“You are in charge of the orphans,” said the abbot. “Therefore I must keep you informed. But I would not have you do this if you do not wish to. I will go myself.”
“It is a very chill night,” protested Justin. “Surely it can wait 'til morning? Then we can both go and see–”
“No,” replied Michael. “It must be in the first watch of the night, when the world is at its darkest.”
The abbot held up a parchment. Justin recognized the ornate red seal of the Bishop of Northumbria. Such an order could not be questioned in any way. To disobey would give Simon the chance to strip Michael of office, perhaps even have him exiled.
“I will go on your behalf,” said Justin, standing. “I will take them and bring them back. No reason to endanger your health.”
Michael looked up at his young friend, and nodded.
“You're a good lad, Justin,” he said. “I have been fortunate to know you. If I am taken this night or – or if anything else ensues, I trust we will meet again in the paradise of the righteous.”
Justin was so taken aback by the old man's words that he merely mumbled his thanks and left.
Poor old fellow, he thought as he set off back to his quarters. The influenza is taking a heavy toll on his spirits.
From his cell, Justin took a heavy woolen cloak and then set off down the corridor to the dormitory when the orphans slept. The monastery had always been a repository for the surplus children of the poor. Sometimes swaddled babies were left at the gate in the small hours. More often, an uncle or cousin would bring an older orphan boy after both parents had passed away. At the moment, there were fifteen such children, aged between three and fourteen.
Remembering the Bishop's instructions Justin took a lit rush-light from the corridor and, shielding the flame from drafts, walked along the dormitory waking boys within the age range required.
'Five are needed at first. Two more will be required as the work progresses. They must be pure in mind, body, and spirit,' the letter had specified. 'Below the age of puberty, older than four summers, without physical blemish, pliable and obedient.' Justin tried to hush them but, boys being boys, soon all the sleepers had woken. Small faces gazed with huge eyes at Justin, not alarmed – Justin was kindly and well-liked – but surprised and curious.
“Back to sleep, the rest of you!” said Justin with mock severity. “I am taking these lads for a special duty, at the Bishop's behest. Do you want me to tell his Grace that you were disobedient?”
Not for the first time, the Bishop proved a convenient bogeyman. Small heads vanished under homespun blankets.
“Good Brother, where are we going?” asked the eldest of two Williams, a nine-year-old.
“To the cathedral, for a special service,” replied Justin. “It is a great honor.”
In truth, Justin was unsure what the 'service at the tower' mentioned in the Bishop's letter might be. He assumed that prayers and perhaps the singing of a psalm or two might be required, so he stopped to collect his prayer book before ushering his charges out into the night. The snow was now falling heavily, almost a blizzard. The rush-light was quickly extinguished and Justin led the way by memory, the children forming a human chain behind him. As they neared the cathedral, he saw a flickering red light at the base of the tower and headed for it.
No doubt the workmen have a brazier, he thought. At least we can warm ourselves.
But as Justin and the children approached the entrance to the tower, the red light seemed to move, retreating before them and then moving out of sight. It was a torch, not a brazier.
“I'm cold,” whimpered six-year-old Tobias.
“Soon be inside,” said Adam, who at ten was the oldest.
Once inside, though, it seemed a little warmer. Justin searched the darkness for the company of clergy he expected for any service of dedication. He saw nobody except a tall, hooded figure holding up the torch. The figure beckoned, and Justin took the children over to the dead center of the tower's ground floor.
“Welcome, Brother,” said Master Nicholas, lowering his hood.
“I'm scared!” exclaimed Tobias, hiding behind Adam.
“I don't like it!” added the younger William, a flaxen-haired seven-year-old.
Nicholas did not smile or even glance at the boy. Instead, he focused his colorless eyes on Justin until the monk lowered his gaze.
“You may leave us, Brother,” said Nicholas. “All will be well.”
“I cannot leave them,” blurted out Justin.
Oh, Holy Mother, I have contradicted the Lord Bishop's Master Mason!
Nicholas took a step forward and lowered his torch until the heat brought tears to Justin's eyes.
“Defiance?” said the strange youth, quietly. “Consider what you do, monk.”
Anger seized Justin and he grabbed the arm that held the torch, seeking to push it up and away. He might as well have taken hold of a stone statue. Nicholas laughed and lifted the torch of his own volition.
This is no mortal man, screamed Justin's mind. There is nothing godly in this.
“Run, boys!” he shouted, turning to his charges. “Run back to the dormitory, don't stop!”
Again, he heard the strange youth laugh, and then the metal head of the torch struck Justin on the back of the head. Boys screamed, cowering, as the young Brother fell to his knees.
“Wrong kind of sacrifice, but for your insolence I will still have you,” purred Nicholas, and fingers gripped the back of Justin's neck with inhuman strength. The monk felt cartilage and bone give way, and blackness began to descend. The five orphans started to run for the tower entrance. He heard their heart-rending cries of panic as if he were listening from a great height.
Yes, go! Flee, little ones!
But then the boys stopped, reeled back, the youngest clutching in terror at Adam and elder William. Some great, dark beast, lean and rangy, moved in the doorway. Another, and then another appeared. To Justin's blurring vision, they were something like a cross between hounds and swine. Eyes glowed bright yellow, great jaws slavered. When they reared up and started to encircle the children on their hind legs, Justin felt that he was suddenly transported to one of the circles of Hell. Or that Hell had somehow arisen and was claiming its place on God's Earth.
And then he was beyond life itself.
Chapter 1: The Mystery and the Ghosts
“Do I have to wear this?” asked Eve, pointing at the plastic fig leaf. She was a plump drama student of eighteen, shivering in her pink body-stocking. Weyrmouth Cathedral in November was chill by day, freezing by night.
“Sorry, darling, it's essential to the feel of Biblical authenticity,” replied the director. “Now, where's Adam?”
Adam appeared, holding his fig leaf in one hand.
“I'd rather not fasten this on with a safety pin,” said the bearded young accountant portraying the Father of Mankind. “Can't the budget stretch to Velcro?”
The director tutted, conceded the point, and allowed Adam and Eve to continue the dress rehearsal without fig leaves. Rehearsal of the ancient play, scripted in the fourteenth century by men whose names were long forgotten, continued.
God, towering on stilts, his face hidden by a shining solar mask, warned his new creations not to eat of the Tree of Knowledge. Satan, clad in red Lycra, crept into view stage left. A comical villain with a ready line in rude double-meanings, he whispered sedition to Eve while Adam slumbered. The eating of the fruit, the expulsion from Eden, and the beginning of history were covered in about fifteen brisk minutes.
After the company paused again for directorial comments, God took off his mask to ask, “Sorry, but why is it called a Mystery Play, again?”
“Because all divine truth begins and ends in mystery,” the director replied. “Now, I have a few notes for you.”
High above the action, hidden in the shadows of the cathedral tower, two men looked down at the hallowed drama.
“Eve's a bit hefty for my taste,” observed Park, tall
and skinny in a black overcoat. “I prefer them slim and stacked, as they say. And Adam looks like what he is – a corporate drone who has somehow lost his trousers.”
“They'll grow into the roles,” chided Roker, stocky in running gear. “It's the same every year. The essence of the play is that ordinary people must do it all. No professional actors, no celebrities – it's not a pantomime. And Eve should be curvy. When this stuff was written only the prosperous were fat.”
“Amateurism is fine in some areas,” grunted Park. “I wish we could claim to be truly professional in our activities.”
“Do you regret reviving the Mystery Play?” demanded Roker. “Because we could easily call it off. I am the committee chairman, after all. Budgetary problems could be arranged–”
“No, no!” Park gestured impatiently. “It's probably futile but with the anniversary coming we need all the help we can get. Spirituality in any form is good.”
“One can describe it as a form of gesture politics,” mused Roker. “Trying to placate the most skeptical constituency of all.”
“Is that true, what the director said? About how the Mystery Play got its name?” asked Park.
“I doubt it,” said the other, “but it's a good guess. Some say it comes from the Latin 'magisterium', meaning mastery, referring to the expertise of the old Guilds that put on the play. The real reason is probably lost in the mists of time. Like so many other things.”
The two men paused, both gazing down at the company below. Roker leaned forward to try and peer down Eve's cleavage, then started back suddenly. Both men looked at each other, turned their eyes up at the huge granite tower that loomed over them.
“Did you feel that?” asked Roker. “A slight tremor?”
“Imagination” retorted Park, a little too loudly.
A couple of people below looked up. Their faces glowed in the bright stage lights arranged around the cathedral's great altar. Roker and Park retreated from the balustrade, into the deepest shadows.
“We must keep our nerve,” hissed Park. “If we lose it, we literally lose everything.”
“Easy to say!” snapped Roker. “But we're still no nearer to contacting the Seven, let alone countering the threat they represent.”
“An intermediary will come,” insisted Park. “Perhaps more than one. Or we will make a breakthrough. There are always possibilities.”
“They seem to be getting closer,” muttered Roker. “I can feel them watching me. Almost all the time.”
From below, the sounds of the rehearsal began again, in the same place as before. Once more God condemned Adam and Eve to die, once more Satan was ordered to 'go on his belly in the dust' for all time.
“A very long way to go until redemption,” opined Roker. “Paradise cannot be regained too readily.”
“It's not Paradise I want,” growled Park. “Just basic survival. Avoiding the death of this godforsaken city.”
***
Professor Rufus Maspero struggled to fasten his bicycle to the stand outside the Humanities Building of Weyrmouth University. Eager to get out of the pouring rain, Maspero fumbled with the lock, and inevitably took twice as long to complete the task.
More haste, less speed, he thought, recalling a favorite saying of his mother. She was right, as always.
After finally securing his bike, Maspero pulled the hood of his raincoat over his head and set off at a run towards the entrance to the Humanities building. Weyrmouth University's blocky, modernist buildings looked particularly ugly in the downpour. Then the concrete structures were blurred by a flurry of rain on his glasses.
Maspero tried to focus on something more pleasant, such as the upcoming meeting of the city's Antiquarian Society. He had something interesting to tell his fellow enthusiasts! He could hardly wait for the evening. After a day of grim faculty meetings and routine lectures it would be nice to discuss local history in convivial company.
They'll be so pleased, he thought. After all these years, I've finally made a breakthrough.
“Help us, kind sir!”
The voice was faint, almost inaudible due to the beat of the rain on his hood and the roar of morning rush-hour traffic. Maspero stopped, turned to look behind him, saw a diminutive figure in a drab hooded garment. The person was standing near the main road, about ten yards away.
“Help us, please! Good sir, our friend is dying.”
The small figure reached out a hand, which seemed painfully thin to Maspero. He wiped his glasses, succeeded only in smearing them.
“What is it?” he asked.
Bizarre way to talk, he thought. But one must expect today's youth to sound strange when you're an old buffer, I suppose.
Now he could make out more small figures. There was a group of four, or five, standing behind the first. They were small, evidently children. All wore similar gray-brown hooded garments.
A gang of local kids, he thought, wariness kicking in. While Maspero disliked the commonplace stereotyping of young people, he was nobody's fool. People he knew had been mugged in broad daylight.
And yet they are very small, he thought.
He stood, hesitating.
“What is it?” he repeated. “I have to get to work.”
“One of us is hurt,” said another voice. It was similar to the first, childish, and reedy. It was hard to tell if it belonged to a boy or girl.
“Hurt?” said Maspero.
The small group parted to show a seventh figure lying on the edge of the sidewalk.
“Oh my God!” exclaimed the professor. “Have you called 999?”
The first child shook its head. Without thinking, Maspero took out his phone, at the same time striding towards the little group. It was only when he was in the midst of the children that Maspero realized he had done exactly what muggers would want. But none of them moved closer, or did anything at all. They just stood looking on.
In shock, he thought. They're good kids. I knew it. Their friend was the victim of a hit-and-run. That must be it!
But now something else was worrying at the edge of Maspero's mind. The children's voices had had an odd accent, similar to that of the locals, but somehow gentler. And the little figures all seemed to be wearing much the same sort of clothing, a shapeless hooded sack that almost reached the pavement.
Youth fashion, he thought, as he stood over the prone figure. Focus, man!
The emergency operator asked him the usual questions.
“Yes, an ambulance! Main entrance, the university campus, on Chester Road, yes. It's a child, he's not moving. I think he must have been hit by a car. Yes, I'll ask.”
Maspero turned to look down at the nearest hooded figure.
“What happened to him? They need to know, the paramedics.”
“Paramedics,” repeated the child, and giggled loudly. “Funny word!
Two or three of the other children giggled as well. Including the one lying at Maspero's feet.
“What the hell?” he began, looking down again.
The supposed victim was lying with their head on one side, so that the rough cloth hood obscured the face. Maspero crouched, gripped the edge of the hood. He expected to see a naughty child smirking at tricking a grown-up. But as he moved the hood aside, his fingertips touched something hard, sharp, and cold.
Bone? No, it's a Halloween mask, surely?
The historian's mind struggled to take in the rain-blurred vision of a face more skull than flesh. The thing turned to look at him out of eyes that seemed empty of all but darkness. Again, it giggled from a lip-less mouth. Maspero jumped up, dropping his phone, all thoughts of muggers forgotten. He barely heard the crack of the cellphone hitting the sidewalk. Small, bony hands were grasping his ankles, his arms, his groin, groping for his face.
Dead children!
He began flailing his fists and kicking out at his tiny, horrifying assailants. He kept knocking the frail figures aside only to have them return to the attack, unharmed. There were too many of them, and Maspero co
vered his eyes as he stumbled backwards. The sidewalk ended when his foot was expecting it to continue. He fell, arms flailing, emitting a yell of fear and despair. There was a blare of sound and he saw, through rain-smeared lenses, a huge square shape bearing down on him.
Maspero never felt the truck hit him.
***
“Pants suit,” said Erin Cale. “Why is it always a goddamn pants suit?”
She studied herself in the mirror of her low-priced room at Weyrmouth's Premier Inn, turning to lift her jacket and get a view of her ass. Her posterior did not seem larger than, say, a typical British postal district. Erin sighed, turned to face herself squarely again.
“Skirt, maybe some kind of ethnic look?” she asked herself. “Nah. Too tall, too leggy, and what kind of jacket would go with it? If not a jacket, I'd need some kind of overcoat in this lousy weather. And I ain't got one.”
She walked over to the window, looked out over the city. The hotel was not far from the center of Weyrmouth, between the university and the bleak little railroad station. Sirens wailed and she saw flashing blue lights in the distance.
“Someone's having an even worse day than me,” she murmured.
She tried to recall what a London pub acquaintance had once called an ambulance.
Oh yeah. Your final taxi. Gotta love that British sense of humor.
She picked up her purse, checked that she had everything she might need, then checked an app for local cab firms. There was only one, Station Taxis. She had taken one of their cabs to the hotel. The driver had picked his nose and complained about immigrants while playing his radio too loud. Sighing, Erin called a cab then went downstairs to wait in the lobby.
The reception desk was staffed by a plump, cheerful girl whose named badge read VAL. She greeted Erin with what might have been genuine enthusiasm.
“Everything all right with your room?” the receptionist asked.
“Yeah,” replied Erin. “Wish I could have a lie in, but duty calls. Got an interview.”
“A job?” asked Val, “here, in the city proper? That's a rarity.”
Curse of Weyrmouth Page 2
