by Bill Hussey
But in this dream, the nurse had been replaced by the Doctor. The mysterious Doctor, who Brody had told him was living inside the young Malahyde boy. The Doctor who held the secret. And there were crows all around him, flapping about his body, clothing him. He was bending over Ethram Garret, reflected in the dying man’s glassy eyes.
‘You did it, didn’t you, Christopher?’ the Doctor said. ‘You took the pain away.’
And Garret saw his boy-self nodding.
The memory was in his hands. The left soothing the fevered scalp, pinching the nose. The right planted over trembling lips. Squeezing and pressing, squeezing and pressing, ignoring the tongue that fluttered against his palm, the eyes that fixed and rolled, fixed and rolled. Fear mounted as the seconds passed. Fear that the disease would not be cheated out of its long-fought victory. That the man would be forced to live, only so that he might suffer further agonies before death took him.
Ethram Garret plucked at his son’s sleeve. His atrophied legs jerked beneath the covers. In the final moments, the capillaries of his eyes burst and shit poured out of him. Then his chest dropped and his cheeks sank.
‘Yes. I took the pain away,’ the boy said. ‘But I don’t have to be scared now, do I?’
‘Oh, I think you do,’ the Doctor said, covering Ethram’s face with the soiled sheet. ‘I think you have a great deal to fear.’
Then that deep, velvety laughter filled Father Garret’s ears and he had woken. He prayed that the laughter he now heard was no more than a mental echo. But no, it was not a dream-figure that stood beside him, stroking his face.
‘Bring me the fat,’ the Doctor said. ‘Then your work is finished.’
‘You’ll tell me?’ Garret sobbed. ‘Please. You promised …’
‘I’m sorry, Christopher, but your father was right. You don’t have the stomach to cheat judgement. It’s time you went down into the cellar. They’re all waiting for you. In the shadows. In the dark.’
Forty-three
Brody’s Story
BUNDLE 1 –
MENDICANT IN CROW HAVEN – 1976
‘My name is Dr Mendicant. I’m sorry if I startled you, Father.’
The man who strode through the clearing, his bony hand outstretched, was not the skeletal creature I had first imagined. Hunger, cold and twilight shadows had done their work to unsettle me, I supposed. He was, however, a strange-looking man, excessively lean and tall. If it wasn’t a skull that had grinned through the darkness a moment before, then the head was only saved from being one by the tightly drawn, oddly opalescent skin that canvassed it. In their hollows, his eyes shone, black and doll-like. I took his hand and felt the slip of small bones beneath the skin.
‘And you are the lost Father Asher Brody,’ Mendicant said in a slow, warm voice.
‘Yes, stupid of me. I didn’t realise the woods were so extensive.’
‘Tricks of Nature. You’ve not wandered as far as you think. If you would care to come back to my house, I’d be pleased to offer you some soup to warm you up.’
‘I’d be happy to, thank you.’
‘Good. Then let us see if we can find a way through the woods.’
As I followed my new friend out of the clearing, I noticed that his long black coat was very thin and he wore no gloves, yet he gave no indication that he felt the cold. I, on the other hand, shivered beneath my many layers. He passed lithely across the scrub and bracken, and had to wait at intervals for me to stumble after him. I supposed that it was my imagination again, but whereas steam billowed from my panting mouth, I did not see the faintest plume rise as he breathed.
‘So, what are you a doctor of?’ I asked between gasps.
‘A little of this, a little of that. Theology, metaphysics, history ….’
‘Aha. And what were you saying back there? About beginnings?’
‘You must have heard the local legend,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘The isle witch. Elspeth was her name. A murderer of children. She took of their essence to rekindle her youth. That clearing was her home. That was where it all began.’
He told me the story that I have already related in my History. As he finished, we emerged from the woods onto a drive lined with barren elms. I had, of course, already guessed that Mendicant was the owner of the new house. This then was the approach that had been cleared before work began. And here was the gateway, an imposing structure of twisted metal, surmounted by a trio of imploring figures. Mendicant must have followed my gaze.
‘They are the three wailing women,’ he said. ‘Those who stood by the Cross in the last moments. The Virgin Mary, her sister, and Mary Magdalene.’
‘Where is the Saviour?’ I asked.
‘Where indeed?’
Throughout my life, I have often heard the spiteful edge in the voices of those who not only believe in nothing, but are viciously jealous of those with faith. In that simple question of Mendicant’s, however, I did not discern ignorant ill-grace. Instead, I heard a kind of polite conceitedness that did not begrudge faith, but laughed at it as a childish fancy.
‘I’m not sure I understand you,’ I said.
‘There was no offence meant, Father,’ he said, opening the gate and beckoning me through. ‘You have your beliefs, I have mine.’
‘I respect that, but why build something to mock …’
‘I do not mock. You are allowed to hold out the symbols of your faith.’ He pointed to my crucifix. ‘Am I not allowed to give expression to my doubt?’
‘It seems odd, that’s all,’ I replied, privately acknowledging that he had a point.
‘I’ve seen odder things,’ he smiled.
We reached the house. Save a few rough edges, it was almost complete. I will not bore you with its description, as I’m sure you have seen it, or will in due course. Suffice to say, I was taken aback by its flawless, cold beauty. Mendicant did not take out a key, he simply pushed the door open and walked inside. A welcome waft of warm air greeted me as I followed my host up a spiral staircase.
‘An unusual house,’ I observed. ‘Do you plan to name it?’
‘I mistrust names. People make too much of them. Are too readily fooled by them.’
‘You mean like ‘Mendicant’?’ I laughed. ‘Perhaps you have family connections to the mendicant friars? Did you beg alms to get this place built?’
He stopped before a door to the right of the landing. For a moment I feared that I had insulted him. His dark eyes held mine until I felt compelled to lower my gaze.
‘Mendicant is a fitting name for me,’ he said at last. ‘Does not everyone take from others on occasion? Do come in, Father.’
I knew this had to be the part of the house suspended on pillars, but I was surprised that only one room occupied the large space. Small windows punctuated the walls and, between them, rows of bookcases reached to the ceiling. There had to be hundreds of thousands of books, journals and pamphlets.
‘Are you a man of letters, Brody?’
‘I wouldn’t go that far, but really, this is fascinating.’
I think Mendicant was pleased with my obvious appreciation for his collection. He walked along the stacks, pulling out a few items as he went.
‘This is my library of Catholic writings and incunabula. Here is the Apostolic Letter condemning the slave trade by Gregory the Sixteenth. Pius the Ninth’s Ineffabilis Deus, on the Immaculate Conception, as you know. A Fifteenth Century copy of the Chinon Parchment, wherein Pope Clement the Fifth secretly absolved the Knights Templar from charges of witchcraft and heresy …’
He passed me each of these precious documents in turn. I handled them as a man might cup a rare pressed flower.
‘One of the Cotelier editions of the Clementine Homilies … and here my Protestant collection. The Book of Concord: The Lutheran Confessions, a 1580 German print; an original of John Wycliffe’s magnum opus, his ‘Summa Theologiae’, attacking, among other things, the temporal authority of the clergy. And here … my pride and joy. My Daemonologies.’<
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I placed the books and letters on a small occasional table. We stood now before the largest collection. Four separate bookcases full of arcane and modern texts.
‘See here,’ the Doctor said, ‘the translations of the ancient cuneiform hieroglyphics of the Assyrian and Babylonian demonologies. King Assurbanipal’s copies of a great magical work, from the clay tablets preserved by the priestly school of Erech in Chaldea. And here, the Iranian Avesta, with the temptation of Zoroaster by Anro Mainyus, Daevanam Daeva, the Demon of Demons. Then the Daemonologie of James the First, that was cited at the trial of our friend, Elspeth Stamp. And the Malleus Maleficarum …’
Opening this last book my eye scanned the first few lines of text:
Question I
WHETHER the Belief that there are such Beings as Witches is so Essential a part of the Catholic Faith that Obstinacy to maintain the Opposite Opinion manifestly savours of Heresy.
Not for the first time in my life, I felt ashamed of my Church’s history. Doubtless, Mendicant saw the emotion in my face.
‘Written by two Dominican inquisitors, Sprenger and Kramer,’ he said, giving weight to each word. ‘Prefaced by the papal bull of Pope Innocent the Eighth. Validated and championed by your Church. Responsible for the mass murder of innocent men, women and children.’
I said nothing. He took the volume from me and slipped it back into its alcove.
For the next few hours, we talked of theology and mystery. Throughout our discussions, the Doctor outwardly gave my views due respect. Yet, as we spoke of the early writings of Origen and Tertullian, there was the ever-present impression in my mind of a huge intellect reining in its scorn as it watched a smaller mind fumble about in its wake. Looking back, I can see how skilfully he steered the conversation towards the suggestion, made in certain apocryphal texts, that Adam, the first Man, sired children with the creature Lilith. The so-called Mother of Demons.
‘The belief that Adam laid with a she-demon is based solely on a faulty reading of Genesis Chapter Five,’ I said.
‘Not solely. The Talmud tells us that, after Adam’s expulsion from Eden, he separated from Eve and “became the father of ghouls and demons”. And in Isaiah, Lilith is a recognised figure. Remember the passage? “And demons and monsters shall meet, and the hairy ones shall cry out to one another, There hath the lamia lain down, and found rest for herself”. “Lamia” representing the original Lilith. Do not be too comfortable in your reading, Father,’ he said. ‘Demons may be all around us. Thousands to every man, as the Jews once believed. And perhaps the demon half-breeds of Adam still walk side-by-side with men, unheeded by them, because the demon-sons of Adam were also made in “his own image and likeness”.’
‘I don’t believe that. I have my faith.’
‘Always the last words of the ignorant when their arguments falter. I wonder, though, what you truly believe. What you would admit to yourself if you had the nerve.’
‘It’s late,’ I said, taking my coat from the chair back.
‘But you haven’t had your soup.’
‘I’ve lost my appetite.’
‘Oh, dear. I’ve upset you again, haven’t I?’
‘Not at all.’
‘Will you come again? So nice to have an enlightened clergyman to talk to.’
Did a sneer play across those thin, colourless lips?
‘Perhaps. Maybe we shall see you at a service some time?’
‘You know, Father, I think you will.’
I saw myself out.
Reaching the gate, I stood for a moment, contemplating the three mourners. I put my palm to my breast and felt the impression of the crucifix hanging around my neck. It gave little comfort. Below it, in the barrel of my chest, where I often felt my love of God swell, there was a dry emptiness. The light of faith had burned low and now I sensed it, flickering like a candle against an encroaching darkness.
Mendicant had managed to slither under my skin. For the next few weeks, I sat in my study, while work and unanswered letters piled up around me. I often rationalised my feelings. I was missing Peru; I was unaccustomed to the climate; I was having a mid-life crisis. And yet, during those contemplative nights by the fire, my thoughts always turned to him. As all my interests and passions waned, I longed to return to the nameless house in the woods, to devour those precious books and tease out the forbidden secrets locked inside the Doctor’s mind. Often, I almost succumbed. Once or twice even venturing as far as the mouth of trees. Like a drug-starved addict, begging for the faintest whiff of marijuana smoke, I peered down the avenue, hoping to see that blasphemous gate. Even it seemed to speak some terrible truth to me. But in those moments, when the storm grew around it, the candle within burned brighter and lit my way home.
The February snows melted and Crow Haven was treated to an early, if phantom, spring. Even the desolate trees of Redgrave awoke and stretched out tentative blossoms. Every day, I expected to see migratory birds return to the woods, or those that stayed the course of the winter emerge from their hiding places. Where were the noisy parties of jays, the low-gliding cuckoo or the si-wick call of the woodcock? All I had seen were the jealous crows.
Nevertheless, as the season changed, so my mood recovered. I began to answer my correspondence again and re-doubled my efforts to become part of the community. Just as the early spring had given colour back to the village, so I felt a little contrast moving into my own grey life. The lure of the library and the spectre of Mendicant faded from my mind. The candle burned brighter.
Valerie Rowbanks presented her husband with twin boys on the 22nd March 1976. The evening after the birth, Jim Rowbanks came to see me. He asked if I would baptise the children as soon as possible. One of the babies was very weak and, although the doctors had assured him that there was no cause for concern, he did not want to risk the child dying without receiving the Sacrament. I told him he was worrying needlessly but, to set his mind at rest, I proposed the baptism should take place the following afternoon.
Jim seemed reluctant to leave. He circled my study, picking up oddments that I had collected from my travels, asking idle questions about each of them.
‘Jim, sit down. Tell me what’s on your mind,’ I said.
He looked towards the door, ran his palms down his jacket and finally took a seat.
‘Ma says that the secrets of Crow Haven must stay the secrets of Crow Haven,’ he said. ‘Even if he is God’s voice on earth, he ain’t God’s ears. But I say you are, you hear confession, don’t you? Father, if you are to bless my babies, you should know what sort of life they’re coming to …’
He hesitated again. I offered him a tot of brandy but he shook his head.
‘No, gotta keep a clear head …’ He bent over in his seat, resting his elbows on his knees, as if the burden he was about to unload possessed a physical weight that sat heavy on his shoulders. He exhaled and said, ‘It’s like this: my babies won’t ever leave this place. Some have tried, but if you’re Crow Haven born, then here is where you’ll live out your span, and in this earth is where you’ll be buried. Maybe you’ve heard the old tale of my kinswoman, Abigail Rowbanks? She was due to marry a man named Stephen Lydgate; this was Eighteen Sixty-Five. They planned to up and leave Crow Haven, start a new life in Manchester. Everyone told them they couldn’t go. They didn’t listen. Some don’t. Abigail was found drowned in a barrel of pig’s blood the morning of the wedding. Lydgate, he was hanging from one of those big old oaks. Bowels torn out, as if by some animal …’
‘If you truly believe this,’ I said, ‘why did Valerie give birth at home?’
‘If a Crow Haven woman has her child outside the village, the baby will be born dead. It’s always been the way.’
‘I can’t deny that I’ve felt something was wrong with this place,’ I said, ‘but why does this happen?’
‘Because Crow Haven should never have been. It was raised up out of the marshes. Out of a bad place that was never meant to be home to anybody. Anybody except he
r.’
‘You mean Elspeth Stamp?’ I said. ‘That was four hundred years ago.’
‘Makes no matter. What they did to her was like setting off a nuclear bomb. The fallout is still in the earth, the trees, every fibre of this place. It reaches down the years and infects us all. It’ll infect you too, if you stay long enough. It’s Evil, Father. The Legion Evil from the gospels. Old evil. And it doesn’t work alone. Often times it brings other things to the village.’
Other things. Bad things. Unholy things. A skull-like face between the trees.
‘Now you know,’ said Jim. ‘Believe it or not, I’ve done what I thought I should. You can’t do anything about it. Father Tolly tried. He could never accept the rottenness here. He thought his faith could stand up to it. Well, I pray he rests easy now.’
He got up and went to the door. His face was turned into the corridor, his hoary, dusty hands clenching at the jamb.
‘We’ll live with it ’til the marshes roll up again.’
‘And so, Mark Jeremiah Joseph Rowbanks and Paul Ezra Ezekiel Rowbanks, I baptise you in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.’
All of Crow Haven had turned out for the service. Despite Jim Rowbanks’ story, I still felt my heart lifted by the turning season and by the faces of those infants that the Lord God had freed from the burden of Original Sin. I sprinkled water on the brow of Mark and handed the boy back to his mother. This was the sickly child, and he did seem much paler and thinner than his brother.
I turned to the congregation.
‘We all labour under dark shadows,’ I said, ‘and perhaps there is cause to believe that we, residents of Crow Haven, labour under one of the darkest …’