by Heide Goody
“It’s not healthy. It’s not respectful. And … and it might be the plague.”
“Plague?”
“A horrible way to die that we might all catch,” said Stephen, feeling a knot of panic begin to unfold in his chest. Two monks dead within weeks of one another. Two close associates. If it wasn’t something infectious, what could it be? Brother Huey wasn’t exactly the type to die of a broken heart.
“We have to tell the others,” said Stephen.
He looked round. They were almost as far from St Cadfan’s as it was possible to get on the small island. Sure, the monastery was only a five minute jog away, but Stephen felt a sudden and irresistible need to do something, do something now.
He rooted through the climbing gear Manfred had given him.
“Woah,” said Rutspud. “Are you going to fire that?”
“You think I shouldn’t?”
“I was going to ask you if I could do it.”
Stephen gave him a look, pointed the flare gun at the heavens and squeezed the trigger. A pink bolt of fire flew up over the island. They watched it slowly arc towards St Cadfan’s.
“Not respectful to who?” said Rutspud.
“Sorry?”
“If we eat him, who are we disrespecting?”
“Brother Huey, of course.”
“But he’s dead.”
“I know! And we respect the dead.”
“But he’s no longer here,” said Rutspud. “He’s gone. His spirit has fled.”
Stephen nodded reflectively.
“At peace in Heaven.”
“Or the other place.”
Stephen glared. “Shut up!”
“What?” Rutspud kicked a stone at the rabbit under the box and it fled, taking the carrot with it. “You think we don’t have any monks in Hell? We have whole pits of them.”
“Brother Huey was a good man,” Stephen insisted. “He was always nice to … well, actually, he was a miserable sod most of the time. But he devoted his life to helping … I’m not sure what he spent his life doing. He was a fine artist.”
“We have artists in Hell too,” said Rutspud.
Stephen sighed irritably. “Then we’d best pray for his soul.”
He knelt beside the seated corpse of Brother Huey and put his hands together.
“I think I’ll stand over there,” said Rutspud.
Stephen grabbed Rutspud’s wrist and dragged the demon down beside him.
“You can sit with me. And I’ll pray for you as well. Heavenly Father …”
Bastian was in full flow, pontificating on the importance of hand washing and the all-round benefits of soap. Manfred was still struggling with the barbecue. The gas bottle was clearly full and the valve open. He had twisted the barbecue gas intake knob more times than he could recall, and he was pumping the lighter button constantly. There was hiss and smell of gas but no flame.
In the presence of a band of monks who were probably ready to eat the crabs raw, Manfred retained his patience, got down on his knees and inspected the underside of the barbecue. There was the canister and the rubber tube connecting it to …
“Ah.”
There was a hole in the tubing, an age-worn gap in the cracking rubber, through which gas was leaking.
“Not good,” he said, and made to turn off the gas at the bottle.
The valve wouldn’t turn. Manfred grunted to himself and put further pressure on it. The valve would not budge. With an increasingly nervous urgency, Manfred picked up his barbecue tongs and sharply rapped them against the valve.
With a solid ‘thunk’, the valve mechanism sheered away from the gas canister. Natural gas whistled from the resultant hole and the canister rattled with the force of it.
“Definitely not good,” said Manfred, and backed away rapidly.
He coughed away the stink of gas and turned to the other monks.
“Brothers! Brothers!” he shouted.
“I’m nearly done,” replied Bastian. “I am sure we will be ready to tuck into your food in just a minute or two.”
“There’s a bit of a problem,” Manfred said. “Um, a bit of a gas leak.”
The nearest monks scattered. Some stepped briskly into the protective corridors of the surrounding cloisters.
“I’m sure that I’ll get it under control in just a tick. But if we could all back off a bit and check that there are no naked flames about.”
The monks moved rapidly, but Bastian was stood still, gesturing at the sky with his laser pointer.
“What’s that?”
Manfred looked up at the descending distress flare. His first thought was of Brother Stephen. His second was of the incandescent pink ball and the escaping gas.
He opened his mouth to shout a warning.
Rutspud was pleased to discover that Stephen’s prayers did not instantly banish him to Hell, turn him inside out or do something equally horrible. He was, however, disappointed to discover that prayer seemed to involve little more than closing one’s eyes and talking to the Almighty in the hope that he might be listening.
“… and please help Rutspud in his time of need,” said Stephen. “Yes, I know he is a demon, Lord, one of the fallen ones, but I guess that since you are the creator of all things, he too is one of your creations. Give him strength to overcome his trials and the courage to do what is right.”
“Fat chance of that,” Rutspud muttered.
“Please don’t interrupt,” said Stephen, eyes still closed. “I’m talking to God, not you.”
“I’m just saying that –”
There was a far off sound, an explosive boom, muffled and yet enlarged by distance.
“What was that?” said Stephen.
“Was it God?” said Rutspud.
Stephen scowled at him.
“I thought it might have been his signal to say your time’s up. He’s not angry, is he?”
Something small fell end over end out of the sky and smacked Rutspud on the head.
“Ow!” he declared. “Praying hurts.”
He bent and picked up the object. It was warm to the touch and slightly scorched at one end.
“That’s Bastian’s laser pointer,” said Stephen, clearly confused.
“His whatty-what-what?”
Rutspud pressed the button on the side of the tubular device. A red dot of light appeared on the grass.
“Actually,” said Stephen, “that could be the answer to your prayers.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“I’m not.”
“Nah. You’re shitting me.”
“I defecate you not, demon. You see, kittens are very playful creatures …”
By nightfall, Brother Huey had been laid out in the monastery crypt, in an alcove next to Brother Bernard. The monks gathered in the cloisters afterwards.
Manfred and Father Eustace stood in the slight crater at the middle of the scorched and blackened lawn. Most of the monks had red faces, as though they had been out in the sun too long. Some were missing eyebrows, lending a surprise air to their already stunned looking faces. None of the brothers had been seriously injured in the gas explosion, although Bastian had apparently lost his laser pointer and Brother Vernon had had his glasses smashed by a flying crab.
The monks looked to their leaders for leadership. Many of them weren’t particularly hopeful.
“Father Abbot,” said Manfred and nudged his superior in the ribs.
The rarely focussed abbot seemed to mentally surface.
“Fires,” he said ponderously. “The eternal fires await.”
He paused. The brothers waited.
“But, in Hell,” he said, “are there crabs? Are there crabs?” He scrutinised them all. “I think not.”
He fell into silence again and, once he realised that this was the end of the abbot’s speech, Manfred stepped forward.
“Brothers,” he said, “I know all our thoughts are with Brother Huey. And Brother Bernard. And, yes, I too share your concerns. They
have told us there is no plague on the island but, if there is not, we are facing a disturbing coincidence.”
There were mutters of unhappy agreement from many of the monks.
“Some of you have asked if you can sleep somewhere other than the dormitory that you previously shared with Brother Bernard and Brother Huey. I can understand that. And so we will set up some temporary beds in the church.”
“The church?” said Brother Clement indignantly.
“The church is, above all, a place of sanctuary, is it not?” said Manfred and gave Brother Clement his firmest gaze.
“Of course, brother,” said the sacristan humbly. “But I suppose I will have to stay up all night to guard the communion wafers from any midnight snackers.”
“Not at all,” said Manfred and waved Bastian over.
Bastian came forward with a tray of dishes.
“Lemon sorbet,” said Manfred. “Garnished with the last of the wafers. It’s no feast, but at least we can eat, enjoy and remember our brothers who have passed on.”
“Lemon sorbet?” said Brother Lionel. “Where did you get the lemons from?”
“Strangest thing,” said Manfred with a smile. “I was in the visitors’ centre and discovered in a cupboard two bottles of limoncello liqueur.”
From the back of the crowd, there was a cough.
“What is it, Brother Trevor?”
“Stephen.”
“Stephen.”
“Are you sure that’s limoncello? It couldn’t be anything else?”
Bastian handed out bowls and spoons to the hungry monks.
“That’s what it looked like to me,” said Manfred. “Do you think it might be something else?”
Stephen looked at the monks tucking in to their desserts. He’d need to fill replacement bottles for Rutspud.
“Nope,” he squeaked. “No, I’m sure that’s what it is. No, thanks, Brother Sebastian. I’m not hungry.”
“BONG!” declared Nero loudly. “Twelve o’clock.”
Lord Peter smiled at Rutspud. So did Scabass, but there was a world of difference between them. One was a smile of a fool who believed he was doing good. The other was the smile of a git who relished the pain of others. Rutspud wasn’t sure which one he hated more.
“Looking forward to some well-deserved relaxation therapy?” said Lord Peter.
“Absolutely,” said Rutspud, feeling the shape of the laser pointer in his clenched fist.
“Enjoy,” leered Scabass and opened the Relaxation Centre door for his underling.
“What is that unholy moaning?” said Rutspud. “It sounds like a whale trying to mate with a pipe organ.”
“Oh, that’ll be the Enya,” said Scabass. “Don’t worry, you’ll totally forget about it once the kittens get to work on you.”
With that, he propelled Rutspud roughly inside and shut the door.
Rutspud looked across the pastel carpet at the mass of mewling, furry creatures stumbling towards him.
He quickly turned on the laser pointer and found that the kittens halted their progress to chase the little light. He swept the light briskly over to the wall and the fastest of the kittens ran face-first into the wall and fell back with a small kittenish “oof”.
Rutspud smiled.
This might actually be fun.
Chapter 5 – The day the cargo container washed ashore
“Shhhh! We really don't want to wake the others,” said Stephen.
“What is all this stuff?” Rutspud pulled out a hinged metal implement from one of the refectory cupboards. “Some sort of finger-crusher, surely?”
“I doubt it.”
“Toe-mangler?”
Stephen held up his candle to take a look, and shrugged.
“I believe Manfred uses it to mash potatoes,” he said. “Not that we've had potatoes for a while. We've had seaweed mostly. A lot of seaweed.” Stephen indicated a large smelly bucket next to the sink. “That's just for our breakfast fry-up tomorrow.”
“Smells like the pool of Yan Ryuleh Sloggoth,” said Rutspud.
“Who?”
“Elder demon of the impenetrable depths. Nice guy. Likes oil company executives,” said Rutspud.
“Likes them?”
“For lunch. I've told you, Stephen, I can bring some food from Hell if you like.”
Stephen sighed.
“To be honest, I quite like seaweed,” he said. “Manfred made cake from it yesterday. Don't ask me how, but it was nice. What we could really do with is fuel of some sort. We haven't had hot water for a fortnight. That and fuses, they all blew when Manfred tried to wire up that old tractor battery after the generator ran dry.”
“Fair enough, mate. I'll see what I can do,” said Rutspud, and emerged from a cupboard holding some battered enamel plates. “Let's go!” he grinned.
The two of them crept quietly outside and stole down the hillside. It was a clear night and the moon cast a helpful glow.
“Everything's more exciting at night, somehow,” said Stephen.
“Less frightening,” agreed Rutspud and gave an involuntary shudder. The intolerable glare of the sun had not only been painful on his skin, but also a constant reminder that there was no sensible roof on this place.
“That spotlight,” he said.
“The moon,” said Stephen.
“How far above us is it?”
Stephen looked at him.
“What kind of answer wouldn’t freak you out?”
“Ooh, I think I could cope with the idea that it’s a hundred feet above us.”
“Yeah, that’s about right,” said Stephen cheerily. “All this sneaking about reminds me of when I was young, staying up late.”
“Staying up?”
“When you're a child, a human child, all your parents want is for you to stay in bed and get a good night's sleep,” explained Stephen.
“Parents. Those are the people who hatched you out?”
“Something like that – but when I was about ten, I really, really wanted to see a badger, so I'd go outside after midnight and look around the garden. It always seemed like a different place in the moonlight.”
“Did you ever see a badger?” asked Rutspud.
“No,” said Stephen. “I don't think there are any in Erdington, but it was the most exciting thing, to be sneaking around outside when I was supposed to be in bed.”
Rutspud gave Stephen a sideways look.
“So there's a part of you that likes to break the rules then?” he asked. “Even you, a monk?”
Stephen shrugged. “I think there is. I wouldn't be human otherwise.”
“There's so much I don't understand about humans,” said Rutspud, with a rueful shake of his head. “Why do the good ones have bits of bad in them? Why do the bad ones have bits of good in them? Why do some men have boobs?”
“It's all part of God's mysterious plan, I guess,” said Stephen.
“Speaking of which, I checked the arrivals board for those friends of yours, Huey and Bernard. They’re not down there with us.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” said Stephen. “I’ll rest easier knowing that. Now, shall we?”
They had arrived on a flat piece of scrubby grass.
“Right, I know how this works,” said Rutspud. “I've seen it on the internet. I'll stand here, you go over there. I throw the frisbee and you jump up and catch it in your mouth.”
Stephen frowned.
“That's dogs you're thinking of. I won't be catching it in my mouth. I probably won't be catching it at all to be honest.”
“Oh,” said Rutspud, a little disappointed. “Can we get a dog from somewhere?”
“There aren't any on the island,” said Stephen. “Apart from a collie who visits from the mainland sometimes. Let's just try throwing it for now.”
Rutspud tried an experimental flick of his bony wrist and then unleashed the upside-down enamel plate towards Stephen. It sailed past him and continued for a considerable distance before it clatter
ed to the floor.
“Yes! Did you see that?” crowed Rutspud, and he skimmed another plate through the air.
A few minutes later, Stephen puffed back to Rutspud, having run back and forth, collecting plates.
“My turn now.”
Rutspud found that his long, skinny arms and lightning-fast reactions made him adept at catching the frisbee-cum-plate. He capered with joy as he stretched up to catch one that looked as if it was going to elude him.
“I'm a frisbee natural,” he declared. “I think I win at this game. So, we're doing football tomorrow, yes?”
Stephen nodded.
“We need something for the day after. Are you absolutely sure you haven't got a unicycle?” Rutspud said. “I mean, maybe you just forgot where you put it?”
“No, I really don't have one. I'm utterly certain there are no unicycles on Bardsey.”
“Shame. Right, I'm just going to have one last go with this, see how far I can throw it,” said Rutspud.
He stepped back and put everything he had into one final throw. The plate disappeared across the grass, over towards the rocky shore.
“Come on,” said Stephen. “You need to help me find that.”
They trotted over the rise and clambered over some rocks before they found the plate.
“Hey, what's that?” said Rutspud, pointing towards the shore.
A large shape loomed against the skyline.
“It looks like a container,” said Stephen as they approached it.
“Well, duh,” said Rutspud, “everything's a container if you try hard enough. Take it from me, when demons get bored they can stuff anything into anything. Oh, the fun they have in the pit of gluttons.”
“Not sure I want to know about that,” said Stephen. “I still can't believe that Hell's really a place, you know. It seems so wrong.”
“You believe in God, why wouldn't you believe in Hell?”
“I always just imagined it was an absence of God. A spiritual thing. More of a concept than a reality. Not a place where demons actually torture people. For eternity.”
He shuddered with distaste.
“Hey, don't get shirty with me,” said Rutspud. “I just work there. Now apart from being a container, what do we think this is?”
“A cargo container,” said Stephen. “That's what they're called. They're like big boxes that can fit on the back of a lorry, and they get piled up on ships. This one must have fallen off a ship.”
