Clovenhoof 04 Hellzapoppin'

by Heide Goody

  Beyond the squat granite monastery and its walled garden, down on the beach far below, one of his brothers, Stephen, was chasing a naked man along the shoreline.

  Yes, Manfred decided, today was likely to prove interesting.

  As Manfred turned gracefully into Left Strike Tiger, Brother Stephen pounced on the naked man and they tumbled into the surf together. The naked man leapt up and ran off while Stephen floundered and shouted. The weather of late had been particularly cold, and the island offered little shelter from the onslaught of the westerly winds that tormented anyone who stepped outside. Manfred imagined that the sea-sodden monk’s words were as foul as his likely mood.

  Manfred moved into White Crane Spreads Its Wings and admitted that this matter was something for an acting abbot to deal with, sooner rather than later. Stephen’s cries, carried by the cool wind, reached Manfred’s ears.

  “Help me! Someone! Help!”

  “Coming, brother.” Manfred stretched out in a final salutation, slipped his shoes back on and walked down to the beach.

  Stephen, shivering, watched as Brother Manfred walked calmly down to the beach. There was never any urgency in Manfred’s actions. Stephen jiggled a little in an effort to will Manfred to speed up. The placid smile and the laid back bouncing of Manfred’s grey corkscrew curls seemed an affront to the urgency of the situation.

  “He’s getting away!” he called.

  Manfred watched the figure running along the shingle as the sea sucked at his feet.

  “It is a small island,” he said, his light German accent hissing the sibilants like a polite kettle coming to the boil. “There are not so many places that he can go, no? So, who is your new friend, Brother Trevor?”

  “Stephen,” said Stephen automatically.

  “Of course,” said Manfred, in equally automatic reply.

  Stephen had, for many years, lived with the curse that he looked like a ‘Trevor’, even though no one could define what a ‘Trevor’ looked like.

  “I think it’s the new abbot.”

  “I thought he was holed up in the hotel on the mainland.”

  Stephen pointed at the rowing boat rolling in the choppy waters twenty feet from shore.

  “I guess he got tired of waiting.”

  Bad weather had prevented the supply boat coming out to the island for the past two months. The last e-mail that Brother Sebastian had received from Owen the boatman had said the new abbot, Father Eustace Pike, had taken up reluctant residence in the Gwesty Ty Newydd Hotel in Aberdaron.

  “Not even the craziest of birdwatchers try to make the crossing in these conditions,” said Stephen.

  “Only the craziest of monks.”

  The naked man was busily scaling a short cliff at the east end of the beach in his efforts to get away from him.

  “He’s quite spritely for an old guy,” said Stephen.

  “So,” said Manfred, “why were you chasing him?”

  “Because he ran away, brother.”

  “And why do you suppose he ran away?”

  “Because he’s confused? I don’t know. He must have hypothermia or something.”

  “Quite,” said Manfred. “We shall do all we can to help him. Let us go and get the blankets, ropes and some herbal tea.”

  “What’s the herbal tea for?”

  “I’m a little thirsty, brother. You could perhaps use some too.”

  Stephen followed Manfred up to monastery, shaking his head at the unflustered temporary abbot.

  If you can keep your head when all around are losing theirs, you probably haven’t understood the situation, thought Stephen, and then shrugged. At least he was better than the last abbot, who had set fire to the monastery, brought half of it tumbling to the ground, and tried to murder the bridesmaid of a visiting wedding party. Everything was relative.

  Stephen sat in front of the fire in the warming room and sipped on a camomile tea.

  “I don't know why you're so keen on this stuff,” he said to Manfred. “It tastes like rotten weeds.”

  “It is one of the few things that we can call sustainable, here on the island,” said Manfred. “Those camomile flowers were grown in my herb garden.”

  “Oh, so we could never run out?” Stephen picked a wrinkled petal from between his teeth. “Shame.”

  Brother Sebastian, the monastery procurator and universally referred to as Bastian the Banker in recognition, or perhaps condemnation, of his devious handling of the monastery finances, came in with a fresh habit for Stephen.

  “Sir’s swimming costume.”

  “Thank you,” said Stephen tartly and began to change. “Oh, did I tell you guys I've been sleepwalking again?”

  Manfred peered at him in concern.

  “Was this last night?” said Bastian. “I thought I saw something on the garden web-cams.”

  “Yes. That's why I went out early, to see if I could tell where I'd been.”

  “Do you think where you go is important?” asked Manfred.

  Stephen shrugged.

  “There was mud on my feet again,” he said.

  Manfred nodded.

  “You haven't been feeling quite yourself for a while now. When we can get some supplies from the mainland, I will order you some pumpernickel bread. I think you will find it most sustaining.”

  “I don't honestly think this is something that health food can remedy, Manfred,” said Bastian.

  “Oh, really, Herr Cynic?”

  “Really. I was reading the financial pages last night, but then got distracted by this blog which said that sleepwalking is usually caused by an over-active and under-utilised brain, unable to shut down even though the body has clocked off for the day. If anything, Trevor needs –”

  “Stephen,” said Stephen automatically.

  “Stephen needs something to occupy his mind. Not pumpernickel.”

  “Maybe I do need something more to occupy my mind,” said Stephen, eventually. “Perhaps I’m lacking purpose.”

  Manfred took the mug from Stephen.

  “Right now your purpose is to help find the new abbot, so get dressed. I think the human body is a work of beauty, but I don’t think we need two naked monks running round the island, eh?”

  Minutes later, the three of them had walked up the slope behind the monastery to get a good view of the island. Stephen carried a pile of blankets. Bastian hefted a long coil of rope over his shoulder. They gazed around, hoping to spot some clue as to where the naked abbot might be hiding.

  “How exactly are we going to find Father Eustace?” asked Stephen.

  “I have an idea,” said Manfred. “You two remain here with the supplies, and scan the island for any sign of movement. I will go to several key places along the pathways and construct some snares.”

  “Did you just say snares?” asked Stephen. “Like animal traps?”

  “I am definitely coming with you, brother,” said Bastian.

  “There is no need for worry,” said Manfred. “I am quite experienced in these matters. They will be non-lethal, of course. We don't want the poor fellow to die of exposure, so speed is of the essence.”

  “Really?” said Stephen. “And yet, mysteriously, there was time for tea.”

  “There’s always time for tea,” said Manfred, shaking his head at Stephen’s naivety. “Come along, Bastian.”

  Stephen was uncomfortable with the idea of snares, but was unable to think of a better idea. He carefully scanned round the island and then settled down on the pile of blankets in the lee of a large boulder as he waited for the others to conclude their business.

  There was a wrinkled lump inside the pocket of his habit which investigation revealed to be a paper bag of jelly babies. This was a pleasant surprise. Habits weren’t exactly communal, but Bastian had clearly brought him a habit previously worn by Brother Bernard. The old goat had a famously sweet tooth. Sweets were in very short supply on Bardsey, and they weren’t Stephen’s, but he reasoned that a morning being battered by the e
lements might justify a tiny stolen treat. He popped a jelly baby into his mouth with a satisfied murmur.

  Stephen rocked forward out of his sheltering hollow and strained to see what Manfred was doing. It looked as though he was down by the old north path, sharpening some sticks with a knife, which didn't seem right. It was clear from Bastian’s emphatic hand gestures that he, too, doubted the wisdom in this.

  Stephen helped himself to another jelly baby and gazed down at the sea. On a precarious cliff side in a narrow cove below, a long-legged sea bird with a ridiculous yellow comb battled the winds to construct its nest. The poor creature looked the wrong shape for flying, like a child’s drawing of a bird, and it seemed to have picked one of the most inhospitable corners of the island to make its home.

  “Still. At least you’ve got a sense of purpose,” said Stephen.

  Down the hillside, Manfred had tied a rope into a loop and was fastening the free end to a gatepost. Bastian was throwing his arms in the air.

  There was a tiny noise behind him, like a footstep on stone.

  Stephen stayed very still and waited. After a few moments, a hand appeared tentatively over his shoulder and took a jelly baby from the packet. It snatched back, and Stephen didn't dare to look around. He heard appreciative smacking sounds coming from close by. He held his breath. He held the packet a little higher, offering the sweets without looking. The hand crept over his shoulder again, and Stephen grasped the wrist.

  A high keening wail erupted, removing the need for Stephen to alert Manfred and Bastian to this new development.

  “Shush,” he said, his ears ringing. “Nobody wants to hurt you. We’re just worried that you’ll hurt yourself, running around in the cold like that.”

  He found that he could easily manhandle the older man. From the scrapes on his limbs and the wild look in his eye, the fellow looked like he’d been through Hell to get here and had no strength left. Stephen pulled him gently forward and grabbed a blanket from the pile. Moments later, he had wrapped the abbot in a tight cocoon of blankets and fed him a jelly baby in an attempt to prevent any more wailing.

  “Sorry to manhandle you, Father Abbot,” said Stephen. “It seems very disrespectful. I hope you can forgive me. We like to treat our abbot well, really we do. Whatever you heard about the unfortunate business with the old abbot is – well, it’s probably true, but it wasn’t our fault.”

  Stephen realised he was babbling and clamped his lips tightly shut.

  Manfred and Bastian came running up the hill, dropping the rope and squatting down to greet the abbot.

  “I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance, Father Eustace,” said Manfred. “I am Manfred, the prior of St Cadfan’s.”

  Manfred reached out a hand towards the abbot, but realised that both arms were firmly pinned inside the blanket.

  “I have been acting as abbot while we waited for you to arrive. I am certain that you will soon be restored to health and will want to take up your position.”

  Manfred gave the abbot’s shoulder an encouraging squeeze.

  “Right, that’s enough kowtowing to the new boss,” said Bastian. “The man’s already at his wits’ end without you blethering at him.”

  Indeed, there was only bewilderment in the abbot’s eyes. His frantic gaze shifted between their faces and the keening noise started up again. Stephen rapidly produced a jelly baby and popped it into the abbot’s mouth.

  “Let’s get him along to prior’s house,” said Bastian. “And, Stephen, you’re on jelly baby duty.”

  Father Eustace had munched his way through the entire bag of jelly babies on the descent back to the monastery and so, once the new abbot was ensconced, Manfred and Stephen went to find Brother Bernard, the only likely source of the abbot-calming sweets. Manfred led him into the refurbished wing of the monastery. The collapse of parts of the old monastery the year before had uncovered some cellar rooms that had been blocked off, undisturbed, for centuries. The cellar was refurbished and the rooms above rebuilt with funds from the insurance payouts on some of the monastery’s delightful tapestries lost in the terrible fire. Manfred was sure that the tapestries weren’t worth quite as much as Bastian’s inventive insurance claim but some matters were better not scrutinised too closely.

  Manfred hoped to personally reconstruct the tapestries from photographs at some point but, in the meantime, his creative juices were poured into overseeing the interior design and decoration of the new rooms, particularly the visitors’ centre and guest rooms.

  “Bernard’s been working on the mural for the visitors’ centre.”

  “You held that design competition,” said Stephen.

  “Yes,” said Manfred, a little stiffly. “The winning design was Birds Through The Ages.”

  “Ah, a good link to the birdwatching thing. And I’m sure they’ll find it restful to have a nature scene outside the – Jesus Christ!”

  Stephen actually flinched away from the eight-foot flamingos curving over the archway in front of them. Sharply stylised and painted in the brightest of pinks, the flamingos glared at them with blankly unnerving eyes.

  “Stunning, isn’t it?” said Manfred.

  “I am literally stunned,” croaked Stephen.

  Beyond the archway, the elderly brothers Bernard and Huey were working on the mural along both sides of the corridor. The cantankerous duo were some of the oldest brothers on the island and Stephen was surprised to see the pair of them engaged in anything as energetic as painting. One definite advantage of giving these two this task was that the smell of drying paint almost masked the smell of Brother Huey’s feet. The monk’s calloused feet bore more resemblance to sea-weathered rocks than actual human feet, and he did insist on wearing those open-toed sandals that clearly hadn’t been washed in decades. Brother Huey was applying some dappling to the pale underbelly of an osprey coming in for the kill, talons outstretched, wings arced out behind. It was an image that invoked a primal fear in Stephen and gave him the irrational urge to scream and duck. Brother Bernard was finishing off a scene of six vultures craning over the bloodily realised carcass of a gazelle. Bright eyes stared from the painting. Even the dead gazelle was looking at him.

  “This painting competition,” said Stephen. “Many entries?”

  “One,” said Manfred. “Mine.”

  “And the judging panel?”

  “Me. Just me. No one else was interested. Do you like it?”

  “Like is an interesting word,” said Stephen. “There are many shades of ‘like’. This is very interesting, Brother Bernard. Very, um, visceral.”

  Brother Bernard straightened up, his back audibly creaking.

  “I wanted to add some nice little squirrels. You know, with nuts. But Father Manfred here –”

  “Just ‘brother’, please,” said Manfred.

  “– said it wasn’t accurate. Pah! I think the visitors coming down here to the education rooms and the library would like to see some little squirrels nibbling on their nuts. What do you think, Brother Trevor?”

  “Stephen.”

  “Stephen.”

  “Library?” said Stephen.

  “Yes,” said Manfred. “We’ve moved the boxes into a room down there. The old room was too damp and entirely unsuitable, let me tell you. Ah!”

  “What?” said Stephen.

  Manfred gave Stephen a wide smile, creases multiplying in his much-lived-in face.

  “We need a librarian,” he said.

  “Yes?”

  “You said you were in lack of purpose and direction.”

  “Oh. I’m not sure if …”

  “And didn’t you study classical languages at university, brother?”

  “I’m a bit rusty though.”

  “So maybe relearning the ropes will occupy your mind, stop the sleepwalking, no?”

  Stephen could only smile politely in the face of such reasoned argument. Manfred slapped him on the shoulder.

  “Go. You take a look while I talk to Brother Berna
rd here about his jelly babies.”

  “Jelly babies?” said Bernard suspiciously.

  Stephen walked down the sloping corridor, past walls containing pencil sketches that hinted at the terrors that were still awaiting the painting skills of the two elderly monks, until he found the new library. It was one of the recently discovered underground rooms and while some of the chambers further along were nothing more than stone-lined holes, unfit for human access until they had been secured and reinforced, this large low room had been transformed with plasterboard walls, wooden flooring and a splash of pastel paint into a very pleasant space.

  Currently, large cardboard boxes, more than thirty of them, filled the room. There were no shelves yet, but Stephen could instantly see how a thoughtful librarian might lay out the monastery’s books, both modern and ancient, to the best effect.

  “Okay,” he said, nodding to himself. “We could do this.”

  He opened the nearest box and carefully lifted out a copy of the magnificent Ventum Inter Salices, which he remembered from his university days. And, here, a slim volume of Flabellis Ripam Fluminis. And …

  “Oh, my goodness. Quinquaginta Umbras Cinereo. I thought this was banned.”

  Stephen was about to open that salacious book when a further tome caught his eye. It was either particularly well preserved or was not half the age of some of the other books. However, it was otherwise the epitome of a monastic codex. It was a foot tall, a hand’s width deep and bound in red age-darkened leather. A fat clasp held it closed and, on its cover, within an embossed garland of flames, was the title: Librum Magnum Daemonum.

  “The Big Book of Demons?”

  Stephen actually knew a little of demonology and the occult. As a teenage lad, like every teenage lad since the dawn of time, he had developed a number of all-consuming obsessions. His passions shifted slowly but conscientiously from Dungeons & Dragons, to the horror novels of HP Lovecraft, to ancient history and, finally, to beer, pool and why girls didn’t go for guys like him. Somewhere along the way, he and his then best mate, Darren, had become briefly but utterly devoted to the study of the occult. They knew their Lesser Key of Solomon from their Necronomicon, their Petit Albert from their Arbatel de Magia Veterum and, in all that time, he had never heard of the Librum Magnum Daemonum.