He considered his choice of pastime; it was in stark contrast to his day job, trying to manage a bunch of graduates at a large warehouse, all of whom thought they were better than him; after all, they had qualifications on bits of paper. “They probably are better than me,” he mused, but he had been with the company several years, and as sometimes happens, had been promoted into a job he was totally unsuited for, and didn’t like. No amount of courses helped; he knew the methods and processes of management, but his heart was not in it; he only felt alive when he was outside in the open air. “One day I’ll chuck all this in,” he informed a sheep, eyeing him warily out of the fog. It made no effort to move off the path. He grinned cynically. “Even you have no respect for me. Still, one day... when I can afford it... Oh what now?”
Wesley stopped. In front of him a landslide, brought down by the recent heavy rains, had blocked his route. The rocks and scree had fractured from the side of the hill and extended below, out of sight. He put a tentative foot on the debris, wondering if he could get past. There was an ominous rumbling as the broken stones settled and resumed their journey downhill. Scree was dangerous; Wesley knew that to try to cross an unstable rock-field could get him hurt, and out here in the wilds, away from help, that could be fatal. He checked his mobile; of course there was no signal. He brought up his GPS on the screen. That still worked. Yes, even in the fog, he was on the right path towards the summit. Wesley briefly thought about his current lodgings, a cosy inn, nestled at the base of the mountain. Although his salary did not permit luxury, the room had its own bathroom. He looked forward to a shower, changing clothes and possibly being in time to grab a bite to eat in the bar.
That hope was fading, given that his meticulously planned timings were about to be thrown awry. Wesley checked his GPS again. If he retraced his steps and approached the hill from a different direction, he could still make the summit, and at least come down the other side into the hamlet. He was planning to descend to the path along the lakeside and thence to the village, but with the mist, there were no views to see, and therefore no views to post on social media, where he could pretend to be having a great time. He briefly wondered whether he should also add pictures of the blisters on his feet and the mosquito bites, but despite his few friends and their obsession with food and cats and ‘inspirational’ quotes, he knew that even they might find the images a bit too much. “Mosquitos,” he thought, slapping his neck, “Why is it that those expensive creams I put on, that are guaranteed to keep the little abominations at bay, only serve to attract them?” He shrugged. “My luck, I expect.”
Wesley put his phone away. “Better get moving,” he said to the sheep, which seemed to be regarding him less with suspicion and more with hope that he might share a sandwich. He waved to it and turned to retrace his steps. The mist was impenetrable, but the GPS had shown him a new route. A few hundred metres along, he found another track leading upwards. Wesley knew how tall this mountain was; although, strictly speaking, it was only a relatively low ‘fell’, but he liked to think he was mountaineering; it was more romantic that way, but entirely failed to impress any of the girls at work, who, he suspected, secretly thought he was a bit of a ‘dork’.
As Wesley climbed, he grew hot. The waterproof coat was removed, and hooked in a finger over his back, and that was followed soon after by the colourful thick woolly he had bought at an inflated price from the outdoor centre in the last town.
A stream trickled down the path beside him. He looked at it longingly, but knew that there were bugs in the water that could make him ill. He paused to have a drink from his water bottle. It was getting low. Carrying water in his knapsack was always a dilemma: did he put up with the extra weight and have too much to carry, or should he make do with smaller bottles and risk running out? He had decided on the latter, and was realising he would have to eke out the remainder of his supplies. The revised trip over the top would mean he needed more to drink. “Oh well,” he shrugged, “When ‘tis gone, ‘tis gone. At least the sun can’t get me.”
The mist thinned, and the wind increased. This was taking time; more time than Wesley had planned for. He pulled his woolly back over the damp shirt. His stomach rumbled as he thought of the food at the pub. He had a few chocolate biscuits left. He promised himself that he would have one of those at the summit, where a cairn was marked.
So, Wesley was a harbinger of disaster, but what could possibly happen at the top of a mountain, miles away from anywhere? As he gazed down at the thin body of the dead girl, he sighed. He felt the weight of the Book in his rucksack. It was always the Book. He blamed that for all of his troubles. Would he ever be rid of it? He would have left it at home, but the thing seemed to be linked to him. Without it, he would be weak and ill; with it along, things happened, but it fortified his strength, and so far, nothing awful had happened to him, even in the worst disasters. It was a talisman, a charm, lucky for him, but not for people who came into contact with him.
The last time Wesley had discovered a body, (yes, this was not the first, being Wesley) the police had accused him of having something to do with the crime. They refused to believe his explanation that ‘things just happened’, and he spent many frustrating hours in interrogation rooms and police cells. They always let him go eventually, usually with the unspoken threat of ‘we’ll be watching you, son’. At least the food was good; it was a free meal or two, while the Law worked out its apologies. It had come to the point where Wesley was shutting himself up in his room and playing computer games, simply to escape into his own fantasy world. At least the disasters didn’t happen there; he shrugged, apart from that time he accidentally hacked into the Pentagon’s security camera network. He had shut his machine down immediately, changed his internet provider and reformatted his hard disk to try to cover his tracks. So far there was no knock in the night, or a visit from the ‘men in black’. They would not believe it was an accident. Since that time, he had left the internet to its own devices.
But right now, here was Wesley, with another corpse on his hands, or at least at his feet. What had happened to the poor girl? He could only guess that she had gone climbing on her own and been caught by the sudden change in the weather. She must have been here some time, he mused, to be in this state. He bent and turned her gently over. She was not stiff as he expected, and he gave a sigh as he moved the lank dark hair to one side, and gazed upon the face of an angel. Even in death she was achingly beautiful. “If only,” he muttered. “If only she had been like the other one, mangled, crushed, broken out of all recognition, it would have been easier to bear. But no, someone as exquisite as you does not deserve to die so young.”
What should he do? Call the police, the air ambulance or someone, and then face the usual grilling? Or should he simply cover her up with that strange cloak to keep the scavengers away; leave her there for someone else to find? Wesley knew that doing the ‘right thing’ would get him into trouble again; his name was known across the country; the police forces were sharing information on him. He should have emigrated, but he loved his motherland, with all its failings; it was still, to him, the most beautiful country on Earth, and he’d been to many others and seen many disasters there. Down below in the valley, his visit had coincided with serious flooding, and people struggled to rebuild their lives after losing everything. Was that his fault too, or was he simply here at the wrong time again? At least in England, there was less chance of a major disaster, but since he’d decided to settle, the weather and the climate were changing. Was he going to destroy that too?
Wesley brought himself out of his self-pity to kneel down and gaze into the lovely face again. Her eyes were closed, and there was a sad smile on the lips. Did rigor mortis do that, he wondered. He stroked her hair; how soft it was, despite being soaked. He touched her face; she was cold, as cold as the ground itself. He moved the cloak away from her hand, and saw she was clutching a small wooden casket; it looked old. There seemed to be traces of dust inside. He rub
bed his finger in it and tasted the smear. It was simply dust, perhaps slightly sweet, but nothing in the way of an illegal substance. At least he wouldn’t be arrested for that... again.
He took hold of the thin wrist to check for a signs of life. When he had discovered the last corpse, there was no need to check for a pulse. That last victim he had found had fallen from a high window in the City, and was way beyond human assistance. At first glance, he thought it was a mummified cadaver, like he’d seen in the Capuchin Catacombs in Palermo, and nearly left it there, but of course, the Law had turned up as he was checking it over, and wanted to know the full story, and where he had stolen it from. That was still a mystery to him, but there had been a report in the papers of the disappearance of an eminent banker. Sadly, not many tears were shed over that.
With the body of the lady at his feet, as Wesley suspected, there was nothing. He checked his phone for a signal. He knew he should call someone, at least notify the emergency services, and wait with the body until they managed to find someone who was not dealing with the floods. How would they find him in the fog? This would be a long wait, but Wesley decided to stay. If there was foul play, whoever had killed the girl might return to remove the evidence, and make him look like a time-waster. He peered around fearfully for a potential murderer, but nothing stirred in the fog, as far as he could see, and there was eerily no sound. He fingered a large stone at his feet. It could be used as a weapon.
There was no phone signal. Perhaps the flooding had cut power to the masts, or maybe they had been switched off for safety, or perhaps he was simply being blocked, because the connections were being used for the emergency services; this wasn’t an emergency, was it? “Probably get down to civilisation and report the find,” he decided, sadly.
Wesley bent and tried to lift the frail body under her arms. “At least I’ll put you in the shelter of the cairn,” he muttered. “Try to keep some of the weather off you.”
He dragged the girl over to the mapping point at the top of the hill, and set her, sitting with her back to the stones. Again, he brushed the hair from her face and tried to pin it so that he could take a last look before he departed. He reached out and cupped her cheeks. “Farewell my beautiful darling,” he said sadly, and placed a kiss on her cold lips. “If only...”
The eyes flicked open. “If only what, thou odiferous shard-borne pignut?” Her cold hand lashed out, and hit him firmly across the cheek.
3. Genet
14th August 1528
B
rother Francis shuffled along the muddy lane leading to the village. It had been a long walk, taking most of the day, but as he approached the ancient Saxon hamlet of Siwaldston, he felt that his journey had been worthwhile. Six footpaths converged at that place, but the village comprised simply an austere manor house and a number of wattle and daub hovels. Six was supposed to be a magic number, and in the early sixteenth century, magic was a major challenge to the religious community. Brother Francis was a lesser canon at an abbey some ten miles away and did not believe in magic.
He remembered his conversation with Abbot Hunt, who had demanded that he travel the distance to see the witch, Genet of Siwaldston. He had been made to change his robes from the off-white of the Augustinians at the abbey into the hooded brown robe of the mendicant Franciscans, who spent their time denying worldly possessions, and begging board and lodging off the locals. If he was stopped on the way, he was to deny all knowledge of his mission. After all, was he not a man of God? Why would he be going to see a witch?
Francis was also at a loss on that question, but he had his instructions, and had committed his leader’s request to memory. One did not argue with the abbot, despite the man’s apparent incompetence, and the evaporation of the abbey funds with little to show for it. Hunt had taken over when the previous abbot, Pontesbury, had been sacked for irregularities, denying that he knew anything about it. Pontesbury had promised to go to the Bishop, to sort out the problems. Hunt, then prior, his influential second in command, had tried to dissuade him, but the abbot felt he should try to explain. After all, he had a job for life in the confines of the abbey; what could they do, replace him?
Francis shook his head. He had his suspicions about Hunt and the disappearing finances, but it was not his place to comment. He said nothing, asked no questions, worked hard and was dedicated; perhaps this is why he had been chosen. He knew that witches were not inherently bad, but they did challenge the doctrines of the church, and, some folks said, got better results. The abbey infirmary was starting to look a little empty recently; the local sick had stopped visiting, in favour of herbal remedies offered by mystics, some of which actually worked. It seemed strange to him that the abbey was now calling on assistance from the self-same witches.
Francis’ motivation was simple; to save the Lady Ankerita. She had been accused of killing her husband, but many believed it to be unintentional—Richard Mynde was known to be quick tempered, and was not averse to beating wife and servants alike. As punishment for his murder, the lady had been forced into a cell in the abbey, an anchorhold, to end her life as an anchoress, a religious hermit.
Once inside, though, she found she had ‘certain powers’, to heal those possessed by demons. These unfortunates had only to be brought to her window; she would touch their heads and it would drive out whatever curse they were under. Some cynical observers said that the lunatics only visited, in order to gaze on Ankerita’s extraordinary beauty, but the abbey benefited greatly from her presence, despite the massive pressure on them from her husband’s family, who were demanding proper reparation for Richard’s death. It didn’t help her enemies that Ankerita’s father was the high sheriff of the county.
Francis stopped at the first of the hovels, one from which a dim rush-light, and puffs of smoke bled around the thick woven cloth obstructing the doorway. There was the murmur of voices inside, along with an odd cough. Francis raised his voice, speaking in the local dialect. “You inside, can you help me? I’m looking for Genet.”
The voices stopped, to be replaced by frightened whispers.
“Speak,” Francis repeated. “Do not worry. I have not come to collect tax, or steal your goods.”
“Is it a trick?” he heard from inside. “Who are you, visiting so late in the day?”
“Brother Francis,” he said. “A Capuchin friar, come from... Shrewsbury.”
“Never heard of Capuchin,” came a man’s voice. “Is it some place in the dark lands, or worse still, Wales?”
“Recently formed,” Francis ad-libbed. “We’re an offshoot of the Franciscans.”
“Oh that lot. I suppose you’ll be wanting free food and lodging, in exchange for telling us what sinners we are. You’d better come inside, Brother.” The door curtain was pulled back, releasing a cloud of smoke and the scent of rather too many days spent without washing. The ruddy face of a labourer broke into a smile as he looked the visitor up and down. “No, you don’t look like a tax collector. We have very little, but what we have, we will share with you. You have come a long way?”
“Thank you, but I have to speak to Genet. It is urgent.”
The peasant scratched his thinning hair. “Tell me, what does a man of the cloth want from a simple healer? I thought you brothers had your own infirmary for that sort of thing.”
“This is another matter.”
“Ah.” The man tapped the side of his nose.
“Ah, what do you mean, ah?” Faint tinges of suspicion starting to creep into the back of Francis’ mind, regarding Abbot Hunt’s occasional absences, which also happened to coincide with the arrival and subsequent disappearance of the tithes from the farms.
“Ah,” said the man again. “Not my place to say.”
“I’ll look into it when I get back,” said Francis.
“Get back?” said the man, suspiciously. “Where do you have to go? I thought you Franciscans were wandering types, with no permanent base?” He peered at the monk. “
Have I seen you around here before?”
“No, you must be mistaken.” Francis pulled his hood more tightly around his face. “I need to talk to Genet.”
The rustic leaned out of his doorway, and pointed towards another hovel. “Try there,” he said. “I trust you have brought coin. Please keep the noise down; we have to get up at first light to tend the harvest. It’s a good one this year.”
Francis reddened, realisation dawning on him as to what Genet’s other occupation might be. Even in the cloistered life he led, certain gossip had spread, especially as some of the patients in the infirmary were suffering from puzzling afflictions of the lower regions, and had taken delight in describing how they had contracted them. As the novice he had been then, it was a revelation.
“But I’m not here for that...”
“Of course you aren’t, Brother,” said the peasant, tapping his nose again. “I’m sure Genet will help you, not doing anything like that...”
“Good day, my son,” said Francis quickly. He bowed and backed away. “Pax vobiscum.”
“And to you too,” said the man, performing a similar movement with his hands, which somehow seemed to involve one finger going through an ‘O’ formed by the other hand.
Francis hurried to the other hut.
The specified hovel seemed no more inviting than the first, except that it was in darkness. He stood outside, uncertain what to do.
“Come in, then,” said a woman’s voice, impatiently. “You’ve travelled a long way and I expect you are needing drink and food.”
The Summoning Page 2