Shrine

by Herbert, James

  He felt inadequate and defenceless. How could he combat something he could not even fully comprehend? Through his bishop he must seek the help of those skilled in such matters, laymen some, while others were men of his own calling; perhaps together they could control this evil. But mostly, he would seek God’s help, for only the omnific could truly vanquish such a creation.

  A sharp sound made him raise his head. He looked around and the church interior was dim, the lights fading. He could see no one else in the church. His attention turned back to the crucifix on the altar and his heavy eyelids closed as he resumed his prayers. His joints felt brittle and once more, as it had frequently over the past few weeks, his body reminded him that age and weariness of mankind’s ills were taking their inevitable toll. Perhaps, when all this was done, he would seek his own peace, a retreat into—

  The sound again! A sharp, cracking noise. It had come from his right.

  He looked over at the disfigured replica of the Virgin Mary and his lips moved, this time caused by an old man’s trembling rather than prayer.

  Delgard pushed himself upright, the effort seeming to take more than it should have. His footsteps were slow, almost a shuffle. He approached the statue and stood beneath it, looking up with curious eyes at the grotesquely cracked face. The Virgin Mother’s hands were spread slightly outwards as if to welcome him, but her smile was no longer the tender expression of maternal love: the cracked stone had distorted it into a sinister leer.

  His eyes widened as the once-beatific face seemed to change expression and he quickly realized that the cracks were deepening, running into longer jagged lines. Several pieces of stone dropped away, falling to the floor to crumble into dust. The smile became broader, malevolent. Its lower lip fell and it was as though the mouth had opened to silently laugh. The surface plaster began to move, currents moving through it, and Delgard tried to back away, but found himself transfixed, fascinated by the change in its structure.

  He stared up into the statue’s eyes and powdered dust slid from them so that they became hollow, empty.

  His mouth opened in horror and he began to raise a trembling hand to protect himself, as if suddenly aware of what was going to happen.

  Fenn stumbled into the church and immediately saw the tall priest at the far end, near the altar. Delgard was looking up at the statue of the Madonna, one hand half-raised.

  And there was something else in the church. A small hooded figure, sitting in one of the pews just a few rows behind the priest.

  The dark coldness that enveloped Fenn was now a familiar sensation. He felt his stomach muscles grip together and his hair stiffened. He tried to call out to the monsignor, but just a hissing sound escaped his lips. He began to move forward, but was already too late.

  The statue exploded and thunder roared through the church. Thousands of stone pieces tore through Delgard’s exposed body like metal shrapnel, lacerating his flesh, cutting through his face, chest, hands, groin, throwing him backwards so that he fell over the first bench into the next row, fragments that had found entry through his eyes already lodged deep in his brain, destroying cells so that the incredible pain was only momentary. His body, now unfeeling, twisted and twitched in the narrow confines between the benches, and one large torn hand raised itself as if pleading with something unseen. It gripped the back of the bench and tightened, closing around the wood in death’s grip, a last contact with the material world.

  Fenn ran towards the fallen priest. He stopped in the aisle, his hands on the backs of benches, looking down at the bloody, twisted figure, Delgard’s face ripped open, his white collar stained crimson. He screamed Delgard’s name, even though he knew the priest would not hear, nor ever hear again.

  With eyes filled with enraged tears, he looked towards the small black-garbed figure. But there was nothing there. The church was empty. Apart from himself and the dead priest.

  Wilkes

  ‘But is there nothing I can do to get an immortal soul?’ asked the little mermaid.

  Hans Christian Andersen, ‘The Little Mermaid’

  He locked the box, testing the lid to make sure it was secure. Satisfied, he picked it up from the table and crossed the tiny room to the wardrobe, taking no more than three paces; stretching his body, he placed the box on top of the wardrobe, and shoved it hard so that it slid to the back out of sight. He presumed his snooping landlady had already discovered it, but saw no reason to re-arouse her curiosity by letting her eyes fall on it each time she inspected the room. He smiled, imagining what her reaction would be if she ever discovered its contents. But that was his secret. He was sure even his mother did not know it was missing; or, if she did, had not reported the loss to the police, for it was, after all, an illegal possession.

  He sat on the narrow, single bed, brushing away the blond hair that fell over his eyes. The newspaper lay spread on the floor at his feet and once more he quickly scanned the article he had been reading. A local Sussex reporter had tried to discredit the little saint, had maintained that the priest had not been killed by a bomb planted by some fanatical anti-religious movement, had made himself a laughing-stock by denouncing all that had happened at Banfield as some crazy witch’s curse!

  He looked thoughtful, nodding his head several times as he read the article. A bishop, in turn, had denounced the reporter as a sensation-monger who was trying to make as much mileage out of the story for his own financial gain. Although the Church could not yet acknowledge the St Joseph’s cures as miraculous, they could most certainly issue a firm rebuttal to the idea that they were the work of some ludicrous ‘fairy-tale witch’.

  He smiled.

  Furthermore, the little saint had asked that a special service should be held for the murdered monsignor and the parish priest who had died earlier. She had told the Church authorities that the Lady of the Vision had asked for a candlelight procession through the village in memory of the good priest, and that a Revelation was to follow. The Church was to comply with her wishes, for it was felt that, while they did not expect to receive any such Revelation, the priests, one of whom had been a courageous victim of those who denied Christ’s work here on earth, merited such a tribute.

  He was not smiling now.

  He lay back on the bed, his head and shoulders resting against the wall behind, his teeth chewing at a thumbnail that had already been bitten to the quick. Three faces, cut from old newspapers and Sellotaped to the wardrobe door, stared back at him. Pasted across the dot-printed photographs was the name of each man. Soon he would take the images down and put them back among the other newspaper articles he had kept in a scrapbook dedicated to them.

  But for now he silently mouthed the three names, his faraway smile returning.

  CHAPMAN

  AGCA

  HINCKLEY

  36

  The Hag is astride

  This night for to ride;

  The Devil and she together:

  Through thick, and through thin,

  Now out, and then in,

  Though ne’er so foul be the weather.

  The storm will arise,

  And trouble the skies;

  This night, and more for the wonder,

  The ghost from the Tomb

  Affrighted shall come,

  Called out by the clap of the Thunder.

  Robert Herrick, ‘The Hag’

  It was madness. Sheer bloody madness.

  Fenn brought the Mini to a halt and wound down the window. ‘What’s the hold-up?’ he called out, gesturing towards the snarled traffic ahead.

  The policeman, who was trying to bring some order to the chaos, strolled over, the slow walk a disguise for his agitation.

  ‘You won’t get through the village,’ he said brusquely. ‘Not for some time, at any rate.’

  ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘The High Street’s chock-a-block. The procession starts from there.’

  ‘It’s only seven; I thought it didn’t start ’til eight.’

/>   ‘They’ve been arriving since six o’clock this morning and pouring in all day. God knows how many there are in the village by now, but it’s a good few thousand, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Look, I’m from the Courier. I need to get through to the church.’

  ‘Yeah, well we all have our problems, don’t we?’ The policeman scowled at the cars that had stopped behind Fenn’s, several further back tooting their horns. His arm lifted towards them like a conductor’s baton bidding silence. ‘You could try the back roads. Go around through Flackstone; it’ll get you nearer at least.’

  Fenn immediately put the car in reverse and backed as far as he could go towards the vehicle behind. When he felt the gentle touch of bumpers he pushed into first and eased the wheel around. It took four backward/forward shuttles, even though he used the grass verges on either side of the road, but eventually he was pointed away from Banfield and heading into the dazzling lights of oncoming traffic.

  He should have realized it would be this bad; the media had been full of the story over the last few days. Why hadn’t the bloody fool of a bishop listened to him? Fenn banged the steering wheel with the flat of his hand, his anger boiling over.

  He soon reached the sign pointing towards Flackstone and swung into the unlit country lane. It was a winding road, few houses on either side until he reached the hamlet itself; even here there were just one or two country cottages and flint-stone houses set on a blind bend. To his left, he could see a strange glow in the sky and he knew it was from Banfield, the village lit up as it had never been before. He swore under his breath. And then aloud.

  Fenn reached another main road shortly after and groaned when he saw the amount of traffic all headed in the same direction. He made a quick decision and pulled over onto the grass verge. He locked the car and started walking, knowing that the traffic moving slowly past him would soon be brought to a halt. It was at least a mile to the church, but walking was the only way to get there before everything, even pedestrians, came to a standstill.

  Madness, he kept repeating to himself as a rhythm to his walking. They’ve all gone bloody crazy.

  A strong white light shone high into the night, a beam that was separate from the diffused glowing of the village. It was the main searchlight of the shrine itself and it seemed to him like a siren beacon luring wayfarers to some devious destruction. The eerie whiteness made him shiver. There were heavy rolling clouds above, their fringes occasionally caught by silver moonlight, briefly accentuating their ragged and turbulent form.

  The pilgrims he passed, in their coaches, mini-buses, cars – and even on motorbikes and bicycles – all seemed in good humour despite the long delays in any kind of forward movement. Hymns of praise came from many vehicles, the low intonations of prayer from others. Yet it soon became obvious that there were groups among them whose journey derived from curiosity only, those seeking thrills, the unusual, the inexplicable. And there were others who had made the trip because there was nothing much on telly.

  Again, as Fenn drew nearer to St Joseph’s, he felt the peculiar vibrancy in the air. It was akin to the atmosphere in London in the summer of ’81, on the day of the Royal Wedding, or Pope John Paul’s visit the following year. Yet the coming together of this conscious energy had a peculiar potency of its own, a heady surging of impulses that he knew would find its peak in the area around the shrine. He knew now that this was Alice’s source of power, just as it had been Elnor’s so many years before. He knew this as surely as if dead men had whispered the secret to him. The omnipotent mind-energy that transcended the physical, which allowed disabilities in the physical form to be overcome in those who would allow the scavenging of their own psyche. In those who truly believed. And that, he was convinced, was the gift of all faith healers: the ability to direct the psychic energies of others. The words of the wretched sixteenth-century priest had provided the key; the dream-whispers of latter-day priests who, like their early predecessor, no longer lived, had provided the answer. But Bishop Caines had not listened to Fenn. A sensationalist reporter’s beleaguered dreams had meant nothing to the clergyman. Proof, Fenn, it was proof that was needed.

  Where was the manuscript he spoke of?

  Dust on the floor of the priest’s house.

  Where was the late monsignor’s translation?

  Dust on the floor of the priest’s house.

  Where, then, was the proof?

  Dust, like the statue of the Virgin Mary inside the church.

  Fenn’s shoulders were stooped, his eyes pouched through nights of disturbed sleep. He had known when trying to convince the bishop that his intensity was near-demented and his words frantic, too emotive for Caines to regard him seriously; but in truth, he had felt a shade too close to insanity for his own liking. He had even less luck with Southworth, the businessman behind the scenes, whose greed had skilfully engineered the commercial aspect of the shrine. And no luck at all with the head of the Catholic Church in England. It was hardly the eminent cardinal’s fault, he knew, for Bishop Caines’ warning of a lunatic reporter on the loose had preceded his own attempts to reach the Cardinal Archbishop. His alternative was to turn to his own profession and it, too, had shunned him. Even the Courier, still miffed that he had turned his back on the newspaper but desperate for his story anyway, had baulked at his revelation. They had compromised with an interview, a piece written by one of his own colleagues with the same scepticism he would have allowed himself just a few weeks before had he been the interviewer. It was a come-uppance that was hard to take; and yet he could see the ironic humour of the situation. The cynic was being paid for his past cynicism; the sensationalist was disbelieved because of his past sensationalism.

  Fenn could almost smile at himself. Except it hurt when he tried.

  A car’s horn made him jump and he realized he had wandered into the path of a slow-moving vehicle. He kept to the side of the road, his breathing heavy now, but his pace faster than the traffic travelling alongside him.

  He reached a T-junction and there was the church further down to his left. The main road was jammed with people and vehicles, the hubbub tremendous. There were more stalls than ever by the roadside, selling food, drinks and all kinds of trinkets, as well as the usual religious paraphernalia; the police were obviously having enough trouble coping with the crowds to deal with the flagrant infringement of trading laws.

  He pushed his way into the shuffling mob, heading for the side entrance to the church, and it took a good twenty minutes to cover no more than five hundred yards. He reached the gate, now brightly lit, and attempted to push it open.

  ‘One moment,’ a voice said from inside.

  He recognized the man whose whole life seemed to be devoted to guarding the church entrance. This time he was flanked by two priests and a constable.

  ‘It’s okay,’ Fenn told him. ‘It’s me, Gerry Fenn. I think you know me by now.’

  The man looked embarrassed. ‘Yes I do, sir. But I’m afraid you can’t use this entrance.’

  ‘You’re kidding.’ Fenn showed his Press pass. ‘I’m working for the Church on this.’

  ‘Er, that’s not what I’ve been informed. You’ll have to use the other entrance.’

  Fenn stared at him. ‘I get it. Persona non grata, right? I must have really pissed off the bishop.’

  ‘There is a special Press entrance now, Mr Fenn. It’s just further along.’

  ‘Yeah, I passed it. Looks like I’m no longer among the privileged.’

  ‘I’m just following instructions.’

  ‘Sure, forget it.’ Fenn moved off, knowing there was no point in arguing.

  He made his way back to the small entrance marked PRESS, which had been cut through the hedge surrounding the field, and was relieved when his pass got him through without further hitch; he wouldn’t have been at all surprised if the ban had extended to all entrances, including the public one. He stopped just inside and his tired eyes widened.

  Jesus, he thought, the beav
ers’ve been busy.

  A network of benches all but covered the field like a carefully constructed spider’s web, at its centre the spider itself. The twisted oak may have been inanimate but, to Fenn, it now had all the sinister predatory aspects of the creature he had likened it to. The altar-piece below the tree was more ornate than before, although there were no statues, no images of Christ and His Mother that would mean the Catholic Church was fully committed to the popular belief that this was hallowed ground. The religious authorities had been subtle: there were no extravagant displays of crucifixes, save for the solitary cross on the altar itself, but there were many such symbolisms woven in the cloths that covered certain sections on and around the main platform. The centrepiece itself had been broadened to allow for more seating above congregation level, with a deep-red canopy on either side to protect the worshippers from the more inclement weather; a special tiered section had been constructed to the left to contain, he guessed, a choir. Banners were rooted at intervals along the side aisles, their bright reds, greens and golds giving a rich, though dignified, cast to the vast arena. He noted PA systems at strategic points in the field so that no one should miss the words of the service. And the cameras were no longer confined to the outer limits, for platforms had been erected inside the boundary hedges where a congregational view could be taken of the proceedings.