Pilgrim

by Devon De'Ath

  Jake blinked in surprise. “Where, Gavin?”

  Gavin fidgeted. “A long time ago - I’m talking the mid-nineteenth century - a paddle steamer called ‘Iona II’ was shipwrecked off the coast. Many reports arose about clandestine attempts to retrieve her cargo. You know the story, Jake.”

  “What was her cargo?” Vicky asked.

  “Iona II was a blockade runner carrying a secret shipment of British arms for the American Confederacy during their civil war. Back then, we sold weapons to both sides. What arms dealer doesn’t? Anyway, they wanted to keep it a secret, lest their shipment face interception and seizure. I don’t know how many guns they salvaged, but a few ended up in the hands of islanders. Lundy folk have always been an independent sort. The Heaven family who built this house owned the island then. Previous landlords of the Marisco passed down a chest of old Kerr side-hammer revolvers, recovered from ‘Iona II’s’ hold. They were never recorded or licensed. When British gun laws tightened after the Dunblane massacre, someone stowed the pistols in a secret storage hole beneath the pub. I only know this, because the chest came to me as the new owner. Every time there’s a police weapons amnesty, I consider turning them in. Somehow I can’t bring myself to, despite severe penalties if I’m caught in possession.”

  “How many have you got?” Bill asked.

  “Half a dozen. Ammunition, too. They’re not double action. You have to cock them each time you fire. Squeezing the trigger only rotates the chamber, otherwise. I also keep a licensed, double-barrelled shotgun at the pub.”

  Bill raised the hood on his robes. “Okay. The two of us will escort you and a half dozen volunteers back to the Marisco. If stopped, we’ll say we’re under orders to bring you up for the ceremony.”

  Most assembled in the hallway caught the vocal exchange. Gavin had a show of hands from six willing island men in under a minute.

  Bill turned to the warden. “Jake, there’s another guard unconscious in the bushes out back. I suggest you nab his robes and use them to move freely up to your cottage. Meet the others at the pub once you’ve that rifle in hand.”

  “Got it.” Jake disappeared out the rear.

  Bill regarded Gavin again. “See how much of the immediate vicinity you can secure between yourselves. Logic suggests the cult will remain concentrated here in the south-eastern settlement. They’ll want to protect their ritual space at St Helen’s. Remember, we’re talking about cold-blooded killers. They won’t think twice before firing on you. You must be equally ruthless.” He stepped outside into the misty darkness, followed by Vicky, Gavin and the six volunteers. “If you’re game for a showdown at the church, be my guest. But try not to catch those children in a crossfire, hey?”

  “Lead on,” Gavin replied.

  Bill nodded up the path. “You lot first, or we’ll arouse suspicion.”

  Ahead, on the ascent to the Marisco, they caught a lone, hooded figure tracking right to disappear over the rise. Bill surmised it must be Jake. He prayed a silent prayer the warden would return without discovery. Another supplication that efforts to secure MS Oldenburg might go off without a hitch or single gunshot to announce their clandestine interdiction. The cult were alert, but as yet not alarmed. Bill hoped to keep things that way until he and Vicky reached the church.

  At the rear door of the pub, Gavin twisted the knob and peered through the jamb. “It looks quiet,” he whispered. All nine of the group flitted inside the kitchen. Gavin slid back the bolt to an adjoining store room. “The storage hole lies underneath a pile of rags and junk at the back.” He pointed to an untidy yet unremarkable corner of the dim room, then hurried to lift and pass assorted boxes and dusty junk from person to person. With the space cleared, only a folded dust sheet remained on the floor. Gavin tugged it free. A distorted wooden trapdoor with a recessed brass ring-pull appeared. He tugged at the circular handle without effect. “Sometimes it swells during damp weather.”

  Vicky glanced around the storeroom. A mop and bucket rested against the opposite wall. “Can we use that for leverage?”

  Gavin nodded. “Nice. Pass it here, would you?”

  Vicky reached for the mop, then handed it across.

  Gavin threaded its sturdy wooden handle through the ring. “Excellent. Two on each side, if you please.”

  Four men wrapped sturdy fingers around the pole.

  Gavin gripped a space on the mop handle around the ring pull. “On three. One, two, three.” Five men heaved for all they were worth. The trapdoor groaned, then popped loose with a puff of dusty air. Gavin folded it back, then dropped inside to waist height.”

  Bill chuckled. “That really is a hole. I thought it led to a full basement, or something.”

  Gavin crouched to scramble beneath the storeroom. He slid a nineteenth century chest back to the trapdoor area, then straightened. A fading stamp on its lid read: ‘The London Armoury Company.’ “No, it’s a tiny area. Used for contraband, once upon a time.” Furtive hands opened the chest to retrieve one of the Kerr side-hammer revolvers. He held it up to the light. “Still used for contraband.” Those assembled drew closer to examine the five shot wheel gun with its distinctive side mounted hammer. Gavin span the chamber, handed the weapon to the nearest man, and then passed round the rest. He lifted a box of ammunition out onto the floor. “I haven’t fired one in ages. But last time I tested a gun - after dark, out of sight near the northern lighthouse - it worked okay. Load up and share out any spare bullets.” He climbed from the storage hole. “I’ll fetch my shotgun.”

  The back door of the pub opened. Bill raised his Škorpion. The others melted back against the walls while Bill covered the door. Jake Alburn appeared in the doorway, hood lowered and hunting rifle in hand. Vicky sighed with enough relief for the entire assembly.

  Gavin closed the trapdoor lid, then pushed past Jake. “Any problems?”

  “No,” Jake replied. “On my return, I noticed patrols moving to stand sentry near the church. Two separate pairs perform circuits past the pub to the store and back every few minutes. I’d say they’re confident they’ve contained the situation.” Jake rested his gun against the wall, then tossed the robes aside. “If it comes to a scrap, I’m not dressing like the enemy.”

  Bill made for the door, pointing back to Vicky. “Be careful not to plug either of us, once this thing escalates.” He tucked his weapon out of sight.

  Jake frowned. “What are you doing?”

  “They’ll keep the hardware outside, not indoors at the ritual. If we’re infiltrating that church as worshippers…”

  “Point taken.” Jake collected his rifle again.

  Gavin Rothbury reappeared clutching an under and over twelve-bore shotgun. A bandolier of cartridges swung from his shoulder. “If they’re patrolling past the Marisco in rotating pairs, why don’t we attempt to nab a couple and even the odds? It’ll give us more powerful and reliable firearms once the alarm is raised.”

  Bill peered out into the bar. A pair of hooded figures wandered past the front of the pub, heading towards the church. “Okay, Gavin. Give us ten minutes before making your move. If you go loud and we haven’t reached those children… Anyway, good luck, buddy.”

  Gavin offered his hand. “I don’t even know your name?”

  Bill exchanged a rapid glance with Vicky, then shrugged. “I’m Bill. This is Vicky.” He shook the landlord’s hand.

  Gavin’s eyes glittered. “Good luck, Bill. Good luck, Vicky.”

  Vicky closed the front door of the pub, her form cast only in the dim glow of light from a green, oxidised brass storm lamp above a lintel sign: ‘Marisco Tavern.’ Inside, armed islanders crouched beneath bar windows, ready for action.

  Bill and Vicky shuffled down the path. “Can you remember the expression they chant, Bill?”

  Bill winced. “Om and nom and nom, or something.” He made a pretend chewing noise.

  Vicky let slip a heartless laugh. “Templi omnium hominum pacis abbas.” Repeat after me. “Templi omnium hominum pacis
abbas.”

  Bill stammered at first but soon committed the phrase to memory.

  Vicky shut her eyes for one moment. “Father of the temple of peace of all men. What a sick joke.”

  The machine pistol clattered against Bill’s upper torso, concealed beneath his robes. “They believe they’re establishing a perfect social order. Power and control.” Bill spat. “I didn’t vote for their order, and I don’t want any part of something built on the murder on innocents.”

  “Whatever spirit, demon or creature empowers them, they’re opening a door for it to access this realm,” Vicky said.

  Bill grunted. “I haven’t forgotten what happened with my camera at Strood.” He tapped the gun through the heavy fabric. “I hope our Grandmaster isn’t impervious to hot lead, if it comes to that.”

  They crunched along the path, bowing their heads while another rotation of sentries passed in the opposite direction. Monk-like armed guards encircled the church perimeter. Bill swallowed hard, but kept walking.

  Vicky moved her hands into a reverent, sacramental pose as they drew nearer to the louvered bell tower of St Helen’s. She allowed the chant to repeat on her lips. With every syllable, childhood ghosts of that devastating night at Olantigh Priory chilled her spine. “Templi omnium hominum pacis abbas.”

  Bill followed her lead, matching the rhythm and tempo of his own chants to blend with Vicky’s.

  Four hooded guards at the church door parted to allow them access. A wall of sound from many voices, raised in the same looped phrase, drowned out the new arrivals. Neither Vicky nor Bill could distinguish their own utterances from this perverse, worshipful throng.

  Inside, cultists packed the church, clad in near identical garb. Vicky caught sight of the children, dressed in familiar white garments; their youthful eyes glazed over, like drug addicts enjoying a rush. Such an image sickened her to the stomach. Bile rose in her throat. She swallowed it back. Beyond the children, Reverend Streeter stood bound to a lectern before the altar. His head hung low, either unconscious or a victim of despair, unable to lift hopeless eyes amidst such horror.

  A dozen naked men and women danced and whirled about him. Intimate male members rose and bounced in titillated ecstasy, casting unholy shadows across sacred walls. Vicky’s eyes stung. Katie Tomlinson featured among the dancers, like that night at Hirsig House. To one side of the lecherous leapers, another tall figure waited, hands raised to the heavens.

  Bill leaned his head close enough for Vicky to hear. “Do you think that’s our pilgrim?”

  “He appears to be the leader. We’d better get close to the children.”

  They eased through the crowd at an agonisingly lethargic rate of knots. Any sudden movement could draw unwanted attention. Bill knew these thugs must have their ceremonial knives tucked away, ready for the post-climax bloodletting. The young couple responsible for those children, led them in a line until they stood next to the vicar. Such a warped parody of teachers taking school kids on a class outing, made Vicky want to throttle them both. Then her gaze moved to that silent monstrosity, hands aloft to his false god. The Grandmaster. How much blood and misery had baptised the soul of that faceless menace? She yearned to unmask him while his attention focused on visions of Baphomet. As Bill reached a pew nearest the sacrificial space, Vicky slipped into shadows beside the altar. First her family, then her cat, Raven, her liberty and her way of life. The cult had taken everything she cared about. Relentless, unfathomable suffering could be charged to that creature’s account. Whatever power lurked within him, she burned with holy fire to end it.

  The female dancers assumed bent over positions, men lining up behind. Memories of Otterden strengthened Bill’s resolve. This is it, Rutherford. Once those bastards finish bonking, it’s all over for Reverend Streeter and those kids. If you’re going to act, you’d better do so now.

  From outside the church, a shout arose and carried through the night. Three rapid spurts of automatic weapons fire near the Marisco, met a chorus of single shot responses. The Grandmaster’s hood swept left towards the sound.

  Bill acted on impulse, flinging his robes wide and raising the Škorpion’s snub barrel. A short, pulsing muzzle flash flared in the flickering candlelight. The weapon’s deafening report echoed back from the stone walls and brought all chanting and sexual activity to an immediate halt. Tinkling cartridge casings rolled across the stone floor in the abrupt quiet.

  Vicky saw her chance. She dashed from the shadows. Tensed, claw-like fingers tore the Grandmaster’s hood down. A momentary gleam of victory danced across her panting countenance. It faded and dropped into an abyss of confused horror, as the figure turned to face her.

  Vicky stumbled back, toppling against a pillar. Recognition filled her eyes with thin tears. She shook her head at the impossibility of that unmasked face, older than she remembered, yet still unmistakable. “No. Nooo. It can’t be.” Her voice choked into a sob. “Conrad?”

  16

  The Battle of Beacon Hill

  The captain stepped down onto the rear deck of MS Oldenburg. His crew secured the wrists of two cult members behind their backs with plastic cable ties. Snaking fog along the jetty, plus general laziness and overconfidence by the sentries, gave the mariners a much-needed advantage. They’d snuck aboard and fell upon their foes in minutes, subduing both without a single shot fired.

  The first mate rose from checking their makeshift restraints. “We’ve two more weapons now, Captain Maitland.”

  Various exchanging bursts of automatic and single-shot gunfire cracked away from somewhere beyond the cliff tops.

  “Good.” The captain peered first in the disturbance's direction, then out to sea. “I’ve just received word on the radio: help is on the way. In the meantime, I need two men to fetch the rest of the hostages from Millcombe House and bring them here for safety. Whoever started that skirmish up top, the islanders are outnumbered and outgunned. It won’t be long before that cult send reinforcements to check on their prisoners. If they recapture the hostages, liberating the island will become far more difficult and dangerous for whoever turns up.”

  The two crewmen who’d picked up the boat guards’ machine pistols raised their hands.

  Captain Maitland walked past them to lean over the rail and gaze along the cliff path. “Thank you, men. Be as quick as you can.”

  The mariners hurried down the gangplank, then sprinted along the path skirting the base of the granite cliffs.

  Bill swept his Škorpion from side to side, discouraging any advancing robed figures. Now he had their attention, his mind drew a blank about what to do next. Vicky’s cry of ‘Conrad?’ jolted him round. Silent tears rolled down her cheeks as she stared up at the twisted, insane grin adorning that un-hooded fiend towering before the altar. Bill panted, sweaty hands seeking better purchase on the weapon he clutched. “What do you mean, ‘Conrad?’ Your brother? I thought the cult murdered him?”

  An expression of total heartbreak and disbelief writ large across Vicky’s pretty face provided all the answers he needed.

  Four buff cult members ambled forwards.

  Bill raised the gun. “Stay back.”

  A long, guttural growl, as from the throat of some mythical monster, rippled between the Grandmaster’s lips. Bill risked swivelling for a better look. He alternated between that thing Vicky had addressed as her brother and the opportunist thugs itching for a chance to rush him. Conrad’s pupils pulsed with an eerie, crimson glow. An incessant disdain borne from the power of ancient, intelligent beings beyond this mortal realm, surveyed him as though he were a minor bug. Bill had never felt more alone nor more inferior.

  The Grandmaster thrust one commanding finger downward. His voice reverberated with a venomous, snakelike sibilance. “Take him.”

  The four thugs charged. Bill squeezed the Škorpion’s trigger. Its barrel leapt, pumping rounds into the nearest figure who dropped to the floor. A trickle of blood ran from his body, but the others kept coming. Bill aimed t
he gun and squeezed again. An incomplete and unsatisfying click announced a stoppage. “Shit.” He tugged at the weapon’s cocking handle, but it was no use. The three remaining assailants rugby tackled and pinioned him to the church floor. Bill got a quick punch in before they clamped his arms down. That last jab of defiance sent one man reeling. His hood flopped back to reveal Christopher Warwick, the KCC Business Manager. Blood poured from a mouth normally formed into a lopsided, cocky smile. He clambered to his feet, then staggered back to where the others held Bill down. “William Rutherford.” He wiped blood away with the back of one hand as he spoke. “Why couldn’t you take your lumps and go to prison like an obedient boy for murdering that copper?”

  Bill spat. “I didn’t murder him. You did.” He meant it in the collective sense for the cult. Christopher’s response startled him.

  “So you know about that, do you? I won’t waste time asking how. DS Quarry was an unfortunate pawn. Nothing more than Business. And I am a Business Manager.” He grinned. “My trip to Lincolnshire to deal with that interfering bitch, Fearnley, was pure pleasure, though.”

  Bill blinked, rage tensing his biceps. The cultists on either side tightened their grip.

  Christopher shrugged. “No matter. You two can join the reverend here, safe in the knowledge your sacrificed life essences will usher in a new, progressive age.” He slammed his right fist into Bill’s face three times, leaving him bloodied and bruised.

  Fresh strength and anger infused Vicky’s limbs at Warwick’s confession over killing Raven. Her nostrils flared. She charged at the smug murderer, rising in front of Bill. Firm arms clenched about her waist from behind, to stay that valiant advance.

  The Grandmaster swept her up towards the altar. His animalistic growl came again. “No, no pretty one. You’ve caused enough trouble.”

  Vicky looked straight into her brother’s eyes. What madness had turned him from saviour to executioner? How did he become the leader of this cult, once responsible for their parents’ death? Conrad’s pupils swam with the presence of a thousand restless souls. Everything inside Vicky told her who he was in body, but his spirit remained lost somewhere deep within that morass of fallen entities. She reached stiff hands up to clasp his face. In that moment Vicky became a frightened child again, on the banks of the River Stour long ago. “I love you, Conrad. It’s me, Vicky. Your sister.”