The Two Confessions

by John Whitbourn

  Moreover, he'd at last found a route under the skin of his captors, for they seemed wary of offence against these guests. The Wizard’s chant was curtailed by slamming his face into the dust of the ramp. A knee then pinned it there, diverting all his energies into acquiring breath.

  His comrades soon joined him in the same position, though more gently. Samuel was permitted to abase himself at his own speed. From that low position he saw a pair of uncared-for, uncherished feet float by and proceed further up the ramp.

  ‘God-of-spirit,’ their owner intoned, ‘equal but better, we-....’

  It seemed that they weren't used to any swift response. When the darkness beyond the 'eye' dramatically burst into life the assembly voiced both joy and surprise. Samuel used their distraction to raise his head and blinked against the yellow light and furnace wind. Sweat raced facewards to do its job and got thanked with instant evaporation. The skin of his brow felt stretched thin, permitting the sudden heat easier access inside his head. Beyond visions of steam rising from his brain thought became difficult.

  If Samuel had it bad then the air-borne 'Bogomil' five paces forward suffered worse. He clutched (as best a handless man may) at the place where his heart sheltered below displayed-for-view ribs. Plainly struggling, he gulped in air like a landed fish.

  ‘Lord... mercy! Be moderate... to... us.’

  He may have been heard, for the problem abated. 'One-yard-from-a-bonfire' became a nice sunny day. The old man staggered back but regained his poise. The annoying smile returned.

  ‘We are-....’

  Whatever it was didn't think much of him, for he was rudely interrupted again. An end-of-the-world scale noise came forth from the eye, streaming back hair (if applicable) and raising hands (if available) to ears. The floating ones, being both hairless and handless, had no such recourse and were much afflicted. Samuel was glad to note thin rivulets of red emerge from the foremost speaker's ears.

  The sound then lessened and resolved into voices, albeit a choir with inhuman range, speed-screaming up and down the octaves. There were words within but Samuel couldn't make them out. Even when the babble slowed and merged into a single tongue there was still no sense to it.

  The congregation thought different. Trevan twisted his head left and right and saw that they were greeting the message with simple glee. The floating skeletons in particular had lifted their stumps in worship and allowed tears to flow.

  Then the tirade ended in something even Trevan could understand. Plain English words concluded a long speech in... something else. 'Sweetest quarry...,’ he heard. ‘Sweetest quarry. Hello!'

  The air before the eye throbbed with the aftermath of greeting and expectation of more, but mere quiet followed. Only occasional ecstatic sobs from the assembly marred the silence.

  Belying age and condition, all fired up with zeal, the foremost speaker threw himself down and lay outstretched – but still inches off the floor.

  ‘We have,’ he said, ‘oh one-of-two, we have your favoured titbits. Out of selfless love we bring you succulent delicacies. Forgive our subservience to your eternal enemy and the urges of this wretched meat!’

  Samuel could not see it, but behind him the flock mortified the flesh, scratching and pinching their bodies till blood came. The more pious or impatient achieved the same end with little knives. Meanwhile, the prayer continued.

  ‘Accept our repentance and virtuous disgust with Creation. Accept, we beg, words from vile mouths and likewise meditations from gory hearts. May they be acceptable to you till we rise again to cleaner life in heaven.’

  The searing heat came again, but only for a second. It was taken as a blessing and approval. The old man floated erect.

  ‘These came,’ he gestured at the flattened captives, ‘to poke and pry for their Church of Christ-crucified. Bestial stumblers from the world of beasts. Take them up, we beseech you, that they may be saved and enlightened!’

  The mad sounds returned, even wilder than before, and then ended in sighs of contentment. Samuel could only see part way into the eye but it was clearly seething with light and life; the outer lip of a waking volcano.

  ‘The Anabaptists and Unitarians may now wish to withdraw,’ said their master of ceremonies. ‘Our worship shall be rich and full!’

  Some sober-suited figures around the ramp, edgy delegates from other denominations, took the hint and took their leave. Trevan recognised one as the Mayor of Bideford. Even chewier food for thought was the fear in their faces and haste of their feet. Samuel's fate was something they'd seen before and didn't care to relive.

  ‘Come feed! Come feed!’ exhorted the floating old man. ‘Relish your enemy's children!’

  The eye saw and heard and obliged, flaring with fresh energy. An invisible thing, hot and horrible, fell on Samuel's head. Even in the midst of fighting it he perceived all his companions were similarly assaulted. They thrashed and writhed against their restraints.

  Now a spider made of burning coals was inside his skull, treading lightly over the brain; inspecting every Samuel Trevan experience; doing a stock-take and making an inventory – or menu. Horror or resistance were equally ignored.

  It lasted for both seconds and centuries and then the thing leapt away. An inner Samuel was amused to note pure happiness arrive to celebrate release. Unlike the 'spider', he was able to brush the silly instinctual emotion off.

  The rank and file were less fortunate. However unfairly, they'd had been judged one of a kind and were devoured in bulk. Trevan felt their thoughts fly by: the gamekeeper, his London men, the soldiers; catching the slipstream of each life-story as it was sucked out. He ‘saw’ fleeting images: first childhood and its terrors and consolations, then holy-days and hard work, love and loathing, wives and whores. Even the recent injury to one's hand was relived. Samuel caught resonances of the stone hammer descending and all that followed. Both the pain and fear were lingered over and savoured - and then taken.

  Not everything met with approval. Much that might be called fine was left alone or spat out. The feeder did not want to know about the men’s families or affection for them. It passed over marital kindness or words of honour kept at cost. Flashes of religious faith caused it to gag as though chewing gristle.

  Samuel didn’t know how he could be sensing this; merely that he did. All that they had ever seen and been was passing by in review and the receding tide sometimes splashed him. Only some unflattering references to himself made the ordeal more bearable.

  The first speaker presumed to stand (or float) right in the flow of memories and was lost to ecstasy.

  When it was done, the victims were left soft and sheep-like, purged of anything remotely abrasive. They smiled into the ground and were freed from understanding. Men came to lift them up and lead them by the hand, like trusting infants, to the eye in the wall. Then, one by one, their unresisting throats were slit and the bodies thrown forward to vanish beyond. The crowd acclaimed each death.

  Samuel's opinion of Wulfstan soared when, seeing the lie of the land, he opted to buck the schedule. Leaking memories of tough training and the humiliations of churl-hood, the engineer struggled to his feet and charged the inevitable. The floating man and his guards tried to stop him but were too late or feeble. With a final - and eloquent - Saxon curse Wulfstan dived into the eye and left the world behind, still substantially the man he’d been.

  If he could Trevan would have clapped. He couldn’t - but fully expected something similar from the congregation. He was wrong. On the contrary, they howled outrage and impotent hatred. Samuel then realised how outrageously pious these people were. A minor deprivation to their god outweighed even an inspirational act.

  They were not willing to be robbed again. Untold hands rushed to pin Trevan and the Wizard hard to the ground. The 'spider' returned to Samuel's head, but waited, merely quivering occasionally in anticipation. He wasn't sure whether to be glad or sad at being left to last.

  The Wizard forced his head round to face Treva
n.

  ‘Bye!’ he said, brightly. ‘Can't wait! I go from here to a better place.’

  ‘Plus they're only saving me the trouble,’ Samuel answered, holding back grudging regard. ‘I was going to murder you myself.’

  ‘Likewise,’ replied the Wizard, smiling. ‘Never mind. Some other time maybe….’

  He went noisily and thus Trevan learnt that a magician's life left scars. Marked out by obesity, prone to loneliness, Rome had taught the Wizard things he'd rather not know. Then those skills had been put to full use - and not always in the cause of niceness. All in all, Samuel sensed far more kicks than caresses. Now it had to be relived, right from plump boyhood in Hull to terrible today. Also, he'd lied: the Wizard died a virgin.

  When all the bad was taken there was little left save residual faith. They took the magical-dampener from around the Wizard’s neck before slitting it, and then down he went, still gouting blood, slung into the eye.

  ‘Final and most favoured, oh inspirer of our disturbance,’ said the foremost speaker, floating close and caressing Trevan again. ‘Who are you? Whence comes your lust to die?’

  ‘I'm Pope Simon-Dismas, baldy,’ said Samuel. ‘Now get on with it.’

  Humour was wasted here, let alone sarcasm. It was less than weightless. It instantly withered to nothing on meeting the air.

  ‘Are there more of you to follow, or will this discourage? Who inspired such folly as to foul our peace? Will you speak or shall our god drag it forth?’

  Trevan raised his head the maximum permitted.

  ‘I can see right up your nose...,’ he said.

  That same nose flared, proving its owner wasn't quite as serene as he made out. However, there was no time for retribution, for the force from the eye grew impatient. Foremost speaker deferred to it instantly. The 'spider' within Samuel sank intangible teeth.

  First titbit selected was the farewell to mother. Samuel lived again the news about his birth, then standing before her grave. It had been agony at the time and ever since, but now, gingerly probing the spot, he felt nothing. Memory was still there, he could behold the scenes, but they were sucked dry of content. He was no longer involved.

  That could almost be construed as a blessing, but when the searing touch alighted further back he rebelled. The thing had found his first meeting with Melissa. She and Samuel - and it - stood in Church Twitten, in a variant replay of that pivotal time. Samuel felt it exult at finding such juicy strength of feeling.

  ‘NO!’

  It proved (just) possible to contest the theft. Samuel defended exclusive possession of that past moment. Repelled, the 'spider' drew back for a second - but then returned. It bit deeper and penetrated. Samuel's most precious possession started to drain away.

  ‘Please…!’

  Pointless. Another instance where saved Samuel-breath would have been better.

  A new figure approached stage left. Trevan's watering eyes saw only the start of long legs. Trousers of some gold-coloured hide grew ragged over cavalry boots. But any, any distraction was welcome.

  ‘Help!’ said Samuel, hardly recognising his voice: let alone the sentiments. ‘Someone help me!’

  The reply was that of an intelligent machine; cleverly constructed but not sentient.

  ‘Possibly….’

  ‘Do not meddle!’ That was the prime speaker, anxious to rein in his fury, though not entirely successful. ‘The salvation journey is begun!’

  He was ignored. The legs stooped and brought a parchment-pale face almost to Samuel's level. He now looked into almond eyes of gold. Trevan loved those eyes because whilst he searched vainly therein for pupils the feeding suddenly abated. He wanted more than anything to hold that a-bored-farmer-studies-a-sheep gaze.

  Finally, the slim face arose and scented the air. It sought and found something.

  ‘Your mother...,’ the Elf mused. ‘Oh, I see. If only....’

  Trevan was frantic; the conversation must be maintained.

  ‘What?’ he gasped, pushing his face off the floor. ‘‘if only’ what?’

  The foremost speaker wanted to act but daren't. He and the other floating ones spluttered impotent anger.

  ‘If only we had not met.’ There was real regret in the Elf's voice, a vehicle not accustomed to conveying feelings. ‘You are inimical.’

  That seemed the literal truth. Whenever the Elf leant close to Trevan, a trickle of golden blood descended from his long nose. Also, he began to cough: a harsh unhealthy bark.

  ‘No!’ It was the foremost speaker's turn to protest now. ‘You cannot!’

  ‘Alas, I must.’

  The Elf laid one hand on Samuel's shoulder. The guards' pressure, the ‘spider's touch, went away. So too did the Elf's fingertips, blackened to a crisp where they touched Trevan.

  He surmounted that great pain to speak.

  ‘You will come with me.’

  It transpired that even there and then the bottom of the barrel wasn't reached. Samuel had sang-froid to spare and ever after he was proud of that.

  ‘Any port in a storm,’ he replied.

  There was an onrush of boots, outcry and even shots, but they each soon faded, no longer of concern. Trevan and his new friend had put such worries to one side.

  U[U[U[U[U[U[U

  cHAPTER 37

  They were still present, but… displaced - at one remove from the resulting chaos. Likewise, the exact same scene was before Samuel's eyes, but now drained of colour and substance. He was no longer obliged to be involved. When a sabre traversed his midriff he flinched and cried out but came to no harm. The swordsman sought him in vain.

  A more effective Elven blade put Samuel’s bonds on the floor. Detached from him, they could then be seen and people rushed to the spot, slashing the air round about. Trevan weathered the futile blows and stepped away.

  ‘You will travel in our realm awhile,’ said the Elf. ‘Welcome to the real world.’

  Reinforcements arrived and formed an Elven circle about them as they passed, ghost-like, through the even greyer than hitherto congregation. Once, one of the floating ones somehow detected an Elf and laid stumps on him. Therefore a dagger was driven up into her palate and she died, albeit with obvious signs of gladness. Likewise, just before they left the 'cathedral', another sorcerer was brought up. He was able - with clearly painful effort - to glimpse the escapees. One of the defensive perimeter expired in cold blue flame, to be left behind without a second glance. Retribution or even taking notice appeared beneath elder-race dignity. A distant bell began to toll the alarm

  They left by a different route, through scenes of horror, holocaust and pentagrams, traversing both the anarchy of demi-demons' nests and strict order of human barracks. Trevan came to appreciate his folly in blithely challenging this veritable town underground. Passages and tunnels travelled vast distances and to surprising places. Whole communities lived out pallid lives there. What presumption to think he’d win through when the Pope's finest had not! Such a warren was a project for an army and Grand-Wizards, not a businessman.

  On the other hand, visiting was much easier when blessed with a sure guide and invisibility. As they went the Elf supplied what he called 'pre-emptive explanation'. Though Samuel's life might be worth saving it seemed that his conversation was distasteful.

  ‘These 'Bogomils' have stumbled upon something,’ Trevan was told, ‘and think it their god. We conduct occasional joint projects. Do kindly keep your distance.’

  Samuel regulated his pace to put more room between them, since close proximity clearly caused distress. He'd still not adjusted to wraith-like status and passing through people.

  ‘Will that suffice?’ asked the Elf, more in hope than expectation.

  ‘What? To explain?’ answered Trevan. ‘No, not really.’

  ‘Tsk.’

  ‘I mean, what do they want?’

  The Elf pondered the most concise way of answering that. Samuel's overwhelming relief started to give way to vague offence.


  ‘To quit their enemy's creation by the straightest path,’ came the reply, ‘short of suicide. Which is forbidden. Apparently. Meanwhile, they may freely abuse the flesh, theirs and others, just as they wish, free from so-called 'sin'. Please excuse me....’

  Staunching a golden flow of blood provided cover to curtail speech, and Samuel's conscience prevented him from pressing the point. He noticed that the trickle froze upon the Elf's sleeve. Plainly it was a frigid substance that circled their veins.

  Accordingly, the rest of the ascent passed in silence, save for the muffled sounds of ineffectual pursuit and the fading toll of that sonorous bell. They emerged into the light via a tunnel unknown to Trevan's painstaking surveys. He saw that Welcombe was nearby and had to resist the temptation to crumple earthwards and kiss the turf. Even torrential rain was greeted with joy. Evidently, summer downpours did not exempt the Elven realms.

  At the Forge Inn the Sicarii took both inhuman visitors and seeing Samuel again in his stride. Trevan and escort returned to mundane reality on the main landing, yet somehow, though snug in his room, the Negro had prior notice. However, when they entered, his defensive stance and levelled pistol were graciously abandoned as though accidental. Indeed, he seemed already on good terms with the Elf spokesman.

  The two approached – but only moderately close - and made pretence of shaking hands at a distance. The Sicarii leant round to clue Samuel in.

  ‘We've met before,’ he explained, matter of factly. ‘England is a strange country to me, so naturally I contacted the main players.’

  Samuel saw the sense of that but hadn't until then fully realised the high strangeness of his own land.

  The Sicarii resumed his interrupted shave. His guests found perches on the furniture and bed. The room was now crowded - but not convivial.

  ‘I didn't know you were down there,’ he said to the leading Elf, who remained standing and centre-stage. ‘You never mentioned....’