The Waters of Life

by Michael H. Kelly

  He crept over to the cottage and pressed himself flat against the wall. The interior was in darkness, but he was surprised to find that all the curtains were drawn open. He peered into the living room window, the dim details slowly revealing themselves to his gaze. When he was certain that there was no one inside, he risked a brief flash of his torch to illuminate the room. All was still, but he was concerned to note some signs of a struggle. A fine, antique armchair beside a bookcase had been overturned and several books lay strewn on the floor.

  He moved cautiously around the side of the cottage to the rear, stepping past some empty cement bags and a small electric mixer that were beside the back door. He carefully peered into the kitchen window, again using his flashlight once he was certain that there was no one inside. Here too, although the room was empty, there were details that raised questions and some concern. The kitchen table had been shoved over against one wall, leaving just a single chair in the centre of the room. What made this instantly worrying and suspicious were the cords still looped on the floor around the chair, as if someone or something had been tied to it at some point. The dark stains on the floor were disquieting too. Some effort had been made to scrub them up, but they were still visible when the torchlight was angled close to them.

  Eric was torn now. He was becoming convinced that something had happened to David Stoker. Was Gaunt holding him hostage somewhere? Should Eric continue with his original plan to investigate Wulfred's tomb and the healing waters, or should he try to gain access to the cottage and find out what had befallen here? But he knew the answer even as he asked the question. He was no forensics expert and would doubtless gain no more knowledge from the cottage interior than he had already surmised by looking through the windows. And what else could he do? If he went to the police, he could only have seen these signs by trespassing. He decided that the only person he could possibly inform of his suspicions who might be in a position to take matters further was Reverend Ellwood, but that would have to wait until morning. Wherever Stoker was, Eric doubted that a delay until morning would make him any worse off.

  Eric broke away from the cottage and crossed the remainder of the gardens, re-entering the woods on the other side. He quickly found a narrow woodland path, slightly overgrown but still visible, which headed in the direction of the lake. He hurried down this as smoothly and silently as he could, unknowingly following in the footsteps of Peter the leper, who had shuffled this same way over a thousand years earlier.

  As he neared the lake, he saw that a way had been forced through some bushes on his left. It looked as though there had always been a narrow path here, but something large had recently been pushed through, breaking branches. As he investigated, he entered a small clearing in which stood the ancient monks' vault, a crumbling stone mausoleum which grinned at the surrounding bushes and trees with a face like death. The culprit for the recent damage stood alongside it, a large diesel generator, from which cables ran inside the decaying structure.

  Eric crept closer. The presence of the generator here at the tomb implied that the film company were planning to actually shoot some footage inside it. This set off further alarm bells in his head. From what Ellwood had told him about Stoker, there was no way the man would have given permission for such a thing.

  He moved around the side of the structure to the solid door. It was of centuries old oak, weathered and worn, but still standing, bound with great bands of iron. As he had expected, it had been closed with a chain and padlock. These were now lying on the ground. The chain had been cut through with a hacksaw. Surely Stoker would have provided a key if he had genuinely given his permission to film? Eric wondered how the two girls had entered the tomb to sample the waters, but as he flashed his torch around the vault, he spotted a tiny rivulet trickling out from beneath one crumbling wall and flowing away towards the lake. He knelt to examine where it seeped through the ancient stonework and concluded that they hadn't needed to enter at all, neither of them had actually said they went inside, just that they drank from the stream. He wondered if Stoker even knew that the water he guarded so jealously could now be accessed so easily?

  But the film crew had obviously gone inside, and Eric wasn't here for healing, he was here for a story, so he was going inside too! He put his shoulder against the door, swollen with the must and damp of ages, and shunted it open.

  He shone his torch down the short, shallow steps, revealing a dank, foetid chamber of stone, oozing with moss, dirt and the filth of centuries. He looked up at the ceiling, which arched overhead and looked dangerously loose and decayed. Large lights had been fastened to the upper walls, obviously connected to the generator outside, placed by the film crew. Did they really expect their actors to work in this miserable, filthy grotto?

  He cautiously descended the slippery steps, almost recoiling when the odour hit him. It was an unwholesome, cheesy stench, like the scent of an infected sore, or the dead, white skin sloughed when a plaster cast is removed from a broken limb after several weeks. A thick, almost sweet smell which turned rank and sour as it gripped his senses.

  Alcoves in the walls had once borne the bodies of monks. Some of these were now but dust, other bones lay strewn on the floor, deposited there as their supporting ledges crumbled and fell away. How anyone could view this house of death as a place of healing was quite beyond Eric.

  Eric's eyes were drawn to the stone sarcophagus which had been placed in the centre of the tomb. It looked heavy and solid, built to withstand the ravages of time. Its only flaw was a crack in the bottom corner, from which a lively spring bubbled, flowing rapidly from the sarcophagus along a narrow groove which the centuries had worn in the floor. It disappeared down another crack in the wall, evidently running away into a subterranean stream. But the force of the water must have increased over the long years, for its flow had worn away at the outer wall of the tomb, forming a swirling torrent, like water rushing down a plughole, where it exited the vault. It was evidently here, in this weakened section, that a small proportion of the water was escaping through the old wall, trickling through outside.

  Eric screwed up his nose as he considered the water rushing up within the sarcophagus and swirling around the old abbot's corpse, before sluicing out through the crack. If the monks had truly believed Wulfred to be wicked, perhaps the placing of the sarcophagus over the stream had been deliberate, a means of symbolically washing away his corruption. But the thought of drinking water laced with the old cleric's decomposing remains was still nauseating. Eric realised he was being silly, of course. After a thousand years, Wulfred's bones would have been completely washed clean and smoothed to practically nothing by the continual surging of the current around them. Perhaps there would by now be nothing left in his tomb at all, eroded completely away. Nevertheless, the thought was a horrible one.

  Eric knelt down beside the little stream and played his torch over it, watching it glitter and sparkle from various angles. It really was a crystal clear water, quite at odds with the decay and stench of the ancient tomb, itself the festering corpse of a long dead age. He reached into his holdall and withdrew a small, stoppered bottle, which he gingerly lowered into the rapid rivulet and filled with the clear water. He replaced the stopper carefully and put it back in a padded pocket of his bag. He would send this sample of the healing water to Sandra in the morning, then she could persuade some of the boffins who owed her favours to analyse it properly, covering the scientific angle of the story.

  His sample collected, Eric decided it was time to leave this awful place. He couldn't shake the dreadful conviction that malevolent eyes were watching him and he was afraid of being jumped by patrolling stooges of Terry Gaunt. More than that, he wanted to get out of this crypt of death, with its odour of millennial rot.

  He slipped out, pushed the heavy door closed behind him, and made back for the outer wall of the gardens at its closest point, sticking to the cover of the trees. He didn't relax until his car had driven five miles, then turned and follow
ed an alternative route back into the village from the opposite direction. He was almost glad to retire to the clammy security of his rented room.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  PULLING A SICKY

  Eric rose early the next morning. He was tired, but he found it oppressive and uncomfortable to sleep in the loathsome little room. Also, he wanted to be out of the house before the stink of Mr and Mrs Stoop preparing breakfast began to circulate, the choking fumes from his pipe mixing with the acrid smell of bacon frying in weeks-old grease. He got dressed quickly after showering in tepid water. Then he slung his bag over his shoulder and went out for the day. He had a couple of calls he wanted to make before doing anything else.

  First, he went to the small village post office, where he purchased a padded envelope. He scribbled a rapid note to Sandra at a little side counter, then stuffed it in the envelope. He carefully retrieved the small sample bottle containing water from St Wulfred's Well from his holdall. He held it up to the light, once again admiring its crystal purity, glittering as the light shone through it. But was it just his imagination or could he see a slight film of oilier texture coating the interior of the bottle? No matter, Sandra would quickly have it analysed and would let him know the results. That would show whether there were any impurities or other strange elements present in the water. He wrapped it in a spare handkerchief for extra padding, stuffed it in the envelope alongside the note, then took it over to the counter and mailed it, paying the extra for guaranteed next day delivery.

  As Eric left the post office, he was forced to join a couple of other people pressing themselves right back against the wall on the narrow pavement as four large vans came rumbling along the tiny street at a speed that wasn't safe for such a small village. The large vans and trailers swept past, ignoring the inconvenienced pedestrians, gears grinding as they negotiated the tight turn at the end of the street and roared off in the direction of the monastery ruins. All four of the huge black vehicles had 'TEL'S STAR PRODUCTIONS' painted on their sides, along with a shower of showbiz style stars.

  “Bloody film company!” complained one old woman as she set off hobbling along the pavement once more. “I bet you those vans are full of their dolly birds for this mucky movie they're making. It's not right, not on sacred ground.”

  Eric looked curiously after the film company vans as he walked along towards his next call: the vicarage. He dearly wanted to know what precisely was going on at that film set. But he must see Reverend Ellwood again first. Getting the vicar onside was an important part of his strategy.

  He soon found himself at the vicarage once again and rapped smartly on the door. The housekeeper let him in once again and the vicar soon greeted him in his living room.

  “Ah, Mr Turner, so very pleasant to see you once again. I am sorry I was in such a hurry yesterday, but the sick are always with us and in need of my attention. I have no other appointments this morning, though.”

  “You're too kind,” smiled Eric as the housekeeper returned to pour tea. “I had hoped you might be available this morning, as something has come to light which I find rather … concerning.”

  “Indeed?” asked Ellwood. “Something that Mr Stoker told you, perhaps?” He raised an eyebrow.

  “In actual fact, no,” said Eric. “You see, I didn't actually get to meet Mr Stoker. Apparently, he has gone away, or so I was told.”

  “Really?” Ellwood frowned deeply and put his cup carefully down on its saucer. “I find that incredibly strange. It must have been one of his associates who told you this, then? Mr Bell, or Mr Milder?”

  “I don't believe I have met with either of those two gentlemen,” said Eric, shaking his head.

  Ellwood was becoming visibly agitated, twitching in his chair. “But David wouldn't have gone away. Not without notifying me first. And he would most certainly have left one of his two colleagues to look after the property in his absence. So who was it who told you that he had gone away?”

  “The monastery grounds were certainly not unoccupied,” said Eric carefully, watching the vicar's reaction. “There was a man sitting beside the closed gate, a kind of security guard. He was employed by Tel's Star Productions, the film company who are currently in the village. I asked to see Mr Stoker and he informed me that Mr Stoker was not available. Apparently, he had provided written permission for the company to film on his property and had then taken himself away for the duration of the shoot so he would not be disturbed by it.”

  “They're filming on Stoker's property?” echoed Ellwood, his face ashen.

  “Yes,” replied Eric bluntly.

  “But this is so, so wrong,” Ellwood insisted. “I can tell you now, Mr Turner, without any shadow of a doubt. There is nothing on this earth nor beyond it that could compel David Stoker to allow anyone to make a film among those ruins! Nothing!” The old man was trembling now. “And then to suggest he has 'gone away' and simply left them to it? No! I won't believe it! It can't possibly be true.”

  “Can I be absolutely honest with you, sir?” asked Eric, fixing the vicar with a piercing gaze. “I'll tell you everything I've learned if I can trust you.”

  “Of course,” said Ellwood. “I don't believe this story for a moment, Mr Turner. I don't know the full story behind Wulfred's tomb, but David Stoker does and he takes his guardianship very seriously indeed. He would never have consented to this. Something is very wrong.”

  “I agree with you,” said Eric. “But I've got to tell you that they're not just filming among the ruins, they're going to film inside the vault itself.”

  Ellwood paled. “But … how do you know? They can't!”

  “I was very suspicious of their story, so last night I entered the grounds in secret, slipping over the wall. The cottage is empty, but in my opinion there were signs of a struggle there that hadn't been fully cleared up. There was at least one security guard at the gatehouse. When I made my way through the woods to the vault, I found a generator there, with lighting set up inside. I believe Stoker has been forced to sign a contract and is being held somewhere against his will. They've put about the story that he's simply away from home to avoid the fuss of the filming, visiting relatives or something.”

  “No, no,” said Ellwood, flustered. “You don't understand David or his convictions. He would never sign such a contract, no matter how they tried to threaten or bribe him.”

  Eric leaned forward and looked earnestly into Ellwood's troubled eyes. “You misunderstand the situation, sir. Terry Gaunt of Tel's Star Productions is a notorious gangster. The film company is his bid to get rich and go straight. The list of his crimes is as thick as the Bible on your pulpit. You can't begin to imagine the methods of persuasion he would be prepared to employ, but I can assure you that they all without fail culminate in him getting what he wants. And he always makes sure the paperwork is nice and binding.”

  “Then … we must inform the police!” insisted Ellwood, trembling violently.

  “You're right,” said Eric. “But they won't pay much attention to me, which is why I've come to you. Can you try to visit Stoker? You'll get rebuffed, but then you'll have grounds to report your suspicions to the police. They may listen to a vicar where they'd just shrug off a hack from a kooky magazine.”

  “Yes, yes, I'll do that,” decided Ellwood. “We have to put a stop to this. I'll go over there later, as if I'm going to meet David for lunch. If they don't let me see him, I'll go directly to the police. And before I go, I'll telephone David's two associates. It's very possible they don't realise there's anything amiss yet, and they'll be most concerned.”

  “Thank you,” said Eric, standing and shaking the old man's hand. “I'll keep on digging around too, see what I can find out.”

  Ellwood returned the handshake with dignity and said, “When you came to see me yesterday, I was afraid you were just another sensation seeker, wanting to stir up a new wave of unhealthy interest in that accursed tomb. But I want to thank you, it may be that your quick actions and insights will hel
p avert a terrible tragedy.”

  “I'm not a sensationalist, Reverend,” said Eric. “I wouldn't research the paranormal if I wasn't genuinely interested in the truth. There are a lot of other fields which pay a whole lot better, you know, if that was my only concern.”

  “Yes,” smiled Ellwood after a moment's reflection, “I suppose there are. Visit me again tomorrow, Eric, after I've visited the monastery and then gone to the police. I'll let you know then how I get on.”

  Johnno Grey beeped repeatedly on the horn of his truck until the lazy oaf manning the gates swung them open. Johnno skilfully steered the articulated truck and trailer off the narrow road and through the narrower entrance in a single smooth movement, something he was certain the drivers following wouldn't be able to do, even though they were driving the smaller vehicles. When it came to drivers, Johnno was the best on Terry Gaunt's books, a skilled and trusted employee whose services were always called on for those 'special' transport jobs. Bald and taciturn, he parked his rig and jumped down, pausing for only a moment to watch the other four vehicles struggle to negotiate the turn into the monastery grounds. Then he strode off to the catering tent, leaving them to it. Film crew members were already opening up his trailer, jumping aboard and beginning to unload the props, costumes and equipment.

  The remaining three vans and minibuses were packed with the cast and the remaining crew members of the movie and documentary projects, which were to be shot side by side: one seedy soft porn movie to bring in the money, and a documentary on the historic monastery and its alleged healing waters to attract acclaim and funding from the money men at larger studios.