A Dangerous Energy

by John Whitbourn

  The aforementioned gentleman entered his little kingdom and peered for a long while over his clerk’s shoulder.

  ‘Master Oakley, pray tell me how you have headed this letter you purport to be copying.’

  Tobias looked at his work, could see nothing obviously wrong and so answered boldly. ‘Your Grace, sir.’

  ‘So I see Tobias, so I see.’

  ‘But that’s correct isn’t it? That’s what the letter says.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘And, might I ask, who is this letter written to?’

  ‘The Bishop of Reading.’

  ‘Precisely, Tobias. And therefore you well know that the heading is incorrect. To address a Bishop in writing one uses the term “my Lord Bishop”. Kindly change it.’

  ‘But, Mr Fitzsimmons, I’ve only faithfully copied out the letter – the fault, which I acknowledge, isn’t mine, it’s with the priest who wrote it.’

  ‘Then should he have started the letter to the “all-high Emperor of Atlantis”, you would presumably have copied that out.’

  ‘No, but —’

  ‘But me no buts, Master Oakley – do it again.’

  At this point Mr Fitzsimmons most unfortunately chose to emphasise his point by drawing the inkstick he carried in his breast pocket across Tobias’ copied document. The youth looked coolly at his morning’s labour, now ruined, and then at its destructor. Tidal waves of fury rose high enough to overwhelm the sea-walls of control that he had built up. He spat a word of command. That little part of his mind not consumed with anger or dulled by work doubted anything would happen, but doubt was instantly allayed. As if a giant’s hand had pushed him up, the wailing Mr Fitzsimmons was lifted and propelled backwards on to and through the front windows of his writing house. The wooden frame splintered and the small glass panes either cracked or fell out entirely. Slightly bloodied, his frock coat torn to ribbons, the village Remembrancer lay panting outside, watched open-mouthed by two passing matrons. They were entirely unused to the respectable Mr Fitzsimmons making such spectacular appearances.

  Very self-consciously, and stiff-legged, Tobias strode out into the street and dispassionately viewed his ex-employer. His ex-employer returned the gaze but with less equanimity.

  ‘I wish you to remain quiet concerning this, Mr Fitzsimmons Sir,’ he said, and spoke another word of command. Leaving the small pantomime behind him, Tobias then headed off down Clarkenhurst’s main street while all about him his bridges burned merrily.

  After this the village was split into two camps which might be roughly described as ‘pro-Tobias’ and ‘anti-Tobias’. At first the strongest expressions of feeling were confined to debates in the village pub or gossip between neighbours, for the issue was very far from being clearly defined. No one could be sure about what had happened to Mr Fitzsimmons and he was saying nothing – literally. Every time he attempted to speak about Tobias or the much-discussed incident, his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, so that he only produced an amusing ‘glug-glugging’ sound. Nor could his palpitating hands clutch a pen when he tried to set events down on paper. Everyone agreed that something supernatural had occurred, that was sure, for no undersized sixteen-year-old could hurl a portly man twelve foot or so through a window and bind him to silence afterwards. People began remembering all sorts of incidents from Tobias’ past, both real and fancied, to confirm their own particular viewpoint.

  Tobias found that the controversy which surrounded him brought various consequences, both good and bad. In the former case, he started to receive all sorts of goodwill presents from impressed or placatory villagers. Among these gifts was the ample and pleasing body of Betty Lockwood, a farmer’s daughter two years older than himself. This was an entirely novel and exciting experience for Tobias and one in which he indulged to the full while it lasted. But she was an experienced girl, ‘a much-loved person’ as the village young men put it, and she soon threw him over when he refused to take her on a guided tour of fairyland.

  On the contrary side he found that he lost those few acquaintances, never close, that he had managed to retain through the long, strange years of his training. His father, while perhaps furtively pleased to number a sorcerer in his clan, felt uneasy in the boy’s presence; partly because of the evil reputation of magic unsanctified by the Church’s authorisation, and partly because the natural hierarchy of the family was nullified at a stroke. What power did a man have in his own house if one of the younger children could put his father and his elder brothers through the window if it took his fancy? Mealtimes became tense and strained affairs in the Oakley household and Tobias took to staying out of the house in deference to the discomfort he was causing his family. Eventually reticence was cast aside and his bed was moved out into a lean-to adjoining the garden storeshed and there he made his home.

  No other village employer cared to risk a rump-first voyage through a window and so young Oakley found himself devoid of an occupation. Solitary, and to all intents disowned, he spent his days sitting on a slight hillock on the approach to the village from Reading, like an old-time penitent, most profoundly bored. Joan had missed out one facet of power in her impassioned speech during their last meeting he thought – it was very lonely.

  He also discovered a new, harsher side to the Church in the person of its representative in the village, Father Allingham, the ogre of his childhood. A neat handwritten message, summoning Tobias to the presbytery, had found him in his new, ramshackle ‘home’. Over the heady novelty of a glass of sherry wine, the priest had been kindly but very determined. With the freedom and power concomitant (‘Pardon?’ said Tobias) to the status of magician, the priest had told him, went great responsibilities and restrictions on one’s behaviour. Oakley was safe, if not welcome, in the village as long as he did nothing further for ill. Otherwise the Parish Council (under Allingham’s browbeating control) would feel constrained to make a demonstration of public displeasure. Tobias was not entirely sure what form this would take, and it was left unspecified, but he knew his novice sorcery would not protect him from a mob of murder-intent villagers armed with knives and fowling guns. It was therefore no surprise that the tête-á-tête ended amicably with Tobias well aware of the general limitations set upon his life style.

  Even from the most positive point of view it was a somewhat spartan life style, however far apart his limitations of action were set. Within village society no niche existed for an exalted figure (save for the Squire, an absentee landlord addicted to life in London) who furthermore compounded his jarring maladjustment by originating from local low-born stock. People mistrusted and were wary of Tobias Oakley’s reputed powers, and this soon acted to inhibit social intercourse like a slow poison, so much that within a month his sole conversation was with captive audiences, namely himself, animals or infants. More and more often he would spend the day aimlessly studying the sky from his favourite hillock, only returning home for meals; meals that his father was starting to begrudge since Tobias’ labour was now no longer added to the family’s collective effort.

  He had hoped that the recognition of his new status would have led to more contact with the ‘higher’ minds of the community, such as the surgeon, or even Allingham at a pinch, for he strongly suspected that much of use could be gleaned from educated folk. But because of his abnormality, he was effectively ostracised. Once they realised that he could not foretell the future, cure their sick cow or brew up an infallible love-philtre, the villagers steered clear of Tobias. On one occasion Maria Fitzsimmons née Oakley called to see him to petition for the return of her husband’s former eloquence. In truth she only did this for form’s sake and at her spouse’s fervent prompting, and so when Tobias decisively shook his head she did not press the point. Upon reflection she even began to warm to the idea of her husband being just a little more contemplative and taciturn than hitherto.

  The truth of the matter was that Tobias was in no position to effect a cure even if he had wanted to. He
did not know how. It was all very well to harness a strong emotion to produce a tangible magical effect, but another thing altogether to reverse the process when no equally strong wish accompanied the requested act. Anyway, Tobias found himself totally indifferent to Fitzsimmons’ future good health; he had passed from his mind. What was the point therefore of exerting oneself on his behalf?

  If only Tobias had roused himself to slightly deeper thought, he would have known that Father Allingham, as overseer of Clarkenhurst’s wellbeing, could not accept the present state of affairs as a modus vivendi. The thin brooding figure on the hillock disrupted the well-regulated pace of village life by his presence alone, and so could not be tolerated for long. Allingham had met several magicians in the course of his theological college days, but at heart he was as unsettled by them just as much as his less well-travelled flock who were, after all, of the same stock as he. Ever one for direct action in human affairs (with God holding a watching brief), he had sat at his writing desk immediately after Tobias’ interview with him and made arrangements, in a letter, for Master Oakley’s future career.

  This explains why, a few weeks later, Tobias’ daytime tedium was dispelled by two horsemen entering the village. This in itself would not be unusual or worthy of note but for the fact that both riders were priests. To be more accurate, one was a full priest and the other, judging by his gown, an acolyte. As such, they came along the road in due order of precedence. At first the priest gave Tobias no more than a glance – villages always seemed to have at least one idiot with nothing to do but lay about and gawp – but a few seconds and two steps on, his head jerked around to appraise the youth more closely. While the acolyte drew up behind him, the priest stared for a short while, and then a smile spread slowly across his face. He was old, grizzled and florid, but his eyes were still full of life and seemed kindly. Tobias stood up and returned the smile without committing himself. As he did so the priest slowly, stiffly dismounted and turned once again to face him. Tobias’ thoughts raced – something special? His hopes rose as he realised he was about to be addressed.

  ‘Good day to you, are you … Tobias Oakley?’

  ‘Good day Father, brother,’ he replied; the hitherto silent acolyte nodded at this greeting. ‘Why do you want to know?’

  A flash of strong ill-will and impatience visibly crossed the priest’s face. Tobias’ opinion of himself had been so bolstered up in the last few weeks that he had not appreciated the obvious impudence of his reply.

  ‘Come, come,’ the priest said, ‘either you are or you are not he – which is it?’

  ‘I’m Tobias Oakley, yes.’

  The priest’s calm, friendly mien returned. ‘Good. I thought so – I sensed you have the talent. Years of acquaintance with it gives one a certain perceptive ability, you know. I am Father Guido Mori from the Holy Thaumaturgic College – in Rome,’ he added as an afterthought.

  A Roman, thought Tobias, but speaking perfect English … A magician? Could it really be?

  ‘And this is Pierre Bodu, my temporary assistant. We have come from London to make you a proposition, Tobias. Will you show us to your … to Father Allingham please, and we’ll talk things over; how’s that, eh?’

  Tobias didn’t have to think about it. Preoccupied with novel thoughts, he nodded eagerly and fell in beside the horsemen. For all his abstraction there was an unmistakable air of triumph about him.

  Guido remounted and set his horse to follow the youth. He felt old and weary, and his buttocks ached with riding. He was so tired, and faced a task that did not appeal to him. Even so, at least this would not be a coercive job, there was that consolation; no need for force or bloodshed. Mind you, he thought, I suspect we only just caught this one in time.

  In the Archbishop of London’s expansive library, in the vast ibex-skin 1973 edition of the Encyclopaedia Britannica in particular, a servant of Church or State might open Volume Thirteen of this work and find:

  1. Thaumaturgic Colleges (including Holy)

  ‘… practice. Those who display above average ability or who lack proper guidance in the usage of magic are allowed to go to Rome. There they are trained by the very best exponents of each particular sorcerous art and in moral, magical and political philosophy. Less able candidates, or those urgently needed to fill vacant journeymen posts in the Church’s Temporal Administration are trained at national colleges, several of which are maintained in the most advanced countries.

  Each graduate from the various colleges has priestly status, but is free of explicit pastoral duties, thereby making him free to serve the expedience of the moment as, when and how his Holiness sees fit.

  In this way magic is made a useful and respectable tool of Church affairs and statecraft, and the colleges serve as a guarantor of magical orthodoxy and propriety opposed to the ever-dubious operation of independent thaumaturges.

  SEE DRUIDS, JACK-MAGICIANS, WITCHES, WIZARDS, WARLOCKS.’

  In common with most of the Encyclopaedia, this was substantially true, in fact entirely true; but it was not all of the truth. The Holy Thaumaturgic College itself was a grim, prison-like edifice that rose six storeys high, just outside Rome’s walls. Talented young magicians went there when rounded up by servants of the Church, such as Father Mori, retained specifically for this purpose. Willing or not they went, the younger the better, and their potentially subversive talent was regulated and harnessed for the good of Christendom. Nowadays even young girls were taken in, whereas before their skills had been pointedly ignored or, if necessary, extinguished by fire. Although they could never become priests, as their male companions did, sorceresses had gradually become an accepted part of the Church apparatus, and the experiment (for such had it been) looked likely to become a permanent feature. Writers often cited this development as evidence for the growth of Christian charity and forbearance.

  Whatever their sex, the usual product of such training was a dedicated and loyal top-notch magician of around twenty-five years of age, who could also be useful in the performance of various Church duties. Occasionally there were rejects, for the study of magic was inherently perilous, and a small but steady number of gibbering idiots and discreetly buried cadavers was also produced. The instructors refused to admit of any magical defences other than those appropriate to the mental configurations of a devout and orthodox Christian. An (intentional) consequence of this was that the pupils, lacking access to alternative defences (for they did exist) were forcibly obliged to conform or perish; accordingly the obstinate infidel or atheist succumbed and failed very quickly. Therefore as a reliable training mechanism, it can readily be seen that this system worked pleasingly well for the Church. Long before, the Church had been of a different attitude and had tried to extirpate magic by papal bull and auto-da-fé; then when this inevitably failed, it sought to make the practice its own exclusive tool. This policy was, of course, similarly doomed to failure; no visible sign marked out a magician from his fellow men, and many, for a great variety of reasons, kept the knowledge of their abilities hidden from general view. In consequence an unknowable but probably large number of sorcerers escaped the Church’s net and ‘Druids’, ‘Satanists’ and unconventional practitioners abounded. On occasion they were better than anything the Church could produce, which was distinctly worrying to that body.

  Tobias, however, had never seen an encyclopaedia and only had the most flimsy concept of the Roman college or any other for that matter. In his mind it conjured up pictures of subtle and dangerous wizards, power and prestige, all of which he found agreeable. Applied to himself, such images and ideas were positively stimulating. He knew little and cared less about service to his Holiness and the Universal Church; this was partly due to ordinary adolescent rebelliousness, and partly because he knew that a more mysterious, and possibly greater power and knowledge moved out in the wild places. Needless to say this attitude was concealed, quite invisibly, behind his cold control; indeed he began to regret his unusually open behaviour when talking to the prie
st. In all probability it was of no moment at all in this early stage of what promised to be a prolonged acquaintance, but Joan had said that first impressions were of vital import in dealings with all but the most intelligent of humans. At such a promising time it was more essential than ever that he did not forget his training. He acknowledged his fault and, being young, just as quickly forgave himself.

  Father Guido, meanwhile, in the privacy of his thoughts reviewed a vast parade of transitory acquaintances. He had presided over the direction of a long stream of youth being fed as grist to the orthodox magical mill and, year by year, found himself more critical, more sad, less … convinced. The memory of his own training still had the power to generate icy chills and disturbed sleep. He had confessed his feelings, had the necessity of it all patiently explained, but still could not cast off the feeling that he was spending his one life pandering to something … wrong. How could he let others become scarred in the same way? Perhaps his gift, his ‘talent’, was a curse – a mere prop to the wickedness of the world? In the early, wakeful hours he sometimes felt … burnt out.

  His spiritual struggle had not escaped the attention of the more subtle confessors. The more they considered the problem, the more obvious the solution became: the Church possessed many isolated monasteries and religious houses where men of great spiritual gifts (often a severe disability in terms of the world) could go to fight their inner battles away from material distractions. Just such an establishment was pencilled in on Father Guido’s file in the office of the Archbishop of London; when and if his utility was quite exhausted the entry could be inked in, thereby settling the issue as neatly and painlessly as possible. Such a course of events was not in the least uncommon and no one, at least no one who mattered, thought the process sad or cruel; people served the Church in one way, and when they could do so no more they served it in another. Any theologian would affirm that the sufferings and struggles of a good soul were every bit as important to the Church as services to its tangible body. It seemed to be an eminently sensible arrangement and one that was beneficial to both parties.