A Dangerous Energy

by John Whitbourn

  From the window came the full measure of Lord Burgess’ wrath: the tornado again; tongues of fire and flying pebbles. Within seconds Tobias’ bed and curtains were blazing and smouldering pieces of furniture took to the air.

  He knew the pentagram was not proof against fire born of this world and so there was an added incentive to recover quickly and say the words of dismissal. He pushed himself on to all fours and croakingly did so. Nothing happened. He was saying them again when his sword came flying through the portal and buried itself deep into the door. Still his efforts met with no success. A third and fourth attempt met with similar failure. Finally, as he was completing his fifth repetition there was a noise like that of the world’s greatest cannon and the wall went blank. He was now protected from supernatural threats.

  However, Lord Burgess’ final efforts had caused untold destruction. The far wall and door were pulverised and within the rubble, just visible, lay the corpse of the sentry. The small fires springing up everywhere were quickly spreading to the corridor outside, for the Demon-storm had already reduced the room, beyond the pentagram, to matchwood.

  Still not fully recovered, Tobias was obliged to struggle to his feet and somehow break into a run again if he was not to die in a common or garden fire.

  He had some vague idea of raising the alarm but the ‘explosion’ had been heard as far afield as Pevensey village and nearby Langley. Accordingly, investigations were well underway by the time he staggered, smoke-blackened, out of the nightmare and into the ornamental gardens. The servants were gathered there and Grand Master Baxter, active for once, was organising a bucket chain.

  Fortunately the tide was in. After causing an initial shock, Tobias was ignored by all and left to recuperate at his leisure while watching the east wing being consumed.

  CHAPTER 10

  Postscript. In which our hero is canonised.

  Justifiably, perhaps, the Grand Master was rather vexed by the loss of a third of his house and a reasonably full confession had to be made. For a considerable while Tobias’ star waned and his ears were daily assaulted with reproaches. However there seemed to be no question of reporting him for forbidden experimentation as he had become so indispensable that his position was not threatened. He worked a little harder, devised new means of raising revenue to finance rebuilding and soon he was rehabilitated in Baxter’s eyes. Things went back to normal, vulgar gossip ceased and Tobias continued his life. The only difference was that beforehand Tobias had not exhausted all possibilities and therefore had hope. Now he had none and would act accordingly.

  The incident did not quite end there. The fisherfolk of the nearby shanties were pious or superstitious people, depending on one’s point of view. As chance would have it their boats had just landed and everybody was busy with the catch when the ‘big house’ was rocked by an unearthly explosion and burst into flames. Some watched engrossed, while others rushed to give assistance.

  In the ensuing days there were various garbled reports of the matter from house-servants and the like. The whole affair passed deeply into village consciousness and became the subject first for speculation and, then, embellishment in idle hours.

  In time, versions of the story were passed on to new generations and children were told of how Satan himself, Old Nick, had tried to come to earth and work his mischief on their little community. Even when the Grand Master’s palace was deserted and largely ruinous, the story still survived of how a priest named Oak had squared up to the devil and hit him a blow that could be heard for miles around. Thus bested, the Prince of Darkness had fled to Hell never to return to the area again so long as brave Oak was remembered. Remembrance eventually turned to reverence and out of priestly earshot the term ‘saint’ was appended to Tobias’ name. Crude little carvings of St Oak adorned the front of each family’s boat and hung over each threshold, and thereby kept them from the power of evil. If outsiders ever enquired it was said that they were representations of Christ and no one could gainsay this.

  In the less cautious and more secular world which arose many hundreds of years after the time of this story, the legend of St Oak at last reached a wider audience and was accorded a very small footnote in the Encyclopaedia of Saints. He was termed: ‘Mythical – Local and Specific’, which was a niggardly way to repay centuries of providing comfort and a sense of security in an unfriendly world.

  Tobias, of course, never knew anything of this. In his younger days he would have been pleased by it; later on he would have been dryly amused. In his old age, which started in his late twenties, he would have lacked sufficient interest to hear out the end of the story. At the same time he would have lacked the will to walk away from the teller. It was a poor pass for a future saint to come to.

  CHAPTER 11 – 2023

  In which our hero meets Rosemary Archer.

  Since it was so fine, Rosemary Archer, housewife of Pevensey village, thought it a good idea to take her child out for a walk in the September sunshine. She had heard that sun and fresh air were good for young bones although her mother-in-law and the other grannies said otherwise.

  Taking her five-year-old daughter by the hand, she strolled up the short village street, pausing occasionally to pass the time of day with neighbours. At the end of the village the road curved round the Castle walls and headed off to Langley, but Rosemary carried straight on, passing through the simple arch into the fort.

  The Roman wall, still quite high in places, enclosed a huge elliptical area given over to grass. A flock of sheep were grazing there but other than that the villagers did not properly exploit the Castle’s interior at all. There were stories of sieges, massacres and evil deeds from the past, and for this reason few people cared to tarry overlong in it at night. The sighting of ghosts and strange lights along the wall were regularly reported. And just as regularly discounted by the priest.

  In the daytime, however, it presented a more friendly aspect and people would go there for peace and quiet. Today, since it was a working hour, Rosemary and little Julie had the place to themselves if one discounted the sheep.

  In the middle of the Castle was an old cannon, broken down and beyond hope of repair. Tilted at a crazy angle on one remaining wheel, it was a plaything for the local children and a convenient seat for older citizens. Rosemary sought a dry and comfortable place on it and sat down. She had loved this place since she was a child and she liked to repopulate the Castle in imagination. Unlike most of the villagers, she had an enquiring mind and in another age would have responded well to education. However, as a person of churl status her rôle in life was destined to be that of home-maker and child-bearer and for this only a very basic level of knowledge was needed. Yet she was happy because she had a life of the mind to fall back on when Pevensey life occasionally seemed a little dull.

  On this bright sunny day Rosemary idly reflected on what the Romans had been like. She realised that in her imaginings they always came out as strangely clad villagers of her own time because this was all the information she had to go on. At times it was very frustrating to be knowingly ignorant and in one such mood she had asked Father Morris, the local priest, to teach her to read. Kind man that he was he had started to do so but – really – there just wasn’t the time and Samuel had grumbled about his meals being late and mother-in-law had said something about people getting above themselves. In the end she had had to give up the attempt which was a pity because she might otherwise have been able to borrow a book from Father Morris about the Romans.

  From Church she had understood that it was the Romans that had crucified Christ. However she knew that this had happened a very long time ago and a very long way away, in another country. She was not like one of these very stupid types hereabouts who maintained (when Father Morris wasn’t about) that Jesus was crucified in the castle or on Beachy Head and such-like nonsense. No – that had happened in another, hot, country but it was definitely Romans (and Jews of course) who did it. If this was so what on earth were the Romans doing buil
ding a castle in Sussex in England? Why had the King of England let the Christ-killing Romans into the country and let them build a castle? Even the Earl of Sussex needed Royal permission before he could construct a fortified place; she knew that for a fact! It was all very confusing.

  Suddenly Rosemary realised she had been day-dreaming again and some time had passed. Still – no matter, here, alone, such musings were allowed. At home they attracted criticisms from husband and mother-in-law: ‘She’s off again’, ‘another one of her turns’, ‘wake up girl, there’s things to do’, and so on.

  Rosemary saw that Julie had run off quite a way in pursuit of her favourite pastime – chasing sheep. She watched amused as her daughter’s chortles and cries came floating back; so long as she didn’t go out of the gate there was nothing to fear in her running off.

  Ordinarily Mrs Archer would have been right in supposing this; there were no holes her daughter could fall down, no sharp edges to cut herself on, no animals likely to bite or scratch, in short nothing inimical to life at all. However fate is regularly capable of throwing new factors into even the simplest of considerations. In this particular case that factor was a large black coach drawn by two horses. She glimpsed it briefly through the gate and then heard it stop outside; the noise of male voices and the sound of a door were carried across to her. Drawing on local knowledge this was all the evidence that Rosemary needed to justify prompt action. Raising her skirts, she ran as fast as she could across the green sward in pursuit of her errant child.

  Before she could even get halfway, a number of men appeared at the Castle arch and Rosemary had to slow down to as brisk a walk as seemed polite. The men were soldiers bearing the livery of the Grand Master; the villagers knew them well and feared them. They noted Rosemary, the child, the sheep and the otherwise empty Castle, and then relaxed sufficiently to take their hands from their sword pommels. At this sign of implied safety another figure came through the archway and Rosemary’s worst apprehensions were confirmed.

  At sixty-three years of age, Tobias had failed to grow old either gracefully or impressively. A few trails of hair were all that was left to him and these were greyish-white. Oiled into the strands of a young man’s pigtail (fashionable once again), Tobias’ last crowning glory looked improper. He had become emaciated through irregular eating and his Grand Master’s gown, intrinsically impressive, hung about his frame like a draped flag. But it was first and foremost on his features that Tobias’ history was writ: jaw set; mouth in a permanent droop; his brow a mass of worry-lines; his scar an ugly livid line. The magician’s eyes burned and wept with a power that could find no release. Even the uncaring Irish mercenaries that he surrounded himself with did not like to meet his glance directly. Hardened as they might be, a residual sensitivity told them that he was a dark and dirty storm always close to breaking.

  Whenever his house and gardens tired him, Tobias would call for his coach, cover it with guards and drive off in search of fresh scenery. Usually he avoided the village since he knew his visits upset the inhabitants, but he had expected the Castle to be empty at this time.

  Tobias, of course, knew a considerable amount about the Romans. The research of an idle hour had made him reasonably well informed about the castle as well. Armed with this knowledge he could easily distinguish between the Roman masonry of the Saxon Share Fort and the much smaller medieval structure which occupied one corner of it. He had no idea how valuable and interesting this information, casually picked up, might be to other inquiring but less well provided minds.

  He was not quite sure what he would do there; wander round presumably, try and think and hope that time will pass quickly for once. This was what he had in mind when Cormac, his personal bodyguard, had signalled that the way was clear.

  Coming through the gateway however he was surprised to see that there were two people already there; a jolly little child running after the sheep and a woman, obviously her mother and a villager, coming towards her.

  Tobias meant no harm; he felt a sudden urge to talk to somebody and be pleasant. He would go up to the little girl and ask her name, perhaps give her a silver sixpence as a present. Lord knows he had enough money, why not make someone happy with it? He could ask the woman who she was and find out about her family – that would be interesting. Using his magic he could make a sheep do tricks like ‘sit up and beg’ to amuse the child; perhaps this afternoon would go easily after all!

  But when he began to shuffle forward, the mother gave a scream and ran towards her child with an expression of distress on her face. Tobias was puzzled – what was the matter? – and then angry. The incipient smile disappeared from his face and, knowing the reasons for the woman’s actions, he scowled at her bitterly. Just at that moment the little girl turned round to see the newcomers for the first time; she caught his ravaged face which was momentarily animated by hate and instantly burst into fearful tears. A moment later Mrs Archer came thundering to the rescue and snatched the girl up in her arms.

  As quickly as it had come Tobias’ goodwill passed.

  ‘Cormac’, he said, ‘bring those two over here.’

  Cormac, a large, stocky man with bushy black hair nodded and quickly did what was asked of him.

  Brought up close to this ancient ogre Julie Archer screamed and wailed and nestled into her mother’s arms as far as was possible. Mrs Archer, realising that she had done wrong, however justified her fears might be, started to say how no disrespect was meant, your Grace, the child was startled your Grace, she’s very highly strung, your Grace, and so on. Tobias interrupted curtly.

  ‘I meant no harm, damn you’, and he signalled to one of his guards, ‘get those two out of here, quickly.’

  He turned away and did not see a huge gauntleted hand descend on Mrs Archer’s shoulder and guide her rapidly away. Gradually the child’s cries faded away into the distance and then were lost to the ear.

  In a blacker mood than before, the purpose of his walk already defeated, Tobias doggedly shambled around the walls of the fort under the ever-watchful eyes of his guards.

  CHAPTER 12

  In which an evening at our hero’s home is depicted.

  At home he found little respite. He ate alone in an inappropriately large dining-room – Stratter, his assistant, being absent that day. Of late, most foods tasted exactly the same to Tobias so the cook’s efforts were wasted. Oppressed by the silence, he sloshed some fine red wine into his glass and bore it off to his living room; the silence was still there but at least the scenery was different. First a servant came in and asked if he required anything, and was dismissed; then Clough, Cormac’s assistant, entered and asked a similar question. This was a more important enquiry for it posed a number of questions very relevant to the long hours to come. Did he want a bed-fellow procured for him? Tobias entertained the concept and, disgusted, rejected it. Did he intend to move from this room again before morning and, if not, could the night-security arrangements be put into operation? No, he didn’t and yes they could. A number of other minor matters were settled and then Clough withdrew. The door closed and Tobias knew that for the next ten hours or so he would be totally left to his own devices.

  This idea always pleased him in principle – nothing and no one to bother him for a while – but after this novelty passed off, he was appalled by the task of trying to endure such a large chunk of time. He slept very badly and then only in the mornings. So there was no point in retiring to his bed early. Alcohol made things easier and in sufficient quantities could even produce a semblance of sleep’s blissful oblivion. But then he would be ill for days and sleep even less, so it was a poor remedy.

  Even so, Tobias kept large quantities of different drinks in his room, including a bottle of sherry for guests who never came, and sometimes in the long hours of wakefulness he just could not help but drink himself into a stupor.

  Reading, the usual relaxation and diversion of the educated, also failed him as a pastime. His walls were lined with thousands of book
s, mostly Baxter’s, and included among them were rare titles which would have been a bibliophile’s delight. A true scholar could have been incarcerated in that room for a six-month and not spent an idle or unprofitable moment, but not so Tobias. This particular evening, he rose from his fireside armchair, glass in hand, and moved over to a nearby shelf. Selecting a title, he returned to his seat and began to scan the pages. Within five minutes, he was up again and looking for a new book. This was always the way; while reading one volume his thoughts would wander and think of another title or subject that seemed more interesting. Off he would go in search of this only to repeat the process shortly after. He knew he was doing it but was powerless to stop himself; nothing could hold his attention for long before he rejected it. As such, his inability to read was symbolic of his greater problem which caused him to wander endlessly and aimlessly during the day and lie awake between dusk and dawn.

  There were a few books, it was true, that he could read from cover to cover – elegant, sophisticated works of erotica from the secret presses of Paris and, to a lesser extent, London. These, at least, were a success and encouraged his senile lust to rise from limbo and embark on what always promised to be its last adventure. But he found that he required increasingly stronger material until, at last, the Parisian pornographers could not keep up the pace. Beyond this lay the field of Satanism and Black Magic and even Tobias could not afford to be caught with books of that nature in his possession.

  For a few years after becoming Grand Master, Tobias had indulged his inherent sensuality to a great degree. All, or nearly all, the ‘tableaux’ that had flitted through his mind in previous years were commissioned and performed. Very soon he’d realised that if he didn’t wind down his activities he would be dead of the pox or a prisoner of the Inquisition within a twelve-month. And in truth the curtailment proved to be no great sacrifice. The effort just wasn’t worth the game. Henceforth he restricted his bed-partners to one or, at the most, two young girls or boys. The whole thing was unimportant to him and just as incidental as visits to the lavatory. The young people were merely human spittoons and about as highly regarded.