The Gawain Legacy

by Jon Mackley

  She glanced over to where Will was waiting patiently for her. ‘That’s my friend Will, Mum,’ she said in a soft voice. There were no other words to say. Then, standing up, she returned to Will. He said nothing and she did not want to assuage his curiosity.

  Stepping over the threshold of the church, she was swallowed by the shadows.

  It was like remembering a distant nightmare: entering the church; looking at the arches inside; the regiments of pews; the foreboding of the pulpit; and the darkness around the altar. She had been convinced that spectres were concealed by the shadows of the church. This place inspired fear and misery. There was no joy, no love, no devotion, just the desolate duty of coming to a place she did not love, to sing songs she did not like and to meet with people who wanted her to be something she was not.

  ‘Did they get many people here?’ Will said, looking around and apparently not noticing she was no longer fearful, but sombre instead. He flicked on his torch and directed it over the seats.

  ‘Perhaps fifty on a holy day,’ Lara sounded bored. ‘Generally not more than twenty-five who were there for the regular services. Most of them came for the bingo.’

  ‘I thought the Church didn’t advocate gambling.’

  ‘And neither did the minister who came along afterwards.’ She cast her mind back. ‘Timothy Outram. He was younger, but still a traditionalist. Most people said gambling was okay if it was done to bring in funds for the parish. Rev Timothy put his first cat amongst the pigeons by asking if murder was all right if it was done in the Lord’s name.’

  Will whistled in amazement. ‘Bet he was popular.’

  Lara shook her head. ‘Father Timothy was very different. He made me see the other minister was a hypocrite. He saw the church as the centre of the community and it didn’t matter if people were members of the congregation or not, at least that’s how I remember him. It was a long time ago.’ She drew a shuddering breath. ‘He came to speak to me once. Told me the value of having a church wedding. Michael and I … we listened politely and then had a civil wedding at Tatton Hall.’ She looked at him cynically. ‘Frankly, I want to have more wit than a Christian does,’ she said caustically, then her tone changed. ‘He’s moved on now …’ She shivered, realising she’d talked herself on to a precipice of remembrance and Will’s next question was going to push her over.

  ‘Lara,’ he said softly. ‘What are you trying to keep from me?’

  ‘Please don’t ask me.’

  He placed a hand on her shoulder. ‘You were here once before,’ he probed. ‘When you were in Chester Cathedral you told me you’d seen something that had frightened you. You said there were ghosts in your past. That was here wasn’t it?’

  She stared out at the desolate graveyard. A branch had fallen from the conker tree, the wood was like a blackened spinal column and the thick twigs were the rib cage. A small animal scuttled from the ribs, looking for shelter against the oncoming weather.

  The memories broke through the barriers of Lara’s subconscious. It pained her to speak, like squeezing a septic wound, but the poison flowed from her.

  ‘I was eleven or twelve,’ she said. ‘My father had started drinking. I used to hide until he’d drunk himself into a stupor. There aren’t many places for a teenager to hide in Beaded. I’d thought I’d sit in the graveyard all evening. But it started to rain. I didn’t know where else to go, so I sheltered at the front of the church. Then I saw people coming. I thought they might be looking for me, so I hid inside. I crawled under one of the pews and waited there.’

  ‘Who were these people?’

  ‘“Supernatural investigators”, they called themselves. Father Timothy hadn’t been here long. People in the village were convinced there was a malevolent spirit, or even a cult using the church for rituals. One of the cleaners started a panic. She found excrement over the doors and ash over the altar. Rev Timothy said it was vandals, someone trying to scare them. But, he called in someone he knew … he’d known one of the hunters from years back, so he asked him to do a preliminary investigation before he spoke to the bishop.’

  ‘Not usual protocol,’ Will observed. ‘What did this supernatural investigator do?’

  ‘He came into the church, searching for evidence of a haunting.’ Her eyes became misty, but fearful. ‘There were two of them, a man and a woman. He was the more level-headed of them. He sought reasons why it couldn’t be a “supernatural manifestation”, that was what he called it. The woman, she wanted to find a spirit and make contact.’

  Will’s face betrayed his tension: tendons protruded from his neck. ‘That sounds dangerous.’

  Lara scoffed. ‘It would’ve been if she wasn’t a nutter. I mean … psychic links with spirits?’

  ‘Unless they’re real,’ Will said darkly. ‘There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’

  Lara touched the pew, as if it would offer some stability to the present day, but touching the wood was like reaching back across time, as if the pews contained the memories she had tried to suppress. She lurched, trying to pull herself away, but the whirlpool of memories seemed to drag her back.

  *

  The man pushed open the door and examined the lock with intense eyes. ‘That’s our first problem solved,’ he said to his companion, a shorter woman, dressed in jeans and a dark sweatshirt. ‘There’s no question about how they got in and out. Time and the weather’s warped the doors. The lock doesn’t fit any more.’

  ‘They don’t lock the door anyway,’ the woman said patiently. ‘Reverend Outram wants St Werburgh’s to be an “open church” so people can come whenever they want, day or night.’ She dropped a large holdall by the door and followed him in.

  ‘If you leave your church open all day, you can’t complain if people come in.’ He glanced around, then walked behind the pews to the central aisle. ‘At least the Father knew to move anything of value, or, at least, to nail it down.’

  The woman shook her head. ‘Reverend Timothy doesn’t like the “trappings” – he called it Papal nonsense. He wants the church to work on a shoestring budget.’ She smiled. ‘I liked him. He focuses on charity rather than trying to make the Church a middle-class institution.’

  The man’s eyes flickered playfully. ‘You like a priest? That has to be a first.’ He sniffed and wrinkled his nose. ‘Smells artificial around here.’

  ‘Incense spray.’ The woman ran her finger along the back of the pew, then rubbed her thumb and forefinger together. She pointed to the line she had made in an almost invisible white film on the wood. ‘See?’

  He didn’t answer. He walked further into the church, standing at the altar. The woman sat down in one of the pews and closed her eyes. Lara wasn’t sure how much time passed. She thought she saw a white aura emanating from the woman’s body, shimmering, spreading out in a beatific radiance. Her breathing became shallow, bronchial. Her face became serene.

  The man continued undeterred and turned his attention to the altar.

  ‘Something’s here,’ the woman said suddenly. Lara froze. Somehow, the woman had discovered her! Perhaps she was using telepathy to reach out and discern everything that was in the church, or simply listening so intently that she had heard another presence. Either way, Lara was blushing. She was suddenly aware she was holding her breath, attempting to avoid discovery.

  The woman’s expression was vacant. Her eyes had opened but they weren’t focused. ‘Reverend Timothy is only half right about this place. Something’s here. It isn’t what he thinks it is. What he sees is vandalism. It isn’t a supernatural force.’ Consciousness returned to her eyes. The lustre around her body had faded. Her face became busy again. She seemed suddenly drained of energy. ‘How long did you say he’d been here?’

  ‘Month at the most,’ the man said, making his way back.

  ‘There’s your answer then. It’s his new approach to the church. Ruffled a few feathers. People complaining they didn’t do it this way before. They’re t
rying to frighten him off. Shit across the walls? Ash in the communion wafers? Pissing in the Holy Water? Jesus, can’t these people think of anything original?’

  ‘Then it’s not our problem,’ the man said. ‘We’ll tell Reverend Outram to have the police take care of it.’ He shook his head, trying to clear it. ‘I need to get out of here,’ he said. ‘I hate that air-freshener stuff. Always gives me a headache.’

  ‘You’d have preferred the smell of shit then?’

  The man scowled at her, and made his way through the church towards the vestry door. Lara found herself peering around from under the pew to get a better look at him. There was something familiar about him: like remembering the faces she’d seen in dreams but never truly recognised. She liked him. He had an honest face, but it was fixed with a tired, stoical grin.

  He stopped in front of the vestry door. Shivering, he spoke to the woman: ‘You said Reverend Outram was only half-right about this place. What’s the other half?’

  The woman closed her eyes and shivered as though she had eaten something bitter. She had paled. ‘There’s something else here. Something powerful. Something ancient.’

  ‘Evil?’ the man asked.

  She shook her head. ‘No malice at all. It’s like a guardian. It’s harmless as long as you don’t disturb it.’

  The man sighed stoically. ‘Guess what we’re going to do next?’

  The woman considered this. Outside, the clouds had yielded to the weight of the raindrops. The sound against the slates was like bullets fired against tin. The man peered up uncertainly. The woman rose from where she sat and tapped the stone on the wall near the vestry. ‘Hollow,’ she said. ‘And it isn’t some kind of priest-hole. It’s the way down to the crypt.’

  ‘Don’t like crypts,’ the man said. ‘Imaginations can run riot. Not good for our profession at all.’ When he was at her side, he ran his fingers across the stones, then reached into his pocket and produced a small Stanley knife. ‘It’s not sealed,’ he said. ‘They just painted over the stone.’ He sliced through the paint with the blade. Small white flecks fell down to stones beneath. He worked quickly down one side, then across the top. His blade was obstructed on the left side. ‘I think this is a hinged door,’ he said. He pointed to where he had been cutting. ‘Do you see how this has been integrated into part of the wall? Whoever did this certainly knew what they were doing. This is real craftsmanship.’

  ‘Craftspersonship,’ the woman objected. The man shot her a mock glare, and continued to work his way around the frame.

  Lara felt her legs cramping. She shifted her weight. She tensed as she banged her knee against the back of the pews and bit back a cry of pain.

  But the two investigators didn’t turn, too engrossed in their work to notice anything else. The man seemed slightly nervous, as if he were a master in his art and was suddenly coming into new territory. He stepped away from the door, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. ‘I could murder a pint.’

  The woman shook her head. ‘Not while we’re working. This is big.’

  ‘No pint?’ The man sounded disappointed. He touched the wall gently. ‘Let’s see if this baby gives.’ He pushed and appeared surprised when he heard the sound of a catch dropping. ‘Sounds like it’s spring locked.’

  ‘A bit anachronistic for a church of this age. When was it? Thirteenth century?’

  ‘Around then. The spring could have been added at a much later date, in the hope of concealing, but not actually sealing it off altogether.’ He released the door and it slowly opened towards him. ‘Has all the hallmarks of someone concealing it at a later date.’ The door grated against the flagstones. The sound echoed through the church, thundering back from the ceiling. Lara took the opportunity to shift herself.

  ‘Good acoustics,’ the man said as the noise died away. He peered down into the darkness. ‘I need a flashlight.’

  ‘I’ll get you a torch, if you want one,’ the woman replied. ‘You know I hate that American shit.’

  The man shrugged and watched as she went back to the main entrance. She returned with a Maglite and switched it on before handing it to him.

  A wide pool of light spread across the opposite wall. Stairs led down into the darkness. There were strange letters on the stone. She couldn’t read them from where she was and, even if she could, she doubted she’d understand them. She squinted and could just make out the shapes of some of the characters.

  The man crouched down and winced as his knees cracked. He traced a finger along the line of characters. He blew across the letters. A cloud of dust swirled away. ‘This isn’t good,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen this language before. It’s Glagolitsa –Slavic –used in early occult and demonological texts. It was used when they wanted to hide something from Latinate scholars.’

  ‘I know,’ the woman said sounding bored. She stumbled as she spoke some of the words aloud, they were rough and guttural. The man’s eyes flashed in anxiety. The woman stopped. She snapped her fingers at him. ‘This is it. This is the source.’

  ‘Is it possible this presence is what’s motivating someone to get rid of Reverend Outram?’

  The woman shook her head. ‘There’s great power here, but it’s not a motivating power.’ She smiled. ‘Besides, who’d trust the word of a couple of ghost hunters who said there’s something in the church telling the people to get up and do things? We’d be run out of town in no time.’

  The man rubbed tired eyes and tried to stifle a yawn. ‘What about these words?Do they say anything of any note?’

  ‘It’s like an inscription from the Egyptian “Book of the Dead” – she ran her finger along one line of characters, then cursed as the walls started to crumble. ‘Better not do that again,’ she said. ‘It’s like a reference to eternal life. It’s a riddle of sorts. It says: “The Darkest paths are those easiest to follow. The desire for life is greater than the hope of Death. Those who would walk on the path of life for all eternity must first lose the soul of the living, but the darkest path, the greatest wish, may be more than an eternity. But cursed be he who thinks evil of it.”’

  ‘Honi soit qui mal y pense,’ the man said. ‘It’s the motto of the Order of the Garter. Doesn’t fit. The Order was formed in the mid-fourteenth century. These letters are a lot older. Wonder why it’s here?’

  ‘We need cameras,’ the woman said, but Lara shuddered. There was an unpleasant edge to her voice. Her eyes had widened with avarice. Perhaps it was the way the torchlight cast shadows across her face that made her no longer a friend, but a malicious enemy.

  The man shook his head, sensing something in her voice. ‘If this language is what I think it is, we shouldn’t mess with it. Leave it to the professionals. Better still, seal it up and leave it well alone.’

  The woman started to argue, but her colleague cut off any objections with a cold glare. ‘We need polyfilla and emulsion paint. We can cover this place over as if we’ve never been here. Then I’ll have a word with Reverend Outram and recommend he goes to the police about the “haunting”.’

  ‘Filler’s in the car,’ he said.

  They left together. The woman stopped, turned and scrutinised the church. Her eyes fell on the hidden cavity in the wall. Her face seemed twisted and unfriendly.

  Lara knew they wouldn’t be gone for too long. She needed to find another place to hide, perhaps in the pulpit. When they came back again she might not be so lucky to be undetected. She squeezed herself from her hiding place and started to run towards the altar.

  But she was compelled to look back at the entrance to the crypt. She tried to back away from it, fearing the darkness, fearing the way the ancient characters seemed to be calling her, and at the same time being forced to walk along the cold flagstones towards it. Her footsteps echoed. The crypt gave off a stale musty odour.

  She hesitated by the heavy stone door, trying to find an excuse to leave, but not having the strength to resist. She heard herself whimpering as she stepped over the threshold and in
to the darkness.

  Spiral steps coiled into the darkness. Something was calling to her from the base of the stairs. She took another step, oblivious that the supernatural investigators might return at any moment.

  Something prevented her from going any further. She remembered the story of the children who never shut the wardrobe door behind them for fear of being trapped inside. She turned away from the hypnotic darkness and back to the writing on the walls.

  The letters were calling her back, demanding to be read. There was more written on the wall behind her. She panicked, feeling like an animal caught in a snare. She tried to pull away, but couldn’t resist. Instead, she was drawn towards the writing. She could make out the characters written in the Latin alphabet, but there were others: a blend of characters from other languages. She couldn’t work out any of the words.

  In the dim passage, perhaps no more than a metre wide, her back brushed against the wall to get them into focus. She realised she had already destroyed some of the flaking characters. The sudden exposure to the elements was sealing the fate for the rest of them. As she watched, she realised there was something else, a figure behind the writing, etched into the stones. The letters had concealed the angles.

  The inscriptions faded away. All that remained was a glowing Seal of Solomon.

  *

  Confusion flashed across Will’s eyes. ‘How could you see all that when you were hiding under the pew?’ He sucked his lips as he thought. ‘You said you were aged eleven or twelve. Is it possible you’d just had your BCG inoculation and …’ he hesitated. ‘… All the other added-extras?’

  ‘Could have been,’ Lara said. ‘It was so long ago.’ She started to walk away from Will. ‘I don’t know what I saw there, other than the Seal,’ she said. ‘But the woman was right, there is something in here.’