by Lex Sinclair
- John Lennon
17.
The cavern in Vastmanland was illuminated by the torches held by the robed figures. They’d discovered the lair Sofie had been to many years earlier. Furthermore, they’d found their way through the labyrinth to the conundrum Sofie had solved in order to set herself free; not realising at the time what else she’d freed. The six foot timber-made cross lay on the floor, only it had been snapped in half.
These robed figures were unlike the devil worshippers who’d congregated at St. Catherine’s Church while she’d been in the vestry listening intently to Margaret’s enthralling yarn. These robed figures were worshippers of the Lord God. They’d heard of the awful news that befell one of their very own, murdered in Neath Abbey by four other monks who’d then nailed his faceless cadaver to a seven foot cross upside down. A mockery to their beliefs. They had also been informed since the second year of the new century how the townsfolk had gone after the four unholy monks who’d murdered the farmers’ livestock and had been brutally murdered and buried on the outskirts of the town centre.
Now it had come to their attention that someone had unearthed the remains of the thing with the goat’s head.
Their sallow faces were in a state of utter disbelief and shock at the sight of the snapped cross. One of the monks at the front of the five stepped forward. He used his torch - which looked like a laser beam in the pitch dark - to guide him. His slow, methodical steps were induced by something far more profound than fear.
Pointing the yellow beam ahead he saw something that clutched his heart with ice-cold hands, squeezing the organ taut. He choked. Then he shook his head frantically to and fro. Not wanting to see what he was seeing.
Whirling round, he stared at his fellow monks with tears streaming down his quivering cheeks. ‘One of you check the second and third. This cannot be real. Cannot be real. Pray to God it’s not real!’
He read the inscription on the plaque, wiped clean of dust.
He who lies beneath will rise from within.
Another monk reached the second dead end and skidded to a halt. The heavy boulder had been shifted off the plinth. He read the inscription on the plaque with protuberant eyes.
He who takes what lies within shall be reward.
The third monk jogged down the last tunnel and came to a halt. He read the inscription on the last plaque, incredulous.
Remove the cross from the ground and place the goat’s head atop the plinth. The chosen one is the only one granted departure.
The monks ran back to the other three awaiting their return.
The third one told them what the inscription read then added that he saw no access or way out.
The second monk was shaking. He leaned against the stone walls and recited what the inscription said, and that the boulder had been shifted off its place on the plinth to one side.
The first monk breathed with some difficulty. Then he regained some composure. He raised his torch and pointed towards the earth in the ground. Glancing over his shoulder at the others, he said in a trembling voice, ‘We need to dig the soil out to be absolutely certain.’ He regarded the monk who’d gone down the second tunnel and added, ‘Did you check the hole?’
The anxious monk nodded gravely. ‘The goat’s head is no longer there.’ His voice hung in the air, reverberating off the stone walls with the same effect as a gun going off.
Dreading the worst they dug the soil from the ground where the broken cross lay until they reached the bottom.
The ground was empty.
‘God have mercy upon our souls,’ the eldest monk gasped.
Once the shock had set in the cold, profound dread of what would most likely ensue created an unnerving silence amongst the small group.
‘But who could have found the hidden lair and known what to do?’ the youngest monk asked.
‘The chosen one,’ the eldest monk replied.
‘It is 1981. How many years has the monstrosity been freed from this sacred ground, we do not know. But soon the cycle will begin again. Only eighty years have passed since the demise of the one simply known as “The thing with the goat’s head” and already someone has unearthed its remains,’ the monk who’d checked the third tunnel said.
‘But if Christian beheaded this monstrosity back in 1901, I don’t see how it’s possible for it to be resurrected,’ the youngest monk said, visibly perplexed.
‘As easy as it is to believe in the resurrection of Jesus Christ,’ the eldest replied.
‘I think what he means is, how is the ritual performed?’ the monk with dark skin asked.
‘It is believed that the cadaver is resurrected through a human sacrifice. Blood is life. Blood spilled out of the golden rod with the goat’s head into the intended bearer. And that blood recreates the beast in a physical presence as well as the spiritual. Who it is that is sacrificed I do not know. But it has to be someone who is considered sinless, almost like an angel on earth. Someone young and innocent. Someone whose intelligent and yet paradoxically naïve. Someone who is distantly connected to their cult but has no knowledge or comprehension that they even exist. Someone they can manipulate. Someone whose sensitivity and kind, caring demeanour can be destroyed. In effect turning them into something else. An ultimate contempt and derision to God.’ The eldest monk’s voice trailed off for a moment as it suddenly dawned on him what the actual answer to the question was.
‘The chosen one.’
The dark skinned monk was the first to speak after the long pause. ‘Are you saying that the “chosen one” is a woman?’
The eldest monk nodded sombrely. ‘Yes. They’d be related to members of the satanic cult. Born for a special purpose: to unearth the spirit of the beast and give life to its body. She’d have sealed her fate the moment she’d solved this puzzle. Then they could’ve performed whatever sadistic ritual on her they wanted in order to get her pregnant.’
The monk who’d checked the third tunnel wore a blanched expression, as though he was about to regurgitate his last meal. Reaching into the pouch on the front of his robe he pulled out a bottle of mineral water and drained half its contents in one go. He fastened the top back on then returned the bottle to his pouch.
‘I just can’t quite fathom how anyone could’ve known about this hidden lair. Let alone someone who’s neither a part of the brotherhood or a devil worshipper.’
‘Their relatives or immediate family must’ve known, though. They’d have brought them out here, and either the “chosen one” had discovered it of their own volition or they were shown. That’s no longer relevant or important any more. What’s important is that they found it and did the unthinkable, not realising what they’ve done,’ the eldest monk said.
The youngest monk shot to his feet, staring daggers at his other brothers. ‘None of this matters right now. In case you lot haven’t realised that hole we found in the forest surface was where the “chosen one” discovered this hidden lair. But that’s not all. We came down here knowing that to climb back up the damp rock-face walls which have no handholds or footholds is damn near suicide. Whatever escape route the “chosen one” found has now disappeared. We’re stranded down here. Under the earth with knowledge that’s not only a threat to our brotherhood but also to the unsuspecting world above.’
The monk who had read the last inscription at the end of tunnel three said, ‘Dear God. He’s right. “The chosen one is the only one granted departure”. That’s what it said. Those words exactly.’
‘Our only escape is the way we came in, where we very nearly broke our necks?’ the dark skinned monk asked, anxious.
‘It was a risk we had to take,’ the eldest monk said.
‘What, all of us?’ The youngest monk couldn’t help but raise his voice.
‘We had no idea what we’d encounter unless we all came down here arm
ed with the crucifixes around our necks and our undying faith in the Jesus Christ and the Lord God himself,’ the eldest monk said.
‘Suicide mission,’ the monk who’d checked the second tunnel blurted out.
The eldest monk sighed, showing his disapproval of that singular comment and the behaviour of his younger brothers who evidently needed reassuring. He faced the youngest monk and said, ‘You mentioned Christian beheading the monstrosity back 1901. You should have faith, especially in times of absolute darkness.’
‘You never told me who Christian was or what happened for the thing with the goat’s head to end up here. But we need someone like this Christian fellow to do whatever he did before to save us from the unspeakable.’
The eldest monk motioned for the youngest monk to sit back down.
When the youngest monk lowered himself to the stone he’d been sitting on the eldest monk cleared his throat.
‘Christian was part of the brotherhood in the monastery in Neath Abbey and had been the first to discover the upside down, crucified cadaver of Brother John. He was an ordinary fellow of average height and average build. At twenty-one Christian had only been at the monastery over a year. Before he’d decided to devote his life to God he’d been a blacksmith. According to the generations of our fellow monks, Christian was never the same after that night. Nor were many of the other brothers either, for that matter. But Christian who’d been known for being introverted anyway (save for when Brother John had taken a liking to him and brought the young lad out of his shell) became withdrawn and never spoke. He’d sit alone in his room all day and all night. Some of the brothers even said they’d see him wandering around the fringes of the nearby woods with his head down, looking despondent.
‘It turned out that Christian wasn’t merely wandering around grieving for his fellow, older, wiser brother. He was scanning the terrain for footprints. And, he’d found some. They were sporadic at first. But the further into the forest he went he managed to find a pattern and followed it.
‘The footprints which were more antediluvian mammal than modern day human. The trail became indistinct as Christian followed it with attentive eyes to a graveyard belonging to St. John’s Church. Fortunately, there’d been no rain and since the breaking news of the four monks leaving the monastery after tearing the face off one of the oldest, most respectable monks, hanging by rope and then nailing his cadaver upside down on a cross, the townsfolk had been too frightened to leave their humble homes.
‘The trail of inhuman footprints led Christian to a hole in the ground in the graveyard which looked like a deep chasm of perpetual darkness in the morning sunlight. It was to the rear of the graveyard out of sight from anyone ambling through the church grounds.
‘Christian may have been very young but he understood the peril he was placing himself in if he entered that chasm of perpetual darkness with nothing but his faith in the Lord God. Now that he’d found the location of the thing with the goat’s head, he made a solemn promise to himself to leave Neath Abbey Monastery and do God’s work. Because in spite of the Bible telling us that “Vengeance is mine, said the lord God”, sometimes one has to do God’s work on earth for Him.
‘He returned to his former occupation as a blacksmith and made shoes for horses during the day. No one had any notion that by night Christian had carved himself a fine, silvery warrior’s sword, so sharp was it when he ran his hand gently across the blade he drew blood.
‘Satisfied that he’d spent four weeks turning a long piece of scrap metal into a powerful weapon that the most gallant warrior would be proud to call his own, Christian returned to St. John’s Church during the day and as the local pastor to baptise him, bless him and fill his flask with holy water. The pastor, believing Christian to be still at the monastery did everything that had been asked of him that day and sent away the child of God, unaware of the peril the young man would encounter that very same night on the very same ground he’d been baptised.
‘At dusk Christian lit his lantern, steadied his nerves with a prayer then descended into the dark chasm. He could only see approximately four feet in front of him. The sword he had carved was held out in front of him studiously. He could hear his heart pounding and feel his pulse in his oesophagus. Blood rushing in his ears sounded like sea waves crashing against cliffs. Both the sword and the lantern trembled in his nervous grasp. In spite of all of this they young man continued forward, not knowing what he was going to encounter. And it was the not knowing that was the source of his fear that shook the foundations from his point of view, for the unknown is man’s greatest fear.
‘Whatever had devoured the four monks’ souls and had them commit such an atrocious act had burrowed its way into the earth creating a cramped, taut tunnel that people who didn’t suffer with claustrophobia would refuse to enter. About halfway down the tunnel, Christian’s laboured breathing caused him to halt. He got down on one knee and focused solely on controlling his breathing rate to prevent hyperventilating. Then, when he’d achieved this, he went on.
‘He couldn’t have seen the sudden drop had he known it was there it was so dark. He placed a foot into gravity’s inexorable grip and was yanked down. Fortunately, the landing was fairly soft as the surface was mostly soil and dirt. However, his legs landed awkwardly in an open-scissors stance inducing a pain every man can sympathise with.
‘Breathless and wounded (his elbow had struck a jutting stone), Christian got to a vertical base with some difficulty. The back of his head and his spine had taken the impact more than any other part of his anatomy and were numb due to the horrible, unexpected thud he’d received. After putting his pain into the back of his mind and focusing on the actual reason he’d come down to this hidden lair, Christian raised the lantern and got his bearings. What he saw wasn’t anything impressive, as such. The thing with the goat’s head had only used this lair as a temporary hiding place while the havoc it’d wreaked settled down. He was surrounded by curved mounds of compacted earth that rose way above his arching head. He couldn’t be certain but if Christian had to make an assumption, he would’ve said he was directly beneath the same church he’d been baptised in earlier that day.
‘In his peripheral vision a flare of crimson red shone, then disappeared the next moment. Using the light of the lantern Christian turned in that direction. He edged closer with slow, deliberate steps, squinting to see what remained shrouded in the absolute darkness. He could not see but he sensed a strong, overpowering presence close by. The hairs on the nape of his neck prickled as did the tiny hairs on his forearms. Hot breath from an unseen source blew his long fringe. He whirled around, swinging his sword but hitting nothing but thin air. Nevertheless, the sound of his sword cutting through air comforted him. Whoever the assailant was would consider coming closer when they heard the sound of something big and sharp near them, Christian thought.
‘Then came a loud, guttural growl, of something not from this world. Christian shivered. The comfort and confidence he’d had wielding such a powerful weapon was instantly replaced by the familiar fear settling into the marrow of his quaking bones. His breathing accelerated and poured out of his gaping mouth, sounding as though he were having an asthma attack. He hated being deeply afraid of this monstrosity. He was consciously aware that the fear in his gasps and the jackhammer heartbeat was dulcet music to his adversary’s ears. Yet, there was another part of his psyche that informed him that his fear could also be used to his advantage. Fear was one of the main reasons he was still alive. It kept him whirling around, eyes bulging. It kept him vigilant.
‘By an unseen force with invisible powers far greater than strong arms. Christian was shoved with tremendous velocity backwards. He fell to the ground with a thud. His breath exploded. Fear made him leap back to his feet in the next instant. Closing his mouth and his eyes, Christian did his utmost to block out the sounds of his body going into panic and concentrated on anything and ever
ything external, enabling him to pinpoint the location of his assailant.
‘Crouching down this time when he felt the first tinges of an unnatural draught, Christian opened his eyes and saw a distinct footprint materialise in the earthen floor. Seizing his one and only opportunity, the young man brought the sword down as hard and as fast as he could, striking something solid. The scream of a banshee perforated his ears. Yet, simultaneously, the awful sound was as pleasing and delightful to him as classical music is to me when I require total relaxation. It meant he’d hurt the beast sprouting horns above its ungodly head.
‘A phosphorescent red broke the pitch black. Christian was struck on his left arm by something long and heavy, knocking the lantern out of his sweaty grasp. The glass shattered and the light blinked burned down to its last embers. By pure instinct - not fear - the young man swung his self-made weapon in the direction the blow came from and made contact with something that cried out in agony. Again, not wasting his opportunity, Christian retracted his weapon swiftly. Then he took aim and this time swung higher in the same direction. His arms jarred when the blade embedded itself into the side of the thing with goat’s head’s neck. The cry that followed this time gargled on the coppery scent of its own blood.
‘Keeping the sword in its place, Christian’s arms were pulled downward as the assailant’s knees buckled from under itself hitting the earth he stood upon. He didn’t see the golden rod with the shiny goat’s head at the apex exhaling a toxic green vapour. But the young man grunted and fell to the ground on his side due to the thunderous impact. He choked on the coils of putrefying steam, clouding his vision.
‘Sliding one sweaty hand off the handle of the weapon he wielded, Christian held the silver crucifix he wore and prayed to God to grant him enough strength, not to survive, but to put an end to this ghastly entity. And, moments later, the young man’s faith under the watchful eyes of the ruler of heaven and earth, rose. He staggered to his feet. Then he turned the beast so that it was on its knees bent over with its back to him. He withdrew the blade splashing himself in the demon’s blood and with one swinging arc brought the sword down and around, severing the head from the rest of its anatomy.
