The Waters of Life

by Michael H. Kelly

  “Yes he did,” snapped Bell. “He was in our way and there are far more important things at stake than this man's life. Come on, we need to get below.”

  “But he hadn't harmed us, we might have been able to reason with him,” protested Ellwood, who seemed on the verge of tears.

  “He was in our way,” repeated Bell blandly. “We need to move – now! Once we get into the catacombs and you hear our story, you'll learn that this is far from the first time we've killed to preserve our secret. This man's death is regrettable but necessary. Follow me, or others may discover us and we would be forced to kill them too.”

  “You're supposed to be men of God!” exploded Ellwood.

  “We are, and God is a killer,” said Bell with a dreadful finality.

  Ellwood had no answer to this, but continued kneeling in stunned silence as Bell picked his way across the room until he reached a floor slab in the far corner which had less moss and debris on it than the others. He reached behind a pile of rubble and fetched a crowbar that had been stashed there, using it to lever up this slab, which was loose and rose easily from its place. Beneath it was revealed a yawning pit, with a ladder going down into the darkness. He immediately began climbing down.

  “You two follow him,” said Milder quietly. “I'll follow with the body. We'll need to get it out of sight.”

  Eric took Ellwood by the arm and gently raised him up. He was still interested to know what these two men had to reveal, but he was also shocked to his core and very apprehensive. But disobeying them seemed a very risky prospect just now, so he led Ellwood over to the hole in the floor and helped the old man to descend. Milder fluidly lifted the dead man's body, threw it over his shoulder, and followed them, pulling the slab back into position over their heads.

  They found themselves standing in a small, square room, the floor of bare earth, but the walls lined with brick, all in a much better state of repair than the ruined buildings above them. Narrow passageways led from this room in three directions. A generator was against the fourth wall, with cables running from it in all directions, leading to lights strung along the walls. Bell started this up and switched off his torch as the hanging bulbs flickered into life.

  “Where are we?” stammered Ellwood. “I had no idea there were tunnels underneath the monastery.”

  “That's the whole idea behind secret tunnels, Reverend: that they're secret.” said Bell. “These were first dug out and solidly reinforced by the brothers of our order back in the Tenth Century, after the death of Abbot Wulfred, once we realised the nature of the threat we had to be vigilant against. Follow me, but stay close and don't get lost. This place is a warren and there are places that you definitely don't want to go!”

  Milder shrugged his shoulder and the body slid off it, landing in a heap on the floor. He shoved it into a corner and then strode over to join the others.

  “You're just going to leave that poor man's body lying there?” asked Ellwood.

  “Please try to be calm, Reverend,” said Milder. “I'll bury it properly later. Much as you may now doubt it, I promise you we're the good guys. We're fighting a holy war and war has its casualties. Besides, as you'll soon see, this is very far from being the only dead body down here.”

  Eric shuddered as he fell into line behind Ellwood, following Bell down one of the claustrophobic corridors, barely wide enough for his shoulders. Something told him he wasn't going to like what he discovered down here, but since Milder had moved up behind him to take the rear, there was no way he was going to be able to avoid it.

  Jenny Gaunt was drunk. She woke in a hotel room, hands clutching at the side of the bed to stop the room spinning and leapfrogging around her. How long had she been asleep? She had no idea, but it couldn't have been long, perhaps only a matter of minutes. But she had been awoken by the churning in her stomach and the taste of bile in her throat. She knew without any shadow of a doubt that within the next minute she was going to be violently sick.

  For a moment, she considered just lying there and letting it happen, surrendering to the easy way out, to sleep in a pool of her own vomit overnight and have a shower in the morning. But that wasn't her and a rage rose within her, the powerful determination that drove her refusing to allow her to humiliate herself. She reached out a leaden arm and fumbled for the bedside lamp, flinching as the bright light shone in her eyes.

  Groaning, she forced herself upright, her stomach lurching anew and her head reeling with the motion. She blinked rapidly, taking in the details of the unfamiliar room. The bed was a rumpled mess and she was stark naked. Cathy Oates, a busty nineteen year old redhead, one of the 'actresses' playing the nuns, was lying beside her, silicon tits still bizarrely pointing directly upwards when the rest of her body was at rest. She snored loudly, a dribble of spittle oozing from the corner of her mouth onto her pillow.

  Jenny groggily remembered coming up to Cathy's room with her after the girl had come on strong to her at the bar. She cursed herself that she couldn't recall any more than that. Surely she hadn't fallen straight asleep with a hot piece of stuff like this in bed with her? But if she had managed to stay awake, that made it even worse, because it meant she had forgotten some potentially fantastic sex. Why the fuck did she do this to herself, allowing herself to get so legless? Still, it didn't matter; if she managed to throw up, she should feel a bit better, then she'd wake Cathy up and really have her fun. She was starting to feel horny just thinking about it.

  With a mighty effort, Jenny hauled herself up and off the bed, pointed herself in the direction of the bathroom and trusted her sturdy legs to stagger there without collapsing under her. She yanked hard on the light cord, shut the door loudly behind her and sank to her knees on the plush rug in front of the toilet bowl. Then she clasped the sides of the bowl and retched until she was empty.

  She was still slightly dizzy when she had finished, but she certainly felt a lot better. She spat the last mess from her mouth and levered herself back to her feet. She felt a lot steadier and more clear headed now. She was about to rinse her mouth out when she changed her mind; it appealed to her sense of power to kiss Cathy while the taste of vomit was still on her lips. The girl had been fawning up to her, knowing her reputation, and she wouldn't dare complain or resist. It would really get Jenny off to know that her lover was feeling a measure of revulsion alongside her pleasure.

  She opened the bathroom door, letting the light stream out, falling upon the figure lying in her bed. Cathy groaned and stretched her arms as the light shone upon her, making her tits thrust out even more. Jenny licked her lips and crossed over to the bed, cupping one in her hand and hefting it. “Cathy,” she whispered, “wake up.” When Cathy only groaned, she slapped her face lightly, snapping, “Wake up, girl!”

  Cathy woke up, her eyes blinking rapidly in the harsh light streaming from the bathroom. “Ow,” she complained, feeling her cheek. “What's going on?”

  “I want you now,” growled Jenny, climbing on the bed and pressing down on her. She grinned and then pressed her lips fiercely against her lover's. She could feel Cathy squirming beneath her, but not daring to pull away. She could tell the girl tasted the vomit on her mouth but was too afraid to recoil. This made her feel so hot and moist. She roughly pushed a hand down to grope at Cathy's privates, none too gently. Again, Cathy winced and went tense, but she didn't resist. Oh, but Jenny was going to enjoy this! She locked lips more fiercely, probing her tongue deep into her girlfriend's mouth. She was startled when, subtly at first, but then increasingly overpowering, she tasted the metallic taint of blood in Cathy's mouth. Surely she hadn't been that rough with her! Then Cathy really convulsed beneath her and began coughing terribly. Jenny pulled back and away as Cathy struggled to sit up, spitting out a tooth, a long stream of blood spilling over her lower lip.

  “What the fuck?” spat Jenny. “Have you taken a smack in the mouth, girl? Because I'll give you one if you ever pull a stunt like that on me!”

  “Help me!” moaned Cath
y, raising her hand to her mouth. Blood and pus flowed freely onto her palm. Jenny recoiled and vomited again, this time all over the bed, when she saw the mess inside the girl's mouth. Her gums were swollen and abscessed, all of her teeth loose and wobbling, ready to fall out. Thick, gooey, infected strands of spittle and bloody slime stretched between her upper and lower teeth. Her tongue was a septic mass of open sores.

  Gagging and cursing, Jenny backpedalled away, slipping off the end of the bed and landing with a thump on the floor. “Fucking hell,” she ranted, spitting and hawking up phlegm. “I kissed that! I fucking kissed that!” Her guts churned with loathing and dread panic. Eventually, she recovered her wits and hauled herself to her feet, lips drawn back in a snarl. She edged cautiously towards the bed, fist drawn back, but Cathy seemed to have lost consciousness, her eyes staring blankly upwards, wheezing and soft moaning sounds coming from her raw, oozing throat.

  Jenny turned away and went to the bathroom, spending ten full minutes rinsing her mouth out and gargling. Then she pulled her clothes quickly on, called down to reception and told them to send a doctor, and left the room. It seemed that the shoot would be a nun short tomorrow, and she needed a drink. Badly.

  Edward Bell led the small company into a confined, square room, which had a central table surrounded by chairs. The furniture appeared very old, but sturdily made, and he indicated that everyone should be seated. Eric and Ellwood duly sat opposite him, while Milder took up a position leaning against the wall.

  “We'll take a short rest here,” said Bell. “It'll give me an opportunity to explain matters. You'll need to understand what happened all those centuries ago before you see what I have to show you down here. Reverend Ellwood, David has already shared with you the fact that Wulfred was no holy man, and I believe you have explained this also to Mr Turner?”

  “Yes,” nodded Ellwood. “That is correct.”

  “Then it's time you learned what it was that made Abbot Wulfred such an abomination. The few records that survived long enough to be transcribed into other histories before we could destroy them all described Wulfred as a saintly man, so this is the reputation he has retained among the few historians who have heard of him. We would have preferred if his name had been blotted out forever, but there's always some information that slips through the net. According to these 'official' records, Wulfred was a man who helped the sick, providing them with food, clothing and shelter, and who also provided food, clothing and warm bedding for the children of the local peasants.”

  “And this was all lies?” asked Eric.

  “Oh no,” said Bell. “He did all of these things. The people loved him and the brothers at the monastery adored their beneficent Abbot. But none of them knew the full truth. What mattered was the way that Wulfred did these things. He played a long game, over many years, before he was finally found out. By that time, the sick had multiplied in the land, the local children were dying... his vile strategy had worked and brought him great delight. Above all else, Wulfred found pleasure in the destruction of innocence, the corruption of purity. He offered hospitality to the sick and the diseased from miles around, letting them sleep and eat at the monastery to refresh themselves for a few days each time they passed near. But then, he would gather their infected bedding and place it upon the cots where the children slumbered, exulting as disease took root in their tender flesh, sending them home to grateful parents after their stay, but they took leprosy and smallpox with them. He deliberately spread contagion and suffering among those weakest, most vulnerable, members of society.”

  “How horrible,” groaned Ellwood, sinking his head in his hands.

  “So what happened?” asked Eric. “How was he found out?”

  “He fell prey to his own obsession,” said Bell. “He contracted leprosy. He must have had it for a long time before the monks noticed. He wore gloves to conceal the fact that his fingers were mostly gnawed away, and his body was thick with the disease. But his face was the last place to show signs. They confined him to his quarters, then, and he laughed like a madman, confessing all that he had done. He displayed his unclean body proudly, delighting in its decay.”

  “So the disease killed him?” asked Eric.

  “No,” said Bell. “The brotherhood did. They hanged him from the beams of his own quarters, then sealed him in a stone sarcophagus so that his evil could not escape.”

  Milder stood up and crossed to join them, sitting down in a chair at the head of the table. “But less than two weeks later, a man appeared in Scratchbury, claiming to be a leper named Peter,” he said. “He told the villagers that he had been healed when he drank from a stream that had sprung forth from the Abbot's tomb. They placed him in custody while his story was checked. They consulted with the monks, since the Abbot was claimed to be the cause of the cure. Our brothers investigated and discovered that a spring of water had indeed issued from the tomb, and the man was recognised as Peter the leper, who had often visited the monastery.”

  “So he was genuinely healed?” asked Ellwood.

  “All of the healings bestowed by the water from Wulfred's tomb have been genuine in the sense that you mean,” said Milder. “Peter's leprosy was completely gone. His body had been restored to how it had been before his affliction started, even his missing digits had been restored. But I would dispute that he was truly healed. Health is more than bodily wholeness, it is a quality of the soul, and Wulfred was a corruptor, who spread evil and horror by feigning good deeds. Every healing that the water has bestowed has brought with it a sickness of the soul. If you investigate each historical case, you will find that every one of them has sunk into depravity shortly after their 'healing'. Some have become lechers, others thieves, others murderers. With others, they have recovered their own health only to see every member of their family sicken and die from the illness that once afflicted them. It is a poisoned chalice.”

  “Our brotherhood in the Tenth Century knew this beyond any shadow of a doubt,” said Bell. “After all, they had seen first hand the horrors perpetrated by Wulfred against the innocent. They knew that any healing bestowed by his remains would have the most evil consequences. They were successful in convincing the ecclesiastical court that Peter's recovery was the work of the Devil; he was burned at the stake.”

  “He was what?!” snorted Eric in disgust. “Hadn't that poor bastard suffered enough in his life as a leper? It sounds to me as if it was your lot, not Wulfred, who were responsible for any ill effects from his healing!”

  “As we said earlier, Mr Turner, this is a holy war and there are often innocent casualties,” said Milder. “Our brethren did not take Peter's death lightly, but they knew beyond any shadow of a doubt that only worse suffering and misery could come – to him and to others also – if they did not put him down. They had to stamp out the lure of Wulfred's tomb as a place of healing before it had chance to begin. Every time a fresh victim has been drawn to the place in search of healing throughout the centuries, our brotherhood has had to hush it up, changing official chronicles, destroying records, fabricating others, to minimise the damage.”

  “Killing the poor unfortunates who sought healing as well, I suppose?” said Eric.

  “Some of them, in the early days,” admitted Bell. “But not for many centuries now. We have found that since cases are so isolated, they self-destruct too soon to cause real damage. Only they and their immediate kinfolk are hurt by the corruption. We have restricted our efforts to keeping the matter secret. But we have always feared what would happen and how the corruption would spread if there were several cases at the same time. There have been two very recently, and now this film crew are here and our brother David has disappeared. We fear the very worst.”

  “You have seen the two recently healed people, Mr Turner, during the course of your investigations,” pointed out Milder. “Can you honestly say that they are well? Were you not disturbed? Can you tell me there was not something indefinably wrong with them?”

  “No,” admit
ted Eric after a moment, hanging his head. “No, they weren't right at all. One was obviously sick in body and mind and the other – well, let's say she is suffering from serious psychological problems.”

  “I'm glad you can see that,” said Milder sincerely. “We're not monsters, Mr Turner. We are genuinely trying to help people by keeping this evil suppressed. The earlier members of our brotherhood weren't monsters either. They regretted Peter's death, but they understood that it was already too late for him and if they didn't remove him immediately, it would bring much harm to others. Our order even took its name in memory of his unfortunate plight: the Brothers of the Pariah. As a leper, Peter had been a pariah for much of his life; we have taken that name to honour his memory as the first to fall victim to the post-mortem curse of Wulfred. The members of our order are sworn to keep the properties of the waters from Wulfred's tomb secret and to do everything within our power to have that fiend's name and memory expunged from history altogether.”

  “I think you can see now the taint that afflicts all of those who partake of the water,” said Bell. “But I don't think you realise the greater threat yet. We fear that if several cases can all occur at the same time, they will reinforce each other to initiate a new phenomenon more horrible still. And although we don't know what shape that will take, we can guess a little as to its nature. It's time now for us to move on so that Derek and I can show you the reason that we entered these catacombs. There is something we must check, and you would not have understood or believed it if you had not heard our story first. Please follow me.”

  Bell and Milder led the way down another narrow corridor and into a long, low crypt. Low, narrow alcoves were excavated into the walls and in each lay the emaciated body of a child.

  “Oh God,” murmured Eric, his eyes wide in horror. “Oh my God.”