Run to Ground

by Bark, Jasper

  “Now then, Jim,” he said with a smile. “Why such gloomy features on a beautiful day like this?”

  “Was I gloomy, Father Powers? I didn’t realise.”

  “‘Was I gloomy?’ he says, with a face like thunder. And I’ve told you before, lad, it’s Kit. I’m not with my parishioners now, there’s no need to stand on ceremony.”

  “Sorry, Father Pow . . . I mean Kit, I’ve never been on first name terms with a vicar before. I keep forgetting.”

  “I’ll wager you’ve not been on any kind of terms with a vicar before, eh, lad?”

  “No,” said Jim, and they both chuckled. “I didn’t realise I looked down, I’ve just been brooding a bit I guess.”

  “You’re being pursued by demons of your own making, lad, that’s what it is. You need to unburden yourself, you’ll feel a lot better for it.”

  “Wait, are you telling me confession is good for the soul? Isn’t that what the other lot say?”

  “The papists you mean? You think we Anglicans are all about repression and keeping it bottled up? No, lad, I’ve heard as many confessions as the unmarried men in frocks, I can tell you.”

  Jim smiled at Father Powers’ depiction of Catholic priests. The old man held up a tartan thermos. “Will you join me for a coffee? It has a little something extra in it, if you catch my drift.” Father Powers was fond of his brandy. Jim nodded and followed the old man to the nearest bench.

  He liked the vicar a lot. It was Father Powers who got him the job tending the grounds. Jim had spent a lot of time in the cemetery during his first few days back in St Leonard’s. He’d needed time to himself, to figure things out and contemplate his new urges.

  Father Powers had seen Jim hanging around and came over to chat one day. He asked if Jim had recently lost a loved one. Jim explained that he just liked the cemetery, it gave him the solitude he needed.

  The vicar had a way of drawing people out of themselves and getting them to open up. He soon learned that Jim was newly back in town and in need of money. He told Jim the cemetery was looking for a groundskeeper and he’d put in a good word with the trustees. Two days later Jim went for an interview and was offered the job on the spot. The pay was lousy, but it came with a one-bedroom bungalow so he didn’t have to worry about meeting his rent.

  Since then, Jim had gotten quite close to Father Powers. He didn’t attend any of his church services, only about five people in the whole town did, but he ran into the old man at least every other day and they always made time to chat.

  Jim sipped the sweet black coffee laced with brandy. The cup had an old plastic smell that reminded him of drinking tea from his grandma’s thermos on picnics by the sea. “I see you had some workmen in again yesterday,” he said.

  “Yes, we’re getting some work done on the nave. Plus, we need to reinforce the buttress at the south end. It’s going to cost a pretty penny.”

  “I imagine these old places need a lot of repair and upkeep.”

  “And you’re probably wondering how such a tiny parish can subsidise all this work? Am I right, lad? I mean it’s not like the collection plate is overflowing come Sunday.”

  “I didn’t want say anything, but I’ve always wondered how such a tiny little town came to have a church that was so big and . . . and . . . ”

  “Ornate?”

  “Well . . . yeah. I mean I’m not trying to be funny or anything. I’m just, y’know, curious.”

  “That’s quite alright, you’re not the first to have wondered about this. I like you, Jim, so I’ll let you in on a little secret. Did you know there’s a whole network of tunnels running under St Leonard’s?”

  “No, is that like a war effort thing or something?”

  “No, these tunnels are much older than any war effort, millennia older.”

  “So who built them?”

  “Most of them are naturally occurring, some were excavated, but not by human hands, or not by anything we would recognise as human these days. Some of the tunnels go down miles beneath the earth.”

  “Does . . . does anyone know about this?”

  “The locals have known about it for centuries. The real locals that is, not the off-comers from the city who’ve been buying up all our houses recently. No offence meant, lad.”

  “That’s okay, none taken.”

  “A couple of hundred years ago, when the town was just a farming community, hardly changed since the medieval days, a young vicar came to town, my predecessor. He was something of a naturalist and an amateur archaeologist, as were many churchmen in Victorian times. When he heard the rumours about the tunnels, from his parishioners, he set out to learn more. It was believed that a great treasure lay somewhere in the tunnels, deep underground. You can imagine what effect this had on the imagination of an intrepid young priest, keen to make his name in the world of letters. He was warned that a hideous monster, a Byrfling the locals called it, prowled the tunnels, to keep away the unwary and guard the treasure.”

  “I take it that didn’t stop him.”

  “Indeed it didn’t. After a lot of local exploration, he found an entrance to the tunnel hidden in a mausoleum in the grounds of St Dunstan’s.”

  “Is the mausoleum still there, will I have seen it?”

  “No, it was pulled down many years ago. The land it stood on is beneath the church now.”

  “So what did he find in the tunnels then? Was there a Byr . . . thingy?”

  “Byrfling. He wasn’t torn apart, if that’s what you’re asking, but after much exploration and many months spent mapping all the tunnels, he did come across some very curious non-human remains.”

  “What sort of remains?”

  “Skeletal remains, most of which are now in a private collection I believe. When roughly assembled it appeared to be a giant creature that walked on two legs.”

  “If there was a monster in the tunnels, how come no one’s ever heard of this?”

  “Well that’s partly to do with why the church is so rich.”

  “There really was treasure down there.”

  “Not the type of treasure you’d normally associate with underground passages, but my predecessor did find a repository of immense and quite unbelievable value.”

  “What was it?”

  “A vast store of scrolls.”

  “Scrolls?”

  “Written in a language that predates any human tongue, on the tanned hides of animals that have been extinct since the Cretaceous period.”

  “What? How is that even possible? How could he have known they were that old?”

  “There were other scrolls and written material down there, some of it in early human languages that we can read. There was even a key of sorts that allowed a translation of the other scrolls.”

  “Did he translate them, then?”

  “Some of them. It’s a difficult business and it wasn’t his forte, if I’m honest. There are many scrolls and their translation is a long and painstaking business. It’s been the life-work of many of my predecessors and progress is still slow.”

  “So where are the scrolls now?”

  “They’re still down there.”

  “All of them?”

  “Most of them, a few were sold off for exorbitant sums to certain collectors, but the majority are kept safely out of view. That’s what St Dunstan’s and its clergy are paid to do.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t quite understand.”

  “There are many rich and powerful figures in the Church who do not want the revelations in the scrolls to ever come to light. The truths they contain are too damaging, not just to their faith, but to every religion currently followed by man. Simply put, what they outline is heresy. A heresy capable of changing the consciousness of everyone on the planet. Since their discovery, my predecessors and I have been paid to guard them. We translate the scrolls as best we can, and we ensure that no one will ever read them.”

  “No one?”

  “Not a soul.”

  “And they pa
y you really well?”

  “Our current reserves are astronomical. We can’t draw attention to ourselves by spending too much of it, but it paid for the church and this cemetery to be built and it continues to finance their upkeep.”

  “I’m going to have to ask for a raise then.”

  Father Powers laughed at this and put his hand on Jim’s shoulder. “Now, lad, I’ve confided in you, told you a little secret that could get us both killed if it was to come out. That’s how much I trust you. Isn’t it time that you showed me the same trust?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know very well, lad. I want you to tell me what’s troubling you?”

  Jim looked into Father Powers’ deep brown eyes and saw the compassion and understanding there. He found he did want to unburden himself.

  “I . . . I’m afraid of what you might think of me,” he said.

  “Don’t be afraid of what I might think, lad, it’s God you’ve got to make things right with.”

  “How do I do that?”

  “The first step is to take ownership of your sins and confess.”

  So Jim took a deep breath and told Father Powers all about Fiona and how he had left her high and dry, then he took an even bigger breath and told the kindly old man about Dawn and how he’d left St Leonard’s in the first place to escape his responsibilities as a parent. He couldn’t bring himself to tell Father Powers about Dawn’s suicide though, he didn’t want to completely lose the old man’s good opinion.

  Father Powers smiled and patted his shoulder. “That’s a big thing to admit to, lad, and I’m proud of you for finding the strength. Now why do you think you’re so scared of being a father and raising a child?”

  Jim didn’t have an immediate answer for that. He cast his mind back to when both women had told him they were pregnant and then he went back even further, to when he was fourteen and his mother told him she was pregnant.

  For the whole of his formative years it had just been the two of them. She was a single mother and he was her little prince. She spoiled Jim rotten and he loved it. He was the centre of her world and she couldn’t do enough for him.

  This hadn’t changed when she’d started seeing Duncan. Jim hadn’t been happy when his mother got a boyfriend. He was afraid that she wouldn’t have time for him anymore, but that couldn’t have been further from the truth. In fact, he got more attention, because Duncan took a great interest in him. He took Jim fishing, taught him how to fix up cars and even let him ride a motorbike by himself.

  Then his mother dropped her bombshell and everything changed. Jim had a bad feeling about the pregnancy from the minute she told him. The bigger she got the more she neglected Jim. Duncan, on the other hand, was great at involving him. He used to talk to the baby all the time in the womb. One time he called Jim over and told him to speak to his little brother.

  “Will he hear me?” Jim said.

  “No, of course not, silly,” said his mother.

  “Yes he will,” said Duncan. “They’ve done scientific tests on this. The baby listens and responds and everything.”

  “What do I have to do?”

  “Just put your mouth up to your mother’s tummy and speak to him.”

  “What shall I say?”

  “Anything you want.”

  What Jim wanted to say was: ‘I hope you die inside there, you little bastard.’ Instead he just mumbled “hello”, then got so self conscious he had to leave the room.

  The moment Jim’s mother came back from the hospital with the screaming red bundle, every one of Jim’s worst fears were realised. Previously his mother had done everything for him, now she couldn’t even be bothered to fix him a meal. He was lucky if she remembered to wash his clothes or tidy his room for him.

  All his mother’s attention was taken up with his newborn brother, a shrieking, piss and shit factory who threw constant tantrums and stopped everyone in their tiny apartment from sleeping more than two hours a night. In spite of this, his mother did nothing but coo and dote on the demanding little creature. She didn’t have time for anything else.

  If she did pay Jim any attention, it was only to nag him for not doing something or complain about how tired she was and that he wasn’t helping her enough with his little brother. Like he’d want to do anything for that evil little thing, other than put a pillow over its face.

  Jim wasn’t the only one who felt neglected. His mother paid less and less attention to Duncan and didn’t realise she was slowly freezing him out.

  Jim came home from school one day to find his mother in pieces on the bathroom floor. His little brat of a brother was screaming as usual, but Jim wasn’t interested and, for once, neither was his mother. “He’s gone, James, oh James, oh my little Jimmy,” she sobbed. “Duncan, he’s left me.”

  She reached out her arms to Jim, but he stayed where he was in the doorway. The sight of his mother disgusted him. He felt no pity for her after the way she’d isolated him, and he could understand perfectly why Duncan had left. He was going to miss him like hell, but he admired Duncan for going. It was what his mother deserved and Jim realised that he would have left too if he could.

  In that moment, the future of all Jim’s relationships was decided. He’d learned that men, real men, don’t stand for that sort of neglect. They move on and find someone who’s really going to appreciate them, and women put newborn babies before everything else. The minute they have one, they stop loving you like they did before.

  At the time, Jim didn’t realise he was pissed off at his mother because he missed her, missed how close they’d been. If he could have gotten over his anger he would have seen that he really wanted nothing more than to regain that closeness, to be the centre of her world again.

  Late at night, as he lay in bed listening to his mother cry herself to sleep, he’d indulge in a strange fantasy.

  It wasn’t like the fantasies he had about the popular girls in school. In this fantasy he used to imagine what it would be like to return to his mother’s womb, to be inside her once again, part of her body and her sole concern.

  He knew it was impossible, but at the time it seemed like the only way he could connect with her again. She’d chosen the baby over him and he could never forgive her. He would never forgive any woman who did that to him.

  Jim didn’t share any of this with Father Powers. The two of them sat silently on the bench with their own thoughts. Father Powers finished the last of his coffee and got to his feet.

  “Well, Jim,” he said. “I’ve things to be attending to and I’m sure you have, too. You have a lot to think on in the meantime. Don’t forget, you can always call on me at the church, if you’re ever in need of my help.”

  8:

  God save us, Jim, you look a state,” said Father Powers as Jim burst into the vestry.

  Jim was just glad to see him alive. Father Powers took a step back and wrinkled his nose. Jim glanced down at his T-shirt and jeans. They were stained with blood, soil, and urine. For the first time he noticed that his boxers were sticking to his butt cheeks and there was a hardening lump back there. No wonder he reeked.

  “Father . . . Father Pow . . . I mean Kit,” he said panting, as much from panic as from the run. “There are things out there . . . in the cemetery. They’re under the ground, they come from the graves, the ones Sloman was worried about. They’re killing people, Sloman and Cundle and . . . and . . . It’s horrible, they’ve been chasing me.”

  “I know all about them, lad.”

  Jim was incredulous. “You do?”

  “I heard them coming.”

  “You did?”

  “I can feel them in the ground. They’re outside now. They won’t come in the church though.”

  Jim began to cry with relief, like a little child. He hated for Father Powers to see him like this, but he couldn’t stop himself. “Oh, God Father, what they did . . . what they did to them . . . you can’t imagine . . . ”

  “Now, lad, that’s enough of
that. Come with me, we can’t stay here in the vestry.”

  Jim followed Father Powers to the front of the church. He would have followed him anywhere at that moment in time. He was just grateful to have someone take charge and tell him what to do. Every attempt he’d made to escape his pursuers or outwit them had failed. Finally, he had someone he could rely on, who knew what to do.

  Father Powers stopped by a small side entrance at the front of the church. The aged wooden door was studded with cast iron rivets. Father Powers pulled out a set of almost medieval looking keys and put one in the lock. The door swung open with an impressive creak. Beyond were a narrow set of winding stairs.

  Father Powers reached up to a little wooden shelf on the inside of the door and took down a large flashlight. “You remember I was telling you about that old entrance to the tunnels?”

  “This is it?” said Jim.

  Father Powers nodded. “This is it. Now stay close, it’s dark down here and we’ve only the one torch.”

  The steps were narrow and worn to smooth, polished depressions in the middle. The temperature dropped and became almost freezing as they descended. Jim’s arms came up in goose bumps.

  “Do you . . . do you know what those things are?” said Jim.

  “They’re Byrgen,” Father Powers told him. “Or Byrgen-Beorden, to give them their full title. It’s from the Anglo Saxon, roughly translated it means ‘grave-child’ or ‘born-of-the-grave.’”

  “So they were actually born . . . I mean they did come out of those three graves, the ones that were affected?”

  “Those are good questions, lad, but aren’t you a little curious as to how I know about them at all?”

  “Did you read about them in those scrolls you mentioned?”

  “Good lad, yes I did. In fact, as I was the one who translated the scrolls, I was the first to read about them in a very long time.”

  “So you know what they’re doing here?”

  “First things first, lad. Now, did you ever hear tell of an ancient moon goddess called Monanom?”