The Vicar of Morbing Vile

by Richard Harland

  “Phuhhh! Not at all. What animal has that sort of energy? That is the energy of human blood!”

  “But what about those spurs on his neck! How could you do that to your own son?”

  “Ah, it wasn’t easy. I had to design the whole thing myself. Very ingenious, don’t you think?”

  “But why?”

  “Why? Because of the wildness of his energy. Too wild for his own good. See there?” He used the spurs to readjust Gambels’ head to the side. “See that hollow on the side of his skull?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s from the time he tried battering his head against the front doorstep. And see the scar running across behind his right knee?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s from when he almost managed to chop off his leg on the edge of a spade.”

  “But why on earth would he want to do that?”

  “Ah, just boyish high spirits. He’s always breaking his bones or fracturing his neck.”

  “You mean, he’d destroy himself if he wasn’t controlled?”

  “Pity, isn’t it?” Mr Caulkiss tugged thoughtfully at his nose. “It’s the energy of youthful blood. Panker is similar. Tremendous energy but difficult to harness. Hah! Old blood is much more manageable. But then there’s the opposite problem. Very old blood has so little energy that the circulation is always liable to seize up altogether. That’s when the human body suffers from heart attacks. According to my calculations, the best blood is that of a young adult, between about twenty and thirty years old. Preferably male. That’s why – ah!”

  He stopped suddenly in mid-speech. We had arrived at our destination. It was a row of unfinished pillars, stumpy cylinders built up only a few feet off the ground. They were linked by a line of stones and bricks. Mr Caulkiss reined Gambels to a halt.

  “This,” he announced, “is the South Transept of our church. Now you shall watch us build.”

  ∨ The Vicar of Morbing Vile ∧

  Twenty-Eight

  And that’s what I did for the rest of the morning – just stood and watched them build. When I offered to help they wouldn’t hear of it.

  “No, no! Not yet! You’ll be ready soon enough!”

  Each had a different task. Mr Quode mixed cement in a long trough. Mr Caulkiss controlled Gambels. Gambels dragged a wooden sled back and forth, bringing bricks and stones from a nearby pile. Melestrina unloaded the sled and cemented the bricks and stones into place. And Craylene fluttered around with a cloth and a brush, dusting off the building materials.

  It was a slow and boring business. Only Melestrina was good at her job. With her massive chest and arms she could lift hunks of stone and stacks of bricks that would have floored a navvy. But Gambels was more trouble than he was worth, managing to overturn the sled on every second journey. And Mr Quode was so obsessed with mixing his cement to a state of absolute perfection that it was never ready for use when it was wanted. I soon lost interest in their farcical activities.

  As the morning wore on the temperature sank lower and lower. A brisk wind sprang up, blowing icy and cold across the wide open space of the site. I had to stamp my feet and swing my arms. Even with all my layers of clothing I could hardly keep warm. There were heavy dark clouds too, rolling in from the east. Cold enough for snow, I thought to myself. Miserable weather!

  I drifted off into memories of Australia. Back home now, it would be almost the height of summer. Hot sun, blue skies, temperatures up in the thirties. Just the weather for going down to the beach. Swimming and bodysurfing…

  Around the middle of the day Mr Quode went off to the vicarage. He had some more cooking to do for the banquet. He returned about an hour later, carrying our lunch in a small wickerwork hamper. Then Craylene and Melestrina downed tools, and Mr Caulkiss tied Gambels to the base of one of the piers. We all sat down around the hamper.

  “Not too much eating now!” warned Mr Quode. “We must save ourselves up for tonight!”

  There wasn’t much to eat anyway. We had a couple of home-made scones each, accompanied by a cup of tea. The scones were spread with a sort of bitter black jam and the tea tasted like an infusion of straw.

  “This is to cleanse our taste-buds,” explained Mr Quode. “To tone up the palate for cuisine à la Quode!”

  I forced the scones down because I was hungry and drank the tea because it warmed me up. Nobody spoke. In the end I broke the silence myself.

  “I’ve been wondering,” I said. “What’s the date today?”

  “The date?”

  “It was eight days before I came downstairs, and a week since then. It must be nearly Christmas.”

  “It is December the 23rd.”

  “The 23rd! Then the day after tomorrow is Christmas Day!”

  The Caulkisses and Quodes said nothing.

  “It’ll be the first Christmas I’ve ever spent away from home,” I mused. “I’ll miss it. We’ve always had a traditional family Christmas. Roast dinner on even the hottest day.”

  Still there was no response from the Caulkisses and Quodes.

  “What do you do here for Christmas?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” said Mr Caulkiss.

  “Nothing? But you must have Christmas presents and Christmas dinner and – ”

  “We don’t believe in celebrating Christmas.”

  “Oh.”

  Mr Quode reached across to pat my hand. “Of course, if you like Christmas celebrations, Mr Smythe, I’m sure we can manage quelquechose. Just to make you feel at home.” I pulled my hand away. “No, whatever you do…I don’t want to impose.”

  We continued eating in silence. Here was another mystery to ponder. What kind of Christianity didn’t celebrate Christmas? Was it because of their hatred of modern materialism? Perhaps they had rejected Christmas because of the way it had been commercialized?

  When lunch was over, Mr Quode packed the crockery back in the hamper. Then everyone rose to their feet. I could see that they were about to resume work. But I’d had enough of standing around getting cold.

  “I’ve got a request,” I said. “I’d like to take a walk.”

  “A walk? Where?”

  “Anywhere. I’m freezing to death. A walk will warm me up.”

  Mr Caulkiss looked down his nose and nodded thoughtfully. “Cold are you? Well then, a walk is a good idea. I think we can spare my wife for a while. She can take you on a tour and explain the architecture of our Church.”

  ∨ The Vicar of Morbing Vile ∧

  Twenty-Nine

  And so we set off, Craylene Caulkiss and I. We passed alongside trenches and over plank bridges. We viewed ramps of earth and bits of paving and stacks of building material. Craylene tried to do her duty as a guide, explaining about a porch here and an aisle there, a chapel here and an ambulatory there. But I soon gave up listening. It was too difficult to follow her rambling twittering voice.

  I paid attention, though, when she suddenly asked: “Would you like to see the trench where you fell down, Mr Smythe? Would you? Where we rescued you?”

  I nodded eagerly. I was still trying to recover my missing memory. Perhaps the sight of the place would remind me.

  “It’s at the far end of the choir,” she said. “Near the High Altar.”

  We picked our way across the foundations of the choir. The choir alone was a quarter of a mile long. As we approached the far end, I saw a row of chairs and a lectern and a sort of oblong block covered with a white cloth.

  “What’s that block thing?”

  “That’s the High Altar,” said Craylene. Her voice dropped to a reverential hush. “Mr Caulkiss conducts the services there. We sit on the chairs.”

  “I see. And are those the chairs you were coming to collect when –?”

  “When we heard your cry of help! Yes! Yes!”

  As we came closer I could see the gold border on the white cloth, and a flat silvery box sitting on top of the block. I began to have a vague feeling of familiarity. A vague feeling that I had seen the
se things some time before. But when or where I couldn’t remember.

  “What’s that on top?” I asked.

  “That,” breathed Craylene, “is the Box of Tools.”

  “A box of tools? What’s a box of tools doing on top of an altar? That’s not very respectful!”

  “Oh but it is, Mr Smythe! It is!”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Of course not! Not yet! But you will!”

  She bob-bobbed her head towards the Altar, and murmured the words of a prayer to herself. She finished with a loud “Amen!” Then we continued around by the side of the Altar. About fifteen yards further on we came to a deep curving trench.

  “Is this it?”

  “Yes!” She moved forward to the exact place. “Here!”

  I looked down into the trench. I had high hopes. Surely this would jog my memory. But I was disappointed.

  “See the pile of earth that fell down onto you?” cried Craylene. “See where the trench caved in at the side?”

  I stared and racked my brains in vain. I could even see the marks where my feet had skidded over the soft edge of earth at the top. But it meant nothing to me. The blankness in my mind remained as blank as ever.

  “This is where we found you, Mr Smythe.” Craylene’s patter went on and on. “So close to the High Altar! Wasn’t that a good omen? To be found so close to the High Altar! Mr Caulkiss said it was a very good omen!”

  I turned away. And then suddenly a corner of the blankness lifted. It wasn’t the trench or anything to do with the trench. It was a faint smoky smell in the air. I remembered that smell! The smell of the forest!

  I looked up. The burned-out trees circled around this end of the choir a mere thirty yards away. I gazed with a new sense of recognition. All at once I remembered my very first sight of the forest.

  The memory was as vivid as if I were actually reliving the scene. I had just pushed my way through a thicket of bushes, I had just come out into the open – and there on the other side of a stream were the gaunt and blackened trunks, the canopy of charcoal branches, the white ash on the ground! The same as I was looking at now! The smell of the smoke recreated the whole scene in my mind.

  Without exactly thinking about it, I set off walking. I crossed the trench by a convenient plank bridge and headed towards the forest. I wanted to see the trees close up. I hardly even noticed that Craylene was calling out. I was totally absorbed in trying to remember the past.

  So what happened after that very first sight of the forest? I must’ve crossed the stream and walked in amongst the trees. Yes, yes, the avenue of trees! Now it came back – my feet padding along in the ash, everything so still and silent. Until – what was it? Of course! The rain began!

  I was getting more and more excited I walked faster and faster. But Craylene caught up. Her diminutive legs twinkled as she ran. She came running up alongside, hopping and fluttering and waving her arms about. There was a frightened tremor in her voice.

  “Where are you going, Mr Smythe? Come back! Turn round!”

  “Don’t distract me,” I answered curtly.

  I was trying to hang on to the thread of my thoughts. What happened after the rain began? Something had happened…If only Craylene would be quiet! Now she was plucking at my sleeve with tiny white hands.

  “Mr Smythe! It’s dangerous! You mustn’t disturb them! You mustn’t, you mustn’t, you mustn’t!”

  I brushed her hands aside. But she grabbed hold of the tails of my coat. Her eyes were wide with fear and panic. I didn’t bother to detach her. She was so frail, she had no weight to throw against me. I just kept on walking and dragged her along in my wake. She soon gave up and let go.

  I came to the edge of the white carpeting ash. Another three strides and I was in under the canopy of branches. The air seemed suddenly full of gloom and shadows. There was no avenue here, just a maze of black jagged trunks and hollow shells. I stared and studied and concentrated…

  And then I remembered what had happened after the rain began. The sounds, the hissing sounds! The voices coming from the trees! That was it! The sounds of the rainwater making contact with the deep smouldering heat inside the trees!

  On a sudden impulse I stepped up to the nearest tree. It was cleft with a great fissure down the middle. I plunged my hand inside and felt for the interior wood. I reached in with my whole arm right up to the elbow.

  Then Craylene started to scream.

  “AIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE­EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!”

  It was unnerving and inhuman, unbelievably high-pitched. She stood ten feet away from the edge of the forest and the scream just poured out of her. Her face was fixed like the face of a doll, with round open mouth and black staring eyes.

  But now I could feel the temperature rising in the wood. Amazing! It was just as I remembered it! First a faint glow, then a warmth, then a definite heat. I pulled my hand away.

  “AIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE­EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!”

  Still she was screaming, on and on and on. Impossible to concentrate any further. Her scream had broken the train of my memories.

  “Okay, okay!” I shouted. “I’m coming back now! No need to carry on!”

  The smoky smell in the air seemed to have grown stronger. I headed back out into the open. Craylene’s scream shut off as suddenly as it had begun. It was as though she had never been screaming at all. She stamped her foot.

  “Naughty Mr Smythe!” she cried. “Naughty!”

  I shrugged. “Why do you say that? What’ve I done wrong?”

  But Craylene wouldn’t reply. She turned on her heel and marched off ahead. She puffed out her tiny breast like a ruffled pigeon, making little tsk-tsk-ing noises to herself. I could see that she expected me to follow.

  I followed. We crossed back over the plank bridge and detoured once more around the High Altar. Obviously we were heading straight back to Mr Caulkiss and the others. I had the impression that I wasn’t going to be too popular.

  But I didn’t care. I was elated. My amnesia had finally started to lift. I had managed to remember something at last. Now I felt sure that it was just a matter of time. Sooner or later everything would come back to me.

  ∨ The Vicar of Morbing Vile ∧

  Thirty

  I was right about not being too popular. The others must have heard Craylene’s scream. They had probably watched the whole scene. They didn’t actually come right out and accuse me of anything but there was no mistaking the sternness of Mr Caulkiss’s frown.

  “Look at the state of you!” he said. “Filthy!”

  It was true. My arm was black with charcoal all the way up to my shoulder. Mr Caulkiss wagged a bony forefinger.

  “Back to the vicarage at once! You need a wash.”

  “Or a bath,” interposed Mr Quode. “Let him have a bath. I’ll take him back and run the water for him.”

  So it was agreed. Mr Quode escorted me across the building site, back towards the vicarage.

  At first we walked in silence. I had many things to think about. And the more I thought about them, the more puzzling they seemed.

  For instance: the heat inside the trees. How long could the trees continue smouldering after a fire? It was two weeks since I had first passed through the forest, two weeks since I had first felt the heat inside the trees. Surely the wood ought to have cooled down by now?

  That question brought up another one. How long before I arrived had the fire occurred? The continuing heat suggested a very recent fire. But if it was very recent, why had the Caulkisses and Quodes never even mentioned it? It must have been a tremendous holocaust, a truly terrifying experience for anyone living in Morbing Vyle. So how could they have failed to mention it? And then there was Craylene’s strange behaviour when I went up close to the trees. “It’s dangerous,” she had said. And even more mysterious: “You mustn’t disturb them!” What did she mean by that?

  I wondered if I could get the truth out of Mr Quode. I turned to address him. His eyes were already
looking back at me, eagerly, willingly, the whites bulging out like hard-boiled eggs. “Tell me about the forest,” I said.

  “The forest. Mmmmm.” He sucked in and out with his mouth as if the forest was a flavour to be tasted. He didn’t seem to like the flavour much.

  “What happened to it? When did it catch fire?”

  “Oh, a while ago.”

  “How long ago?”

  “It didn’t exactly catch fire. It was set on fire.”

  “By whom?”

  “We don’t talk about it very much in Morbing Vyle, Mr Smythe.”

  “Why not? Why don’t you talk about it?”

  “Oh la! How probing you are! Quelle impatience!”

  “I think you’re all afraid of it.”

  “Why should we be afraid of it?”

  “Craylene – Mrs Caulkiss – was afraid of it.”

  “No, no! She was only trying to look after you.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  Mr Quode smiled and wrung his hands and said nothing.

  “Why should she need to look after me?”

  “You ought not to go near the trees, Mr Smythe.”

  “No? But I walked right through a couple of weeks ago.”

  “Ah, but that was on the way in!”

  “What do you mean, on the way in?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You mean it’s different on the way in to the way out? That doesn’t make sense!”

  “Ah, you’re so wonderful and logical, Mr Smythe! Le raisonnement superieur! You prostrate me with your manly intelligence!”

  “But it doesn’t make sense!”

  “If you say so, Mr Smythe. Who am I to pit my feeble mind against yours? Je ne suis qu’un larve, un insecte, un limacon!”

  He was so excessively obsequious that it was almost like a mockery. I had never really noticed it before; but there was something behind Mr Quode’s bland softness that wasn’t bland and soft at all. Something gloating and vaguely jeering…

  I let the conversation drop. It was obviously no use quizzing him further. We walked the rest of the way back to the vicarage in silence. Mr Quode tucked his hands under his shirt and down into the top of his trousers. I assumed he was trying to keep them warm.