by Heide Goody
“Here we are, Quilldust. Ah, look, why don't you read it, you'll only moan about how bad my Latin is.” Stephen turned the book towards Rutspud.
“Quilldust,” read Rutspud, “Recorder of the Damning Details. Pit-brother to Treyvaw, the hunter of demons. It is said that he is able to bring forth evidence of any lifetime that would take a hundred lifetimes to read.”
“Huh?” said Stephen. “What's scary about that?”
“He brings atrophy and inertia by the means of his scratching quill. The fall of empires has been preceded by those who sought a recorded history and expired before their completion.”
Rutspud slammed the book closed.
“Let's just say he's detail-orientated.”
He shuddered in recollection.
“The coal was a fair exchange, anyway,” he said. “That reminds me, I'll take some more of that monk piss when I go back.”
“Hm, it might have all gone,” said Stephen. “Manfred found it in the cupboard and told the others it was Limoncello. Most of us aren't very well-travelled, so I think they've been supping away, thinking it's Italian booze.”
“Italy! I've seen that on the internet,” said Rutspud.
“You have the internet in Hell?”
“In Belphegor’s department, yes. Surprisingly good Wi-Fi signal too. Italy’s the one with the winding mountain roads, tiny cars and buses full of gold bars, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Stephen, smiling.
“I'd love to go there.”
“I’ve heard it’s beautiful.”
“There or Niagara Falls.”
“Apparently also very impressive.”
“Or the pyramids in Egypt, or the Amazon rainforest, or Australia, or Jurassic Park.”
“Er, that last one doesn't actually exist,” said Stephen. “It's made up.”
“I saw it. All those dinosaurs.”
“Sorry. Made up.”
“Oh, that's a shame, it looked interesting,” said Rutspud. “Made up, huh?”
“Sorry.”
“Like Disneyland.”
“Actually, Disneyland is real. You can go there.”
Rutspud laughed. “Yeah right. I bet there are giant talking mice there and everything.”
Stephen opened his mouth to answer, but thought better of it.
“Which is your favourite?” asked Rutspud.
“I quite like Goofy.”
“No, I meant place you’ve visited. Where would you recommend?”
“Well, I told you, I'm not very well-travelled. I haven’t been to the rainforests or the Himalayas or … any of those places.” He clicked his fingers. “I did go on a school trip to Calais once. But I didn't like the food.”
“Frogs’ legs? Snails? Roast starling?”
“No, I had a bad sausage roll on the ferry. Never went back. No, I like it here at the monastery. It's peaceful and we have everything that we need. Well, normally we do, when we haven't run out of everything.”
Stephen rocked back on his heels, deep in thought. “Most of all though,” he continued, “most of all, I really love the men I live with.”
“Ah,” said Rutspud slowly, with a knowing look.
“What?”
“It's a sex thing, isn’t it? I’ve seen that on the internet too.”
“No, no, no! It most certainly isn't a sex thing! I'm talking about the friendship we have. More than friendship, more than colleagues. We're like each other’s family. It's taken the loss of Huey and Bernard to make me realise how much this family of monks really means to me.”
Stephen glanced at the photograph-ordering forms. An idea was forming as to how he might use them. He discarded the top one, where Rutspud had doodled a curious mixture of secondary sexual characteristics. It simply bristled with boobs and penises.
Rutspud was quiet for a moment. “Am I your friend?” he asked at last.
“Hmm?”
“Am I your friend, Stephen?”
Stephen looked at him. Rutspud’s large and surprisingly expressive eyes conveyed a powerful blend of confusion, hope and fear.
“We meet up and have fun. We've both run risks to help each other out. I always look forward to seeing you. I'd say we're friends, wouldn't you?”
Rutspud looked as though he’d been punched.
“Wow,” he said softly.
“What?”
“I’ve never had a friend before. You know, just enemies I didn’t hate that much. A friend …”
“Are you okay with that?” asked Stephen.
Rutspud nodded slowly. “I think that I am.”
Stephen woke suddenly in the night. That wasn't so unusual. What was unusual was finding himself hanging upside down. Something had a tight and painful grip on his ankle. He couldn't see a thing, but then he realised that his habit was covering his head. He wrestled it away and immediately understood what had happened.
“Lionel!” he called. “LI-O-NEL!”
Lionel was indeed first to arrive, most of the other monks close behind him. Stephen couldn't be sure, but it looked as though there were a couple of them at the back with their faces painted and weapons of some sort. “I caught something,” said Lionel. “I told you all I – Oh. It's only Trevor.”
“Stephen,” said Stephen tiredly.
Stephen saw their faces turn from shock to recognition and then slowly to mirth. It suddenly occurred to him that his body was largely uncovered, as his habit flapped uselessly around his head.
“It is Stephen,” agreed Brother Clement.
“Would you all stop pointing and staring like that?” snapped Stephen. “Just get me down!”
He wrestled some more with his habit, which only made things worse, as his view was obscured once again. He heard a noise that sounded suspiciously like a camera.
“Bastian, you'd better not be taking pictures,” he yelled.
“Just a quick one, for the year book,” said Bastian.
“We don’t have a year book!”
“We do now.”
“Let us help you down,” said Manfred, carrying the stepladder towards Stephen. “Can I suggest that you try to catch him as he falls please?”
Moments later, Stephen was in a crumpled heap on the floor.
“Oops,” said Manfred from above.
Stephen breathed a sigh of relief to find that he was unhurt, and looked up just as Resusci-Annie plummeted onto his head
“Saving lives for generations,” muttered Stephen as he slipped into unconsciousness.
Manfred was serving breakfast. He looked up to see Stephen walk in.
“Ah, so good to see that you're up and about,” he said. “I made sure that we kept you something after the ordeal you suffered in the night.”
Manfred slipped some fritters onto a plate.
“What are these?” asked Stephen. “Looks like meat. We haven't had meat for ages.”
“It is indeed meat,” confirmed Manfred. “Everyone has agreed that mole is tastier than, ah, some of the alternatives we've tried.”
Stephen sat down, and Manfred was pleased to see that his pupils were equal and reactive.
“So, Stephen. It appears that some of us have received a small gift in the night,” Manfred said. “Little cards. We were just reading them out. Brother Henry, let's hear yours.”
Manfred hadn't liked to ask why Henry had chosen to model his hair in the style of Einstein. If he didn't know better, he might be inclined to think that he'd suffered a large electric shock. Wherever he'd got his styling product from, he'd evidently shared it with Terry. Manfred shook his head. Even an island of monks had its fashion victims.
“Mine is like some of the others,” said Henry. “It's got this little picture that has been modified. Mine is wearing a dressing-gown and carrying a Sudoku book. Hmph.”
“Continue, Henry, what does it say?” said Manfred.
“It says 'You're admired by everyone for your laid-back attitude. Nothing would ever cause you to panic.'”
“That is a most admirable quality indeed,” said Manfred. “Father Eustace, did you get a card?”
Eustace picked a card up from the floor and dropped it onto the table.
“Cock!” he shouted.
Heads leaned forward. Manfred looked at the card himself. It did indeed depict a person liberally covered with ... cocks and other rude symbols.
“Father, I couldn't help noticing that you got that one off the floor,” said Manfred. “Did you get one slipped under your door like the rest of us?”
Eustace pulled another card from the basket on his motorised scooter and thrust it at Stephen who was sitting next to him. Stephen picked it up and, glancing at Eustace for confirmation, read it aloud.
“It says 'You're not afraid to say the unsayable. You're not afraid to say nothing at all. Please don't change.'”
Manfred nodded in approval.
“Bastian, perhaps you would read yours out again for the late arrivals?”
“Certainly,” said Bastian. “It says 'Your careful ways with money make the most of our funds, which enables us all to live here. We are extremely grateful for your expertise.’”
“I will read you mine, also,” said Manfred. “‘Your generous spirit and unstoppable creativity nurtures us all.’ The picture also features the curly hair, if you can see?”
He held the card aloft.
“Lovely. These cards are a very good idea, whoever created them,” he said, looking around the room. He wondered if the person who had written them would have had the foresight to write one for themselves. “Stephen, did you get a card yourself?”
“Yes, I did,” said Stephen, pulling one out of his robe. “Mine has got a Resusci-Annie bouncing off his head, which is a nice touch.”
“Topical,” agreed Manfred.
“It says ‘You have made the library into a resource to be proud of, and you continue to grow into the kind of well-rounded monk that this monastery needs.’”
Manfred beamed round at the table.
“I am truly delighted to see the constructive and creative ways in which we have managed to use the meagre resources at our disposal. I think we can all agree that this idea with the cards is nourishment for our very souls.”
There was a murmur of approval.
“Which is fortunate, as we have experienced a shortage of actual nourishment, so this should sustain us, with a warm glow, through a long day without food.”
There was silence as the monks processed this disappointing yet inevitable piece of information.
Manfred looked around at their faces then began to smile.
“Oh, guys, look at your faces! It was just my little joke. Of course I made sure that you won't be hungry.”
He uncovered a large bowl on the side table.
“It's seaweed surprise. Enjoy.”
“What's the surprise?” asked Stephen.
“There’s nothing but seaweed,” suggested Brother Henry with a scowl. “Oh, look. I’m right.”
Chapter 6 – The day the boat came back
“I tied a knot in my handkerchief to remind me,” said Belphegor, and held up a green, stained rag that was more a series of knots than an actual handkerchief. “But, as soon as I got near enough, I forgot why I was there. I even tried tying a knot in my tail as a more emphatic reminder.”
Belphegor reached into his wheelchair seat and waggled something at Rutspud that definitely was not a tail.
“Okay, chief,” said Rutspud. “So, how can I help?”
Belphegor gestured across the rocky slope to the sluggish river at the shallow cavern floor.
“The level of the River Lethe is going down. So are the levels of three of the other rivers of Hell. Look, it’s barely a trickle. I wanted to get down there and take a depth measurement with this measuring rod and some water samples, so we could work out what was going on.”
“Fair enough,” shrugged Rutspud.
“But,” said Belphegor firmly, “there are clearly fumes rising off this river of forgetfulness. I need you.”
“To devise some breathing apparatus for you to use.”
“No, to remind me what I’m supposed to be doing when I forget.”
“Oh, okay.”
“Ready?”
Rutspud gave his superior a thumbs up. Belphegor pushed a lever and his mechanical chair trundled away and down the slope. The heavy chair crushed smaller stones below its fat wheels and simply rolled over larger rocks. Belphegor stopped some distance from the river.
“Are you all right, sir?” Rutspud called.
Belphegor spun round.
“Ah, Rutspud! Glad you’re here. I seem to have got lost.”
“You were going to take a measuring from the river,” Rutspud shouted.
“Was I? Why?”
“Because of the reduced water flow.”
“I see.”
Belphegor rotated and rolled down until his wheels were several inches deep in the water.
“What’s going on?” he shouted. He looked back at Rutspud. “Hey! You! Did you put me here?”
“Just measure the river!” shouted Rutspud.
“What?”
“The river levels are falling!”
Belphegor frowned.
“Get out your rod!” yelled Rutspud.
“I hardly think that’s going to help,” muttered Belphegor. “Hey! There’s a knot in this thing. Have I forgotten something?”
“Yes!” yelled Rutspud. “You need to take a sample. Use the jar! That one!”
Belphegor peered at the jar in his hand, seeing it for the first time. Rutspud watched him struggling with his thoughts and the jar.
“No, sir!” he yelled. “A sample from the river!”
“What?”
“From the river!”
“What is?”
“The sample!”
“What sample?”
Rutspud groaned, took a gulp of air, and ran down to the riverside. As his feet splashed in the shallows, he realised that the water was hot, almost boiling, and that a fine steam was rising off it. He snatched the jar from Belphegor’s hand, scooped up a quantity of water and presented the vessel to his wizened boss.
“There!” he said.
Belphegor looked at the jar.
“Er, thanks,” said Belphegor. “I am a bit thirsty actually.”
Rutspud gasped as Belphegor drank it.
“What?” said the inventor demon. “Did you want some?”
Rutspud blinked and looked about himself as though waking from a troubling sleep.
“Er, yes, please,” he said. “It’s quite hot here.”
He took a deep, satisfying gulp. He looked down at the water running between his feet.
“What’s going on here? Did one of us have an accident?”
“Don’t look at me,” said Belphegor. “I’ve tied a knot in mine.”
“Why’d you do that?”
“No idea.”
Stephen woke from a troubled sleep. As he stretched, his fist collided sharply with a stone wall and he sat up at once. Fully awake, he cradled his banged hand. His camp bed was positioned across the corridor, side to side, blocking the door to the guest room in which Brother Lionel had spent what he had declared to be his last night in the monastery.
“It’s morning,” Stephen called through the door. “The quarantine’s lifted and, if you’re lucky, the first boat should be here in a couple of hours.”
There was no reply from the monk within. Understandable, really. Brother Lionel was old; old men were entitled to be a little hard of hearing and slow to rise. He had also become more than a little eccentric in his dotage. The bizarre trap which had ensnared nothing apart from Stephen was evidence of that.
“And, look,” said Stephen, “no one’s tried to kill you in the night.”
He stood, propped the camp bed up against the wall and, knocking softly first, entered the room. Lionel lay still beneath his sheets. His bald and wrinkled noggin poked out from the
top.
“Come on,” said Stephen. “You don’t want to miss your chance to escape Death Plague Island.”
He gave Brother Lionel a little shake. And then a poke. And a pinch.
“Oh, Lord!” swore Stephen under his breath.
Manfred couldn’t help but be swept up in the carnival atmosphere that had gripped St Cadfan’s that morning.
Owen the boatman, reassured by fresh scientific tests by the disease control bods at Bangor University, was returning for the first time in far too many weeks. Even Manfred, maintaining a cool head in his role as prior and as de facto leader of the monastery while the abbot’s sanity continued to circle the airfield, could not help but mentally picture Owen’s boat as laden with tonnes of supplies. Crates of fresh food and much missed luxuries danced in front of his imagination.
And so, when Stephen bounded into the almonry, babbling at speed and almost tripping over the intravenous tubes and demijohns that formed part of Manfred’s seaweed-fuelled microbrewery, the prior assumed that the young chap had merely become infected by the general monastic excitement.
“You’vegottocomeitsBrotherLionelIcan’twakehimHewon’tgetup!”
“And good morning to you too,” said Manfred.
“ButIthinkhesdeadandIwasoutsidehisroomallnightandIdidn’thearanythingbutIthinkhe’sdead!”
“Now, now,” said Manfred, taking Stephen’s arm and patting it gently. “Calm down. Slow down. Is something amiss?”
Stephen nodded breathlessly.
“Okay, brother. Now, I’m sure it’s not as bad as you think. I mean,” Manfred laughed, “it’s not as if another one of our brethren has died in mysterious circumstances.”
Stephen’s face froze.
“Who?” said Manfred, alarmed.
“Lionel!”
“How?”
“I don’t know!”
Manfred took a shocked step back.
“No. The boat is due within the hour. If Owen finds out someone else has died, he’ll never come back again!”
The parade of fruit and vegetables, of soap and toiletries, of spices, herbs and other delights that Owen would bring faded in front of Manfred’s inner eye.