“No! No! N°29!”
In fact, it was N°29 that brought the show to an end. According to the placard, N°29 was to be a representation of:
MATING RITUALS OF THE AMAZONIAN TREE-MONKEY
Melestrina wore a long fur coat that came down to her knees. Panker came out hidden beneath an orangey-brown tea-cosy, bearing the label LARGE RIPE FRUIT.
Meanwhile Mr Quode was setting the atmosphere by walking around with a squashy overripe banana on a plate.
“To give us the scent of the tropical jungle,” he explained.
But then the accident occurred. Ecstatically inhaling the scent of the tropics, Mr Quode failed to notice when the banana fell off the plate. A moment later he trod down onto it.
SHLOOOOOOOP!
His feet skidded in all directions and his pudgy form went cartwheeling through the air. With a mighty thump he landed right on top of the tea-cosy. Panker was flattened.
There was a pained and quivering squeak. Then Panker shot out from under Mr Quode’s left buttock. He had changed colour, no longer a streak of pink but a streak of purpley-blue. He darted up between Melestrina’s legs, under the fur coat.
Melestrina’s eyes grew dramatically round.
“No!” she cried. “This May Not Be!”
And she began beating furiously with both hands, as if trying to put out a bushfire between her thighs.
“Oh! Oh!” cried Craylene. “Panker is trying to return to the womb!”
“It’s his insecurity complex,” explained Mr Caulkiss. “He’s still very young, you know!”
Melestrina floundered about with her legs pressed tightly together. Still pounding and wallopping, she fell to the floor. She rolled across the carpet, she overturned a chair, she knocked against the table and sent the crockery flying.
“Ah, what wonderful energy that child has!” said Mr Caulkiss, as Panker, expelled at last, whizzed frantically around the parlour, up over the walls, across the ceiling, and finally out through the door.
I blinked and tried to clear my head. I had had about as much as I could take. It was all too grotesque! Suddenly something in me snapped. I must have been very drunk. I forgot about trying to keep on the right side of the inhabitants. Suddenly I said at the top of my voice:
“I think you’re all completely crazy!”
∨ The Vicar of Morbing Vile ∧
Thirty-Five
Their response was not what I expected. They looked at me in mild surprise. Craylene and Mr Caulkiss were still seated at the table. Melestrina and Mr Quode lay on the floor. Melestrina was under the piano, spreadeagled en masse like a stranded whale. Mr Quode had discovered the fallen pile of moncelles d’agneau, and was nuzzling very softly against it with his face and cheeks.
“Crazy!” I repeated. “Crazy! Crazy! Crazy!”
If I thought they would get angry I was mistaken. Instead they laughed. Craylene put up her hand to cover her mouth and started to titter. Mr Caulkiss threw back his head and guffawed. I realised that they were all completely drunk – even more drunk than I was.
“What do you mean when you say ‘crazy’?” cried Mr Caulkiss. “How do you define ‘craziness’?”
“I mean…the opposite to normal!”
“But how do you decide what’s normal? Who counts as normal?”
“The majority of people. Everyone outside of Morbing Vyle. Or nearly everyone. Most people don’t behave like this.”
“But they will!” boomed Melestrina from her place on the floor. “They will!”
“Behaviour can change!” added Mr Caulkiss. He was swaying in his chair even as he spoke. “Behaviour will change! The time will come when we shall set the standards!”
“What, you? Some hopes! Four adults – and a baby – and a diseased old man – and a – a – a…” I couldn’t even think how to describe Gambels. “You’re just cut off from the real world! You don’t even realise how weird you are!”
“Cut off we may be!” replied Mr Caulkiss. “But we are the future! We are the centre of the world!”
He swung his arm and knocked a plate off the table.
“Centre of the world?” I sniffed derisively. “Because of your tinpot little religious cult? Noone even knows you exist!”
“Ph-hh-hh-hh-hh!” Mr Caulkiss whinnied through his nose. “Not now they don’t! But when He returns –!”
“Hallelujah!” cried Melestrina. “The Great Return!”
This time nobody shushed her. They were all too drunk to care.
“He will be reborn!”
“He will walk the earth!”
“He will lead us out!”
I tried to be sarcastic. “So you’re all waiting around for a Second Coming, are you? You’re waiting for the Lord to be reborn?”
“Yes!” Mr Caulkiss was impervious to sarcasm. “He has promised! He will be reborn right here in Morbing Vyle!”
I shook my head pityingly. “Right here in Morbing Vyle? You’re even more ridiculous than I thought. Why Morbing Vyle?”
“Because we have His remains!”
“His remains? What remains?”
“Of His mortal body! We are the guardians!”
“You mean, remains like religious relics? Like saints’ relics? Bits of bone or fingernail or stuff?”
“No, no!” Now it was Craylene who piped up. “We have His whole body Mr Smythe!”
“But that’s impossible.” I felt that I was getting out of my depth. “I don’t know much about religion, but – ”
“No, you don’t! You don’t!” There was a general gale of hilarity. Even Mr Quode raised his smeary face and joined in with a snigger. I took a deep breath.
“Well, what exactly do you believe then? How was His body preserved? How did it happen to get brought to England? What’s your version?”
“He gave the orders on how to preserve His body!”
“With special enbalming herbs.”
“Then it was sealed up in a leather bag.”
“And put inside our Altar. You saw our High Altar, Mr Smythe!”
“That’s why we are the centre of the world. Our church contains the Altar and the Altar contains the bag and the bag contains the body of our Lord!”
I felt suddenly faint. “A bag?” I whispered. “Did you say a leather bag?”
∨ The Vicar of Morbing Vile ∧
Thirty-Six
It was all starting to come back to me. Completely out of the blue, the mention of the bag had jogged my memory. The leather bag inside the Altar!
Now I remembered what had happened after my journey through the forest. I remembered looking for shelter in the pouring rain…I remembered finding the chairs and lectern and the square marble block of the Altar…then prising open the panel…and climbing inside and sitting down…yes, I had sat down on the very bag they were talking about…
When I came out of my reverie, I discovered that Craylene and Mr Caulkiss were no longer in their seats, and Melestrina and Mr Quode were no longer on the floor. I twisted around. Silently, as if by magic, they had gathered in a group behind the back of my chair.
“What do you know about the bag, Mr Smythe?” demanded Mr Caulkiss.
I wasn’t sure how to answer. Had I committed some forbidden sacrilege? They came up closer and stood over me. They seemed suddenly quite different – no longer ridiculous or farcical. Their drunkenness had vanished as if it had never existed.
“Tell us what you know,” said Mr Caulkiss in a quiet menacing voice.
I shrugged. “I just thought of something. When I first arrived in Morbing Vyle. I was wandering in the rain and I came across the Altar. I discovered that panel in the Altar you could open up.”
“You opened the panel? You broke the wax?”
“I didn’t realise. I didn’t even know it was an Altar then. I was drenched through. All I wanted was somewhere to shelter from the rain.”
“Shelter? You sheltered inside the Altar? You climbed in there with the – the – ”
<
br /> Mr Caulkiss seemed to have got the word stuck in his throat.
“With the bag, yes. I sat on it.”
Mr Quode gasped. Melestrina clasped her hands violently in a gesture of prayer. Mr Caulkiss brought his face down very close to mine.
“And then?”
“What?”
“What happened next? After you – sat on it?”
“I – er – ”
I quailed before his wild and glittering eyes. I began to wish I had never remembered about the bag. They were like vultures hovering over me.
The curious thing was that I really couldn’t remember what had happened next. There was still one final area of blockage in my mind. All I knew was that what had happened next was something utterly horrible and impossible. Something that my mind refused to accept. Something I didn’t even want to remember.
“We found you in a trench,” said Mr Caulkiss. He spoke very slowly and deliberately, in a kind of strangled whisper. “How did you get from the Altar to the trench?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Think, Mr Smythe!”
Hands reached towards me. The Caulkisses and Quodes were in a state of burning intensity. They looked as though they would willingly tear me apart to get at the truth.
“Think, Mr Smythe!”
“Think!”
“THINK!!!”
Hands clamped over my shoulders, hands locked around my neck. I was terrified – so terrified that the fear broke through the blockage in my mind. Suddenly I remembered what had happened after I sat on the bag.
“It moved,” I said.
There was absolute and total silence. Their hands stiffened with a kind of trembling rigidity.
“Let me go,” I said. “I’ll tell you. The bag moved. That was why I ran out from the Altar and fell into the trench. It moved like it was trying to take hold of me.”
The silence went on and on and on. For a long moment the world seemed to stand still. I began to realise the significance of what I had just said. If they truly believed that the bag contained the body of the Lord – and they were waiting for Him to come back to life – and now they discovered that the bag had moved…
“AIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!”
Craylene screamed an ear-shattering scream at the top of her voice.
∨ The Vicar of Morbing Vile ∧
Thirty-Seven
Then general pandemonium broke loose. Mr Quode collapsed and rolled about on the carpet, shrieking and kicking his legs in the air. Melestrina and Mr Caulkiss danced crazily around the room, smashing into furniture and breaking the crockery. And Craylene just kept on pouring out her scream like water from a tap.
“HALLELUJAH!!!”
“IEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE –!!!”
“A MIRACLE IN OUR TIME!!!”
“IEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE –!!!”
“I BELIEVE!!!”
“IEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE –!!!”
“GLORY!!! GLORY!!! GLORY!!!”
I watched in awe. Now Craylene started frisking about like a spring lamb. Melestrina bellowed and Mr Caulkiss howled like a wolf. Tears of joy were streaming down their faces.
“No, listen!” I cried. “It can’t be what you think! It’s impossible! There must be some other explanation!”
But they paid no attention to me.
“THE GREAT RETURN IS AT HAND!!!”
“IEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE –!!!”
“MATERIALISM WILL BE DEFEATED!!!”
“IEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE –!!”
“THE SPIRIT WILL CONQUER!!!”
“IEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE –!!!”
“GLORY!!! GLORY!!! GLORY!!!”
“But listen!” I made another attempt. “Maybe I imagined it! I only said it was like it was trying to take hold of me!”
But they seemed to have forgotten that I was in the room. They were in a state of extraordinary religious exaltation. Their eyes were like huge lanterns, blazing with a terrible fervour.
Then Mr Quode jumped up from the floor. His tight black trousers had split wide open at the seams. He snatched up the silver trumpet and blew a mighty flourish.
“We must march forth!” he cried. “To see this miracle!”
Mr Caulkiss stopped whirling around and headed towards the parlour door.
“I go! To put on my holy vestments! March forth! March forth!”
The others formed up in a kind of procession. With Mr Quode at the head, they paraded around the room in a circle.
“FORWARD TO THE CHURCH!!!”
“FORWARD TO THE ALTAR!!!”
“FORWARD TO OUR LORD!!!”
Melestrina snatched up the silver dishcover and banged away on it with a spoon. Three times they circled around the room. Then they headed towards the parlour door.
“OUR LORD IS THE GREAT LORD!!!”
“THE FIERCEST LORD!!!”
“THE MIGHTIEST LORD!!!”
All of a sudden, something clicked in my brain. It had been a long time coming. I had been so sure that they were Protestant Fundamentalists. But now, all of a sudden…
“Wait a minute!” I called out. “Wait!”
But they were already disappearing out through the door.
“Don’t go! I want to know!”
I jumped up from my chair and ran after them. Craylene was the last in line. I caught her by the shoulder just before she went out.
“I want to know!” I shouted. “Who is this Lord of yours?”
Craylene turned for a moment. “Who is He?”
“Yes, who is He? I don’t believe you’re talking about Jesus Christ at all?”
“Jesus Christ? That namby-pamby! Of course not!”
“Then who?”
Craylene showed her tiny teeth in a smile. “Our Lord is the Vicar of Morbing Vyle.”
∨ The Vicar of Morbing Vile ∧
Thirty-Eight
Then she was gone. The procession marched down the hall and out of the house. I heard the front door open, and a sudden blast of cold air blew through the parlour.
For a long moment I just stood there thunderstruck. Then I crossed to the window and slipped in behind the drapes, alongside Melestrina’s box of props. I drew back the muslin undercurtain and looked out.
It was pitch dark, with no moon at all. The three figures were visible only in silhouette. I could just make out Mr Quode prancing and curvetting in his split black trousers, Melestrina in her long fur coat, Craylene with her streamers billowing in the breeze. They didn’t seem to feel the cold.
There was one additional figure too – the bounding bouncing four-legged figure of Gambels. Melestrina guided him along on the end of his reins. Craylene had taken over the role of percussionist, banging away with the spoon on the dishcover.
I watched the procession move off into the distance. Trench by trench they negotiated a route across the clearing. The Altar was away to my right at the far end of the Church. Soon they were all swallowed up in the darkness. Now there was only the fading sound of banging and trumpeting, cheering and chanting, and Gambel’s strange cries of “Worraffa! Worraffa!”
Then I heard a different sound: the slam of the front door shutting. A moment later, and Mr Caulkiss strode into view. He carried a lamp in his hand, a large black lamp like a carriage lamp. Over his clothes he wore a voluminous black ankle-length cassock. The cassock flapped and the lamp swung as he hurried along after the others.
I let the curtain drop and turned away. The house was in total silence. I went across and stood in front of the fire. I was trembling all over.
So their Lord was the Vicar of Morbing Vyle. Not only were they not Protestant Fundamentalists – they weren’t even Christians! I had got it so wrong. When they said ‘Praise the Lord!’ they meant ‘Praise the Vicar of Morbing Vyle!’ He was the one whose body was preserved in the bag inside the Altar. He was the one who was going to come back to life. Perhaps already was coming back to life…
I s
hook my head. I refused to believe it. I decided to calm myself with a drink. I picked up the decanter of violet liquid and poured myself a whole glassful. That was my big mistake. I’d forgotten how powerful the stuff could be. I swigged it all down in a gulp.
Immediately my mouth caught fire and my head seemed to explode. The walls of the room leaped out at me a couple of times, then started rotating around and around. My body turned violently hot and cold.
For a moment I thought I was going to vomit. But I didn’t. I passed out instead. With graceful declension I sank to the floor, and everything went blank.
∨ The Vicar of Morbing Vile ∧
Part Four
CHRISTMAS EVE
∨ The Vicar of Morbing Vile ∧
Thirty-Nine
I slept on and on in a state of oblivion. It was late in the morning when I finally awoke. I was lying on the floor near the table. Close by my feet was the foul-smelling pile of moncelles d’agneau. Bits of smashed crockery lay scattered over the carpet.
I looked around. There was something strange about the parlour this morning. A strange sort of hush and calm – as though the world had been wrapped in cotton wool. There was also a strange quality about the light coming in through the parlour window. Very pure and white and cool. I couldn’t work out what it was.
I rose swiftly to my feet – and immediately wished I hadn’t. A blinding pain burst in my head like a hammer-blow. I had a monster hangover. My stomach churned and my mouth felt like old socks.
But I had to investigate. Feeling very fragile, I walked across to the window. I pulled back the drape and lifted the muslin undercurtain. A soft pad of whiteness was lodged at the bottom of every pane. It was snowing!
I tried to look out, but the outside world had vanished. There was nothing to see beyond the white flakes flocking and falling, slanting now one way, now the other. Gentle, unhurried, but very very thick. It was a total white-out.
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