A Dangerous Energy

by John Whitbourn

  ‘Mr Purcell, I don’t believe you have had the honour of meeting Miss French before – am I right?’

  ‘I’m very much afraid you are, Curate, but I hasten to remedy this lamentable lapse.’

  ‘Miss French is assisting me in cataloguing my library and research notes prior to my submission of a thesis to Canterbury, whereby I hope to gain my first degree in Thaumaturgy.’

  ‘So you are a scholar as well as a beauty, Miss French. Enchanté – and where have you been hiding from Rugby society all this time, eh? You answer me that, my dear … ’ And so on.

  Tobias again withdrew and refilled his glass. Another cheap favour.

  Mrs Wiltshire was complimented on the standards of her table and the daughters on their charms (a cliché and somewhat risqué this, but effective nevertheless). And so like a St Nicholas, the priest hopped round the table delivering his presents to people who were two-dimensional to him: want and ambition, influence and character. So easy to influence – but could they pat him on the head and influence him just as easily and imperceptibly? He thought on this awhile.

  The table was buzzing with conversation. Everyone seemed happy. Meerbrook was displaying his wisdom on nuances of Church belief and Master Wiltshire was offering support and scoring incidental points. Purcell had a young woman to talk to and Diane was being flattered. Samuel Wiltshire was basking in contentment and mentally drafting a letter to Dr Meerbrook at Loyola College, dated, say … about three weeks from now. Mrs Wiltshire and her daughters were thinking about husbands although not from the same perspective.

  And Tobias? Well, he liked to see people being happy even if he couldn’t join in himself. He felt free to lean back and quietly, unnoticed, have a lot to drink. And everyone there assembled thought what a good priest he would make.

  In sixteen months’ time, Tobias, still the same man but accelerating further along his chosen path, will acquiesce in mass-murder and shoot a man he admires.

  And in eight years’ time, he will descend, one sunny morning, down a grassy bank into a lane full of dead and dying men. To one side sits a group of survivors, bound and helpless. With the help of his unit of musketeers, Tobias will murder these men and then set about despatching the wounded.

  At the door, the party being done, Samuel asked Tobias and Diane if they required a cab or sedan.

  ‘No thank you, Mr Wiltshire. I’ll see Miss French safely home; from there it’s but a step to my rooms so we’ll walk, it being a brisk, dry, evening and all that.’

  ‘Very well. I hope you enjoyed the dinner; you must come again.’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ echoed a smiling Mrs Wiltshire.

  ‘It’s been a wonderful evening,’ said Diane who had cast all propriety aside and was hanging on to Tobias’ arm. Her eyes were glowing with her pleasure. ‘Thank you so much.’

  ‘Yes,’ affirmed Tobias, ‘and I shall no doubt see you in the near future in my professional capacity.’

  ‘As soon as I sin I’ll be round to tell you,’ replied Wiltshire jocularly.

  ‘In which case may our parting be a lengthy one.’

  More jokes, thank-yous and good-nights and then off.

  ‘You were joking about escorting me home weren’t you, Tobias?’ said Diane.

  ‘No, I’m afraid not. Tonight my dear you sleep at home.’

  For although he would have been quite pleased to sleep with Diane, it was good policy, he thought, to keep her uncertain and on her toes.

  CHAPTER 5

  In which our hero goes hunting and sees some old friends.

  The restrictive prohibitions that went hand in hand with Tobias’ chosen career were such that he sometimes had to undertake his diversions in a discreet or hidden manner vis-à-vis Diane. So that one still July morning, early enough for the day’s weather prospects to be unresolved, Tobias let himself out of 23 St John’s Street almost furtively, certainly in a way not normally associated with Curate Oakley’s straightforward and confident approach to life. Under his cape he was wearing a layman’s suit and he carried a travelling bag. No one was visible at this early hour.

  Tobias made fast time to the top of the long Castle Approach, the street which effectively joined the Castle and the West gate. Here, already waiting, was Haraldsson – ready mounted, dressed in buff-coat and waterproofs, and with a spare horse.

  With little or no formality Tobias slung his luggage into the saddlebag and within the minute the two were cantering towards the gate. One hundred years ago this would have been made fast until dawn was fully broken but now that man’s hold on the land (that is to say civilised and Christianised man) was gradually strengthening it was considered quite safe to open town-gates several hours earlier to accommodate transporters of market produce and other assorted early birds. So long as they were guarded.

  Just prior to coming in sight of the wall and gatehouse, Tobias pulled his broad-brimmed hat well down over his eyes and sank into his cape. The two men passed by the militia pikemen at the gate at some speed but did not neglect to shout a good morning.

  ‘Ten to one that was a priest with Haraldsson,’ said Private Mark Bracegirdle (by normal trade, a baker) to his friend, Michael Sque (a banking-clerk).

  ‘I don’t doubt it – I think it was the magician one. Nasty type, I don’t like him.’

  ‘Why not? You’ve never met ’im.’

  ‘Maybe not but all his type are the same – not natural, creepy, not quite human.’

  Mark was tired after his night-duty and not inclined to question or dispute this bigotry.

  ‘Well, I reckon they’re off to do some very human whoring.’

  ‘Dirty bastards, they ought to be setting an example.’

  ‘Would you follow it?’

  ‘Well, maybe not but … ’

  Harald and Tobias were intent on a weekend of fun which had included a great deal of planning and premeditation; there could be no spontaneity for the exalted. The Swede had waited until his master and mistress were away and even then had gone to great lengths to ensure that the lowest and dullest member of his retinue knew precisely what to do in almost any eventuality, from a noble visitor to a Mameluke assault, in his absence.

  Tobias, by comparison, merely had to wait for one of the odd weekends when he did not have a Sunday mass to conduct, to drop a letter to Diane and to give Mrs Coley the time off. It was quite simple really.

  And now both were ready to kick the traces and pretend they were young and uncommitted again (a fallacy, for neither had ever, apart from the briefest of childhoods, had any years of liberty).

  Accordingly, Haraldsson who had planned the itinerary of the jaunt had come well equipped: two boar spears for hunting; two carbines, pistols and short swords, also nominally for hunting but conceivably for more catholic uses. In a separate pannier were bottles of brandy and port (Harald’s favourite drink when consumed in bulk), and a small drum of cigars and cheroots. This was his contribution. In return it was agreed that Tobias was to provide the ‘loose change’ for the trip, that is to say, the hotel and drink bills, and so he had brought along a small purse of gold and silver coins. This and his company was to be his contribution.

  Once out of sight of Rugby the jollity could begin. The hunting weaponry was doled out and Harald shared the fiery contents of his hipflask. Tobias could for once abandon caution and in between swigs he lit up a cheroot.

  By the time they ambled through Long Lawford, the sun was out and they could be at ease and laugh together. The incongruity of their friendship, a magician of Mother Church and a mercenary of the far North, did not strike them for their experience had led them to expect life to be thus bizarre. Only the ordinary could now seem strange.

  They took rooms in an inn at Brandon and hired rods to fish in the Avon. Then, in the early evening, paradoxically enough, Harald went to mass in the nearby church while Tobias took his pistol into some woods and murdered a few trees by way of target-practice.

  Later in the evening the two took horse fo
r nearby Coventry and found an inn low enough for their tastes (and in so doing inadvertently rode by the house that was the birthplace and childhood home of Phillip Chitty). Here they drank heavily and as always this made Tobias progressively more taciturn and introspective. Harald saw and recognised this, and seized the opportunity to go and fetch a couple of tarts who had been patrolling the pub. Tobias was in that fortunate stage between desperate adolescence and grateful old age when a degree of selection and fastidiousness can be exercised and he chose not to get involved. Nevertheless, he retained his girl, bought her a drink and questioned her on low life. Haraldsson’s companion offered to lift her skirts for him outside for ten shillings. He accepted and had her in the shadows of a nearby church. When he returned, Tobias’ lady friend was gone and the disguised priest was considering picking a fight with a loud-voiced lout up at the bar. In the end he decided not to because magic would have to be employed and this involved too much of a risk. They drank more and then, both satisfied in their own way, rode noisily and unsteadily back to Brandon.

  Understandably, the next day they rose late, but it was a fine Saturday and promised good sport. Nearby were some deep woods that ran undisturbed to the outskirts of Coventry and after a fine breakfast they entered them and found and killed a boar. Harald was the expert in this matter, but it was Tobias who made the kill. Haraldsson had thought they were on the track of a deer herd and Tobias, seeing nothing, bowed to his superior knowledge. Accordingly they had primed their carbines when, Harald having dismounted to look at some tracks he fancied he saw, a smallish and unwise boar chose to hurtle out of the bushes like a bullet. As chance would have it the Swede had his back turned, and the distance was too short to use the carbine.

  Fortunately, it was a relatively simple procedure for Tobias, still on horseback, to drop his carbine and make a passing of hands at the beast. It was all happening too fast for Haraldsson. He turned to see his friend drop the gun and heard Tobias say something horrifying – not in any literal sense since the phrase was gibberish to him, but nevertheless Harald forgot the boar and had to cope with the fear that emanated from his companion. For the very briefest of intervals existence became so disgusting as to be entirely intolerable. His mind blanked for a while, sank, and then by force of will clambered back to awareness. Harald had caught the backwash of the spell; he was gasping and wide-eyed with terror.

  Meanwhile, the boar had sunk like a stone in mid-charge and was lying on its side, legs working frantically while all its orifices pumped blood. The reason for its wild charge was then revealed and this had Tobias diving off his horse, clawing for the fallen carbine.

  Five leathery, naked figures had emerged quite silently from the trees and shrub bordering the path. Names for them varied from country to country and even region to region – bogles, goblins, Disva. In a semi-secret Church tome, Tobias had read that they were called demi-demons and were classified as of the party of Hell but soulless. For all this they were somewhat like men if a foot or so shorter on average. Their skin was a dull wrinkled dun-brown and their eyes – milky, oval and pupilless – glowed. With clawed feet they moved absolutely silently save for the swish of the heavy flint blades they carried. This last detail carried no particular message for the Disva and their myriad kin were already known for their all-consuming antipathy to other forms of life.

  After the event, it might have been said the Disva were slaughtered with ease; that Tobias and Harald’s impressive actions were indicative of the violent history of each. However that would be to ignore the moments when the fight could have gone either way.

  Tobias landed in a most dramatic manner in a kneeling position. He grabbed the carbine and fired it from under the horse and between its legs. This was hardly conventional but effective; one of the Disva folded over his groin trying to grasp an improbably large hole and pitched forward. The shot was hasty but true.

  The noise of the shot caused the horse to rear and Tobias had to rise rapidly and back off. But Harald had whirled round and, if anything, was even quicker than Tobias. Still gasping, he shot from the hip with the carbine he had been clutching when the boar made its entry. Another Disva was struck and thrown back by the force. It lay still, with an elegant scarlet buttonhole. Another fortuitous hit.

  Harald dropped the gun and reached behind him. He had fought long years and would know the layout of a cavalry saddle in a coma. As it was, his instinct and experience did not play him false; his groping hand found the pommel of his sword. The weapon came cleanly out of the scabbard and flew down in an arc to crush the skull of a Disva who had been poised to strike.

  Just then Tobias reappeared and killed again with the spell called ‘anathema’. It took the Disva unawares from behind. One of them burst out in pallid blue flames and fell writhing.

  Another, possibly slightly younger than the others, and certainly smaller, looked from human to human as if casually debating. This lasted for only a wink until he opened his mouth showing row upon row of tiny highly pointed teeth and hissed, an incredibly bitter and angry sound. So doing he leapt for Haraldsson, blade swinging, and was helpfully met halfway by the Swede’s charge. The courageous creature was impaled, wriggled and then expired on Harald’s sword.

  The violence once reserved for enemies of his Imperial Swedish majesty had briefly reasserted itself. He grinned and boomed, ‘What a bag, eh, Tobias?’ So strong was he that he could hold the Disva aloft on his sword in one hand.

  The Curate did not reply but rushed to pacify the horses.

  ‘We’ve made a pretty penny, boy!’

  This was true, for town governors were authorised to pay a bounty of five sovereigns for a Disva head. Unfortunately, bounty-hunters generally had a short life since the Disva usually only emerged from their underground habitations in groups large enough to hunt or raid. Even individually they were a match for most armed men. Tobias and Harold were not just ‘most’ men; more important, they were lucky.

  Harold rested to catch his breath and then fetched a large butcher’s knife from his saddlebag.

  Tobias spoke, ‘Harald – give me your pistol – quick!’

  Tobias had noticed that the horses were frightened and were staring into the forest. He looked long and hard and then reached for the pistol which still lay holstered in his saddle.

  Just visible in the depths of the woods were a number of tall humanoid figures. Tobias’ eyesight was excellent. He could see their dun-coloured clothing, broad hats and spears. They were standing perfectly still and staring at him. Across a gap of fifteen years, cold yellow eyes appraised him and raised many memories.

  Harald came up and handed him his pistol. ‘What’s up – more?’ He followed Tobias’ glance. ‘Heath folk!’

  ‘Harald, gather the horses’ reins and hold them fast but remain behind me; that’s the only way you’ll be safe.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Tobias suddenly raised a pistol and fired it at the watching figures. In a blur he transferred the remaining loaded pistol to his right hand and fired that as well. Although no great shot, at that moment he felt inspired. A faint but clear cry of pain came from the forest and Tobias grinned in pleasure. No spell he knew of could reach that far and so he had to rest content.

  ‘Stay right behind me, Harald.’

  Halfway through this sentence two or three arrows flew out of the wood. One struck a horse which died instantly. Another barely missed Harald’s head (he was nearly six inches taller than Tobias) and thereafter he abandoned his dignity and crouched low.

  Tobias’ grin abated not a bit for he knew they would not harm him. He saw the figures hurriedly retreating, dragging one of their number with them.

  ‘Haven’t I learned my lessons well,’ he shouted at them. ‘Run, you bastards, you … pixies!’ Then he laughed and laughed and laughed. It was a great moment for him.

  Soon enough Tobias announced it was safe for Haraldsson to emerge from his foetal crouch. They both looked at the dead horse, from which a black f
eathered arrow protruded.

  ‘Never mind, man – the Disva bounty will cover the cost of a new mount for the Castle.’

  ‘It was my own,’ said Harald.

  ‘Oh – well, still never mind; you can buy an even better one and still not be out of pocket.’

  Haraldsson was not by nature a curious and contemplative man. He forbore to ask Tobias for an interpretation of what had just happened. Somehow he felt the answer would disturb his peace of mind. In his slow-moving thoughts various impressions of his friend were circulating. Tobias’ courage had never really been in doubt but still Harald was impressed at his rôle in the fight. The spell’s backlash had appalled him not a little and it brought home to him in a physical sense just exactly what his friend was. However, he had experienced magic before, once when a Ukrainian warlock had tried to kill him and once when a Jesuit-magician had gently put him to sleep so that his appendix might be removed. What bothered him was Tobias’ finale with the pistols and the laughter; with a man of such elemental violence neither he nor any other normal human could have any point of contact.

  But, true to Harald’s nature, his memory of this mental debate faded in the succeeding weeks and their friendship did not suffer long.

  It started to rain very heavily and, being a touch squeamish, Tobias left Harald to behead the Disva and gather their blades as trophies. After putting his cape on, he busied himself struggling to remove the saddle and harness from the dead horse. He managed to extract the flint-tipped arrow whole and kept it – it was a revered and highly significant memento for him.

  In time all was done and, Tobias sitting behind Harald, they rode slowly back to Brandon where later that evening they would celebrate most uproariously. And on the morrow they would fish.

  CHAPTER 6

  In which our hero has a productive evening and asks some questions.