Shrine

by Herbert, James

  The upper branches of the tree were in flame, its trunk torn open, tiny creatures pouring out, maggots, lice, glistening wood leeches. The tree was rotted, dead inside, a nesting place for parasites that fed on dead things.

  Thunder, and, almost at once, forked lightning. It struck the tree and every branch became alive with blue dancing flashes, energy pouring through the contorted limbs, seeking earth. The whole of the oak burst into flames and a tearing, rending sound split the air. The tree began to topple.

  Hands tugged at Fenn’s shoulders. A woman’s hands and a child’s.

  Sue and Ben pulled at Fenn until he was moving with them, running from the platform, away from the screaming creature, away from the falling tree. Hand in hand they jumped from the shrine into the night.

  They landed heavily, but the muddy earth was soft, yielding. Fenn, winded, his ankles jolted by the fall, turned to see the small girl standing beneath the descending, screeching inferno, the child who was already dead, slain by a madman, Alice, who now raised her arms as if to ward off the fiery nemesis, yet no longer the child as the flames engulfed her, once again the black, hunched creature who could not defy the greater power. Fenn believed he heard Elnor cry out as the burning tree crushed then incinerated her corrupt and unearthly body.

  The centrepiece collapsed, all those sprawled on its surface falling inwards towards the heart of the fire. Soon the whole structure was burning.

  Only the crackle of flames could be heard and the weeping of those still left in the field. The earth tremors had stopped. There was no more screaming.

  Fenn reached for Sue and Ben, their distraught faces bathed in the warm glow of the fire. He pulled them to him and they huddled together, moving only when the flames of the burning platform came too near.

  And then the rain gently began to fall.

  41

  ‘Round and round the circle

  Completing the charm

  So the knot be unknotted

  The cross uncrossed

  The crooked be made straight

  And the curse be ended.’

  T. S. Eliot,

  ‘. . . The Curse be Ended’

  ‘Come in with us.’

  Fenn smiled at Sue, who was peering in the open car door, and gently shook his head. ‘You go with Ben,’ he said. ‘I’ll pick you up later.’

  The boy scrambled from the back seat out onto the kerb. Sue leant back into the Mini, one knee on the passenger seat, and stretched across to kiss Fenn’s cheek. She tenderly hugged him and then was gone.

  He watched as they walked down the long path towards the church entrance, Sue’s hair caught by the sun, made golden at its edges, Ben holding her hand, skipping alongside her.

  It was a Sunday morning, a bright fresh day, the smell of the sea strong in the air. The church was of contemporary design, elegantly simple, its structure rejecting any solemnity or oppressiveness. More inviting than a couple of churches I could think of, Fenn thought grimly. Few people strolled the streets in that part of the seaside town for, although it was a bright, sunny morning, winter’s chill still clung; only those with dogs to be exercised, those who were too lonely to stay indoors, and those attending Sunday services at the many and various Brighton temples and chapels, had left the warmth of their homes. One such person, a dog-stroller, passed by on the opposite side of the road and Fenn caught a word of the front-page headline in the newspaper the man was avidly reading.

  It said ‘SHRINE’ and Fenn turned his head away.

  He was tired of their theories, their conjectures, their desperate need for a rationale. The current favourite was that an electrical storm had centred on the field, its lightning destroying the altar-piece, causing the tree to burn and fall, even striking the ground to send shock currents running through the earth. Film, radio and television technicians present complained that electrical interference had jammed their equipment. Even the film in the cameras of the Press photographers had been blanked out, although nobody could quite explain how an electro-magnetic storm could have that effect. The police, receiving severe criticism for not having controlled the panic, had limply claimed that their own communications system had been disrupted by the storm. The shockwaves had caused mass hysteria among the already highly-charged, emotional crowd, causing hallucinations, breakdowns and panic. That was the Number One, highly-rated conclusion. Others were even more fancied but nevertheless not totally rejected: Alice Pagett had acquired some unknown paranormal mental powers and, having no control over them, had upset nature’s delicate balance; an underground eruption had shaken the area, frightening the whole assemblage into hysteria (unfortunately no seismographic evidence substantiated the idea); an anti-religious organization had planted a bomb beneath the shrine (probably the same group that had killed the monsignor). More and more solutions, more and more confusion.

  Over twenty thousand had arrived at the shrine on that black Sunday and, if there had been any miracle to that day, it was that only one hundred and fifty-eight had been killed in the panic. Many had been crushed to death beneath the trampling feet of their fellow-worshippers; some had suffered heart seizures or fatal fits; others, those on the central altar-piece, or close by, had been burned to death; still others had died in accidents as they had fled the field. Many, many more had been seriously injured and maimed, while the condition of a number of the invalids present had deteriorated to an alarming degree. Strangely, those whom Alice Pagett had cured at other times at the shrine found their illnesses and infirmities had returned, as though the child’s death had cancelled the miracles.

  Scores of the unfortunate worshippers, clerics and nuns among them, claimed they had witnessed the ground tear itself open. But these people were confused, even weeks later, and their mental state could at best be described as ‘unstable’. It was a fact that hundreds, possibly thousands, had blanked the incident from their minds completely; all they could remember was the fierce storm and running from the field.

  Speculation im the media was rife, swinging from the wild sensationalism of the so-called popular Press (as if the incident needed any sensationalizing) to the deliberately underplayed scientific and psychological views of the more conservative. Fenn was no longer a part of that particular circus. He had resigned from the Courier and refused offers of employment with the large Nationals. He had even refused to answer questions concerning the events of that night. Maybe one day, when his head was clear and his nerves more controlled, he would sit down and write a definitive book on the Banfield shrine. But it would have to be marketed as fiction for who would believe the facts?

  He smiled as he remembered Nancy’s frantic phone call from the States. Her bosses wanted him over there, were offering him a job on the Post – ‘name your own figure’ – in return for the full story of the shrine. He declined the offer and Nancy had fumed and ranted on the other end of the line. She had been one of the first to flee as soon as she realized ‘something bad was going down’, mindful and still fearful of what had happened to her at St Peter’s. So scared had she been that the slightest hint of trouble had sent her scampering. Unlike most of the panicked people, she had headed directly towards the church grounds, knowing that all exits would be swamped, and had followed a man she thought was Southworth, the hotelier in the village, losing sight of him somewhere in the graveyard. She had used the entrance to St Joseph’s as her escape route and had missed the finale. That was why she was so chagrined. Happy to be alive, of course, but pissed that she hadn’t witnessed the grand slam. Nancy had urged, begged, threatened, but he refused to join her. She was still in a rage at the end of their conversation, but managed to growl, ‘I love you, you fink,’ before her receiver clunked down.

  He rubbed his temples with stiffened fingers and thought of those who had died in the field. The fat businessman, Tucker, found lying in the mud, his face purplish blue from a heart attack. His chief assistant, a woman whose name Fenn could not remember, lay on top of him as though trying to prote
ct his gross body from the crushing feet of others. She was in a state of shock. Ironically, her mother was found dead nearby, she too having suffered heart failure. Employer and mother, both lost at the same time with the same cause. No wonder she was still in shock. Tucker’s wife, also found nearby, could remember nothing, only that she had fainted while trying to escape the field.

  Bishop Caines had died, along with other clerics and altar-servers, in the fire. Crushed by the tree, burned by the flames.

  George Southworth had been more fortunate, although some might reason otherwise. He had been discovered hiding in St Joseph’s, a shivering, slavering wreck of a man. They had to drag him screaming from the church, for he refused to walk down the aisle to the broken doorway. Apart from the cracked door and a shattered stained-glass window (both struck by lightning, it was thought) there was no other damage to the church, even though Southworth insisted it lay in ruins around him.

  Then there was Molly Pagett.

  He closed his eyes, but the vision of her enflamed body was even sharper. That poor, poor woman. How she had suffered in the final minutes of her life, seeing her daughter shot, resurrected, changed into something unspeakable, then dying in agony. Perhaps it was better she had died, no matter how terribly, for the memory would have killed her just as surely, only death would have been slow and more cruel in its claiming.

  Why had Alice – no, Elnor! – called her ‘Rosemund’? One of the two nuns mentioned in the sixteenth-century priest’s chronicle had been named Rosemund. She had been one of the young novices whom Elnor had seduced, one that had been cast out from the church and was said to be living in the forests around the village. Could Molly Pagett possibly have been a descendant of that girl? Or was the creature Elnor, this resurrection, this reincarnation, confused by its own hatred? He would never know, for there were no clear answers.

  There was not even a clear answer as to why the young man had shot Alice. His dead body had been found among the others, battered and crushed; nobody would even suggest that he had been torn apart by the mob. The German gun was found nearby, its barrel jammed. His name was Wilkes, and the only abnormality of his typically middle-class background was that he appeared to have, judging by the collected newspaper clippings found in his bedsit, a fascination for the assassin of John Lennon, and the would-be assassins of Pope Paul and Ronald Reagan. If he had been a little older, then perhaps his heroes would have been Oswald, Ray, and Sirhan.

  Whatever his twisted reasons were, a trigger-squeeze to fame, a rejection of what he believed to be total good, Alice was dead. Perhaps evil had defeated evil.

  Elnor had sought her revenge and had claimed much of it. Only the child’s unpredicted death had thwarted its completeness, and the shrine had been destroyed as surely as if the hand of . . . Fenn could not accept it. It was too unclear in his mind. He could have imagined he’d seen . . . everything was so confused . . .

  Alice’s body – what was left of it – had been found beneath the charred remnants of the tree. She had been buried, along with the remains of her mother, in the graveyard of St Joseph’s nearby. Curiously, when the site of the shrine had been excavated a week later, the remains of another body had been found buried beneath the roots of the fallen oak.

  But this one was centuries old, just a twisted skeleton. It appeared to be that of a small person, many of its bones broken at the time of death. Burned black also.

  The remains had been taken away to be studied by experts who would decide on the date of its origins. Eventually the bones would go to the British Museum where they would be displayed in a glass case for tourists, and those interested in mankind’s evolution could come and smile at the grinning skull.

  Fenn looked up and Sue and Ben were nearly at the church door. Ben had been distracted and was squatting by the edge of the path, watching something on the ground, perhaps an insect of some kind. Sue was speaking to him, obviously telling him they would be late for the Mass.

  What strange power did Ben have? Was it his total innocence that had protected him, that had not let him see what others thought they saw, not let him hear what others thought they heard?

  He had never witnessed Alice’s radiance, had never witnessed her levitate. And he had not seen Elnor. Nor felt the earth shake, nor watched the ground open. And he was not alone, for other children in the field that night had not shared their parents’ and guardians’ terror. Yet there were other young ones who had.

  Fenn had felt his strength return when he touched the boy; so had Sue. It was as though their weakness had passed through him, the boy acting as a human conductor, and dissipating their weakness into the ground. Was innocence so powerful against such evil?

  Whoever said that questions were more important than answers was a fool. Unanswered questions could drive you to insanity.

  He forced himself to relax. Outside the windscreen, the sky was a clear Disney blue, the sun hazy, soft-edged. Even though there was no strength to its glow, it was painful to look at, and he shielded his eyes, resting his elbow on the windowsill. He was reminded of the glow he had seen at the shrine, the glimmering shining at the base of the tree; the one sight more than any other on that terrible night that constantly haunted him. Yet it was not an unpleasant haunting. Somehow it gave him courage. Something more . . . Faith?

  His hand scraped against his chin and he shifted in the seat in agitation.

  Why did it disturb him so? Why, out of everything else that had happened, should this drive him to such distraction? Why had the thing called Elnor been so afraid when it, too, had seen the glow?

  And had he really glimpsed the shadowy figure of a white-gowned woman within that radiance?

  It couldn’t be! He had suffered too many delusions that night! His mind had been filled with too many terrors! His own survival mechanism had suddenly worked against them, creating a different kind of illusion, one that spread calmness, peace, a vision that exuded a quiescent tranquillity.

  Yet why had Ben, who had not seen the other horrors, asked later who the lovely lady in white was, standing by the tree that night when everybody was screaming and the altar burned down?

  Who was she?

  Who was she?

  What was she?

  His eyes were closed, his hand covering them. He opened them, looked towards the church. Sue was leading Ben up the short flight of steps to the open doorway.

  He clenched his fist and rapped his knuckles against his teeth. He opened the car door and strode towards the church gate. He hesitated.

  Sue turned and saw him. She smiled.

  And he strode up the path to join them. Together they went into the church of Our Lady of the Assumption.

  Little Alice, sweet and pure

  Come see her if you need a cure

  She’ll stop your boils and clear your head

  And smile sweetly when you’re dead.

  New Nursery Rhyme

  Shrine

  James Herbert is not just Britain’s number one bestselling writer of chiller fiction, a position he has held ever since publication of his first novel, but is also one of our greatest popular novelists, whose books are sold in thirty-three foreign languages, including Russian and Chinese. Widely imitated and hugely influential, his twenty-three novels have sold more than forty-eight million copies worldwide.

  Also by James Herbert

  The Rats

  The Fog

  The Survivor

  Fluke

  The Spear

  The Dark

  Lair

  The Jonah

  Domain

  Moon

  The Magic Cottage

  Sepulchre

  Haunted

  Creed

  Portent

  The Ghosts of Sleath

  ’48

  Others

  Once

  Nobody True

  The Secret of Crickley Hall

  Graphic Novels

  The City

  (Illustrated by Ian Miller
)

  Non-fiction

  By Horror Haunted

  (Edited by Stephen Jones)

  James Herbert’s Dark Places

  (Photographs by Paul Barkshire)

  Devil in the Dark

  (Biography by Craig Cabell)

  Acknowledgements

  The Author and Publishers gratefully acknowledge permission to include the following extracts:

  From ‘The Little Creature’, ‘The Ogre’, and ‘The Ghost’ by Walter de la Mare, by permission of the Literary Trustees of Walter de la Mare and the Society of Authors as their representative.

  From Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass by Lewis Carroll, published by Macmillan Ltd.

  Old Nursery Rhymes in The Oxford Nursery Rhyme Book, published by Oxford University Press.

  From ‘The Crystal Cabinet’ by William Blake, ‘A Slumber did my Spirit Seal’ by William Wordsworth, ‘Wake all the Dead!’ by Sir William Davenant, ‘The Hag’ by Robert Herrick and ‘Alison Gross’ and ‘Jemima’ in The Faber Book of Children’s Verse, published by Faber and Faber.

  From The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett, published by Frederick Warne Publishers Ltd.

  From ‘The Juniper Tree’, ‘The Three Golden Hairs of the Devil’, ‘Rumpelstiltskin’, ‘The Goose Girl’, ‘Fitcher’s Bird’, ‘Hansel and Gretel’, and ‘Little Snow White’, in The Brothers Grimm: Popular Folk Tales, translated by Brian Alderson, by permission of Victor Gollancz Ltd.

  From Peter Pan by J. M. Barrie, by permission of Hodder and Stoughton Children’s Books, copyright © Great Ormond Street Hospital.

  From The Little Mermaid’, ‘The Emperor’s New Clothes’ and ‘The Snow Queen’ by Hans Andersen in Hans Andersen’s Fairy Tales, chosen by Naomi Lewis, published by Puffin Books, copyright © 1981 Naomi Lewis.