Storm clouds gathered in the distance, like a billowing, greying beard stretching across the sky. He looked to the garden, crusty and brown, then to the builders, who were busy installing a new oak sign for the church. He could feel the conflict mount within him between getting the job completed today and potentially having green grass after the long drought for tomorrow. Is it too much to ask for both? He thought to himself.
“Do you plan on finishing the sign today?” Edward asked, hoping he wouldn't have to wait another month for the builders to return, strategically placing himself between the builders and the storm clouds.
“Not likely, Mr. Leeps,” Builder David stated, scratching his black moustache and stretching a heavy arm from his rotund but muscled body towards the sky. “What with Will's arches and my back and those clouds we'll have to pack up early. Rain is finally coming and the forecast says it's likely to last through the week.”
Edward looked at the young man named Will leaning against one of the sign uprights, one shoe abandoned on the ground, rubbing his foot earnestly. Edward adjusted his sleeve and collar and crossed his arms.
“Will you be coming back tomorrow then?” he asked.
“Tomorrow's Friday, Mr. Leeps, and we've got to be in Brighton by two pm so by the time we set up in the morning we'd have to pack right back up and be off. Best thing is to start fresh next week,” David said, smiling.
Edward shut his mouth grimly as a pattern emerged before him of delay after delay and he was suddenly struck with an idea.
“You've got the uprights up, and since it is only noon, I don't see any reason why you can't take a seat down in the workshop to finish carving the sign. I'll bring some lunch and tea,” he said with a certain finality.
“Well, I'm not sure...” David started.
“I am!” barked Edward. “It will get Will off his feet and I'll find a pillow for your back. Let's get your tools together before it starts to rain.”
David looked at Will and shrugged, the two of them silently agreeing there was no way out and they might as well finish the job.
The saga of the sign had been ongoing for several months now and Edward was going to see the job done by the coming Sunday even if he had to hang it himself. The old sign had needed replacing since he arrived at the Parish. Hanging from red rusted pegs the whole structure leaned at a severe angle, the root from a nearby tree having muscled its way underneath, creating an asphalt bulge on one side. It had been of particular annoyance to him for the past ten years and an eyesore to an otherwise lovely building. Due to its size, it was the first thing he had seen upon his arrival and therefore was a continual reminder of that first strange week.
He was very much at home within the Parish now and the community had welcomed him with a begrudging but gradual respect. Attendance had become progressively better as well, largely due to the variety of projects he had initiated to reach the local community. During this entire time, however, he had never mentioned to anyone that very odd last day with the Reverend Haggerty. Nor had anyone seen the old Vicar ever again. He had left Edward, bleeding and dizzy, within the deep crypt.
Edward had stayed below for some time before gathering his wits and running up the spiral staircase after Reverend Haggerty, only to find the church empty, the rain beating on the stained glass as if the night had offered him nothing unusual. The entire experience had been quite draining and it took him some time to find the courage to replace the covering stone within the crypt. Once he had done it, however, he had never opened it again. He shivered with both embarrassment and fear whenever he thought about his beautiful church having associations with some sort of cult.
Eventually, he put it down as some kind of local medieval pagan quirk that had stuck and placed the entire event far from his mind.
The portion of the crypt away from the sarcophagus had been cleared and cleaned and it was here that Edward set up the two men to finish carving the sign. At first they were a bit reluctant to work in a crypt but once they saw how comfortable the Reverend had made it they were happy to get down to their hammering and chipping. He even switched on an old recording of the parish choir to help fill the void.
A pile of curled and fluffy oak shavings had gathered to a considerable height when the storm finally struck the church. Even deep within the cloistered crypt they could hear the heavy weight of water hitting the roof. Thunder seemed to shake the entire structure, foundations and all.
Edward turned down the music so the three of them could hear the rhythm and revel in the calm that only the sound of rain can bring.
They worked for some time, Edward trying to casually clear up the wood as it collected, until Will looked up and stared at the west wall.
“Looks like you have a severe leak, Mr. Leeps,” he said pointing at a small river that was glistening from a gap in the masonry on the wall. A pool gathered quickly around the sarcophagus creating an island within the crypt. They were afraid that they would be flooded out until the pool reached the side of the covering stone over the secret temple. With a whoosh the water escaped, splashing on the steps below.
“Is there a drain or something below that stone?” asked David. “The water is flowing down there pretty easily. You are lucky. Otherwise this whole room would have to be emptied.”
“Yes, a drain, but we haven't had this much water before.”
“Well, it must be raining pretty hard outside. Look, I have a large piece of plastic in the van. You can have it to cover whatever hole this is coming from. I'll be right back.”
David got up slowly, with a gruelling sigh and lengthy stretch. He walked up the steps and within a few minutes the water had slowed to a trickle and stopped. Returning with a fresh pot of tea and biscuits, they continued to work accompanied with the more aggressive and annoying patter of raindrops on plastic.
The weather didn't let up and neither did their need to get the sign finished now that they were on a roll. There is nothing more satisfying than a straight forward job with a clear ending in sight, thought David. Within a couple of hours it was complete.
They all helped to tidy up, Edward frowning at a few misplaced jokes about swimming with the dead. The tools were loaded into Will and David's compact white van and the pair were paid, and happily on their way to Brighton within thirty minutes of finishing.
Edward planned to hang the sign in the morning with help from one of the parishioners, and was about to head to bed when he thought about the leak in the crypt and the water disappearing down what he knew was the spiral staircase. He wasn't sure why. Perhaps the relaxing chant of the rain, or the image of the water cascading prettily down the steps, or even the fact that he was already wearing work clothes, whatever it was, he decided to lift the covering stone and to descend.
It wasn't as easy for him to free the stone as it had been for his younger self. He needed to clear the dirt and dust from around its edge and by the time he levered it up and shifted it to the side, he was breaking into a heavy sweat. Feeling particularly grubby, he had the brief fantasy of disrobing down to his undergarments and running around in the rain as he used to do as a child. The thought of being seen, however, quickly squashed that idea.
There wasn't any mould or moss on the steps and the water failed to make them slick. The staircase was as bright and clean as it had been ten years ago. It still looked as if the staircase had just been fitted. He picked up a box of matches, the lamp and the oil can, which still swished half full and just as he was about to descend, a thunderous crash of lighting struck the building blowing the fuse box, killing the electric lights in the crypt.
The storm raging outside had diminished the natural light coming through the windows and Edward found himself in nearly pitch darkness.
“Oh, fiddlesticks,” he said. “Just when you start one job, something else rises up and shoves it aside.”
He turned away slowly from the descending stairs, groping in the darkness, with the intention of navigating the crypt and finding the fuse b
ox when he noticed a slight glow coming from the space below him. It wasn't significant or bright and, had the lights remained on, would have gone unnoticed. Somehow it seemed the white marble was creating a warmth and light from within. It proved to be enough for him to see the matches and to light the oil lamp and to begin descending the steps. He lit the additional lamps as he went along thinking that the glow had been a trick of the eye.
At the bottom of the staircase he was greeted by a shallow lake of clear water, which quickly penetrated the soles of his shoes, soaking his socks when he carelessly stepped into it.
“Who would have thought I would need my rubber boots during a drought,” he exclaimed to the lake.
His annoyance was short lived, however, as the gentle glow of the stone permeated the water from below and the flicker of the oil lamps danced and glistened on the surface. Even the sound of a calm drip somewhere in the room added to the serenity of the scene.
“How beautiful,” he said to himself, then sighed, “But this will damage the room eventually so I should probably find a way to drain it.”
Wading through the water he lit the remaining lamps around the corridor and finally the large one hanging above the font in the centre of the room. An image of himself, holding a knife, kneeling before the font and wincing as he cut his finger made him shake his head in disbelief that he had ever done such a thing. He looked at the silver head of a fox on the door set behind the font on the wall and wondered if it remembered him.
“Well, I'm back. You look much the same.”
With all of the lamps burning, a light oily smell began to permeate the room. He could now see aspects of the space which had been lost to him in his confusion all those years ago. Around the ceiling was a cornice ornately carved in fox inspired stele. It showed a variety of activities and a mix of differently dressed foxes. Some wearing robes seemed to be having conversations with soldiers carrying swords in their jaws. There were dogs wearing collars linked to foxes who seemed to be leading them. Banners, stalls, musicians with their instruments and a variety of different foods littered the carving. Politicians stood wearing wigs while knights knelt before them. Each scene, whether it was a swelling battle rolling over a hillside or an intimate wedding of two was always attended upon by the fox king.
Edward was amazed at the level of detail. The quality of the design confused him. It was clearly in a Roman style even in the clothing and weaponry but the minute attention to detail and the intricacy of the carving seemed to be more medieval than anything else. This place piled mystery upon mystery and part of him was happy he had taken an oath to keep it secret.
“The bureaucratic nightmare would be never ending if I showed this place to the local council.”
He had carried the red rusted crow bar with him down the steps, alternating between holding it and setting it down to light the lamps. The only thing he could think to do was to pry up one of the paving stones to see if the flood would escape through the exposed earth. As he looked around, however, the fit of the stones was so perfect he couldn't find anywhere with a big enough gap to insert the bar.
Just as he was about to give up, his foot caught on a lip, and he stumbled onto all fours soaking his trousers, sleeves and nearly breaking a finger under the weight of the metal bar.
Feeling with his hand along the smooth surface, he found the sharp corner of stone poking up and carefully placed the point of the crow bar against it. Pushing down, while keeping pressure against the stone, he could feel it give and the square start to shift up. He quickly inserted the edge of his shoe in the open gap, awkwardly set down the bar, put his hands where his foot was and pulled the stone up and over onto the ground.
With a great belch of air the water filled the exposed void and began to slowly seep out of the room into the black earth at the bottom of the hole. A strong pungent smell of burnt wood hit his nose with the escaping air but soon dissipated. It took a few minutes, but Edward was surprised at the pace of the escaping water and the fact that a deep hole had been dug out under the stone. In the dim light he could just make out the bottom an arm length away. He could hear a trickle and splash coming from beneath the last step of the staircase, as well.
“There must be a space below the steps,” he said to himself.
He crouched down and reached for the stone, intending to replace it. Just as he hefted the heavy block on edge and guided it towards the opening he noticed a small black box sunken in the soil in the centre.
“What is that?” he asked himself, setting the stone gently back on the damp floor.
He was just able to reach the object by laying flat on the floor and groping with his hands in the mud and was surprised by the weight of it as he brought it up. Placing it on the lip of the hole he sighed with exasperation at the thick black streak that now ran across his work shirt. He took a finger and ran it along the wall of the void before bringing it to his nose dripping with a slick oily substance.
“What is this, crude oil? No...,” he sniffed. “There was a fire here.”
Lowering his oil lamp as far as he could, silently wishing he had brought a torch, he checked to make sure there was nothing else within the space. It was empty except for the heavy layer of soot. Lifting the stone back into position he could see that the shape of the opening didn't quite match the way the stone had been set previously as if it had been lifted out and replaced in a hurry. Turning it forty-five degrees the stone fell into place with a satisfying clunk and the ridge which he had tripped on earlier was now gone.
Leaning back on his hands, he took a moment to catch his breath, and noticed that the floor of the room was already dry. All that remained of the pool of rainwater was a retreating stain of moisture along the far wall, and that too would be gone shortly.
Taking the box in hand he quickly realized its weight was due to being constructed from solid lead. It was intricately carved in the same manner as the stele above and traced with a glimmering inlay of gold. The cover and the body fit neatly together and where they met was again a rim of gold. There were no handles or legs, only a keyhole on the side and the golden face of a fox on the lid.
“This looks like some sort of reliquary.” he said thinking of the many boxes around Europe he had seen which housed bits and pieces of human remains, some actual Saints and some of more dubious origins.
“This is the same head that is on that door,” he mumbled.
Grasping both halves with his hands he gave a short tug only to have his fingers slip off the wet box.
“The seal is tight enough. Whatever is in there shouldn't have been affected by the water. If only I had the key.”
Walking to the silver door behind the font, he examined the face which was larger and in silver, but was shaped exactly the same. The keyhole in the silver door was the same size and shape as the one on the side of the box. The strange thing was that the hole was cut short as if someone had filled in half a keyhole. It could only fit half a key.
Half a key he thought.
“That key!” he exclaimed turning back towards the stairs remembering the worn object being given to him by the unsteady aged hand of Haggerty. “What did I do with it?”
He was unable to contain his excitement at the mystery of it all. Clearly the box had never been discovered by his predecessor and whatever it contained was meant to be kept behind the silver door. Someone had pried up the stone and hid the box in a hurry.
Running up the stairs he tried to remember where he had last seen that key. He burst out of the crypt and into the church above, the violent rainfall only adding to his exhilaration. First he checked the drawers in his office, then the tool box out in the shed and was going through the cutlery in the kitchen when Gwen walked in soaking wet and carrying a ladder.
“Edward, are you all right?” she asked setting the ladder down on the tile floor.
“Me? Oh, yes, Gwen. Sorry. Can I give you a hand with that?” he offered from his position behind the scattered knives and forks.
Gwen's ability with power tools and the success with which she ran Tabard's Tavern meant that she couldn't help but bring her talents to the church. Since taking over, the tavern had become one of the most successful in South East London. Its exterior terrace looked directly upon the church as did the balcony which ran along its three sides. Given the church was the only view the customers had, she would not have it be a shabby one. At first Edward accepted her help shyly, but as time went on he began to rely upon it. Within the first week he had already given her a key so she could come and go as needed. They were of a similar age and it was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore the twinge of romance which had grown unspoken between them.
“I'm just looking for an old key,” he said in response to her curious gaze. “A broken one actually, but like anything one misplaces, the more you are sure you've seen it recently, the less you can place where that was.”
“A key?” she responded. “Well if I find anything missing I put it in the lost and found box in the pantry by the toilets. There are quite a few keys in there.”
“Really?” he said rushing out of the room, before shaking his head, turning back and picking up the ladder. “Sorry. What were you doing outside anyway?”
“The gutters, Edward, haven't been cleaned in at least five years. All this rain was brimming over the edge like a full teapot because of the grass growing out of them.”
“So you went out on a metal ladder during a thunder storm?”
“Yes, probably not a great idea, but it was only a half-hour job and now we are good for another five years.”
Leaning the ladder against the wall near the pantry he took her hands and smiled awkwardly.
“I wouldn't know what to do if something happened to you, Gwen, so please be careful, would you? Besides who is going to bring the best pie in London to this Sunday's service?”
“Oh, okay,” she laughed, a subtle blush splashing across her face. “Which reminds me, we have a quiet night at the tavern tonight and a fresh barrel of seasonal ale, so I put a pie in the oven and should be checking on it. Will you join me for supper once you are finished with your little investigation?”
The Progeny of Able (The Burrow of London Series Book 1) Page 18
