Because it is their adherence to the ritual that will guarantee the opposite. Far from appeasing Andraste, each soul given increases her strength. Each soul that is torn from the body feeds her, empowers her. Each year that passes shows signs of this increased power, because gods and humans are very alike in many ways. Just as a man given too much power will eventually be corrupted by it and use it for his own ends, mocking those he wields it against, so too with Andraste.
She grows smug with each year that passes. She becomes overconfident. She delights in mocking the faiths of those who hold their religions sacred, to make them believe that their gods are powerless against her. She also glories in forcing them to confront the dark aspect of their pasts, showing in full detail the horrors of their former years - as she did with the Bursar’s Secretary, Judith Cox, in Old Court this evening.
For no other reason than that she can. It is a reminder of her terrible power, and, it is said, a mere foretaste of what will happen if she is not fed regularly.
Only a few have seen past that, to find strength and self belief in the face of Andraste’s terrible mind games. To have faith in themselves and believe what they know is true in their hearts. Very few survive.
Jason Franklin knows her time is near. It will only take one or two more souls to give her the power to break through to this plane. His attempt to destroy the college last year was admirable, and I believe he will attempt to do so again. But that alone will not be enough. Jason is a part of the equation; but not the full solution.
There is another who will be called upon. One who may be known to you, one who has a darkness within him that even Andraste fears - and a shared inheritance with Jason. Without this individual, Andraste will have her final triumph. But it is not certain if he will have the strength to go through with the task. Even The Elder is uncertain.
All I can ask you to do is pass on this information to him. Show him what you have been shown. The rest is up to him.
One other thing. I said that Andraste mocks other faiths, to destroy belief, to destroy hope.
Well, I believe in God now. And I hope he will understand why I myself took part in those terrible rituals. I hope He understands that I was deceived like everyone else by an evil that is more intelligent than Man can ever be. I hope he understands that I am only human.
The Elder doesn’t have all the answers. But it is clear that he is operating from some other authority, something ancient that precedes Andraste. I personally believe that it is God, because there is so much emphasis placed on individual, human choice. I may be wrong, that is the one thing for which I don’t have proof.
But since when has faith needed proof?
I wish you well, Mr Lotson. May God - or The Elder - guide you. Pray for me.
J. Freeland.
* * * * *
Rob took out his tobacco tin and rummaged inside it, trying to find a ready-rolled spliff. Kelly looked at him with a half smile.
“Go on, then. But don’t offer any to Nick.” She pushed an empty coffee mug over for him to use as an ashtray. “Nick! Take the dog outside, will you?”
Nick lowered the torch and pouted. “It’s freezing out there! You should make filthy-lungs here go out instead.”
“Nick. Just do what you’re fucking well told. Now!”
Rob blinked at the anger in her voice. Always a bossy cow, he’d thought, but the sort of woman that was good for Phil. Phil needed a good boot up the arse on occasion and there were plenty of those from Kelly Lotson. But this was different. The strain and tiredness, the irritability, that was one thing - but he’d never heard her swear in front of her boy before. This was fear.
The door slammed shut.
She waited for Rob to light his joint before speaking. She cast a nervous look over her shoulder, and Rob followed her eyes. They’d both heard Andy close the door.
“Hell of a night,” she murmured. Rob exhaled, coughed, and passed the joint to her.
“You wouldn’t believe the stuff that old vicar mate of Phil’s came out with. He almost bricked himself when he saw the Green Man in my cab.” He sighed. “Load of old bollocks. You don’t believe this shit, do you?”
She took a small puff, coughed it out immediately. Then she took another drag, a longer one this time, and held her breath. Rob raised his eyebrows. Kelly had never been much of a smoker, even during her Uni days. She obviously needs it now, though.
“You saw those photos Phil brought back?” she said in a strained, high pitched voice. “This is good stuff, by the way.”
Rob shuddered. “I had a quick glance at them. That’s enough for me…”
“Do I believe in some bloodthirsty goddess trying to invade the planet? Of course I bloody don’t. But I do believe in evil - human evil - and what Phil brought back with him is proof of that. People have been murdered…tortured to death.” She shook her head. “I don’t understand why this Freeland wanted Phil to speak to Andy about it, though. What the hell’s it got to do with him?”
“Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.” He told her what the vicar had said about Woodcock’s bloodline, his child and relocation to Wallingford. The Green Man Jen had bought for him. He shuddered at that, and Kelly noticed. No way was he going to tell her what he thought he’d seen it do in his van. Burning his fingers off, speaking to him…bollocks. Just that extra strong skunk again. Really should lay off it. But…later. When all this shit’s over and done with. He took the joint back from her and inhaled.
“Sounds bloody loopy to me. But…Andy coming up here, with that piece of rock. Seems too much of a coincidence, yeah?”
She nodded slowly. Reluctantly, he thought. Really don’t want him around here, do you?
As if reading his thoughts, she sat back on the chair and looked at him steadily.
“He’s got a part to play in this. I know that. But you’ve got to realise…I never wanted to see him again.”
Rob frowned. “All due respect, Kelly…I could never understand this. He saved your life, didn’t he?”
Kelly’s eyes were distant, far away in the past. Rob knew she was reliving that night fifteen years ago.
“Yes…I won’t deny that. But…he almost killed Phil. He blamed him for it, because he’d introduced us. How the hell was Phil to know what pills and powder they’d carried with them? My God, you don’t expect two men who represented Cambridge at the Boat Race - world class athletes, no less - to be druggies, do you? The way Andy went on it was almost as though Phil had sold the stuff himself.”
Like Kelly, Rob would never forget that night. Him and Phil following the screams of pain to the locked cubicle…Kelly with her skirt around her waist and trying to pull her underwear back up, sobbing hysterically…hearing the thudding of steel toecaps into human flesh, the cracking of teeth and bones…watching the red rivulets appear under the cubicle door, running towards them…
Rob shuddered. Phil had raced to Kelly’s side, tried to comfort her.
Don’t touch me, bastard! You should’ve been here…YOU should’ve protected me…
It was Rob who had broken down the door. Who had shouldered his way into the cubicle, determined to stop his friend before it was too late…
“I was unfair on Phil, I know.” She sniffed. “Andy had strange views on what constitutes the ‘protection of women’ - right out of the Dark Ages, expected a man to stay at his woman’s side at all times. It was bloody claustrophobic sometimes, y’know? Even if I wanted to go to the toilet he’d insist on waiting outside for me. There was a gap between me dumping him and seeing Phil. But when I started going out with him…Andy didn’t take it well.”
Rob said nothing. As Andy’s former best friend he knew him better than anyone, knew what made him tick…but also knew how much of a strain he could be. Kelly was her own woman, wouldn’t expect a bloke to hold doors for her or follow her around everywhere.
“I know. And that’s when his work started slipping, spent more time working the security at the Anglia SU bar than
in the library. There was no way he was going to finish his dissertation - God, even finishing the third year was out of the question. Hard when your personal tutor is knobbing your ex-girlfriend.”
She snorted. “Thank you, Robert.”
“Sorry.”
“And that’s the irony. Phil wasn’t there and Andy was. Yes, he stopped them raping me, but…well, you saw what he did to them. Jesus.”
* * * * *
Andy lowered the letter. “Seems like he got religion pretty damn quick.”
Phil said nothing. Andy stepped over the photos, trying not to look at them. He sat on the sofa next to Phil and inspected the files stacked on the coffee table.
The first one was a heavy square-cut folder stuffed with yellowing newspaper cuttings that referred to missing persons. Andy scanned them quickly. There were also printed screenshots of reports taken from various news websites.
They were a mixed bag. Red top tabloids, twice folded cuttings from the broadsheets, and not confined to Britain or the English language. Some were in French, German, Italian…some in characters that were either Chinese or Japanese, he couldn’t say which.
“Freeland told me that Andraste doesn’t confine her choices to these shores,” Phil said quietly. “He said they feel the call in far off lands, feel an irresistible urge to come to Cambridge. Secretly, impulsively. Not a word spoken to their loved ones. Some cover their tracks well, to make it look like they’ve pulled a disappearing act. Some fake their own deaths - yes, the call is that strong.”
“And the final port of call is All Souls College.” Andy tapped the date on one of the cuttings. There was no logical pattern to the timing of the vanishings. Neither was there a particular type. Men and women - no children, thank God - but all from varying age groups. Neither was there a particular psychological profile to those chosen by Andraste. Some were noted as being depressed, suicidal. Some had mental health problems or drink and drug issues. But only a few.
The only thing the reports had in common was the plea for information, and the anguished words of relatives or loved ones, begging them to contact them - or begging whoever had taken them to let them free.
“Quite a collection,” Andy murmured. “But it doesn’t really prove anything, does it?”
“The diary entries do.” Phil waved a tired hand at the archive storage box sitting by the presents under the Christmas tree. Andy turned and saw the collection of black A4 hardbacked books within. “Freeland made notes of various physical properties which I’m sure will match up to the descriptions on police files. And then, of course, there’re the pictures…”
Andy nodded grimly. Judging by their current location on the floor it was obvious that they’d been thrown away from where Phil was sitting in horror. Steeling himself he knelt down and picked them up. He winced at the pain in his abdomen, and then took a deep breath through gritted teeth at the sight before him.
High resolution, full colour but poorly lit. Freeland had used a good quality digital camera but he hadn’t been able to use the flash. Only the candle flames illuminated the stone floor of the cellar and the victims.
Makes sense, Andy thought. Can’t be easy to take photos when the other Fellows are nearby. Freeland had guts, I’ll give him that.
A piece of white material - probably the sleeve of a robe - half-obscured the lens on the picture. Andy could only just make out make out the goose pimples on the skin of the victim. Through terror or cold? he wondered.
“Jesus Christ in Heaven,” he hissed. Phil watched him, saying nothing.
The first picture showed a young Oriental looking woman, probably Japanese, in her early twenties. She was naked, her wrists and ankles tied to heavy iron rings set in the floor. Her eyes were wide, her mouth open in a silent scream that found voice in Andy’s imagination. It rolled and echoed, a terrifying cry of despair and terror that would never leave him.
The next photo showed the same girl. He assumed it was the same girl, but it was difficult to tell. Too much of her had been removed.
Andy felt the photos slip from his loosened fingers. His head swum and bile rose in his throat. He sat back on the sofa and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms.
Phil stared at the dropped pictures. He made no attempt to pick them up.
“The operation is the same for each victim. And each victim looks exactly the same afterwards. When you remove the limbs, facial features and finally the skin I guess there isn’t much difference between anyone. We’re all the same underneath.”
Andy took his palms away and Phil visibly flinched beneath his glare. “Freeland’s words, not mine. And he wasn’t joking either.”
Andy looked with reddened eyes at the scattered photos on the floor. The two he’d dropped had fallen beside a photo of a male victim with a face that he recognised. The flabby bulk and pony tailed head of Geoff Michaels was unmistakeable. He closed his eyes. Well, no surprise there. He wondered if it was worth phoning Pearce yet to tell him.
“Freeland wrote down the precise stages of the ritual. It has, he said, never been put to paper before until now. The teaching was passed down through the centuries, continuing the oral teaching tradition of the original college that was here long before All Souls.” Another typewritten page was passed to Andy from Freeland’s archive of pain. He looked at it warily but was shaking too much to take it.
“The ritual goes under a very cute name,” Phil said bitterly. “Freeland calls it ‘The Song to Andraste’.”
“The…song?” Andy spat the words out. “Like a fucking Christmas carol?”
“A song of pain. The philosophy behind it is that when the human body suffers unbearable agony it reaches a stage where the mind shuts down and blots out the messages sent from the pain receptors. However, if it is done slowly, gradually…this can be avoided.”
“Jesus Christ…”
* * * * *
“He didn’t even recognise me. Shit, I didn’t recognise him. The blood on his face, even in his eyes…and none of it his. He looked like a fuckin’ demon. And what he’d done to the second guy…you wouldn’t think it possible.”
Kelly rubbed her eyes tiredly. The skunk was powerful stuff, and Kelly wasn’t used to it. But it had calmed her somewhat, numbed her. And that was what she had wanted. Needed.
“Had he ever been in touch with you since that night, Rob?”
Rob’s throat was dry. He walked to the kitchen sink, swilled out his coffee mug then filled it with cold water. Gulping it down, he wiped condensation from the window and stared at the torch flashing in the dark garden. He saw patches of speckled white fur dance in the snow and heard the muffled sound of laughter and barking, two creatures enjoying a play.
“When he got out of prison he went back to his mum’s in Wallingford. That was three years ago. I went down there, had a couple of drinks with him to celebrate his release…he doesn’t have many friends, Kelly. But I think you know that.”
She nodded. Her eyelids were heavy.
“He told me what he’d been up to when inside, some real horror stories there. But there was no friendship there anymore, that had died twelve years ago after that night. And if anything, the anger…well, it’s not just anger, is it?”
She lifted her head. “No, it’s not anger. It’s rage…and darkness. You said he was like a demon…perfect description.”
“Well, that darkness was even more pronounced. His old man died when he was inside, emphysema I think. And his mum was pretty frail by then, the cancer had come out of remission. He knew she didn’t have long…he was raging against the world again.
“Anyway, I did the usual bollocks, promised to keep in touch and then fucked off back home as quick as I could. Kept in touch with the occasional email and Facebook post, but that was it. He met this Jennifer bird after that: she was doing the catering at one of those festivals he did the security for…and from what I saw on his profile she had a real good effect on him. Calmed him down somewhat. They moved into her place in Di
dcot.”
Kelly nodded, somewhat wistfully. “I’m glad. Is he still seeing her?”
Rob hesitated. “I don’t think so. She’s staying with her parents in St Neots. He didn’t go into details, though.”
“No, he never does. Hang on…she’s gone to her parents for Christmas? Without Andy?”
Rob nodded. “Doesn’t look good, does it?”
* * * * *
Phil read aloud, his face contorting with fury and disgust with each word. He stumbled over certain passages where the detail was too great. When he had finished Andy took the paper from him and read it for himself. He had to. He had to see for himself, he had to know that another human being had physically written this down.
THE SONG TO ANDRASTE
The Fellows of All Souls have known for successive generations the true meaning of Andraste’s power. Some have felt it for themselves. All know the cost of failing to bind it with the ritual of appeasement that has been named the “Song to Andraste”.
It is a ritual that, we have been taught, requires the ultimate strength. The strength to inflict such pain and suffering on another human being that it can destroy your very grip on sanity. It calls the whole nature of humanity into question; that to save mankind inhuman torture and suffering - and then death - must be inflicted on a fellow human being. Only in this way can Andraste’s power be held in check for one more year.
It is this that can destroy you. Knowing that the ritual must be performed yearly, without fail, for as long as mankind exists. You cannot help but have doubts; cannot help but weep for every offering.
The ritual takes place over two days. The first is the hardest part because this is the crucial forming of the Song. The five senses of the Offering are taken. The sense of touch goes first - fingers and toes are removed. Then the sense of smell - the nose is taken and the nasal passages burnt. Hearing is taken by slicing away the earlobes and driving needles deep into the ear canal to perforate the eardrums. Cutting out the tongue removes the fourth sense. The stump is cauterised to ensure the offering doesn’t choke to death on his or her blood. Then, finally, the sense of sight is taken.
The Caretakers (2011) Page 29
