Ritual (3 page)

He studied the inscription, then lowered his eyes. A sprig of garlic lay on the grave bed. The stranger licked the blood from his gums and wondered. He bent down to pick the garlic up. A shadow crept along his spine and slid its icicle into the base of his skull. Another man’s shadow was freezing him. The stranger turned his head, skating his eyes along the ground. His tongue pricked on the roof of his mouth.

A pair of black shoes were the first things he saw. A black gown hung one and a half inches above the shoes. The gown was belted, and was set off with a white circular collar at the throat. The face of Pastor White sprouted out of the collar. The stranger moistened his tongue again. The spikes of fear returned to his subconscious. It was only a God man.

3

The God man spoke quietly.

‘And who is having the specific pleasure of desecrating a virgin’s grave? I do hope I’m not intruding on your good work!’

Pastor White’s face glowed with sarcasm. Obviously he chose his words with delight and precision. He was now in his middle sixties, with a hoar frost mat of hair and a deep tan.

The stranger, still holding the garlic flowers, smiled through his sunglasses and stood up.

‘May I introduce myself?’

‘You most certainly may.’

‘My name is David Hanlin. I’m not desecrating this grave. I simply picked up this bunch of garlic flowers because it is a strange phenomenon. Not exactly in themselves, but certainly in my field of research.’

‘Do explain yourself.’

David found himself talking in the same pedantic tone as Pastor White. This disturbed him.

‘I am not suggesting that the garlic flowers themselves are odd, but I am suggesting that they carry unpleasant implications when found on a new grave. Like this one. Necromancy, etc. And I am carrying out a village to village research on religious cults for London University. Christ is not amongst them. I hope I’m making myself clear.’

‘Not very. Research into the Old Religion, eh? Presumably you are being humorous? Witchcraft, as such, exists in certain uncultivated areas of Ireland and Scotland and maybe
un peu
in East Anglia, but I, personally, backed by God himself, of course, have stamped out any shadow in my parish! I know I am making myself clear.’

With an index finger, he pointed at the church spire.

‘The slender arm of Christ cuts through the villagers’ nightmares now. I have firmly printed a cross on their hearts. Occasionally a little fever breaks out in the lower orders towards Midsummer, but communion skins the naughtiness off their groins—if you follow my accurate but doubtful metaphor?’

Hanlin did not bother to follow Pastor White’s involved syntax at all.

‘Forgive me for saying so, Reverend... er…’

‘White. As in “snow”. If you follow me?’

‘Of course. Well, Reverend White, could I possibly look inside your church?’

‘God’s house is accessible. Even to you. But, if I may presume; why? If I may presume.’

Communication was progressing fast. The settlers were going to be very helpful.

‘Well, there were certain occult signs in the last village church I went to which escaped even the vicar’s notice. The signs are generally harmless. Not always, though.’

‘May I ask which village you applied your doubtful Sherlock Holmes’ ability to before this? May I ask?’

Insatiable, isn’t he; thought Hanlin. The pedantics of the Reverend were beginning to irritate him, but he controlled his tongue.

‘A church in Tintagel. Early this morning.’

The lie sounded very sincere in the early afternoon sunshine. Like the lie concerning London University. Like all the lies of today. He was a very accomplished liar and knew it. He didn’t enjoy it.

‘If you would not mind, Mr. Hanlin, the name of the church? If you would not mind!’

Hanlin quickly read the wording on the church gate and without thinking said, ‘St. Peter’s Church,’ praying to God that there was such a church in Tintagel.

There was a pause. What a pause!

‘Oh, yes, I know it well, Horatio, I mean, Mr. Hanlin, of infinite jest. Unfortunately, I mean that.’

Hanlin was now completely bewildered.

‘Let me show you our exquisite Saxon Church, Mr. Hanlin.’

At last.

‘The spire was added at a later date—I think. God’s fore-finger was unknown in architectural terms…’

O, he’s off again.

‘... during the choppy Saxon days, if you follow me...’

Yes, I’m following you, but for Christ’s sake lead me into God’s tomb before I explode with your verbosity. Never heard anything like it. Some people make God’s position relatively impossible in a modern society.

‘You’re so kind, Reverend White.’

Eventually Reverend White lead him into the church. Into the ice light, the frosty saints and the stained glass. As soon as they were inside, Hanlin removed his sunglasses with relief. The irises of his eyes were a subtle mixture of king-purple and pink. Not very pretty. They glimmered opaque and pale as the flag-stones. Even when the ice light caught them, they did not glitter. But they were very disturbing to look into because of their smokey unreal colour. Their flatness throbbed like perch eyes in translucent water. The Reverend could not prevent himself from staring into his eyes. He was temporarily hypnotised by their flesh colouring. With a penny, David rubbed the inflamed corners. He pressed the cold penny onto the source of pain. Slowly the pain subsided.

‘Your eyes, Mr. Hanlin...’

‘Interesting, aren’t they? They don’t get on very well with sunlight. It’s a shame. I love the sun.’

As he said this, he stroked a ribbon of light on the sleeve of his green tweed jacket. His other hand changed the grip on his briefcase. It was mercifully cool in the stone shadows of the church. The dark stained wood of the choir stalls lead to the polished marble of the altar. Everything was rich but simple. Diffused sunlight and liquid glass rippled on the face of the altar. And then he saw there was no cross. The altar was completely empty. Nothing. Hanlin stared at the Reverend.

‘The cross, Reverend? Where’s the cross?’

Reverend White edged his sepulchre mouth into a doubtful smile.

‘Oh, dear me, yes, it’s missing, is it not? It often appears to evaporate in sunlight, if you follow my lyrical meaning!’

He must be mad; Hanlin thought. Taking it so calmly. I wonder if the grave dancer I saw was responsible?

‘Shouldn’t you report it to the Police, Reverend?’

‘Oh, dear me, no! The cross always comes back—even brighter than when it left. It is, as if—how shall I phrase it—a cherubim had put in polishing overtime. So I never worry.’

Hanlin’s reply to this was to run down the centre aisle of the church. The Reverend was startled, to say the least.

‘You shouldn’t gallop about in God’s House, you know!’ the Reverend shouted, galloping after him. ‘God usually has his midday hibernation approximately now. He has to work very hard!’

David had already reached the altar, on which he found another bunch of garlic flowers, and something else. The Reverend panted up to him. David pushed ‘the something else’ into the Reverend’s hands. The Reverend saw what it was and dropped it. A shrivelled monkey’s head. David grinned.

‘No occult here, eh? I suppose the garlic flowers on tomb and altar, spiced with a monkey’s head, are simply projections of my imagination!’

Reverend White bent down and retrieved the monkey’s head. He examined it with increasing horror. He began muttering to himself.

‘I warned them! In the lightning name of Christ, I warned them! Who would dare, during my angelical reign, who would dare place a shrunken anthropoid’s head on my high altar? This is really removing Lucifer’s trousers! Get it out of God’s bedroom! Remove it! It defiles God’s sheets! Forgive my hysterical and lascivious imagery, O Lord! But remove it!’

‘Of course, Reverend, no need for the histrionics! You settlers appeal to me even more!’

This time the Reverend was bewildered. David’s eyes flamed a clear yellow through the pink tissue. The Reverend tried to assemble his thoughts while David watched him, smiling.

Mr. David Hanlin really is a distasteful homosapien, isn’t he? He is more obsessive about the Satanic Rites than the lower classes. There is something of the split entrails of a rabbit with myxomatosis about him. Definitely unhealthy! O Lord, help us—I mean, help me—now and in the time of the intruders! In the ancient days, Hanlin would be flogged over the village boundaries or dunked in the local pond as a warlock. O, for the Ancient Days! Hymn number... oh, dear me no! Control yourself, Saul White, hate is not regarded pleasantly by our Lord! Though he only had Pilate to deal with! And I have a garlic-anthropoid finder on my platter! Let this cup be taken from me...

Half way through this generous reverie, Hanlin left the church. Once outside, he mapped out the course the grave dancer took over the graves with his index finger. Then he re-entered the church. The Reverend had not noticed his departure.

‘Where was the girl killed? I mean, where did the accident take place exactly?’

‘What girl, where, who? O, it is you. I had forgotten you were there. You should have told me you were there. Oh, you are muddling! What do you want? I mean, go away! Anyway, which girl’s accident? Do I mean that! No, I do not!’

Hanlin laughed and pulled out the photograph of Dian Spark in the local newspaper. The Reverend was obviously startled.

What does this bolshevik stranger want? He probably wants to dig up her body. I know, he’s a vivisectionist—or something.

‘Are you a vivisectionist—I mean, a Resurrectionist! Or a Seventh Day Adventist!’

Why did I say that? He will think me a verbose sententious old duffer if I continue in this over-bloated fashion!

‘Where did she die, priest? Where? Games are over. Daddy’s home! Where?’

There was no smile in the purple eyes now. Only triggered power. The pupils were sooty tunnels. The Reverend moved up and down on his toes like a nervous ballet dancer.

‘How dare you address a deputy of God’s High Throne in that tone of look—I mean, voice!’

Hanlin smiled. Honey flickered over the eyes, sugaring the anger.

‘Do forgive me, Reverend, I’m so sorry, It’s just that I was Dian’s uncle. Was. Her mother’s my eldest sister...’

The Reverend decided to believe him whether it was true or not. Anything to get rid of him.

‘My dear boy, I am so sorry. But why did you not say so before. It would have prevented our accumulative misunderstandings!’

‘Yes, I should have. But I’m still a little tense about it all...’

‘Well, we buried her here, actually. Well, not specifically here. In the graveyard, of course! Nice service, very spiritual. Though I say so myself!’

After further diversions, the Reverend explained where the oak tree was. With an elaborate ‘thank you’, clutching his briefcase, David left the church a second time. He vaulted the churchyard wall and headed for the woods.

*

Mr. Spark listened to the feet moving in the loft above his shop. It was two o’clock. Three and a half hours since the funeral.

My wife’s so silly. She just won’t relax. Oh, no, we have to have the dramatics! Fancy holding a literary meeting on the day of your daughter’s funeral. I suppose all the regulars will come. I don’t get it! I never do. My poor little girl. My wife, she says, our Dian died three days ago and the funeral meant nothing. Perhaps she’s right. I know she don’t hold with church, but I wish she had more respect. Anna wouldn’t even come. At least she could have done that. What’s the matter with her? She never listens to me. Never talks to me. Always to her mother. Never to me...

Mr. and Mrs. Rowbottom entered, so he pushed his thoughts well into his trouser tops. Mrs. Rowbottom spoke for both.

‘Is Mrs. Spark upstairs, please? She told us during the service she wanted us all to come round for a reading. We thought it a bit odd, but...’

‘Yes, she’s upstairs. Two or three have gathered upstairs already. That’s the shoe-galumphing you can hear!’

‘Is it just an ordinary meeting, or...?’

‘I think she just wants to take her mind off—well, you know what I mean...’

The Rowbottoms knew perfectly what he meant. Rowbottom’s eyes licked behind his white lids. He used his eyelids as tongues to moisten his parched eyes. There was something of the lizard about him. A hint of green under the skin and the uncomfortable way his head was wedged into his shoulders.

As Mr. Spark watched him he felt disgust curve through his body. He did not trust Rowbottom. The feeling was mutual. Spark considered whether to refuse them admittance. Only momentarily. He realised they might calm his wife, so he indicated the stairs, leading to the loft where the meetings were held. They mounted the stairs. Mr. Spark returned to polishing the sweet jars.

When they reached the landing, the Rowbottoms exchanged smiles. Rowbottom knocked on the loft door and entered. Mrs. Rowbottom followed. The loft had a low thickly-beamed ceiling. Everything was white except the burnt beams. Two latticed windows opened onto the street. In the centre of the long room there was a polished oak table, piled with manuscripts and leather volumes. Quietly two grey candles smoked in a lance of sunlight. Mrs. Spark was serving early afternoon tea to her visitors who sat symmetrically round the table. The Rowbottoms assumed their seats in silence. Rowbottom faced the epicurean, Lawrence Cready. Mrs. Rowbottom smiled at James. William faced Tom, the third labourer. Only the chairs at the head and foot of the table were unoccupied.

Mrs. Spark continued to serve tea. Suddenly Lawrence Cready reached over and lifted a small volume from the mountain of books. Everyone tensed. Waiting. Water shadows seemed to lap the ingle-nooks and the corners of the ceiling. Tallow embroidered the candelabra. Cready opened his volume at a selected place and chanted the opening verse of Keats’ ‘La Belle Dame Sans Mercie’. This was orchestrated by the asthmatic breathing of William. Mrs. Rowbottom impatiently scratched her spoon on the bottom of her cup, digging for sugar. She removed the spoon from the cup and then proceeded to scrunch it between her false teeth.