by Adam Thorpe
But he was as the dumb stone, laid over with the gold of my lanthorn. As if there was no breath at all in the midst of him.
I clamoured to him, and putting the lanthorn beside me I shook his arm. And he then did turn to me, moving his lips as if in supplication, that were very blue.
But at that moment Mr Scablehorne being vexed exceedingly with coughing, erubescing the virgin mantle before us with his fluids, and quite sopping my handkercher, I was otherwise preoccupied.
Though putting the bottle of fiery brandy to my poor clerk’s lips, and leaving it there in his ebbing grasp, that he might relieve his agony, I could turn again to my curate. And lo, he was moving his lips.
And leaning closer towards him, I did feel his cold mouth chafing upon mine ear, and the rasp of his collar upon my cheek, and did have the following words deposited in a whisper, but clear as a bell, from my curate:
‘I have Perfection.’
And somewhat startled by this curious yet in these teemingly blasphemous days familiar eruption, I did bid him repeat it.
And again he deposited in mine ear-hole this drop of venom that blistereth as it touches:
‘I have Perfection.’
And putting my mouth to his ear likewise I returned the following:
‘Mr Kistle. Pray tell me what Perfection it is that you are having.’
And he did smile broader, and did say, from Matthew 5, Verse 48, that I did recognise straightway:
‘Be perfect, as your Heavenly Father is perfect.’
And put his chill hand upon my shoulder. Like a father might do to a son.
Too well in our own humble parish of Ulverton, my children, know we this chill hand upon the shoulder. This eructation of Perfection.
Of the Light within. Of the Seed of Infinite Wisdom.
Being once the rantings of fools and madmen who are now the quiet of the land, blighting.
Too well. Ah, too well.
Too well know we the enemies of the cloth and of the steeple, of our Church and of our God, my children, that draw the ploughmen from their ploughs and the clerks from their offices. Too well know we the filth glossed over with a semblance of our raiments, breathed forth sourly in every meeting house, that is open to every Revelation of any lying Enthusiast e’en as ridiculous as that of Mahomet, as a broken roof is ope to every drop of rain.
The fig tree shall not blossom, and the labour of the olive shall fail.
Yet I will rejoice in the Lord.
Yea, in that day sing ye unto her a vineyard of red wine. I the Lord do keep it. I will water it every moment. Lest any hurt it, I will keep it night and day.
Think, my children, of what horror there was within me when I heard Simon Kistle speak into mine ear of Perfection as to a dunce. Think how near to the quick has come this blight that mine own curate was breathing it over me and turning it in my bowels who had trodden in my house, and prayed with me, and performed numerous services in my name upon mine own horse when I lay afflicted with the headache, and whom I had trusted as one might a son. Think of my horror.
But ever regardful of the vexed state of our situation, that the blasts or the evil nature of that afflicted place might have deceived mine hearing, after administering to myself some heat from the bottle poor Mr Scablehorne would barely relinquish to me I did turn to Mr Kistle and say to him, in a loud voice, though his nose was but inches from mine own:
‘What is it you mean, that which you uttered but a few minutes past?’
And through the scouring of the wind that was having at us still in the lee of that wicked place he did set his glimmering face up to mine and his whole body shaking or should I say quaking he of a sudden grinned and stroked my arm and answered:
‘My fruit is being brought forth to Perfection. I am ripe in Christ. For Truth requires Plainness and Simplicity and my seed is sown. For the sorrowful nights of affliction are over, and the sun is burst upon us.’
Imagine my children what astonishment I received this with, I that was almost stuck fast with cold and could barely see my hand before me in the extremest danger of death and no allaying of the storm in sight with the words of the late service ashen as it were in my mouth and the wind whipping my hood almost threadbare and poor Mr Scablehorne’s span almost up beside me. Imagine my astonishment – nay, even fear – at those fateful words that appeared to me familiar and awful, except that I could not bring myself to imagine that the quaking habit had fallen upon mine own curate and rather imagined that this extremity of exposure had bred in him a kind of despair, or foolishness, and that he was not in his right mind.
And so, not wishing to break the truth of our situation too quick upon him, I put my hand upon his that was without glove upon mine arm and said:
‘It is meet that your thoughts should be filled with sunshine, Mr Kistle, for the inward man is the vital, and is fed by the Scriptures, which are the very Light of life.’
And I reached into mine pocket which was already sodden and bringing out mine holy Book laid his hand upon it and sought the lanthorn and did hold it above the holy Book, that the feeble rays might illumine sufficient to bring my curate out of his distraction.
And I did call out, through the great noise, ‘Herein are all things necessary to the eternal life. Though we cannot read we can lay our hands upon this Truth and think on our sins, and on the Day of Judgement. This shall be as the bread for the hungry, and the wine for the thirsty, and our mantle for the cold, Mr Kistle.’
But he then straightway seized hold of the Book that is the Light of our Lord and the Word of God and the path to our salvation if rightfully understood and inwardly digested, and did pull it violently out of my hands, and did hurl it from me, into the blackness and misery of the night, so that for a moment I was stonied into silence and could utter no word but a sort of gargling.
Bereft as it were of the Word itself, viciously cast into darkness.
And so astonied was I that my fingers let hold of the lanthorn, that straightway rolled across the snow throwing out its light as a wheel till snuffed by that motion.
And all was as blind as in the beginning before the Spirit of our God moved upon the face of the waters.
And despite my poor clerk being seized at that moment with a most severe coughing that did send his bloody gob forcefully against my cheek I could not turn to him in mine own extremity, but instantly did hurl myself forward into the night’s blasts, searching upon my knees for our holy Book. But so forcefully buffeted was I by that horrid tempest, that I was cast to the ground and did thereupon weep in the snow for my staff and our salvation. And when I rose again I was as the seed thrown upon the wind hurled hither and thither till my hand alighted upon a cloak of wool, being manna in that desert fastness, which did thereupon crumble to ashes in my mouth when I did handle it further and understand that it was but the frozen carcass of a sheep, withered almost to fleece and bone. Yet so distracted was I that I dragged it towards our poor shelter, and laid the sheep upon Mr Scablehorne’s legs, that had but the thinnest of leggings about them otherwise.
And still in that severe cold the beast did have a smell about it. O let us pray the Day of Judgement doth swiftly come, that our corrupt bodies may put on the mantle of innocence and our black and unwholesome bile be scoured and the blown flies fall away that our flesh and bones may walk cleanly into the house of our Lord.
Then instantly turning and fumbling in that blackness for Mr Kistle’s collar, that I soon found, I tugged him, as it were, out of his exultations.
For wrath is oft just.
‘Mr Kistle,’ cried I, ‘what mean you in throwing from us our holy Book, that is our Staff of Life, we being in such extremity and so near to death as it may be we are?’
And he did shout out, in a high voice:
‘Welcome the Resurrection! The Scriptures are but the way not the means!’
And I replied, in a trembling voice:
‘They are the Word of God, Mr Kistle!’
And he cried
out again:
‘Worms might have God’s Word for supper, I say! Welcome the Resurrection!’
‘What are they then, Mr Kistle, if not the Word of God?’
‘Christ is within us! Open thyself and be free! Cast off! Cast off! Welcome the Resurrection!’
And other such roarings.
Then hanging though he was from my grip upon his collar, he did bring his mouth to mine ear, so that I could smell the sourness of his feeble breath, and uttered, quite certain of his wits, the following:
‘The Scriptures are but the declaration of the stipulations of the Saints, Mr Brazier. Let the worm now have them. Open thyself and be free.’
And at that moment the clouds tore asunder before the moon and a brilliant light was cast through the rent and indeed Mr Kistle’s collar choosing to tear at that same moment he fell from me onto the snow, so that I was delivered of the frightful vision of his glimmering face that the moon had illumined.
But still disbelieving of the filthy stinking blasphemies that had pierced the blasts, and fearful lest the wicked nature of the hummock had infected us with its fumes, I lifted up Mr Kistle from where he lay upon the snow upon his face, and asked him what need the Scriptures, and my ministry, and his curate’s post, and the Communion of the Church of England, if he had the Word of Christ within him and naught else needed. And raising his arms on high and shaking in his error so that I well nigh lost my grip upon his hair he did shout out that naught else was needed, that he had Perfection inwardly and God was in his conscience and that if I were to understand this I would cast aside my vestments and blossom. And the moon shone upon a sheet of snow that had adhered to his face within which his eyes and his mouth shifted constantly and so filled with horror was I by this vision that I stepped back and tripped upon William Scablehorne or rather the sheep about which his arms were held for he had evidently derived comfort therefrom. And sprawled beside him I saw that the bottle was drained at his lips, and that a mess of his fluids lay upon his cheek, and that he was no more in the living realm than the withered beast bound by his arms, against whose poor flayed skull his own face did nestle with a like grin.
I see in your own faces, my children, a mingling of horror and sorrow. We know not when the sickle of God will sweep deeply into us. His harvest obeys not summer. Mr Scablehorne now rests, my children, in the quietest of sleeps, sure of having performed his small round. And having filled his narrow way with an abundance of song and inward rejoicing and general diligence most especially witnessed in the white cleanliness of this surplice of which only having one, such is the thinness of my living, it must needs be cared for mightily, in all this lies the reward of a greater life, a peck to weigh in the scales and naught to scoff at.
And having ascertained his state I speedily administered the appropriate rites and fervently prayed for him even in mine own extremity of cold that was beginning to seize me like a vice. And I would indeed have covered his face with his own coat, but his limbs were exceeding stiff and I could not prise them from about the aforesaid sheep.
And so left him, alas, uncovered.
As ye have no doubt known of.
As ye have no doubt known of, and lamented thereof, from out of a whisper on the filthy wind, though not the worst that hath carried its poison amongst thee! A whisper carried calumniously against thy minister who did through his own trembling lay that soul to sleep nevertheless, my children, with the words that are ever fit.
That I must utter when your time comes. Without a slip in the utterance. Such are my responsibilities.
The business with the deceased complete, I turned towards Mr Kistle who had gone.
And just then the moon again was lost and a great gloominess once more compassed me about as if I had been cast into the deep as Jonah in the midst of seas, for all thy billows and thy waves passed over me, O Lord.
And though I did shout none heard me in that infinite desolation, save the Lord.
For on climbing the declivity with slow and labouring steps, so feeble did I feel, that I might view round about to better vantage should the clouds once more rend themselves and light be let out, my hand did seize by chance the heel of a boot, as Jacob took his brother by the heel in the womb.
And when I looked up, lo, I did see my curate by moonlight again with arms outspread above me, vexed by the buffets and blasts of the storm upon that chalky top but stuck fast, as it were, to their exceeding cold as if upon a cross.
And after I had reached beside him and urged him in his ear to descend, he only cried out, through a numbed mouth, that which was at first hard to comprehend, but on the third repeat had blasted mine own ear more than the snow upon the whirlwind, and was the following:
‘I am set free from the burden of sin!’
And seeing that his cloak was more out behind him wildly than about him, and that beneath his cloak his shirt was loose, I made the latter fast with the utmost difficulty, my fingers being chilled to the bone, and wrapped my arms about him and might have brought him down but that we slipped and fell and in this tumble I placed my hand upon a small furze bush concealed beneath the snow and did give myself great hurt from the thorns thereon.
And Mr Kistle did remain upon his back in the snow, and did shout to me many things through the blasts. He did shout that the spirit of Christ was rising within me. That I must put off all worldly things and taste the sweetness of a humbled life and this mortification of the flesh that was sent by God to prove our inclinations and set the seed within us to leaf and blossom, and that the perfume of His ointment was all about us for we both dwelt under His canopy and were bathing in a river of unspeakable joy.
O my children.
Never was our miserable state of sinfulness and wretchedness more clear to me than on that chalky summit, bowed down beside my ranting giddy blasphemous curate whose stinking spewings forth I had not the strength of body to smother or e’en answer, my lips being quite helpless with the cold, that a burning firebrand might not have melted them.
Simon Kistle is no more, my children. But what you will be asking in your hearts is more to the matter than his end. It is the after-life that is the pith. Whether his gross and obnoxious Enthusiasm was intact at the moment of his passing, he being taken with all his infirmities and downright blasphemies ripe in the husk as it were but incorrigibly poisoned and rotten. What didst thou our minister do to save his soul to cling to he who was your pillar nay your companion in extremity?
List, my children.
The scuttling of mice in our poor thatch or the wind under the door or the squeaking of thy boots shall in that other life of happiness be transported into harmonious music the like of which we cannot imagine, save were we to come of a sudden out of a city’s huff and clamour and stink by chance into a vast nave filled with the loveliness of a choir dropping from the sweetness of their mouths such songs as might move our bowels and make us walk upon the high places. For the other life be perpetual music, my children.
And in these vain and jesting times we must tune ourselves to that which is harmonious and lovely for in Hell all is grating, and freakish, and loud with misery, like a knife upon a whetstone perpetually pressed betwixt the grindings of teeth in torment.
And now imagine how similarly vexatious to my ears was that blasphemy of my curate mingled with the fearful clamour of the storm. And fiercely in my soul did I desire to stop up the sluice from which his hope of salvation was already flooding, that he might though he be taken be raised into life everlasting, when the Last Day comes and the trumpet be blown.
So I rose and went to him still upon the summit of that desolate slope blasted by the storm and bent to him and with my left hand under his head I did plead with him to leave off his ramblings and this Enthusiasm that had come upon him so suddenly no doubt owing to the touch of this infamous place and to come down into the shelter of our Lord, into the lee of the Scriptures, to throw himself upon the mercy of the Lord and His Word. And I shouted to him those words of David in t
he Psalm:
‘Thou art he that tookest me out of the womb, thou madest me to hope when I was upon my mother’s breasts. I was cast upon thee from the womb, thou art my God from my mother’s belly. Be not far from me for trouble is near.’
And I also recalled to him the words that did begin my peroration this morning, my children:
‘When our heart fails God is the strength of our hearts and our portion for ever.’
He was shivering and his teeth chattering and his face and hands were exceeding cold, but he raised himself upon one elbow and shouted loud unto me:
‘You are mistaken. This blessed state has not come upon me suddenly, but has been growing within me for several months, since God led me to a certain book I saw in a window and took home, that was the Christian Epistle to Friends writ by George Whitehead. And Barclay and Fox I also read, and others, that persuaded me of my own state of ignorance and blindness and it was as if the sun had burst upon me and the scales fallen from my sight, and all that I had thought mad and foolish I saw might not be, but I was fearful of telling anyone though I found no satisfaction in my employment and in the shapes and shadows of religion, flaunting words that are so much dust to the lascivious people, who nevertheless doff their hats to the steeple and enter in to the ceremonies, but have never tasted the banquet that lies within themselves, but only stuff their mouths with the serpent’s food.’
I was much astonied to hear this Enthusiasm had been on him so long, and called tremblingly into his ear:
‘What am I, then, that feeds them this dust that is the serpent’s food, and has command of the steeple, or rather tower, under which they do doff their hats, Mr Kistle?’
And he made reply, with an obnoxious sigh, so that my ear grew exceeding hot, the following:
‘Thou art the fat and wanton smotherer of their souls, Mr Brazier.’
