A Dangerous Energy

by John Whitbourn

  Tobias casually shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Anyway,’ Lady Warrilow continued, ‘I think I know how you came to this pass so I attach little blame and Lord knows I’m hardly one to judge. The existence of a priest of your type serves my purpose.’

  ‘So you wish me to hear your confession since I’m not likely to be shocked or outraged.’

  ‘And thus report it to your superiors – and please don’t foul your mouth with lies about the sanctity of the sacrament of confession because I’m knowledgeable and cynical enough to know better.’

  ‘In the light of these opinions one wonders why you feel the need for the remission of your sins, my lady.’

  ‘Because, my boy, I’m old and where once I was strong I’m not anymore, and where once I didn’t care now I’m fearful.’

  Tobias leaned back and outwardly relaxed..

  Lady Susan smiled and narrowed her weary eyes. ‘Oh Oakley, there you sit all smug and unconcerned but just you wait till you’re old, feeble and friendless –as you will be – and then you’ll lie awake at night waiting for the last breath. By God, I warrant you’ll be clinging on to the last useless remnants of your earthly span with a desperation born of fear. And that’s just if there is nothing to come after. If what you preach is true, then you and I should be doubly frightened.’

  ‘My lady, what on earth can you have done to bear such pain of conscience?’

  ‘Conscience has nothing to do with it. Like you I had it once and like you I was instructed to leave it behind. So you must accept fear as my motive for repentance. You will hear my confession and keep it safe?’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Praise be. Y’know, Tobias, you and I are very close versions of the same story. I’m right in saying you’re elf-trained?’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘I thought so from the first hour of our first meeting. You have their mark on you; not so clear as might be, but good enough to bind you. I never had much dealings with elves, although I was present at meetings with them once or twice. The teaching was that they were our temporary but untrustworthy allies, not held in the same eternal esteem as the Master holds for us.’

  ‘I see,’ said Tobias. ‘The inverted Church – is that it?’

  ‘What else, Curate Oakley, a good enough sin as they go and quite sufficient to propel even such an honoured and venerable old lady as I to the stake.’ Her mind wandered. ‘Hard masters the elves would be, I imagine, as hard as ours were.’

  ‘Doubtless.’

  ‘And they’ve done well with you – you must be very useful.’

  ‘Alas no; I go my own way by and large.’

  Lady Susan smiled indulgently at him. ‘At any rate I was useful, very useful, and in my prime I could have broken you, Tobias. Here, touch my fingertips.’

  He got up and stepped forward to do so. The minute their fingers touched, he jerked back and then shook his hand vigorously.

  ‘My lady, I must bow to your appraisal of our relative talents. Do you have some kind of shielding spell?’

  ‘Of course – you didn’t even know I had the talent did you?’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘Well that’s no shame on you as I’ve had long years and much need to perfect deception. I daresay now, abandoned by my colleagues as I am, that you could kill me in duel.’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  ‘But that’s all gone now, even if I can’t forget it. I’m alone and final obliteration is very close.’

  ‘Where is your Church, my lady?’

  ‘My dear Curate, our Church has no time for passengers and old invalids.’

  ‘Doesn’t that anger you?’

  She gazed at him with real animation in her eyes.

  ‘But that’s how it should be; it’s entirely right and justifiable.’

  ‘Even when it’s you that is cast off?’

  ‘Like your Church, ours teaches that the individual is as nothing to the pursuit of the greater aim; it’s just that we really believe and practise it.’

  Tobias pondered this a little, then nodded his head. ‘Yes, I can see that.’

  ‘ … and yet at this late stage I have doubts. I’ve lived too much in the supernatural and amassed a lot of information and it seems to me that perhaps you’re right and we were wrong.’

  ‘You mean the balance of power and the final victory?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I find that very interesting.’

  ‘I only said perhaps.’

  ‘It seems to me that I come out all right either way – either my calling or my behaviour saves me.’

  ‘You jest at this serious juncture in my life; but never fear – you’ll survive and prosper. But I can see as clear as spring water that you’ll end as I have, except that you’re a mite more strong-minded and stubborn than I so the outcome might be different.’

  ‘Is this use of talent or reasoned guesswork?’

  ‘Talent.’

  ‘I see. I will store it in my memory; thank you.’

  ‘Don’t mention it, boy. And now I’ve prattled enough – will you do me this favour?’

  ‘Yes.’

  And so the ancient penitent levered herself out of her chair and tottered across the room. Tobias placed a kneeling stool in the centre of the chamber and helped Lady Susan on to it.

  And thus as a light shower pattered at the window outside, the faithless priest prepared to hear the last and crucial testimony of the believing diabolist.

  Tobias made the sign of the Cross and Lady Susan followed.

  ‘In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, Amen.’

  ‘The old lady bowed her head and sent her memory down nearly sixty years of active iniquity.

  ‘Bless me Father for I have sinned … ’

  CHAPTER 17

  In which our hero mixes with the nobility.

  Prolonged exposure to benevolent and uncompetitive society was a disconcerting experience for Tobias. Since his entire outlook was based on something completely alien to it, he had begun to feel something akin to a tool without use or function. A few years before, such beneficial monastic incarceration might, given time, have awoken seeds of goodwill and charity in him. Alas the soil was now sterile and any good influence merely served to puzzle and discomfit.

  However, from time to time intimations of normality drifted in from the outside world, over the monastery wall and into Tobias’ daily round. They were few enough in number but sufficient to convince him of an outer reality where all was well and as it should be. Quite clearly his present abode was the oddity, the unrealistic mirage.

  Lady Susan Warilow had been one such zephyr. Another, instead of drifting in, rode quite openly through the gates.

  Part of the monastery’s rôle and an occasional source of revenue to it, was the provision of overnight shelter to travellers, rich and poor alike (although the degree of service might vary accordingly), who found themselves on its lonely road between two towns at nightfall.

  Only a month or so before Tobias’ anticipated departure, the monastery was obliged to receive its most exalted guest for many a long year.

  Curate Oakley had not noticed any arrival but on making his way to Vespers he observed a large travelling coach, minus its team, parked beside the diminutive monastery stables. Looking closer he saw a noble but unfamiliar coat of arms painted on the door. His curiosity was mildly aroused but the caution within which he had deliberately cloaked himself during his year of trial precluded further direct enquiry. The matter was soon forgotten in the complexities of the ceremony in which he was obliged to serve.

  After the service, however, when he was reading and making notes from a missal in the monks’ common room a messenger sought him out and conducted him to the Abbot.

  ‘Curate Oakley, would you be so good as to oblige me in a small matter?’ It was a perfunctory request requiring no answer.

  ‘Our guest for the night requires company and speech. I’d be gratefu
l if you’d go along and entertain him as best you can.’

  ‘I’d be glad to oblige, Abbot.’

  ‘Good. It’s Baron Philby, Arthur Polybius Philby. From the Canterbury region I believe, or at least that’s where his family lands are. I seem to remember, however, him mentioning a long period spent abroad – I had little speech with him,’ the Abbot said by way of explanation.

  ‘Judge for yourself, but I think you’ll see why I chose you for this rather than one of our more scholarly brothers. Doubtless he’ll be fascinated by your particular vocation.’

  ‘I’ll endeavour to amuse and distract him, Abbot.’

  ‘Fine, be about it then – oh and by the way, come and see me when you leave him.’

  ‘Regardless of the hour?’

  ‘Whatever time it is.’

  Arrayed in his full priest-thaumaturge gown bearing both the marks of Rome and Southwark, Tobias entered the guests’ wing at about a quarter past eight. The air was unseasonably close and clammy that evening and not for the first time he was minded to flout Church fashion and wear his hair short in the monkish way; for it was too hot and the vanity that prompted his preenings at Southwark had ebbed away. Besides which he was prematurely thinning on top anyway.

  He walked quietly to the door of the best guest-suite and listened for a moment or two. No noise at all. A last-moment adjustment in dress and then three loud knocks.

  A voice that could only be described as ‘fruity’ or juicy’ made some noise within and so Tobias entered.

  Behind a large table a man was sitting and Tobias made a low bow to him. A lifetime of profound shocks and surprises, the occupational hazard of a magician, allowed his face and eyes to remain neutral and blandly normal as he rose.

  The fruity voice said, ‘Oakley, I’m obliged to you for your company. I damned well thought I would die of the tedium – you won’t let me down will you?’

  ‘Not so far as it lies within my powers, my Lord.’

  Baron Philby paused a breath and studied Tobias before drawling, ‘Yes, just so. Sit man, and take a drink.’

  Tobias was given a balloon glass and the baron tipped into this a more than generous quantity of the venerable brandy which he had beside him. It was thick and treacly and not at all to Tobias’ taste; however, he supposed it to be a highly valued product and thus to be respected.

  The voice, which Tobias suddenly compared with this rich syrupy liquid, said, ‘And these are my two nieces.’ A white-gloved hand was waved imperially at one wall where Tobias now saw two little girls were seated on a low bench. He doubted they were more than ten or twelve years old; both were very pretty and dressed in the height of fussy childish fashion. They looked precocious but incurious.

  The baron, speaking again, drew Tobias’ attention back.

  ‘Lovely, aren’t they, unripened fruit y’ might say, my sister’s children; she died of the flux, or pox more like it, in Italy last year.’

  Tobias nodded in acknowledgement.

  ‘I expect you wonder why I wear this,’ said Philby delicately touching the purple velvet operatic-style mask that covered his face from mouth to forehead. The bright lights of his eyes shone from two slits hemmed with a yellow cotton design.

  ‘It had crossed my mind, my lord.’

  Philby turned to the girls. ‘Shall we tell him, pets? Yes, why not; you tell him Poppea.’

  It occurred to Tobias that the baron was already far gone in drink but carrying it particularly well. Only a very few signs betokened his state.

  One of the girls rose from her supine state. ‘The baron caught an awful disease in Italy, in a big town. It pocked his face awfully so he wears a mask.’

  The girl’s accent was very far from what Tobias had expected from the progeny of a baron’s sister. It was more like artisan London, he thought.

  ‘And so,’ the baron announced in a triumphant tone, ‘the ravages of Mother Nature oblige me to don this little protector – protector, that is, of my vanity and the public sensitivities.’

  ‘Misfortune is no respecter of birth. Does it become easier to bear as time goes on?’

  ‘Not really,’ replied the baron, ‘but I’ve always felt it my destiny, or some such claptrap, to be marked out in some way; marked out, d’you see, Curate, marked – a joke.’

  Neither party laughed, however. The baron leaned back in his chair and replenished his glass. He was a stocky, heavily built man of perhaps forty years. He was also dressed in what Tobias presumed to be the current Italian fashion with (he thought) absurdly exaggerated shoulders, lapels, cuffs and collar. Above the half-ludicrous, half-sinister mask, his hair was thick and black and curly. For all his size he did not give any impression of strength but sat with a graceless sense of bulk.

  Silence reigned for a while but this never worried Tobias and perhaps perceiving this, the baron (as in strict etiquette was his prerogative) initiated conversation again.

  ‘I hope the girls’ presence isn’t bothering you, Curate?’

  ‘Not at all, my lord; they seem quite delightful children.’

  Philby smiled without the slightest element of mirth. ‘Just so – but I think it is time they retired. Poppea, Persephone, to bed; I shall be in to say goodnight in due course.’

  After their silent departure a further period of quiet followed, until the baron said, ‘I see you are a magician, Curate – what are the stars?’

  ‘Southwark College, my lord.’

  ‘Ah, that gives you a different outlook on life than if you were trained in, say, Rome or Avignon, does it not?’

  ‘Conceivably, my lord; the basic training is the same all through every college in Christendom but each one tends to specialise in certain areas, deliberately or otherwise.’

  ‘My dear Curate, your remarks cause my brain to foment with unanswered questions.’

  ‘Forgive me, my lord, long association with users of magic instinctively leads me to assume the same esoteric knowledge in others. Feel free to question me in whatsoever arouses your curiosity; my meagre learning is at your disposal.’

  ‘Hmmm … well, for a start what was the specialist area as taught by Southwark College?’

  ‘Something I once saw defined in a manual as “temporal enterprises management”.’

  ‘Which you would define as . . ?’

  ‘Taking care of Church affairs in areas where trust in God alone is not always sufficient.’

  ‘What a glib, forthright man you are, Curate; I do believe you’ve worked out these answers beforehand.’

  ‘Perhaps, my lord, but not in the way I think you mean. It is just that I have given these matters considerable private thought.’

  ‘I would suppose you have ample leisure to embark on such inner examinations in this lonely place, a lot of opportunity for contemplation, yes indeed … but why a magician-priest here in a monks’ house? Why aren’t you busying yourself in fields where simple faith isn’t enough?’

  ‘I was entrusted here by my Bishop, my lord.’

  ‘Evasion, Curate Oakley, your glibness fails you. Why? That’s what I’d like to know.’

  ‘To be honest, my lord, I’m not really sure; I think he perceived in me some deadness of conscience unbefitting one due to take Holy Orders.’

  ‘Poor old Oakley, eh – “deadness of conscience” was it? Well, I can certainly sympathise with you on that. I’ve travelled a lot, as you might guess, with very few ties. My disfigurement is not conducive to settling down in a fixed place and the strange thing is that as time goes on, what I see and hear impresses and affects me less and less. I model myself quite a lot on Byron, you know, save that’ – here he chuckled a little – ‘no poetry has emerged from my ramblings.’

  ‘What is your impression of Rome, my lord?’

  ‘Go hang Rome, Curate; I’ve not let you off the hook about your conscience yet. Here, have more brandy.’

  He refilled Tobias’ balloon.

  ‘Not being my confessor, my lord, there’s little more I
can tell you.’

  ‘Watch your tongue, Curate. Remember yourself!’

  ‘Your pardon, my lord.’

  ‘We’ll return to that; meanwhile … well what about the colleges outside Christendom?’

  ‘How do you mean, my lord?’

  ‘Do they have magicians?’

  ‘It’s hard to say. No one really knows the whole truth concerning such places and more than half of what one hears is drivel. I had a friend once, however, who fought against Crimeans, Tartars and the like and they had sorcerers, apparently good ones.’

  ‘So magic is not a Christian preserve?’

  ‘I can’t answer that dogmatically. Certainly the Crimeans are pagans but it could be that their magicians are renegade Christians like their artillery-men.’

  ‘In Sicily I once met a negro sorcerer, no Christian I think; he was burnt.’

  ‘That proves nothing, my lord; in Sicily he would have access to Christian culture and thus, indirectly, the magical arts.’

  ‘No, I think not – he spoke, under torture of course, of other tutors. He babbled about them quite a bit in fact, but there again, talkativeness is encouraged by such savage racking. I expect he was talking rubbish, all about …’ Here he spoke an elvish word – one of the few that Tobias had been taught, meaning (roughly) ‘Us with you’.

  Quite convinced by now, Tobias answered with the variant form: ‘Me with us’.

  ‘Brother,’ said the baron, and held his glass aloft.

  ‘Brother,’ replied Tobias, and they clinked glasses.

  ‘Is your trouble insuperable, Curate?’ said Philby.

  ‘Doubtful, my lord, merely an annoying obstacle.’

  ‘What Bishop?’

  ‘Rugby.’

  ‘Very well: such influence as I have will put to clearing your path. Prepare yourself for rapid advance, Curate; my family’s name is now behind you.’

  ‘That is more than I could have hoped for, Brother.’

  ‘By your training you now owe me a similar boon.’