‘No schoolroom? Forbidden, Trevan: as are the hours these wretches' parents spend here.’
Samuel half-heartedly tried to wrench his shoulder free of the limpet grasp - and failed.
‘We work the hours our clients need,’ he said, ‘and none longer than me. It's the Army and the Navy that urge us on: they've placed all this work here and it's them as screams when it's late. Why can't you cast an ear to that...?’
The priest's hesitation tacitly accepted a weakness in the indictment here. The source of funding that drove this sweatshop was the Achilles heel of the Church's otherwise unanswerable case. He pressed on, his prisoner with him.
‘And I suppose this cheap crucifix on the wall is the statutory chapel facility?’
Actually, embarrassingly, it was: though the workers were generally too frantic to consider such things. Samuel could have repeated his protest about the space constraints but he was done with explanations now. For all his sleepless zeal he knew a lost cause when he saw one. A verdict had already been reached and the only thing available for salvage was his dignity.
‘Righto,’ he said, at last daring to bat the priest's guiding grip away, ‘so that's it. We're finished here.’
The Industrial Inquisitor seemed relieved that the screamingly obvious was no longer in dispute. The impious assault on his hand was graciously overlooked, as religion dictated. He surveyed the myriad lines of tight-packed workbenches, the ant-like operatives and dangerously proximate lathes.
‘Well, you are, certainly,’ he agreed, in more reasonable tones than before, deciding this energetic rough diamond was owed the unadorned truth at least. ‘In other hands some of this may remain, transformed into a more... civilised workplace.’
Trevan adjusted his work-stained frock coat and black beaver hat after the priest's rough handling. If he was to be dispossessed he didn't want to go looking like something the cat had played with.
‘It's all yours then,’ he said, in what he hoped were stoic tones, ‘I'll leave it to you to administer the wind-down. And don't expect an abundance of blessings as you tell them they're sacked. There's families as'll starve because of this.’
‘Better hunger than life as a blur of overwork,’ countered the priest.
‘Oh, you've convinced me, Father,’ said Samuel. ‘And good luck with persuading those who know what hunger really is. I do hope your ears don't burn when people say their prayers tonight - if they still bother....’
He was sailing close to the wind here and in an act of mercy the priest waved him to silence. The man was in trouble enough without courting blasphemy. That gesture, backed by an organisation that had authority over everything forever, was sufficient. Trevan stepped back from the precipice.
‘Fair enough, Father,’ he said. ‘So on you go and fare ye well.’
The news was getting round the workforce, whispered from bench to bench. For the first time in the factory's history people dared to down tools and express an opinion. They now knew their master was going, though few fully understood why. The Church and Guilds had apparently spoken and, from the lowest oil-rag-monkey to best paid craftsman, it was appreciated there was no point in disputing with them.
Nevertheless, they could still comment.
As Samuel left for the last time, the rifle-makers affectionately applauded him on his way. The priest and his party shook their heads in sad disbelief.
At the door Trevan turned to acknowledge the fond farewell. He tipped his hat to them.
‘Worry for yourselves, not me,’ he said in reply, an unfelt smile occupying his slab face. ‘Down I may be, but not out!’
And those of them who heard it, knowing what they did of the man, well believed him.
U[U[U[U[U[U[U
cHAPTER 4
When they wanted to, the wheels of Church administration could achieve a sprightly speed. Documentary confirmation of the decision reached Samuel just one week later. He was not hard to find, being self-confined to his rooms in the interval.
The Court's emissary discovered him 'at ease', unshaved and in shirtsleeves, a marked contrast to his own imposing gown of black slashed with papal-red. He arrived just as the empty brandy bottles were being cleared out. Their contents had been kind to a hitherto total-abstainer, blurring the first few days of dispossession. Samuel was still careful though, and declined to let that friendship blossom into love. Soon enough he'd pulled himself together and started writing letters.
There was the need to wind up one part of his life and then seek to explain all to those he hoped would still feature in what came next. That had proved hard work. The crumpled wreckage of those first, second and umpteenth drafts littered the floor of Trevan's furnished rooms, to be crunched underfoot as he paced up and down. Not one had yet reached finished form or been entrusted to a postal courier. Samuel was having trouble sanding down catastrophe into mere misfortune by dint of words.
‘Come on in, don't be shy,’ he said to his visitor. ‘I've been expecting you.’
The officer-of-the-court noted the box of bottles.
‘Evidently....’
He was wary, still seeking to gauge the situation. His host looked more like a prizefighter or churl-stock fairground wrestler than the 'industrialist' he'd blithely expected. Worse still, his manner betrayed signs of uncertain temper and irregular opinions. A court-issue short-sword by the officer’s side should have supplied comfort, but somehow did not. The less authorised brass 'knuckle-enhancers' close to hand similarly failed to spark boldness. He was getting too old to roll round the floor with clients, especially when so close to retirement. Most likely this one could snap him in two, stealing all his golden years and pension. Pondering the wisdom of postponement and returning in force, he hesitated on the threshold.
‘Mr Trevan? Mr Samuel Melchizedek Trevan?’
‘None other. Why, who do you think I was? Mind your back.’
Samuel shoved the clinking box of dead-men through the door and out onto the landing. The house skivvies would clear them away later - probably. Meanwhile, let the other tenants see it and note the prodigious consumption. If he’d cared little enough before, there was even less cause for concern now. Meekly treading the path of 'respectability' hadn't exactly drowned him in acclaim, had it? He'd soon be on his way in any case.
Though he'd brushed past this elderly-but-erect caller brusquely enough, Trevan seized neither the opportunity to escape or the officer. So it seemed safe for him to proceed.
‘This is for you.’
A thick parchment envelope sealed with the smoky red ribbon and wax seal of the ecclesiastical authorities was held out to Samuel.
‘Oh, so I'm to be made a bishop at last, am I?’
Trevan's witticism was ignored whilst his right shoulder was anointed with the package.
‘Official service,’ said the officer. ‘There's no going back now. You may open or dispose of it as you wish, young man. I strongly recommend the former.’
‘Righto. Take a seat: I may have some questions.’
‘That's why I'm here. Those things are always served by senior tipstaffs: to avoid confusion or ignorance of its terms.’
‘Fair enough.’
Trevan crashed rearwards into the chair behind his desk and cracked the missive open. The officer meanwhile scooped some half-written letters out of a nearby horsehair chair, first checking for dust, before arranging himself and waiting patiently. A cheap boxwood mantelpiece clock ticked away the heavily pregnant minutes.
‘Interesting...,’ said Samuel, eventually, when he'd perused the quarto sheet within from close covered top to bottom. ‘If you have to ruin a man's life I see there's ways of phrasing it nicely....’
‘I may have to wish you good-day, Mr Trevan. It's queries I've bided here for, not sarcasm.’
‘And don't for a moment think I'm not gaspingly grateful,’ said Samuel. ‘Yeah, there's a few things I'd like to ask.’
‘Fire away.’
‘Don't tempt me. London'
s out, I see.’
‘Alas yes. Within seven days from service. Your name is infamous, your example unwelcome; you can never return.’
‘On pain of?’
The officer’s brow creased.
‘Mediterranean galley service is the usual thing: though I've rarely seen the penalty imposed. I must tell you that the galley captains of the Hospitallers of St John are harsh masters, their enemies many. The ten year sentence is not often survived. Is London-life worth that risk?’
‘Nope,’ answered Trevan: swift and sure. ‘It holds no intrinsic appeal and I'm a country boy for preference anyhow. Never fear, I'll be gone if required to. However, there's also mention of compensation; that sounds good: unexpected but good.’
The officer shook his snowy head.
‘Mother Church does not steal, Mr Trevan. Always in these cases the market value of the business is assessed and refunded - less expenses and a deduction for any immoral enhancement of worth. The Archbishop's office will write to you with a - non-negotiable - offer. You may nominate a Hebrew goldsmith or Church Bank to hold it, or even take receipt in cash.’
Samuel mustered a gallows-grin.
‘That'll make writing to my prospective father-in-law a sight easier. It was tricky trying to break the news he’s gaining a beggar for a son.’
‘You'll note there's restrictions on the money's use.’
‘Yeah: no further 'enterprise or employment'. For life?’
‘‘In perpetuity’; which is the same. Also the money is conditional.’
‘Ah yes, that was my second major question: the confession business. What happens if I'm not given absolution?’
The officer leant back in the armchair. They had reached the point where Christian integrity forbade the slightest softening of edges. That stage was honoured with an expression of grave regret.
‘Then,’ he said slowly, inclining his hook nose in fatherly manner towards Trevan, dutifully anxious there be no grounds for mistake or doubt, ‘forget money, marriage and all else. Exercise your rowing arm instead.’
‘Ah....’
The officer stood up to go. He'd now stressed the one truly needful thing. In a neutral sort of way he wished this half-tamed ruffian well.
‘If I may speak plain, young man, I suspect you've considerably advanced yourself in life. Your accent and manners still - just - reveal that. So, how sad it would be to end your - shortened - days criss-crossing the Middle Sea: below decks and in chains. Accept my counsel, which is, I assure you, disinterested and well meant. Repent handsomely, be shriven and complete your pilgrimage on earth as best you may. Why waste your one life and the troubles taken so far? You've come a long way Mr Trevan....’
He had indeed.
U[U[U[U[U[U[U
************
'And the King of Sodom went out to meet him after his return from the slaughter of Cherorlaomer, and of the kings that were with him, at the valley of Shaveh, which is the king's dale.
And Melchizedek king of Salem brought forth bread and wine: and he was the priest of the most high God.
And he blessed him, and said, Blessed be Abraham of the most high God, possessor of heaven and earth:
And blessed be the most high God, which hath delivered thine enemies into thy hand. And he gave him tithes of all.'
Genesis. Ch. 14, v. 18-20.
'... this Melchizedek, King of Salem, priest of the most high God, who met Abraham returning from the slaughter of the Kings, and blessed him;
To whom also Abraham gave a tenth part of all; first being by interpretation King of righteousness, and after that also King of Salem, which is, King of peace;
Without father, without mother, without descent, having neither beginning of days, nor end of life; but made like unto the Son of God; abideth a priest continually.
Now consider how great this man was, unto whom even the Patriarch Abraham gave the tenth of the spoils.'
St Paul's Epistle to the Hebrews. Ch. 7, v. 1-4.
'... Now, Melchizedek is a most interesting biblical personage; a mysterious, elusive and prophetic figure; a vehicle for all manner of symbolic portents, the significance of which are perhaps not fully unfolded and revealed to us even to this day. Though often referred to, for instance in the Psalms of David and by the apostle Paul, we meet him but once and then but briefly. The Patriarch Abraham has gained victory over the Kings Amraphel, Arioch, Chedorlaomer and Tidal, who had kidnapped his son Lot when they prevailed over the doomed cities of Sodom and Gomorrah. The priest-king Melchizedek of Salem, an even then ancient name for Jerusalem, appears as from nowhere to approve the triumph. Our Father-in-faith, Abraham, defers to him, for reasons not vouchsafed to us, and accepts his blessing in the form of bread and wine. St Paul attests to Melchizedek's puzzling precedence by noting that 'that which is less is blessed by the better'. By contrast, the gratitude and gifts of the King of Sodom are disdained and rejected by Abraham.
We do not know the antecedents of Melchizedek, this primary monotheist, we do not learn his fate or hear one jot or tittle more of him. He draws back into the obscurity of the Bronze Age where, in this life, our curiosity cannot follow. Faith, however, allows us to be patient in our unknowing, whereas the pagan must be resigned to ignorance amidst his despair. The creed that has its roots in Melchizedek and Abraham inspires the quiet confidence that one day, for each and every one of us, all shall be revealed. Yes: just consider that for a moment: ALL!
Meanwhile, though this story's prefiguring of the Christian sacrifice of bread and wine is crystal clear, we are left to wonder what other revolutionary truths might be concealed within....'
'A Concordance to the Book of Genesis (together with a meditation on the significance of certain antediluvian animal relicts recovered in the County of Sussex).'
Cardinal Dave-Pierre Fairfax, Archbishop of New Wessex, Australasia. Fiat Lux World-wide Press Corporation, Brighton, England, the year of our Salvation 2420 AD.
************
cHAPTER 5
Samuel Melchizedek Trevan was born in the Downs Country. Or so he always maintained. When sufficiently off-guard to answer such questions, it suited him to say he came into being there. The assertion was broadly true, in the sense that his earliest recollections were set amidst those chalk-ranges of southern England. His custodians would neither confirm nor deny the notion, so he stuck with it. Certainly, Samuel carried nothing with him from any before-time.
So, when he first looked out upon the world (and remembered) the five year old Trevan saw rolling hills of close-cropped green, moulded by nature into voluptuous, feminine, form. Later, when innocence was past, he thought that might be the secret of their appeal to him, as surrogates for the mother he never knew. The theory was plausible, but no practical assistance, not to mention 'soft', and so he abandoned it.
There was no real 'first memory’, but rather a collage of days. He was always atop a rise, briefly alone, the first, the most eager and energetic of the group, with the view to himself. All Sussex (the entire world then) was spread before and below him. The Downs air invigorated, the sunshine blessed him, and springy turf, close-cropped by the numberless sheep and colonised by rampion and rock roses, actively assisted his feet. Tempus didn't always fugit back then, at the beginning of Trevan-time, and it had no pretensions to tyranny. Mere minutes could seem like... as long as he liked.
Then Father Omar would loom over the brow of the hill, along with the rest of the children, and he would know he was safe and cared for, free to disobey mock-severe instructions, and rush on to fresh adventures.
Later images were more hard-edged and factual. Sights gained fixed names, like Lewes town, Firle Beacon and Mount Caburn. The mysterious 'Long Man' dug into the hill at Wilmington, and Firle Place, home of the magnificent and holy Gage family, were pointed out to him. The 'New-Haven' and the glittering sea were just visible on the horizon, and it was even said there were lands beyond that! Samuel also heard whispers of less desirable things upon the D
owns, of disva, of downs-tigers, and the inhuman Elf tribes, whose existence it was forbidden to acknowledge. Sometimes at night the orphans heard strange cries from the dark hills and trembled in their beds, but - in the south at least - mankind had the land well under control. Obedient children didn't need to worry.
In due course, Samuel learnt that the sheep were not toys, but useful things, called Southdowns, and it was they who kept the rolling hills open and treeless and as he wanted them to be for ever. It was also they who supplied orphan children with clothes for their back, and meat on Feast Days. Samuel was duly grateful and never more tormented them or chased them with sticks. One day, when he came across another, older, orphan-boy doing so, he broke his nose.
It was then he learnt another lesson: that Father Omar had an implacable side to him, and was willing to use his greater strength, just as Samuel had, to enforce justice. He'd struck both wrongdoers just once and each boxed ear immediately puffed and swelled. Samuel did not cry, although he dearly wanted to, because his... disappointment lent him resolve. Father Omar gravely observed that but, as was his way, never referred to the incident again.
As for the rest, it was all happiness, or at least all the happiness a cast adrift child should reasonably expect. The high-walled orphanage at Cliffe, industrial suburb of Lewes, had its fair share of bullies, cold-hearted staff and sordid secrets. Father Omar dealt with those he knew of as firmly as they might merit, and Samuel, already a sturdy boy in every sense, was equal to the unsuspected balance.
Even better, the children were daily instructed that the Universe was fundamentally just. Then it was proved for them one morning when they saw their giant presiding priest hurl a discovered-to-be-cruel tutor (with 'contacts' in the Town!) clean off Cliffe Bridge into the river Ouse. Father Omar Abdalhaqq ibn J'nna then tracked him along the bank, silently daring the half-drowned man to come ashore for further instruction. He didn't care for the challenge and struck out downstream to distant New-Haven. Receding frantic splashes were the orphanage's last sighting of him. He too was never mentioned again.
The Two Confessions Page 3