The Waters of Life

by Michael H. Kelly

  Dan gulped at some bottled water in an attempt to cool himself and to ease his churning stomach as they prepared for his next scene. He took his position, then the camera tracked him as he strode assuredly across the floor of the vault and laid his hand upon the sarcophagus.

  “This stone tomb is the last resting place of the remains of St Wulfred, the holy Abbot of Scratchbury in the Tenth Century. A noted friend to the poor and the sick, it seems that his spirit continues its healing ministry even after death. Shortly after the saint was entombed, a spring of water burst forth from his tomb. Those who have come here in the ensuing centuries, the sick and the afflicted, have had their health and vitality restored after drinking from these waters. And yet, Wulfred remains almost unknown, his tomb shown on no maps, its healing properties lauded in no guide books.”

  The camera zoomed in upon the water which bubbled forth from the cracked stone and rippled across the floor in a steady stream. Under the bright lights, strange colours and reflections seemed to play across the surface of the water, as if there was a slight slick of oil upon it.

  Gaunt was directing the documentary himself, leaving the porno flick to Ed Gibbs. He grinned in satisfaction as he said, “That's a wrap for today. You won't have to enter the vault tomorrow, Dan. We've arranged an interview with a historian who can tell us the background of the monastery and a little bit about the kind of person St Wulfred was. The next day we'll relate a few healing stories from various centuries, and finally we'll get a few shots around the monastery ruins themselves while Ed's crew shoots on sets.” Dan had only been hired for four days' filming and Gaunt's shooting schedule was tightly arranged. The 'historian', of course, was nothing of the sort, merely an actor paid to play the role, though Gaunt had no intention of letting Dan Treadwell know that.

  “So I don't have to come back down here?” asked Dan, feeling relieved.

  “I don't think that will be necessary, Dan,” said Gaunt smoothly. “The camera crew may return just to make sure we have enough footage, but as far as you're concerned, we may just need to record a few voiceover lines, but we can manage that at the hotel.”

  “That's a tremendous relief,” said Dan. “It's so hot and oppressive down here, with these lights and all this surrounding stone. I'll be glad to get out. I feel quite light-headed and queasy.”

  “Well, if you're feeling ill, why not sample the healing waters?” beamed Gaunt, waving a hand at the stream. “May as well make us of it since we're here!”

  Dan looked a little nervous. “But … is it safe? I mean, it comes up through the sarcophagus. There's a dead body in there.”

  “Which has been there for more than a millennium, getting thoroughly washed for every moment for over a thousand years,” Gaunt pointed out. “If any bones remain, they'll have been more thoroughly cleaned than an operating theatre. I wouldn't mind betting, though, that the tomb is empty. Just think, water pushing through at that rate for so many hundreds of years: the bones will probably have eroded away long ago.”

  Dan still looked uncertain.

  “Get Mr Treadwell a cup,” Gaunt ordered one of his assistants, “and scoop some of that water into it.” The assistant obtained a plastic cup, filled it from the holy spring and passed it to Gaunt, who thrust it at Dan. “Here you are, Dan. Just the tonic! You'll be able to give your own endorsement at the end of the documentary!”

  Dan couldn't forget that oily sheen on the water's surface, highlighted by the spotlights. But he was in many ways a very weak man, and it takes a strong will to face down a bully like Terry Gaunt. He smiled nervously, took the cup and drank from it.

  Dan felt a shiver run down his spine and he trembled involuntarily for a moment. The water had been very cold, surprisingly so, but it seemed to have been more than that, as if something had touched his very soul. Then he realised that he no longer felt nauseous. In fact, he felt fantastic! He felt brighter, calmer and fitter than he had in years. It wasn't something he had felt happening, a gradual change in his demeanour. In a blink of an eye, he quite simply felt like a new man. He looked at Gaunt and laughed. “My goodness, Mr Gaunt, that really is a tonic! I feel so refreshed and full of life! You really should try some yourself.”

  “Is that so?” asked Gaunt, raising an eyebrow. To say he was sceptical about the water's healing properties would be putting it mildly, he had only seen a lucrative documentary when he looked at it. But he couldn't deny the change that had come over Dan right in front of his eyes. “I might just do that.”

  Eric had purchased fresh batteries for his recorder, snatched a bite to eat at a desolate and empty café, whose proprietress seemed to be suffering from flu, and had then returned to his lodgings at the Stoops' for a shower and to change his shirt. He had been uncomfortably sweaty all day. The shower refreshed him a little, though his head still ached and his eyes seemed overly sensitive to light. He took a couple of paracetamol, then walked downstairs, ready to depart for his evening meeting with Ellwood and Stoker's associates.

  He paused at the foot of the stairs, aware that he had not yet paid for this next night's room rental. He hesitated outside the living room door, recalling that Mrs Stoop had been ill and may still be in bed. He could hear the occasional guttural, hacking cough from Harry coming from within the room, each one followed by a series of wheezing groans. He withdrew in distaste, leaving enough money to cover another couple of nights' stay on the telephone table in the hall instead, together with a note so that the Stoops couldn't conveniently fail to realise what it was for.

  It wasn't far to Ellwood's home, but he was feeling a little unsteady on his feet, so he opted to drive. As he slowly cruised down the narrow streets, he passed pedestrians who all seemed to be pale and clammy, bleary-eyed, coughing and spluttering. He had never seen so many painful, shambling gaits. Was everyone in this fucking town ill?

  Dan Treadwell climbed out of the make up trailer, still towelling his face after being cleaned up following the shoot. He made his way into the cottage, where Terry Gaunt was viewing the rushes on a monitor. Ed Gibbs sat in a chair close by, waiting to look over his own day's filming once Terry had finished. He acknowledge Dan with a smile and a wave.

  “Ah, Dan,” said Gaunt when he noticed the visitor. “Please come in. We've got some really good footage today. I think you'll like it.”

  Dan put down the towel, reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a pair of spectacles and then squinted at the monitor through them. The scene inside the vault on screen was suffused with a subtle golden warmth thanks to the lighting. This, combined with the talents of the make up artist, made his own face appear smooth, youthful and bright-eyed on screen. His cheeks looked much fuller and healthier than normal. He chuckled appreciatively. “Thank you, Mr Gaunt, that looks marvellous. You've taken ten years off me! I should never had doubted you when you said we'd be shooting in a crypt.”

  “We aim to please,” said Gaunt magnanimously. But privately he thought that now the make-up was off, Dan Treadwell was looking very pale and sickly and indeed, his eyes and cheeks were sunken hollows, almost skull-like. He made a mental note to speak to the make-up girl before Dan arrived the following morning. He didn't know what was up with the old buzzard, he just hoped he'd last the course of filming before going down with a lurgy.

  Ed Gibbs' footage wasn't nearly so promising. Sharon and Trisha both looked like death on the screen, they were so ill. Even allowing for Jenny's argument that captives of the Inquisition might be expected to look sickly, no one was going to want to watch a skin flick and jack off to two specimens like this. The rest of it wasn't much better. The lesbian nun scene quite clearly showed weeping sores and lesions on the thighs and buttocks of some of the actresses, and one of the guys playing the torturers had a huge cluster of ripe boils.

  “What the fuck is this?” snapped Gaunt, angrily. “I thought these bitches all had their certificates! They're all supposed to be healthy!”

  “They weren't like it yesterday, boss,” shrugged
Ed despairingly. “I don't know what we're gonna do about it. Make-up? Prosthetics? But it's all money if we're going to cover all this shit up so as people won't notice.”

  “I've got a better idea,” said Gaunt decisively. “I've seen the water from that tomb really perk Treadwell up today, and he's feeling peaky too. Get some of the empties from the bottled water we've given them all during the day and get them filled up from that stream. They're all going to drink a full bottle of it before they go to bed tonight. Make sure they get it with their meal at the hotel. Anyone who kicks up a fuss, get Jenny to make 'em drink it. Any way that takes her fancy, as long as she gets it down their neck.”

  Ed shivered at the thought of Jenny's persuasion techniques. “Whatever you say, boss.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  THE SAINT WHO NEVER WAS

  Eric parked outside the vicarage at 8:20pm. Ellwood answered the door immediately he knocked and ushered him inside. “Thank you for being so prompt, Eric,” he said. “The brothers should be here very soon.”

  “Brothers?” queried Eric.

  “Ah, my apologies for confusing you,” said Ellwood. “I don't mean that they're related by family. They are monks, brothers in Christ, as is David Stoker. The last custodians of their order.”

  “I see,” said Eric. He accepted the offer of a cup of tea and sat down with Ellwood in his lounge. Less than a quarter of an hour later, there was a knock upon the door.

  “Excuse me one moment,” said Ellwood as he rose to answer the door.

  The vicar returned after a minute, accompanied by two tall, lean men. They both looked to be in their mid forties. One was tall and thin, with a pinched face and a mane of blond hair that appeared most unmonk-like by Eric's reckoning. The other was completely bald, with an athletic build. They both wore smart but non-descript grey suits, with polished black shoes, white shirts and black ties. Eric thought they looked like a pair of hit men, not holy men.

  “Eric, may I introduce Edward Bell and Derek Milder, of the Brothers of the Pariah,” said Ellwood, indicating the blond and bald men respectively. “They, together with David Stoker – who as we both know is currently missing – are the last custodians of their order. Gentlemen, this is Mr Eric Turner, a journalist who investigates the mysterious corners of life. We have him to thank for uncovering the disappearance of Brother Stoker and the intrusion at the monastery ruins.”

  The two strange men sat at Ellwood's request and fixed their penetrating gazes upon Eric. “You have our sincere thanks, Mr Turner,” said Bell in smooth, passionless tones. We can only hope that it is not already too late to undo any damage that may have been caused. But without your intervention and early notice, we would certainly have been taken by surprise by a most appalling evil.”

  “For the sacred trust of our brotherhood to have failed after so many centuries would have been a tragedy with dreadful consequences,” said Milder, his voice deeper but equally dispassionate.

  Eric leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “I'm very glad to have been of service, gentlemen,” he said, “and I hope to continue to be so. But I still don't really understand what this is all about. All that I have been able to surmise is that we have a secret healing spring, which seems to actually work. And yet, from what I've seen, everyone in this damned village seems to be sickly, apart from the Reverend here. Apart from that, your monastery is being used as a film set by a company headed by a violent gangster. I strongly suspect him of some sort of foul play where your missing Mr Stoker is concerned. But what ties all of these things together?”

  “Explaining that will require a history lesson, Mr Turner,” said Milder. “Suffice to say that there is a link between the healings, the sickness and our brotherhood, and that this link also explains why an individual such as Terry Gaunt has been drawn here of all places. That thing which links all of these phenomena is a single man: Abbot Wulfred of Scratchbury, who lived and died in the Tenth Century. You'll understand when you know his story.”

  “But it would be best if we tell you that story in more suitable surroundings,” interjected Bell. “That way, we can show you some proof of the tale we tell, and we will also be able to gauge how dangerous the situation currently is. We need to know how far things have unravelled in order to know how to prevent any further damage.”

  “Okay,” said Eric, raising his hands in mock surrender. “I'm game. I'm not a mug, but I do have an open mind and it's quite plain that some kind of force is at work here. So where are we going?”

  “To the centre of the whole story,” said Milder. “We're going to the monastery. We think you should come with us too, Reverend Ellwood. The more godly people we have on our side, the better.”

  “Well … if you think it wise,” stammered Ellwood, clearly a little thrown by the suggestion they should all go to the monastery at night. “I'll get my coat...”

  Eric drove his car to the same location where he had slipped over the monastery boundary wall into the woods a couple of nights previously. He hoped that Tel's Star Productions wouldn't have increased their security now that filming was in full flow. But in any case, here was evidently the best place to sneak in if they were going to do it.

  He parked up silently, then he and his three passengers clambered over the wall and dropped down into the foliage on the other side as noiselessly as they were able. Ellwood needed help to get over the wall, he was much older than the other three, but the two grey-suited monks glided up and over like panthers. Eric shuddered, reminded again how they resembled trained assassins more than men of God.

  He led the way through the trees until they reached the fringes of the lawn. Pausing to look carefully around before stepping into the open, they peered right and left. The monastery ruins loomed to their right, while Stoker's cottage was to their left.

  “Are we heading for the cottage?” whispered Eric. “We may find some clues to what Gaunt is up to and why he's filming here.”

  “We're not interested in what Gaunt is up to at this stage,” said Milder. “We've far more immediately important things to check. We head for the monastery.” He pointed. “That archway in the centre is the quickest route to where we want to be.”

  The four men scurried across the lawn in the direction Milder had indicated, twisting and turning to keep a close watch each way as they ran. But all remained still and quiet and they were unseen. Presently they ducked under a crumbling arch that led through the wall of what had once been the central building. This led into a small courtyard, the cracked stone flags almost invisible through the thick growth of grass and nettles that sprang up between them. The hall on the opposite side of this yard was one of the more preserved parts of the ruins. Although the roof had long since gone, the walls were largely intact. Milder led them through a yawning doorway, its door long since rotted away, and they found themselves in a narrow corridor.

  “This was the main part of the monastery,” whispered Bell, who was bringing up the rear, “away from the kitchens and dormitories. Directly ahead was the meeting hall, but we need to turn left at the first opportunity. Our destination is the old library.”

  Milder led the way, shuffling down the corridor. He took the left turn at a junction further along the passageway and the followed this until it opened into a large room, which was quite dim since it still had a partially intact roof.

  Although the room was just a jumble of decaying stone, with no apparent distinguishing features. Bell strode confidently forward when they entered it. “Excellent,” he said. “This was the library...”

  “There ain't no books here now, mister,” called a voice from behind them. A figure brandishing a baseball bat stepped forward out of the gloom. A torch flicked on and its powerful beam swept over them. “Well, well, now. Isn't this nice? It looks like Mr Gaunt was right to insist on a guard being placed inside the monastery itself now that filming's started. Let's get the other lads over here, shall we, make a party of it? Then one of them can phone Mr Davies and Mr Gaunt. They'll b
e very interested in chatting with you fine gentlemen.”

  Eric recognised the rough lout who had been posted at the gate when he had first tried to visit the monastery. He bit his lip in frustrated panic as the man raised a whistle to his lips to summon assistance.

  He never blew it. Eric watched in surprised shock as a hole appeared in the man's chest and his shirt turned crimson in the torchlight as his nerveless fingers dropped both torch and whistle. He stood still for a moment, an expression of pained disbelief on his face. Then he groaned and collapsed to the floor.

  Eric turned and looked at Derek Milder, who was lowering the silenced pistol he had pulled from a concealed holster. “You shot him!” gasped Eric.

  “Yes, I did,” said Milder blandly as he replaced the gun in its holster.

  Ellwood stumbled over to the man and knelt down beside him. The vicar's mouth was hanging open, his eyes wide. He looked stricken. “Dear God, he's dead,” he moaned. “You didn't have to do that, Derek.”