A rumour that was confirmed when he read Longhurst’s mind. The prick. The chief clinical psychiatrist hadn’t even bothered to let the ground staff know, obviously under orders from his superiors. Can’t have unrest in the camp before the big move, can we Longhurst?
Jason Franklin had debated whether to tell them or not, but then decided against it. It would spoil the surprise. Besides, he had more important things to be getting on with. And he knew he wouldn’t be in the Phoenix Unit when the move came. The Elder had plans for him.
He hoped that the plans would come to fruition quickly. He was beginning to feel his own grasp on reality - his truth - slipping away. The dreams and visions were physically draining, and emotionally harrowing. They always had been, but now he was reaching the end of his endurance. It was twelve months of being locked up in the cuckoo farm that was killing him. He didn’t belong here.
Every day he looked at his fellow inmates and wanted to break out. The worst times were evenings, just before bedtime, because they all had the same vacant, slack jawed expressions, their eyes gazing lifelessly. The heavy sedatives blurred the boundaries between their individual disorders, they were all the same. Zombies created by the medical staff, because they were easier to deal with. The physical strength was weakened, the threat of violence reduced to acceptable levels of risk. All brain-dead: shuffling into the lounge to gape at the TV until it was time for individual treatment or Occupational Therapy.
That was the most depressing time, he thought as he walked into the bathroom: the patronising tone of the OT leader as she passed out the crayons and chalks and “invited” them to draw what they liked. No pencils, and none of the fine liner pens he’d so cherished for his art, nothing with a point that could be used as a weapon.
In spite of that, he had to admit he was quite pleased with the results. He’d managed to impart a vigour and emotional depth to the pictures that transcended the limitations of the kiddie materials he was given. He’d like to have claimed all the credit, to think that the fear flashing in the OT bitch’s eyes as she saw his work was down to his artistic talent. She didn’t know about the pens he’d managed to steal from Longhurst and hide, ready to use in the night hours. Not as weapons, though - but to draw the true images he’d witnessed, to do them full justice on paper
All great artists were misunderstood by society, the majority of people lacking the emotional responses required to interpret the work correctly. Instead, they were so quick to persecute them, to jump on their artistic endeavours and force them to admit that what they produced was wrong, was sick. That they needed therapy, curing.
What do they bloody know anyway? With a snarl he switched on the lights. How could they possibly understand, to truly realise that his work was not the sick product of a twisted mind or, in Longhurst’s view, the product of a mind unable to distinguish between reality and fantasy, a mind enslaved by delusions, personal demons that could only be controlled by chemicals?
That was Longhurst’s crucial mistake. In the last session with the clinical psychiatrist he’d emphasised the word control over cure. He’d admitted that Franklin would never be free of his disorder. He’d lost it then.
It’s no disorder. How many times do I have to tell you? It’s a gift. It’s proof that there’s a greater being that cares about the human race, wants its survival.
Longhurst had smiled condescendingly, but glanced at Dawson behind him. Jason had forced himself to calm down. He’d taken a deep breath and tried to calmly explain, once again, what The Elder was doing.
My talent has been developed, my art is better than it’s ever been - not because I’ve been inspired, but because a greater power is working through me, using me to get the message across.
Yes, Longhurst, you can smirk. Think it’s funny that this power has chosen me to be its representative, to impart its message? Fuck you!
Longhurst had asked, quite calmly, what that message was.
That society holds its values too dear. Human life is sacred? Wrong, wrong, WRONG! Human lives are sources of power, great power. And some have to be used as such, to safeguard the majority.
His artwork proved that. The Elder told him often enough - often in a tone of despair as it realised that Jason Franklin’s message had been ignored.
He told Jason not to let Longhurst know that drastic measures would soon be taken. Others would be called upon, summoned to Cambridge. They would be compelled to assist, to die if necessary. Too much was at stake now.
Jason Franklin stared at the plastic mirror above the washbasin. Shatterproof, unbreakable: and therefore useless as a weapon. It had other uses though.
He wiped the condensation away, grimacing at the slimy dampness that clung to his palm. Stubborn trails of smeary mist remained on the mirror, distorting the reflection that stared angrily back at him, a twisted gargoyle that simmered with impotence and rage, frustrated by its imprisonment.
Now, what would Longhurst make of that? Another inner demon? He smiled at the thought and the gargoyle’s face lightened.
He breathed gently on the plastic surface. The Elder would speak to him now, surely. At least now he confined his appearances to one location, and a time agreed at the last meeting.
In the past it had been awkward, to say the least. The Elder would appear unannounced, when Jason was unprepared. A face in the wall, a voice on the radio. A figure on the TV screen. And sometimes, more frustratingly, The Elder would appear on the face of someone Jason was talking to. That was unsettling, watching their features contort and remould into the wizened and timeless visage of the one who trusted him, Jason Franklin, to destroy the evil hiding in the grounds of All Souls College.
He could understand why people were scared of him when that happened. Hearing The Elder’s voice, seeing his face when no one else could. It was unfortunate that the label of schizophrenia could be applied so easily to this: another symptom, another piece of proof for the doubters. It happened once in the Phoenix Unit, during his second interview with Longhurst, and he had to make certain it never happened again.
The Elder had listened to him at this point, and agreed to his request not to visit him in this manner again. He promised to appear at a more discreet location and time.
The mirror in the bathroom would be their agreed rendezvous. The features had unlined, became youthful again, and the piercing green eyes that were weighed with ancient and terrible knowledge had diluted to the pale blue of Longhurst’s supercilious gaze.
Looking at the mirror now, Jason Franklin couldn’t help but laugh. That must have been an absolute gift to Longhurst - his patient’s personal and most vivid delusion, the semi-religious deity, taking over the doctor’s face, speaking through him! Jason knew he’d had to tread carefully with him, didn’t want him knowing that he could see the darkness within his soul. Far better for him to believe, as Lotson had done, that the things he could see were gleaned from idle gossip. The Elder had warned him about this, that the misuse of this additional gift would cause others to fear and hate him, far more than his “condition” ever would.
And now a new gift. To share dreams. Even The Elder had been surprised by that, and for the first time Jason Franklin had detected a trace of fear in those timeless eyes when he’d been woken this morning and spoke to him in the mirror.
Why? Surely this had been a gift from The Elder, an ability to bring those who could destroy the Fellowship of All Souls closer together? Philip Lotson wouldn’t have believed him if he hadn’t been told in every crucial detail the dream Jason Franklin had witnessed, had appeared in.
Staring at the mirror, he breathed out and asked: “What now? What do I have to do now?”
The mirror dripped condensation into the washbasin. He stared around him, anxious that the others might hear. No stirring from the beds. The bathroom was empty and silent.
Now he was concerned. The Elder had ordered him to meet him here, after Lotson had visited and been informed of his role. So where was he?
A terrible thought. Had he angered him in some way? Was it too late to stop the evil in All Souls breaking through?
Has The Elder abandoned me?
He cried out in despair. But the mirror was still. Even the droplets of condensation were indifferent to his anguish. He slammed his fist against the plastic, feeling the material quiver with the force of his blow. He slammed into it again. It quivered once more, but more strongly, more pronounced, like he was hitting a giant piece of rubber. His reflection wavered and the surface rippled like the waters of a dark Scottish loch, hiding ancient monsters.
Then the transformation. His reflected face, blending into that of the other who stared at him from beyond the mirror. His eyes took on a more luminescent, unearthly shade of green with pupils that were black pinpricks. The vegetation disgorged from the mouth, ivy and holly and oak branches waving like tentacles, the mistletoe and holly berries gleaming brightly. The condensation disappeared, evaporating instantly.
The vegetation crawled around the edges of the mirror as it always did at these meetings. A framework formed around the portal, and then the vegetation was still. Now The Elder could speak.
The eyes settled on him, the pupils dilating, twin pools of darkness that held him transfixed.
Jason. The voice was a sibilant whisper, like waves from a prehistoric sea washing over shingle, an autumn breeze in distant, primeval woodlands. The voice of the Earth, the spirit of the planet.
But with a new, and disturbingly human tone. One of urgency, anxiety. Fear. Jason swallowed nervously. His hands clenched the plastic side of the washbasin, his legs shaking. Something’s wrong, The Elder never speaks like this.
“Elder. What’s wrong? Lotson’s been told: he won’t admit it, but he believes. His next step is to meet Freeland, see the physical evidence with his own eyes.”
It is not enough, Jason. The messengers have already been prepared. They are singing to Andraste as we speak.
Jason nodded. It was the night before the Feast that the offerings were prepared. So why was The Elder so concerned about it?
The Fellowship knows it will not be enough. They will complete the ritual, and then Andraste will tell them to offer one more. One who has yet to be taken.
One to make up for the failed propitiation last year.
Jason Franklin felt as though he’d been punched in the stomach. The walls spun, the tiled flooring reared up to take him. He forced himself to stand upright, to continue facing the mirror.
Of course, it made sense. He’d interrupted the offering. The soul had been despatched, but the Communion hadn’t taken place. Geoff Michaels’ spirit had been allowed to escape.
“They must have known,” he said. “Andraste would have ordered them to prepare three this year.”
The Elder shook his head. The vegetation rustled softly, as though caught in a gentle breeze.
She lulled them into a sense of security. Once again, she lied. She will force them to be reckless, to take a victim without careful planning. It is this that may work in our favour.
“How come?” Jason frowned.
They will take one who is precious to the man in the blood-dream. The man who wielded the knife…the man who burned with the Divine Judgement.
“He’s the one whose dream I shared earlier. Elizabeth Woodcock and the Divine Judgement. Andy Hughes. Why is he so special?”
I do not know for certain. But he has a power…a darkness in him that even Andraste fears. If his beloved is taken he will tear down the gates of hell to rescue her. Andraste knows this; she is sending her children to stop him.
Jason shuddered at this. He knew all too well the form the children of Andraste could assume.
Those in the woods are being formed at this very moment. And if he prevails, another awaits him in his friend’s warehouse. You must help him. He must be persuaded to assist. You must persuade him.
Jason laughed, the echoes swallowed up by the face in the mirror rather than echoing around the bathroom.
“Easier said than done, Elder. Remember where I am. How do I get out, and how do I get him to help?”
The eyes glowed. A way will present itself. Be prepared, be ready at dawn.
“Dawn? That soon?” Jason raised his eyebrows. The escape was going to be sooner than expected. “Then what?”
Make your way to the Nemeton. You will meet him there, and he will be bringing the icon. Then he will know. The rest will be up to him. There is no more we can do. If the final offering is made, Andraste’s return is assured. But if he can stop it in time…there may be hope. The eyes looked away.
I must leave you now, Jason. This is the last time we will speak here. I can do no more for you.
“No!” He couldn’t stop the cry escaping his lips. “You can’t leave me, I need you!”
The Elder smiled sadly. Those impossible orbs softened, something that looked like sympathy and regret within them.
You no longer need me. You need to look within yourself. Face your past, the night you’ve buried for so long. In that respect at least, Longhurst is correct. It will free you…but not in the manner he expects.
“What night?” he screamed. “Why can’t you stay?”
There are rules, Jason. Rules even I do not understand, but must follow nevertheless. You have done well…but now we part.
The framework of winter foliage shrivelled and died. Chunks of dead brown leaves fell to the floor. The face of The Elder shifted, the eyes losing that penetrating green, the features softening into those of a man in his early twenties that stared back at him, despair, bewilderment and loss in his eyes. His hands slipped from the plastic washbasin and he fell to the cold, damp tiles of the bathroom floor and its carpet of dead leaves.
Leaves that stiffened, became sharper and more solid. Turned to silver.
He lay on the floor, surrounded by fragments of the unbreakable mirror and began to weep.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Simon Davies stood outside the college chapel and steeled himself to enter. The door was open, and he knew the Senior Tutor was already in there. He swallowed, knowing that Nicholas Nasen would have no difficulty in preparing himself for the offering tonight. He would not be feeling the dread, the sickening anticipation of performing an inhuman act of suffering, the fear that went with it.
One thing he’d never associated with Nasen was fear. To see him cycling on the towpath on cold winter mornings, a megaphone bellowing orders and criticisms to the First VIII in a quest to ensure that All Souls remained Head of the River, he looked every inch the formidable figure he was. Not overly tall, five foot nine, but stockily built, with grey hair cropped to a military standard. Exactly the same length he had during his army days. A permanent scowl was etched on his wide face and the eyes were piercing blue orbs beneath the heavy lids which saw right through you: assessing your strengths and weaknesses with just one brief stare, knowing exactly what sort of man you were. What you tried to hide. No wonder he and Franklin got on so well - and had done so ever since they first met, fighting in the Falklands.
Even though he was in his sixties, the Senior Tutor was mentally the strongest one of all the Fellowship, Davies admitted to himself, and he should’ve been invested as the Master of All Souls. He would never shirk from his duty, nor expect others to fail in their task.
It was for that same reason Davies was thankful David Searles had been selected. At least he had weaknesses. At least he was human.
Nasen, the Senior Tutor…along with Franklin and that monster Cassell, they made an unholy trinity. They were the power behind All Souls, there was no doubt.
I’m just a bean counter, a glorified accountant. Searles is just a figurehead, nothing more.
Davies glanced behind him at the empty Court. Judith Cox had long since gone home.
Poor woman. He shuddered to think what she had witnessed here but he could guess. Her miscarriage was the catalyst for her mental breakdown; it could only be assumed that was what had been visited upon her
. Andraste always used your past against you. It was her way of ensuring your compliance or your self-destruction, to make you aware you were your own worst enemy. He’d watched Franklin escort her to her car: had wanted to tear down the stairs and run to her, hold her in his arms, tell her everything would be all right…
He sighed. Nothing would be all right. Had he himself not heard the whisperings? Had Andraste sensed his weakness, and was testing him, punishing him? He wondered if Cassell, Franklin and Nasen had heard them. If so, what did they do? Ignore them? Or listen to them, recognise that Andraste was angry with them all, and would require more appeasement this year? But it was pointless getting them to admit to it. They’d see that as weakness, the path to self-destruction as witnessed in Jason Franklin.
He eased open the chapel door another couple of inches. He could hear whisperings within -human ones, thankfully. He went in.
The interior of the chapel was smaller than the exterior suggested. Or perhaps it was the thick shadows that made it look smaller than it actually was. The candles on the altar had been lit, the scent of melting wax and burning wick combining with the aroma of cold stone and damp oak; the smell of a church that was not used often. The Bursar shook his head sadly. They would be using the candles in the basement shortly, why not use the electric lights in here? He knew the answer, though. Nasen liked it this way. It was imposing, creepy, putting you at a disadvantage. It made you fear.
He walked down the aisle between the rows of dark oak pews, the shadows leaping from the wooden seats with each flicker of the candles. Above the altar, the carving of Christ loomed. The flesh-coloured paintwork looked sickly yellow in the flickering candlelight, the blood trickling from the nail wounds a vivid scarlet.
The Bursar stared at the face of Christ and saw again why the carving was unique. The expression wasn’t one of beatific sacrifice; it was an all too human representation of physical agony. The eyes seemed even wider than usual, the dilated pupils even blacker than the shadows. He noticed that the lectern with its eagle had gone. He knew where it was now.
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