Shrine

by Herbert, James

  And then everything became unnaturally still.

  Only the falling rain convinced Fenn that the world had not ground to a stop.

  There were not even any sounds. No birds, no bleating of sheep on the far side of the field, no traffic noise from the nearby road. A vacuum.

  Until the breeze ruffled the grass.

  Fenn shivered, for the sudden draught of air was more chilly than the drizzle. He pulled his raincoat collar tight around his neck and nervously looked around, the feeling of some unseen presence unreasonably strong. There was nothing there of course, just the field and its bordering hedge. To his left was the crowd, the wall, the church; to his right the tree . . . the tree . . . Beyond . . . the tree . . . He could not focus beyond the tree.

  The wind – for it was no longer a breeze – was rustling through the bare branches, stirring the deformed limbs, making them sway as though they were slumbering tentacles suddenly come to life. The rustling became a low howling as the grotesque limbs shifted.

  The onlookers’ clothes were whipped by the wind and they clung to each other or held up their arms against it. Several began to back away, plainly frightened, while others stood their ground, also afraid yet curious – and for some, desperate – enough to stay. Many dropped to their knees and bowed their heads.

  Strangely, Fenn felt his own legs grow weak and it became an effort to keep himself erect. He saw Father Hagan begin to stumble forward in an attempt to reach the girl, but the other priest caught his arm and held him back. Words passed between the two clerics, but they were too far away and the wind was too loud for the reporter to hear. He lurched, feeling as though something had pushed him from behind. He could feel muscles in his back stiffening and his windblown hair had become brittle.

  But it passed. The low howling ceased, the wind died. The rain continued its drizzle, no longer blown off course.

  The people looked relieved, several blessing themselves. They looked around at their neighbours, each seeking comfort from the presence of others, turning to their parish priest for reassurance. Father Hagan could offer none. His skin looked even more pallid as he stared at Alice Pagett.

  Her arms were stretched outwards towards the now still oak and she was speaking, although no one present could catch the words. She was laughing too, joy almost visibly radiating from her small body. Yet there was nothing at the tree, no form, no movement, nothing at all. A gasp ran through the onlookers, a gasp that became a moan.

  Alice’s feet were no longer on the ground. She hovered two or three inches above the tallest blade of grass.

  Fenn blinked, not believing what he was seeing. It just wasn’t possible. Levitation was just a trick performed by conjurers under contrived conditions. But there were no such conditions here, just an open field. And no conjurer, just an eleven-year-old girl. Jesus Christ, what was going on?

  He felt an electricity running through him, a sharp, tingling flush that somehow jumped from his body to others, linking them all in a binding blanket of static. He was mesmerized by the girl, not sure if he were hallucinating, still refusing to accept the evidence before his eyes. Vaguely, somewhere in the more sane region of his mind, he was reminded of the camera in his pocket; but he could not find the strength nor, more importantly, the desire to reach for it. He shook his head, partly to clear it, partly to feel some physical sensation. The dream, the hallucination, the telepathic illusion, was still there in front of him, refusing to obey that part of his brain that insisted it was all unreal. Alice Pagett was standing above the ground and the grass was gently swaying beneath the soles of her feet.

  Minutes passed and nobody dared move or speak. There was an aura around Alice that, although it could not be seen, could be felt. A radiance that, if it were visible, would be brilliantly white, golden-hued at its periphery. Her position did not fluctuate; she neither rose nor descended. And her body was immobile, arms still outstretched, only her lips moving.

  Not many of those gathered there remained standing. Fenn’s legs began to give way completely and it was not reverence for what was taking place that caused him to sink to the ground. It was weakness, a peculiar tiredness that assailed him; it was as though his body were being drained of energy. He felt so numb, so cold.

  He crouched on one knee, a hand resting on the earth to keep himself balanced. The priests were still standing, although the monsignor had Father Hagan’s arm tightly gripped as if supporting him. They appeared confused, bewildered by the incredible spectacle and, Fenn thought with some grim satisfaction, they too now looked afraid.

  He turned his head to look at Alice once more and saw that she was sinking, slowly, slowly descending, grass blades bending beneath her feet, a pliant cushion before she touched earth. She was down and she turned to look at her audience, a rapturous smile on her face.

  At which point the miracles began.

  A tiny boy ran forward, his outstretched hands a mass of grey-black lumps. He fell at Alice’s feet, holding his hands aloft so that those watching from behind could see their ugliness. His tearful mother tried to join him, but her husband held her back, not knowing what was going to happen, just praying that it would be good for his son.

  The girl smiled down at the boy and the blackish verrucas, with their edges of grey, began to fade.

  The mother screamed and broke free, rushing to her son and hugging him close, tears streaming from her eyes to mingle with the rain in the boy’s hair.

  A cry from the crowd and all eyes turned in the direction of the teenage girl whose facial muscles could not be controlled, whose limbs twitched spasmodically and incessantly. She had been kneeling with her family group, but now was on her feet, her expression serene. Although she moved cautiously, there was no trembling, no twitching; she stared down at herself, examining her hands, her legs. The girl came forward, slowly but surely, her chest beginning to heave with her joy. She knelt at the feet of Alice Pagett and wept.

  A man stumbled forward, pushing through the kneeling people, his eyes clouded with cataracts. They cleared a path for him, guiding him forward with gentle pressure on his arms, urging him on, praying for him.

  He fell before he reached the girl and lay sobbing, his face wretched with longing. The opacity in his eyes began to clear. For the first time in five years he began to see colour. He began to see shapes. He began to see the world again, only his tears now blurring his vision.

  A young girl, who attended the same hospital as Alice and whose parents had been given new hope ever since the lat-ter’s sudden cure, asked her mother why the man on the ground was crying. The words were not too clear, but the girl’s mother understood them. To her they were the most beautifully formed words she had ever heard, for her daughter had not spoken in all the seven years of her short life.

  Many in the crowd were collapsing, sprawling on the ground, or falling against those nearest to them, like marionettes whose strings had been cut. Fenn was forced to sit, his supporting knee giving way. His eyes were wild, looking from the girl to the crowd, the girl to the crowd, the girl . . . to the tree . . .

  Another cry, becoming a wail, from among the rain-soaked people. A woman’s moan of anguish.

  Fenn’s eyes scanned the crouched bodies and came to rest on the blanket-wrapped bundle lying on the fringe of the semi-circle. The boy was sitting upright; his eyes shining with some new-found understanding. He pushed the blanket aside and hands reached to help him. He didn’t need their help though. He was rising, his movements stiffly awkward like a newborn lamb’s. He was on his feet and the hands steadied him. He moved forward, ill-balanced but coping, staggering and eager to reach the girl. His father and another man quickly stood beside him, taking his arms. He walked, using the adults for support, but the motion coming from his own legs. They helped him forward and it was not until he was within touching distance of Alice Pagett that he allowed himself to sink to the ground. He half-sat half-lay there, his knees together, thin legs almost hidden in the grass, his upper body upright,
his father holding onto his shoulders.

  They gazed at the girl with adoration on their faces.

  Fenn was stunned. His strength was returning although he did not yet feel steady enough to stand. Jesus Christ, what happened here? It just wasn’t possible!

  He looked towards the two priests, one dressed totally in black, the other in the robes of the Sunday service, green and yellow, white beneath. Father Hagan had already fallen to his knees, and the tall priest, the monsignor, was slowly collapsing beside him. Fenn could not be sure if they were suffering the same debilitating weakness that had assailed his own body, or if their gesture was one of homage. Father Hagan bowed his head into his hands and rocked backwards and forwards. Monsignor Delgard could only stare wide-eyed at the girl standing in the field, her small body so vulnerable beneath the black twisted tree that towered over her.

  14

  ‘She’s as tender and sweet as a fat little lamb. Yum, yum! She’ll make a tasty dinner!’ She drew out a bright sharp knife, which glittered quite dreadfully.

  Hans Andersen, ‘The Snow Queen’

  Riordan wearily shook his head. It made no sense. In his thirty-eight years as a farmer, nothing like this had ever happened before. Not to his livestock. He motioned the lorry to back further into the field, then nodded to his farm labourers to get busy with their shovels.

  The vet came over and stood by him, saying nothing, his face haggard. The call from Riordan had come in the early hours of the morning and when he, the vet, had arrived he knew there was only so much he could do. Even those he had cut from their mother’s stomachs, those he believed were well-formed enough to cope with premature birth, had not survived. It was inexplicable. Why should it happen to all of them at the same time? There had been a disturbance in the field the day before – an incredible event from all the confused accounts he had heard – but the pregnant sheep had been far away from it all, in a different section of the field. He sighed and wiped a hand over his tired eyes as the labourers scooped up the tiny glistening corpses on the shovels and tossed them into the back of the lorry. The sheep, the mothers the vet had not been able to save, were picked up by stiffened legs and swung onto the waiting vehicle.

  Riordan looked at the grey church in the distance and wondered how people could worship such an ill-natured God. Farming was a hard life: you expected failures, mishaps – even tragedies. Crops could be ruined, animals could, and always did, have accidents or illnesses from which they perished. It happened to farm workers, too. But you never expected, could never be prepared for, something like this. There was just no sense to it.

  He turned his back on the field and watched the heavily-laden lorry pull away.

  Part Two

  ‘I wonder if I’ve changed in the night? Let me think: was I the same when I got up this morning? I almost think I can remember feeling a little different. But if I’m not the same, the question is, Who in the world am I? Ah, that’s the great puzzle!’

  Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland

  15

  ‘When I used to read fairy-tales, I fancied that kind of thing never happened, and now here I am in the middle of one!’

  Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland

  ‘Good Lord, are you unwell, Andrew?’

  Bishop Caines stared at the priest, shocked by the change in the man. He had looked ill when the bishop had spoken to him just a few weeks before, but now his physical appearance had deteriorated alarmingly. Bishop Caines moved forward and took the priest’s hand, then indicated towards an armchair opposite his desk. He looked questioningly at Monsignor Delgard, but the tall priest’s expression remained impassive.

  ‘I think perhaps a small brandy might do you some good.’

  ‘No, no, I’m fine, really,’ Father Hagan protested.

  ‘Nonsense. It’ll give you back some colour. Peter, the same for you?’

  Delgard shook his head. ‘Perhaps some tea?’ he said, looking directly at the bishop’s secretary who had shown them into the study.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Bishop Caines, returning to his seat behind the desk. ‘Both for me, I think, Judith. I may need it.’ He smiled at his secretary and she left the room. The smile dropped as soon as the door closed.

  ‘I’m extremely disturbed, gentlemen. I would have preferred that you came to me yesterday.’

  Monsignor Delgard had walked to the study’s leaded window overlooking the secluded garden. The weak, late-February sunlight settled into the far side of the neat, partly-shadowed lawn, unable to draw the moisture from it, sparkling off the dew. It had rained heavily during the night and throughout the preceding afternoon; the sun looked as though it were still recovering from the soaking. He turned towards the portly bishop.

  ‘I’m afraid that was not possible.’ His voice was low, but the words filled the dark, wood-panelled study. ‘We couldn’t leave the church, Bishop, not after what had taken place. There was too much hysteria.’

  Bishop Caines said nothing. He had assigned Monsignor Delgard to watch over the younger priest and his church, to control any situation that might arise over this girl and her apparitions; his role was to observe, influence and report. Peter Delgard was a priest not unused to incidents of the alleged paranormal or supernatural, his reputation for bringing sanity to insane situations renowned in ecclesiastical circles. He was a quiet, remote man, sometimes intimidating in his intensity; yet one knew instantly that he was a man of compassion, someone who shared the suffering of others as if the burden were his own. His authoritative quietness did little to reveal this side of his nature, but it was present in his aura as clearly as it must have been in Christ’s. The bishop trusted Monsignor Delgard, respected his judgement, acknowledged his wisdom in matters that were often too bizarre for his own sensibilities to accept; and he was a little afraid of the tall priest.

  Delgard was looking out of the window again. ‘I thought, too, that Father Hagan needed some rest,’ he said.

  Bishop Caines studied the priest in the armchair. Yes, he could see that: Father Hagan looked as though the shock had been too much. His flesh was greyer than the last time; his eyes were dark, a look of desperation in them.

  ‘Father, you look drained. Is it because of what happened yesterday?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know, Bishop,’ the priest answered, his voice almost a whisper. ‘I haven’t been sleeping too well over the past few weeks. Last night I hardly slept at all.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. But there’s no need for it to cause you such anxiety. Indeed, there may be much to celebrate.’

  The bishop became aware of Delgard watching him. ‘Don’t you agree, Peter?’

  A brooding silence, then, ‘It’s too soon to know.’ The monsignor’s stoop seemed more pronounced as he slowly strode from the window and sat in the study’s other armchair. He regarded Bishop Caines with eyes that saw too much. ‘What took place is quite inexplicable, beyond anything I’ve ever witnessed before. Five people were cured, Bishop, four of them no more than children. It’s somewhat early to say how complete were their cures, but as from two hours ago, when I checked with each one, there had been no relapses.’

  ‘Of course, we cannot accept these cures as miraculous until the medical authorities have made a thorough examination of those involved,’ Bishop Caines said, and there was a carefully subdued eagerness in his tone.

  ‘It will be a long time before the Church can even accept them as cures, let alone “miraculous”,’ Delgard replied. ‘The procedure before such a proclamation is made is lengthy to say the least.’

  ‘Quite so,’ the bishop agreed. ‘And properly so.’ He found Delgard’s stare disconcerting. ‘I managed to reach the Cardinal Archbishop last night after you telephoned me. He has reiterated my own feelings that we must tread warily: he has no desire for the Roman Catholic Church in England to look foolish. He wants a full report before anything is announced to the media, and any statements must come directly from his offices.�
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  Hagan was shaking his head. ‘I’m afraid it’s beyond our control, Bishop. The reporter, Gerry Fenn, was there again yesterday. We haven’t yet seen the early edition of the Courier, but you can be sure the event will receive full coverage.’

  ‘He was there? Good Lord, the man’s intuition must be incredible.’

  ‘I think not,’ Delgard put in. ‘Apparently the rumour that Alice was to receive another “visitation” was spread around Banfield long before Sunday.’

  ‘I forbade her mother to bring her,’ Hagan said just as the door opened and Judith entered with a tray of drinks.

  ‘I think that was unwise.’ Bishop Caines nodded for his secretary to leave the tray on a small table at the side of the room. He waited for her to leave before he spoke again. ‘Most unwise. You cannot forbid people to come to church, Father.’

  ‘I thought it best that Alice stay away for a while.’

  ‘Best for whom?’

  ‘For Alice, of course.’

  Delgard cleared his throat. ‘I think Father Hagan was concerned over the traumatic effect the child’s obsession was having on her.’