by Heide Goody
“The thing I do not understand,” said Whitehouse, “is why two young men would want to summon a succubus.”
Stephen blushed. Wilde sniggered. Mama-Na grunted and provided some hand gestures that were quite plain in meaning.
“But that was years ago,” said Stephen. “And … hmmm …”
“What?” said Potter.
“It was about that time that people started getting my name wrong.”
“How?”
“Calling me Trevor instead of Stephen. Trevor, Treyvaw? No. Really?”
“Did you have a burning desire to possess the body of a spotty teenager from England?” asked Rutspud.
“I was tasked by Satan with –”
“Satan? The Boss himself? Not Lord Peter?”
“This was before Lord Peter’s reign. I was tasked with chasing down all demons who had escaped from Hell and into the mortal world,” said Treyvaw. “His body was as good a vessel as any.”
“And you just hung around in Stephen – which sounds a bit creepy if you ask me. I don’t just mean ‘I’m a demon’ creepy but ‘creepy uncle’ creepy – and hoped to bump into some refugee demons?”
“No, fool. I guided him. I could not control his body when he was awake, but his mind … I could plant ideas in his mind. I led him to Bardsey and the monastery.”
“Why?”
“Why?” said Treyvaw condescendingly. “Why? Because of all the demons on the island, of course.”
“So,” said Nightingale, “this Treyvaw individual has been hiding out in your body all these years and has emerged now because …”
“He saw Rutspud has been up to mischief,” said Boudicca.
“No,” reasoned Tesla. “Through Brother Stephen’s eyes, he has seen our lord and friend breaking demon rules for months now. Something must have triggered this great unveiling.”
“What were you and Rutspud discussing before Treyvaw appeared?” asked Cartland.
Stephen stood up straight.
“I didn’t believe him,” he said.
“Believe what?”
“He said a demon, Lugtrout, had possessed the body of our new abbot, Father Eustace.”
Despite Manfred and Bastian’s attempts to keep banjo and barrel out of reach, Father Eustace had taken himself to the refectory and sought solace in seaweed beer and song.
“Pickled in drink they found him and they buried his bones in the hole,” he sang morosely, accompanying himself with some downbeat plucking. “No Heaven’s Gates for Ol’ Tom, for he’d damned his soul.”
“Now, we’re not upset with you,” said Manfred, patting the old fellow on the back. “We just need to get to the bottom of this.”
“There’s no need to involve the authorities or anything,” said Bastian.
Given all the quasi- and downright illegal things Bastian and Manfred had colluded in recently, up to and including the illegal burial of a dead monk, they probably had more to fear from the law than the identity-stealing Eustace. However, at the mention of ‘authorities’, Eustace gave out a terrible wail.
“We’ll burn Ol’ Tom in our fiery hole and there he’ll moan and moan. Drown him in piss, gold and sweet and feast on his throbbing bone.”
“I don’t think there’s any call for vulgarities,” Manfred chided him softly.
“There he is!” came a call from the doorway.
Stephen hurried into the refectory with nearly a dozen people and one dog in tow. The men and women (and one shaggy lantern-jawed creature who might have been either) were dressed in dun-coloured and dirt-streaked rags like a bunch of extras from a particularly harrowing disaster movie.
“Who’s this?” said Manfred. “Visitors?”
“Boat’s not due back again until two o’clock,” said Bastian.
“Step away from that man,” said Stephen forcefully. “He’s not what you think he is.”
“We know,” said Manfred.
“You do?”
“We’re just sorting things out, calmly and in an atmosphere free from prejudice and accusations.”
Stephen stopped in his tracks and screwed up his face, momentarily stuck for words.
Manfred smiled past him at the bedraggled visitors.
“I was just commenting to Brother Sebastian that we were unaware of any visitors on the island today. I’m Brother Manfred, prior of St Cadfan’s.”
“We’ve met,” said a tall and forthright woman with dark hair tied back in an unruly bun. “Well, we passed one another on the evening of the feast, shortly before Tesla and I discovered the dead monk in your cooling chamber.”
“Frigidaire,” provided a man with rigidly parted hair and a neatly trimmed moustache helpfully.
“Dead monk,” said Father Eustace.
“Actually, he wasn’t dead,” provided the well-groomed man, Tesla.
“Not dead?” said Manfred.
“As I tried to tell Rutspud at the time, he had never been alive.”
“Of course Brother Lionel was alive,” said Bastian. “Damn! I mean, I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”
Stephen flapped his arms about to silence everyone.
“Enough!” he squeaked. “I’ve no idea what any of you are talking about, but we need to talk to this demon.”
“I’d ask you to modify your tone, Brother Stephen,” said Manfred. “An atmosphere free from accusation, remember?”
“But he is a demon,” said Stephen and then stared at Manfred. “You said you knew.”
“By which I meant I knew that this man isn’t Father Eustace Pike.”
“Well, no, he is Father Eustace but he’s possess –”
“No, he’s not Father Eustace, brother.”
“Father Eustace Pike is dead and a-mouldering in a cave on the other side of the island,” said Bastian.
Stephen looked about ready to explode with utter bewilderment.
“But then … who is … what is … this …?”
A tweedy fellow who had the absolute air of a university don (albeit one that had been attacked by a combine harvester equipped with a flamethrower) stepped forward and knelt beside Father Eustace. He took the mad and miserable abbot’s hand in his own.
“Lugtrout,” he said quietly, barely more than a whisper. “It’s me.”
Father Eustace’s darting eyes met the man’s. Father Eustace hiccupped.
“Monks!” he said.
The ragged academic nodded.
“I noticed. Lots of them.”
Father Eustace leaned closer to the man, putting his mouth to the other’s ear.
“Weird monks, Lewis,” he said in a hiss that was probably meant to be a whisper but was nothing of the sort.
“All the best ones are,” said the man, Lewis.
“You know Father Eustace?” said Bastian.
“I knew him when he was Lugtrout,” said Lewis. “He was my superior – no, my colleague – in Belphegor’s laboratories.”
“Belphegor?”
“The name given to one of the dukes of Hell,” said Manfred.
“That’s right,” said Stephen.
Bastian looked at him agog.
“In what universe can you say ‘that’s right’ to such meaningless statements? Demons. Laboratories. Dukes of Hell.”
“But it’s true, brother,” said Stephen. “Father Eustace – or whoever he is – is a demon in disguise. He worked in the R&D department in Hell. So did Lewis there. Although Lewis and these others aren’t demons. They’re members of the damned.”
“What?”
“They’re dead.”
“No.”
“Ninety years,” said the woman with irrepressible curls in her hair. She swept a tattered shawl across her shoulder and somehow conveyed the impression that it was a luxurious velvet cape.
“Seventy two years,” said Tesla precisely.
“Hrrnn Fafff-rrrn,” said the vaguely simian woman.
“What was that?” said Manfred.
“She’s say
s she died in the Winter of the Great Rhinoceros Hunt,” said Lewis. “I think that might be around forty thousand years ago, knocking the rest of us into a cocked hat.”
“This is insane,” said Bastian.
“What is?” sniffed Brother Gillespie, coming into the refectory.
“We heard raised voices,” said Brother Henry. “And now I see why,” he added, pointing to the cask of seaweed beer beside Father Eustace.
It appeared that the commotion had drawn monks from across the monastery to the refectory, and the mention of beer caused the geriatric Brothers Cecil and Roland to hastily bring up the rear so they wouldn’t miss out.
“Perhaps we need to discuss this in private,” Stephen said to Manfred.
“Got something to hide from us?” said Brother Clement, clicking his prayer beads.
Stephen looked nervously from Manfred to Bastian and then to the damned and living around him.
“Have you?” said Bastian. “Or do you want to rethink this madness?”
“No,” said Stephen and then cleared his throat. “Brothers, you may not believe me but I have come here today with these people, my friends – who happen to be dead and inhabitants of Hell, by the way – to speak to Father Eustace, who is not actually the abbot but a demon who escaped from Hell.”
The monks were silent for a good long while and then Brother Vernon shouted out.
“The beer! Our brother’s a square who can’t hold his booze!”
This caused an eruption of laughter around the hall, much in relief.
“I haven’t,” declared Stephen. “It’s true. And, furthermore, I can prove it. Shipton, please.”
A ragged old woman whose clothes were the most ragged in the room by far, passed Stephen an open book.
“This incantation will reveal the demon that resides in the abbot’s body,” said Stephen.
“Really?” said Manfred.
“All those books have driven him mad,” laughed Brother Terry, although there was a definite note of worry in his voice.
“He’s watched The Exorcist once too often,” said Brother Vernon.
“Well, we’ll see,” said Stephen, licking his lips to read.
“You would utter magic spells in this holy place?” said Brother Clement disapprovingly, clicking faster.
“Someone stop him before he embarrasses himself,” said Brother Cecil, and pushed Brother Roland forward.
Bastian was aware of an inexplicable air of panic among the monks, their fear hidden behind their mockery, and was about to say something when Stephen began his incantation.
“Ego explorarent,
Cum meum oculus parva,
Quae incipit aliquid Dee.”
Bastian had to admit that Stephen had performed it with some gusto, with even some wiggling of his fingertips, as though casting a sorcerer’s spell. However, the effect of the incantation was, unsurprisingly, less than spectacular. Nothing had happened.
Stephen looked at Father Eustace and then, uncertainly, at the crowd of adult urchins behind him.
“Dear Stephen, the life of the monk can come with many unseen pressures,” said Manfred kindly, “and our minds may become susceptible to certain … delusions that …”
Bastian gripped Manfred’s arm tightly, causing the German to give a little yelp.
“What the …?”
“Oh, good God!” said Bastian, pointing at Father Eustace’s face, specifically at his eyes.
“The demon is revealed!” cackled the crone, Shipton.
She was right. Well, it made as much sense as any other explanation. Father Eustace sat there, banjo on his knee, his eyes glowing with a fiery red light.
“It is a demon!” said Bastian. “Brothers, are you seeing this? Come forward. Look!”
But now it was Manfred’s turn to squeeze Bastian’s arm.
“Behind you, brother,” he hissed.
“What?”
Bastian turned and nearly fainted. Brother Henry’s eyes were filled with a brilliant red light. Brother Gillespie’s eyes were glowing too. And Brother Vernon’s. And Brother Desmond’s. And those of Brothers Cecil and Roland …
Dozens of red glowing eyes.
“Even Brother Willie …” said Manfred faintly, pointing to the smallest monk of all.
“All of them,” said Bastian, equally faintly.
The two of them clearly hit upon the same thought at once and Bastian and Manfred looked in each other’s eyes. Ordinary, lightless, human eyes.
“Not us,” said Bastian.
“Or Stephen,” said Manfred.
“But …”
“Every other –”
“– bloody –”
“– monk on the island.”
“Is a demon?” said Stephen.
Brother Clement cleared his throat, a full phlegm-laden clearing of the throat.
“I think, perhaps, we have some explaining to do.”
Bastian was now holding onto Manfred for physical support. Fainting was a possibility about which his body had not yet made a firm decision. Dozens of demons with glowing red eyes surrounded them and, if Stephen was telling the truth, nearly a dozen dead souls who had somehow been dredged up from Hell itself. By that reckoning, there were only three actual living human beings plus one dog on the island, pitifully outnumbered by the possessed and the undead.
“What do we do?” he said to Manfred out of the corner of his mouth.
“I think,” said Manfred quietly, “I should go put the kettle on.”
“Really?”
“Well, I, for one, could do with a cup of tea right now.”
“I’m a little parched myself,” said the demonically glowing Brother Henry. “Are there any biscuits?”
Stephen helped Manfred with the tea things, although Whitehouse insisted on ‘being mother’. Several gallons of strong, sweet tea were poured and then, following a small spat between Demon Clement and Demon Henry over whether fun-sized Mars Bars or Kit Kats were the ideal biscuit of the hour, everyone – human, demon, damned and dog – sat down in the refectory and took tea together.
“I was the first,” said Demon Cecil. “I found the stairs in 1852, came up here, reanimated the body of some ancient sod in the crypt, and ingratiated myself with the monks who were here.”
“No, you weren’t, you silly fool,” said Demon Roland. “I had been up here at least ten years before you arrived.”
“Had not!”
“Had so.”
“Is that possible?” said Stephen. “I thought Escher made the staircase. He wasn’t even dead in eighteen fifty-whatever.”
Demon Clement shook his head at him.
“There is no time in Hell. One point in history here does not have to correspond to events in Hell. There’s no meaningful chronology.”
“I was the last to come up the stairs,” said Demon Terry. “1973. The eighth circle had converted from imperial measures to metric and I thought ‘that’s the final straw’ and decided to run away.”
“And these bodies of yours …?” said Bastian.
“Dead monks,” said Demon Henry.
“Other bodies,” said Demon Terry.
“This is the fabled island of twenty thousand saints,” said Demon Desmond. “There’s plenty to pick from.”
“Just dress them up with a bit of conjured flesh and Bob’s your uncle,” said Demon Terry.
“So, these monks aren’t exactly possessed then?” said Bastian.
“Ooh, no,” said Demon Henry. “Far too much hard work. That requires real effort.”
“Were you this lazy when you were in Hell, Henry?” asked Bastian.
“Head of Infernal Efficiency in the third circle. Hourglass in one hand, pitchfork in the other.”
“You had jobs in Hell?”
“Pit of Hypochondriacs,” sniffed Demon Gillespie.
“Competitor Analysis and Counterintelligence,” said Demon Clement.
“It does strike me as peculiar,” said Manfred, returni
ng from the kitchen with a fresh tray of tea and biscuits, “that you would take on not just the bodies of monks but their roles on the island.”
“What do you mean?” said Demon Desmond.
“I mean, you could have left if you had wanted to.”
“Why should we?” said Demon Gillespie. “We like it here.”
“It’s a life of quiet contemplation,” said Demon Clement.
“The habits are very comfortable,” said Demon Henry, despite the fact that he was actually wearing a dressing-gown again.
“And in a community such as this, daddio,” said Demon Vernon, “people are perhaps a little more tolerant of one’s eccentricities.”
“Really?” said Manfred, offering around the biscuits.
“People don’t seem too bothered by a little inadvertent … kookiness.”
“Can’t say I’ve noticed any general kookiness,” said Manfred.
“You are wearing a frilly apron,” said Stephen.
“I’m on kitchen duties,” argued the prior. “It’s practical.”
“And the sequins?”
“Health and safety. It’s a hi-vis apron that says I’m a monk carrying hot stuff.”
Stephen had always wondered why the sequins on Manfred’s apron spelled out ‘HOT STUFF’ and now he knew.
“But doesn’t all this religious imagery … affect you?” asked Bastian.
Demon Henry pulled out the crucifix pendant he wore around his neck and regarded it.
“Odd that, isn’t it?”
“But I destroyed a demon once, just by touching him,” said Stephen.
“He did,” said Boudicca. “It was mighty impressive.”
“I’ve always thought that it’s all a matter of choice and perspective,” said Demon Clement.
“You can choose to ignore the power of the Almighty?” said Manfred.
“No one can do that,” said Lewis, “but His power is like the tide; we can resist it and be destroyed or we can let it carry us to beautiful and wondrous lands.”
“Or Wales,” said Wilde.
“It’s clear that we’re not immortal,” said Demon Terry. “Just look at Brother Huey and Brother Bernard.”
“They were demons too?” said Bastian.
“Something destroyed them,” said Demon Clement.