“Our Lord will deal with him!” interjected Melestrina from the congregation. “Hallelujah!”
“Yes, our Lord will deal with him,” acknowledged Mr Caulkiss. “But let us also consider what he represents. Our Mr Smythe is a typical example of the modernised individual. No sense of the sacred, no awe or terror. The assumptions of materialism are very deeply ingrained in him. Our Mr Smythe reverences ‘normality” – which is to say, the mere normal behaviour of the mere normal body. Anything else he fears and tries to dismiss. He would confine the spirit to an asylum for the insane! That is what we shall be fighting against, that is what we shall have to overcome. But we can draw strength from the words of the Lord:
Intensity I give you, and a power to exceed all the things of this world.
Our Lord knew that Christianity would fail. He knew how deeply materialism would become ingrained. But He did not despair. Out of disaster He brought forth triumph. Even as a minister of the Church of England, He sought to understand where the Christian way of thinking had gone wrong. Many days and nights, many weeks and months, He struggled in His mind. Until finally He knew that the Christian way of thinking could never be reformed from within. Only a completely new way of thinking would suffice. That was when He discovered the true principle of spiritual transcendence.
Hah! And what was wrong with the Christian way of thinking? Easy for us to see, having learnt from His revelation. The Christian way of thinking was always grounded upon a false dichotomy! The dualism of virtue versus sin! What does virtue or sin have to do with the sacred, the spiritual, the holy? Away, says the Lord, away with all artificial dualisms and dichotomies and oppositions! There are sins which are merely animalistic – sins to be despised. But there are also sins which transcend the body and assert the spirit. Awesome terrible sacred sins! Sins which serve no functional purpose! Sins which have nothing to do with comfort! Sins which defy biological gain! Religion cannot afford to exclude so much that is holy. The aspiration of the spirit is crippled if we restrict ourselves to the possibilities of mere virtue.
So our Lord has shown us. Not only by His words but also by His deeds. In His great Works of Art he refuted all laws and categories and regularities. Sublime massacres! Holy depredations! Mystical pornographies! In acts that had previously been viewed as sinful, He explored new dimensions of religious experience! In acts that had previously been committed only in blind states of guilt, he opened His eyes and discovered exaltation! Wonder! Tremendousness! He showed the way to new intensities of experience!
And in all that He did, he demonstrated the true principle of spiritual transcendence. No functional purpose in His great Works of Art! No biological gains in His onslaught upon the human anatomy! On the contrary – His great Works of Art were a deliberate refutation of Nature. Let us remember what He said at the time of the Revelation:”
Deny the natural; for the spirit is asserted where the instincts are cast down!
“And elsewhere…” (Mr Caulkiss went leafing through the pages of his books):
Whosoever transgresses against biology shall find a joy that surpasses all satisfaction!
“Or again:”
Be not obedient to the normality of needs: throw off the chains of Nature and aspire!
At this point the congregation broke out into spontaneous yells and cries.
“Throw off the chains!” shrilled Craylene.
“The true principle of spiritual transcendence!” boomed Melestrina.
“Against Nature! A rebours!” gasped Mr Quode.
“Gruff! Grufff! Gruffupp!” barked Gambels, rousing up from where he had been lying in the snow.
Mr Caulkiss closed his last book with a snap.
“Yes indeed,” he said. “We too have known spiritual transcendence. We too have experienced wonder and tremendousness. Each in our own way we have denied and defied Nature. Sometimes, of course, we have fallen short of the highest level. Sometimes we have accepted the body’s imperatives, lost sight of our spiritual goal, sunk back among the comforts of Nature. The way of our Lord is not an easy one to follow. But still we have striven as best we could. Even in His absence, even without His help, we have achieved our intensities. And now – very soon now – we shall receive our reward! Hallelujah! The Lord is ready to return!”
He raised his arms in the air like a conductor and turned to face the Altar. Immediately Melestrina, Craylene and Mr Quode broke out at the tops of their voices.
“Hallelujah!”
“The Bursting of the Bag!”
“Redeemer of the World!”
“Praise the Lord!”
“We stand,” said Mr Caulkiss solemnly, “at the dawn of a new era. The Christian Age is over! Let the Age of Morbing Vyle begin!”
“Yes! Yes!”
“Let it be soon!”
“Let it be today!”
“O Lord, we are prepared!”
“So long we have waited!”
“Come to thy Chosen People!”
Mr Caulkiss moved across from the lectern to the Altar.
“And now let us bring out the bag,” he said. “Help me to clear this snow.”
∨ The Vicar of Morbing Vile ∧
Fifty-Eight
I watched them from my place amongst the trees. At last I understood the religion of Morbing Vyle. Craylene with her unnatural pets, Mr Quode with his peverted food and sexuality, Melestrina with her artificial acting, Mr Caulkiss with his mechanical son – of course, they were all deliberately going against Nature! That was their common principle…and it made me shudder. For the first time in my life, I had an apprehension of pure unadulterated evil. I had always been a rationalist, a believer in scientific determinism. But no social or psychological or medical explanation could account for this. This was evil as an active choice, a real force, a will-to-evil!
And at the centre of it all was their Lord, the Vicar of Morbing Vyle. Who had died of an idea so infinitely vile that even His own body couldn’t put up with it. Who had died eighty years ago – but was now supposed to return and reconquer His own corpse. Was it possible?
They cleared away the snow from the back of the Altar. Melestrina did most of the digging, assisted by Mr Caulkiss and Mr Quode. Craylene and Melestrina’s hat gathered around to watch. Only Gambels remained behind, still tied to the leg of the chair.
As soon as the snow was cleared, Melestrina lifted the marble panel and Mr Caulkiss reached forward into the interior of the Altar. A moment later he re-emerged, dragging forth the leather bag. It was about five or six feet long.
“All Hail!” cried Melestrina.
“O Lord of Lords!” cried Mr Quode.
“O Lord of Lord of Lords!” cried Craylene.
Mr Caulkiss altered his hold on the bag, sliding his arms in underneath. Then he lifted. The bag sagged and slumped at either end. Its contents were obviously both flexible and heavy. Mr Caulkiss staggered under the weight. But eventually he got it up on top of the Altar. He rearranged it to lie as straight as possible. The others cried out in adoration:
“O Lord arise!”
“Come forth!”
“Show thy power!”
“Prove the strength of thy spirit!”
“Refute biology!”
“Compel thy body back to life!”
“Spirit over Nature!”
“The ultimate refutation!”
“Nothing can withstand thy intensity!”
“O Lord! O Lord! Greatness upon thee!”
They clustered around the Altar, blocking my view. I could glimpse the bag only intermittently. It didn’t seem to be moving But the Caulkisses and Quodes thought otherwise.
Suddenly they flung their arms up in the air and shouted at the tops of their voices. “He moves!”
“See His arm lift!”
“No, no, His chest!”
“Hallelujah! He must be breathing!”
“Isn’t that His legs?”
“O look at His toes! O mighty wiggling!”
>
Simultaneously with their shouting, there was another sound – a sound from the depths of the forest behind me. It was the same swish and thump of falling snow, but louder and louder and louder. It was as though the whole white mass overhead was collapsing all at once to the ground. Like a surging tide it crashed and cascaded through the branches.
I didn’t turn round however. My attention was focussed upon the bag. The Caulkisses and Quodes didn’t turn round either – probably didn’t even notice. With one accord they flung themselves down onto their knees, gabbling wildly.
I stared. Now the bag was clearly visible. And yes, it was moving. Not much, just tiny sinuous ripples running back and forth under the leather. But definitely, undeniably moving.
I clenched my fists. So something was moving. But that didn’t mean that it was the Vicar of Morbing Vyle coming back to life! Not arms, not legs, not toes! I refused to believe! It couldn’t be Him, it mustn’t be Him! There had to be an alternative explanation!
But the more I looked, the more I began to fancy that the contents of the bag really did have a human shape. I could see one end as rounded like a head, and the other end tapering down in a way that suggested feet and toes. And the end with the feet and toes really did seem to be wriggling with exactly the sort of movements that feet and toes might make.
I was terrified. As terrified as when I had hidden inside the Altar and the bag had tried to wrap itself around me. Only this time the terror turned to rage. I had a fierce hard feeling in the pit of my stomach, and a single burning thought in my mind: this monstrosity must not be allowed! I wouldn’t let it come true!
I moved forward through the trees. Louder and louder came the sound of the forest behind me. It was no longer just swishes and soft thumps, but sharp spittings and sputterings too. Perhaps the melting snow was meeting the heat in the trees – but to me it seemed like an expression of anger and hatred. Anger and hatred directed against the thing in the bag!
I came up behind the cleft shell of an old chestnut tree right on the very edge of the clearing. Now I had a length of wood in my hand, a jagged piece of timber about three feet long and shaped like a club. I don’t know how it had got there. I suppose I must have snatched it from one of the trunks, ripped it clean off without even realising.
The bag was moving more vigorously than ever. It writhed and stretched and arched in the middle, like someone trying to rise and sit up. The Caulkisses and Quodes grovelled all around the Altar in abject adoration. They couldn’t stop me. No-one could stop me.
I stepped out into the open. Behind me, the sound of the forest was like a multitude of voices crying in my ears. The spittings and sputterings became curses and snarls. I even thought I heard words being pronounced – violent, hate-filled words.
“Smash! Strike! Smite! Revenge! Destroy! Finish!”
I felt an irresistable urge to act. My mind was focussed with tremendous intensity upon the leather bag. I wanted to destroy it! I wanted to gain revenge! Revenge for what I didn’t know. It didn’t make sense. But I had to have revenge!
I raised the timber over my head and charged forward.
∨ The Vicar of Morbing Vile ∧
Fifty-Nine
Over the snow, towards the Altar, racing, racing. My feet seemed hardly to touch the ground. There was a trench in front of me, but I didn’t need a bridge – I leaped across in a single bound. It was like being borne along on a great wave.
Only at the last moment did the Caulkisses and Quodes catch sight of me. They looked up from from their grovelling and cried out in amazement.
“Mr Smythe?!”
“What are you doing?!”
“Don’t –!”
But I rushed up amongst them and stood over the Altar. I cried out in the words of the forest:
“SMASH! STRIKE! SMITE! REVENGE! DESTROY! FINISH!”
And as the yell burst out of my throat, so at the same instant a flame broke out at the end of my club. A small fierce jet of intense white flame! I flourished my club in the air and the flame spurted forth from the charred black timber. On top of the Altar the bag writhed more vigorously than ever.
“I WILL!” I yelled. I was filled with an irresistable intensity of rage. With a mighty swing I brought the club down on top of the Altar.
But too late. Even as I struck, the bag wriggled itself to the side of the Altar and dropped off. I caught it a glancing blow on the way down. It fell with a flop in front of my feet.
Still on their knees, the Caulkisses and Quodes roared and screamed.
“Sacrilege!”
“Blasphemy!”
“Fool! Fool! Fool!”
“Look what you’ve done!”
They reached out with their hands, to seize and wrestle me to the ground. I felt someone’s hand close like a vice around my ankle. But for the moment I was stronger than any of them. I kicked free and took a step backwards.
“I WILL!” I yelled again. Still the wave of rage carried me on. Even though my piece of timber had shattered at the end, even though my club was only half its original length. I raised it once more over my head and lined up another blow.
But the blow was never delivered. For now I saw that a rent had appeared in the leather bag. Whether because of my first blow or the impact of hitting the ground I don’t know. But something inside was swelling and pressing outwards. There was a thick heavy smell in the air, and a strange low hum.
I stood and gaped. The Caulkisses and Quodes gaped too. Slowly the rent widened and spread. The piece of timber fell from my hand. Something pale was starting to emerge.
And then I let out a great shriek of laughter. I laughed until I could hardly breath.
“Maggots!” I shrieked. “Maggots! Maggots! It’s nothing but maggots!”
∨ The Vicar of Morbing Vile ∧
Sixty
They spilled out in an endless pullullating horde. A million million pale yellowy grubs, rolling and crawling blindly over one another. They poured forth over the snow until it seemed as if the ground itself was moving and heaving. The leather bag deflated like a tyre.
The inhabitants of Morbing Vyle were beyond words. Their eyes looked ready to pop out of their heads. Even the tiny blue eyes peering out from Melestrina’s hat seemed thunderstruck. Four motionless human figures, one motionless feathery hat. The horde of maggots divided and flowed around them in separate spreading streams.
Still I couldn’t stop laughing. I yelled in their faces:
“Is that your Lord? The Redeemer of the World? Is that His chest breathing then? Is that His toes wiggling?”
I felt like dancing. I was so relieved I was almost hysterical. I had always thought that there had to be an alternative explanation – and now there was.
“Look at the power of the Spirit over Nature!” I jeered. “Look how your Lord defies biology! O praise the Lord! What a pity He let the maggots get to Him! What a pity He rotted away!”
I’m not sure if they even heard. They were in a state of shock. I clasped my hand to my nose. “Pooh! I think your Lord stinks!” I said. “I’m off! Goodbye, maggot-worshippers!” I strode away in triumph. Melestrina emerged momentarily from her trance, swivelling huge tragic eyes in my direction. But no-one made a move to stop me.
I retraced my steps back towards the same part of the forest I had just come out from. I was in no hurry. I didn’t try to leap the trench, but detoured around and crossed over by a plank bridge. I felt proud of myself. I had stood up for normality – and won. The insanities of Morbing Vyle were over. I felt that my bravery of today had redeemed my cowardice of the night before. I was almost surprised at my own heroism.
I came to the edge of the forest and stopped. For one last time I surveyed the whole of Morbing Vyle. I took in the maze of trenches, the snow-capped fragments of column and wall, the distant vicarage and the Altar close at hand. Around the Altar the inhabitants of Morbing Vyle had now risen to their feet.
“Bye-bye lunatics!” I yelled at them. “Bye-
bye Melestrina and Craylene! Bye-bye Caulkiss and Quode! Bye-bye Gambels and baby Panker!”
I waved mockingly. Then I turned and plunged in amongst the trees. I felt amazingly lighthearted. I was on my way back to the real world again. Just beyond the forest! Only a few minutes’ walk away!
I looked around curiously at the trees as I walked. The spitting and sputtering sounds were still there, but not the soft swishes and thumps. There were no lumps of snow left to fall. Not even the tiniest patch of white remained, not even on the uppermost twigs. The forest had gone back to its usual bare black state.
I wondered a little about the voices I had heard. Had I only imagined them? Certainly the spittings and sputterings no longer sounded like actual words. But they still sounded very angry and fierce. I didn’t know what to believe.
As I penetrated deeper and deeper, the forest grew thicker and darker. Here was no avenue such as I had followed on the way in to Morbing Vyle. Here the trunks stood much closer together.
Low-hanging branches obstructed my path and spiky ends of twig tried to poke my eyes out. I wondered if the forest extended as far on this side as on the side where I had entered. I was about fifty yards in when I noticed something strange. There was a smell of smoke in the air! I peered ahead through the trees and realised that the depths of the forest were shrouded by a dense grey haze. And the curtain seemed to be coming towards me.
There was a new kind of noise too, over and above the spittings and sputterings. It was a continuous crackling roar, coming from the depths of the forest. I halted in my tracks. I was puzzled. I remembered what they had called out to me on the roof this morning. “You don’t get away so easily’ and ‘You’ll be in Morbing Vyle for a while yet.” And I remembered what Mr Quode had said about the way out being very different to the way in. They assumed that the forest was hostile towards me, just as it was towards them. But I thought of the forest as my ally…I stood and watched. The grey haze was coming closer. The air grew more and more smoky, catching in my throat, making me want to cough. I covered my mouth with the sleeve of my coat and tried to breathe in small shallow breaths.
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