chisel. Darren didn’t let me rest for long. He grasped and tugged my hands, hauling me from my sepulchral couch. He slammed my head against the box holding the lady’s remains. My head throbbed and spun; in my woozy brain, I begged forgiveness from her ghost, trying to deflect her wrath onto Darren. But another voice was now swimming through my pain-drunk mind.
‘Aw! What a pretty picture! Look what Watson’s done!’
My vision was whirling, but as the swirling of the church slowed, I saw Darren holding up my sketchpad. The brother – still grappling with Jonathon – grinned and nodded. Darren tore off my drawing of the tomb, squeezed it between his hands, screwing it into a tight ball as the paper scrunched and crackled. He leapt; he was upon me, pinning me flat on the floor as kids crowded round. He weighted my elbows with his knees, grasped my head then banged it on the flags – filling my skull with holy echoes. He pressed the ball of paper to my mouth.
‘Go on, eat it! Eat it if you love it so much!’ Darren hissed.
With enormous force he shoved the paper against my lips. I squeezed them together, but Darren – leaning with straightened arms, with much of his weight upon that ball – soon had those lips parted. Next it was my teeth. I clenched them, but as Darren pushed down, I felt them bend inwards, felt an agonising wrenching in their roots. The paper’s edges slashed at my gums; I tasted the salty tang of blood.
‘Go on, eat it!’ Stubbs hissed from the watching crowd.
I had to give way. I jerked open my jaw, choosing a gobful of paper over snapped teeth. My mouth was soon crammed with that spiky ball: it cut my inner cheeks and tongue. To the salty blood was added the starchy, sweet and not unpleasant taste of the paper, underscored by the bitter sawdust of the pencil marks. It was no good – I had to start to chew. My back teeth worked as Darren forced the last of the paper into my mouth. Slowly but determinedly I ground the front of the ball, making a thick paste that – as I munched – dribbled out more juices of pencil, paper, blood. My neck muscles spasmed in readiness. I gulped the first wad – my throat struggling with that bung which dried and threatened to stick on its way down.
‘Darren! Leave him! Give us a hand!’
Darren’s weight jerked from my body; he trotted over to help the brother with Jonathon. I twisted onto my side as the ring of spectators giggled. I vomited the paper onto the floor – the spikes and folds of the last part forming a kind of crown that floated on the half-chewed slop. The thing glistened with spit and strands of runny blood. I coughed to clear the rest from my throat, brought up a couple of half-dry clumps which I allowed to drop onto the rest of the mixture, but some was just too far down. My throat quivered as I tried to swallow. I summoned up all the spit I could, gulped it down to help the paper’s passage. Eventually, it went, forming a heavy clod which would sit at the entrance to my stomach the whole morning.
Watched by the tittering crowd, head still dizzy, I moved onto my knees. The brother now had Jonathon in a headlock. Hill – fired up by his triumph over me – laid into him with renewed power, victorious fists crashing onto back, ribs, stomach. Gleeful stupidity curved the brother’s mouth into a smile.
‘What’s next? What’s next?’ he asked the eager crowd.
‘I know,’ said Stubbs. ‘Let’s throw him behind the altar rail – see if the legend’s true!’
‘Yeah, let’s!’ another kid urged.
‘We might see God’s fireworks!’ said Richard Johnson, waving his fists excitedly.
The brother started to haul Jonathon in that direction. Jonathon’s cries grew more desperate; he struggled, dragged his feet, beat his sibling with his fists. Though he couldn’t match the strength of the brother, lads rushed to help Craig. Stubbs picked up the right leg, Richard the left. Boys grabbed hips, sides; Darren clamped both hands. Jonathon was lifted till he was held at chest height. The lads carried him headfirst towards the altar as a growing crowd of pupils trailed after them. Jonathon shrieked, kicked and wiggled, but couldn’t break free.
‘Remember what happened to the knight?’ Stubbs taunted. ‘Ready for God’s lightning?’
‘Might be brilliant,’ Johnson said. ‘The whole end of the church could be smashed up!’
‘Zap!’ somebody blurted.
‘Maybe they’ll hang up Browning’s hand too!’ said Hill.
I tried to stand, but my shaky legs and swimming head wouldn’t let me rise. Jonathon screamed and jerked more frantically, writhed and bucked in a futile attempt to gain freedom. Soon he was just two metres from that rail.
‘Ready to chuck him?’ Stubbs said.
‘After a count of three!’ shouted the brother.
‘One!’ the lads chanted.
They swung the struggling body, aiming it at the gap in the railings. I managed to hobble up onto my feet, but my swaying legs were useless; I could only stretch a shaking arm out in caution.
‘Two!’
Jonathon was swung again – a battering ram to break into God’s most sacred realm.
‘Three!’
Jonathon shot on the last of his preparatory swoops, face white, lips trembling. Back he lurched; the boys’ bodies tensed as they readied themselves to pitch him into eternal judgement. The crowd of kids watching grinned. My heart banged as Jonathon plunged on his final sweep.
‘Stop!’ a lad shouted as he ran into the church. ‘Weirton’s coming!’
The momentum slackened; Jonathon was dropped onto the slabs. He winced as his knees and elbows struck stone, but he quickly scrambled up and was soon struggling to mime innocence. Weirton strode into the church, paced towards the crowd of pupils. Behind him trailed Perkins and Suzie. Weirton must have ordered Perkins to smack her in the graveyard. Suzie’s wails filled the church; her sobs chugged, floated up to echo in the ceiling’s vault. Down her white face tears coursed as her body jerked and shivered. Weirton marched up to the circle of kids.
‘Everything all right here?’ the voice boomed.
‘Yes, Sir,’ they chorused.
‘Good. Let’s go back outside. You can finish the pictures you started earlier in the churchyard.’
‘Yes, Mr Weirton.’
‘Come on, everybody!’ Weirton clapped his hands. ‘Time to leave!’
He strode off down the aisle; the pupils followed. Suzie – still filling the church with the music of her sobs – endured prods and pinches from the other girls. Jonathon and I came last. As we dawdled across the slabs, Jonathon leaned close to my ear and whispered.
‘That’s it! He’s dead! I’m gonna kill him!’
‘Who?’ I asked, trying to clear my still woozy mind.
‘My brother, of course! He could’ve killed me!’
‘Better not kill your brother,’ I murmured. ‘Remember what happened to Cain? Do you want God to mark you forever – to make you wander without a home for the rest of your life?’
‘It’d be worth it to get rid of him! And if I had to leave Emberfield, at least I wouldn’t have to go to school!’
Weirton clapped again so we had to quicken our walk. He strode on, his heels clacking on the floor, leading his crowd of squabbling, pushing, pinching children from God’s holy dwelling.
Chapter Twenty-four
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br /> Soon we were out in the churchyard, among the bones, the corruption of our forebears. Kids hurriedly finished sketches, fearing the dread descent of that long-promised inspection. The braver chased each other around the graves when the teachers weren’t looking. My daze beginning to clear, I settled myself, reviewed and touched up the sketches of earlier – a line strengthened here, a little shading there; except, of course, there could be no improvement of that drawing of the marble tomb, which now lay – a soggy, spike-crowned mass – next to that memorial. I instead concentrated on what I had: adding the final flourishes to those graveyard scenes I was rather proud of. I noticed Weirton was again at the tap, wincing – but somehow also smiling – as the icy stream gushed over the injured hand. He soaked his tie bandage, flexed his fingers before binding it around those digits. I went back to my sketches, soon got lost again in my shade and lines.
‘OK, everybody, time to go!’
I was wrenched from my concentration. A suck of breath, my heart launching itself into my throat – it was the same every time that voice unexpectedly blasted.
‘Come on, look sharp! I said it’s time to go!’
Weirton’s command echoed through the churchyard. As we scrabbled across the grave-furrowed ground to where Weirton stood, I wondered if any of those graves’ inhabitants were desperately digging earth, fleshless fingers trying to scrape themselves up, not daring to ignore the headmaster’s booming decree. I’d heard a legend that if you placed a coin on a tombstone and danced round it seven times, the skeletal arm wouldn’t be able to resist reaching out to claim the money. How much more motivated would they be by the threat of the teacher’s hand colliding with their fragile bones? But none of the dead managed to drag themselves through the soil. We gathered around the headmaster, in front of the iron arch we’d trudged under earlier. Back out we came, filing from the church’s hallowed precinct, into the profaneness of boggy fields. Our shoes sucked the mud again as we marched beneath the twin mounds of church and castle. The horses stayed on the castle’s knoll, their big liquid eyes watching our progress. The stallion snorted clouds of angry mist. Weirton left his place at the head of our procession, took some strides towards the horse, shook his fist, locked it with his stare. The horse tottered back some steps, drooped its head, reduced its indignant puffs. A smile split Weirton’s face; he paced back to lead our line. Perkins – nagging, tutting, hobbling – brought up the rear. Jonathon and I were somewhere in the middle. He leaned towards me.
The Standing Water Page 23
