The Lychgate

by Devon De'Ath

  The woman’s interruption didn’t startle Bob, despite his obvious immersion in a large, leather-bound book. “I couldn’t sleep. Do you remember I told you I had prints of The Guthlac Roll that’s kept at The British Museum?”

  “Yeah. Is that the book?”

  Bob nodded. He moved a rushlight along in its iron holder, to prevent the flame extinguishing. “See, here is Roundel Fifteen. This depicts Beccelm travelling by boat to inform Pega of her brother’s death.”

  Abigail sidled up to squat beside him, still wrapped in the quilt. She studied the line drawing within a circular frame. “I remember the story. Why are you getting into it again now?”

  Bob sat back in his chair. “No particular reason. I suppose history is a vocation. My life’s work. I’ve enjoyed applying collected knowledge of ancient day-to-day living techniques, here at Deeping Drove. You realise how inadequate the written word is sometimes, when its content is your only guide to reacquiring long-forgotten skills and experience.”

  “So why the sudden book delve?”

  “Seems I'm missing the familiar study habits of my old life.”

  Abigail rubbed sleep from her eyes. “You brought a good few volumes along.”

  “True.”

  “Bob?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Does this place make you feel weird?”

  “Can't make up my mind. I’m not equipped with your sensitivity to unseen energies and influences.”

  “But you realise something is going awry?”

  “Hard to say. I don’t feel uncomfortable; but I can’t get the church out of my head. Probably the reason it made me dig out The Guthlac Roll, since the building's named after him. Are you having one of your vibrations?”

  Abigail sat in a chair opposite, looking like a giant Swiss Roll. “When we went to sleep after...” she tipped her head at the bedroom, “I kept dreaming about the churchyard.”

  “You think something is buried there? Other than a lot of bodies.”

  “Oh, I know something is buried there. Now I reckon I could pinpoint it.”

  “Any idea what it is?”

  She shook her head. “No more than that night in Peakirk.”

  Bob stretched. “Can you believe that was a year ago this Thursday?”

  Abigail sighed. “Who’d have thought then, we’d find ourselves living a life like this?”

  Bob rose to swing a kettle over the fire. “Tea?”

  “Please.”

  “So why now? It’s not like we haven’t been tending to each other’s more intimate appetites over the last few months. You never mentioned anything before.”

  “True. All I can tell is that something is building up; getting ready to pop.”

  Bob raised a curious eyebrow at her. “For once you’re not turning low-hanging fruit from a statement into some kind of cheap innuendo.”

  “I’m serious, Bob.”

  “Yeah, I noticed. That’s what worries me. Are you scared, Abigail?”

  She pulled the quilt closer about her shoulders. “Feels like I should be. I wish I knew what to be scared of.”

  Bob added herbal tea leaves to a pair of mugs, ready for the boiling water. “Might be time to let this one go. Some things are best left buried. What am I going to do with a new historical find, anyway? I’ve dropped off the radar of the academic community. I’m the hippie historian, gone back to nature.”

  The woman shivered. “Whatever it is, we’ve got to find it, Bob.” Her voice came stern, grave and with resolute force. “Something bad is gonna happen, whether or not we excavate. I can feel it. Don’t ask me why, but the only way to confront it starts with you, me and a couple of shovels.”

  Bob watched her distant, frightened eyes reflect the dancing firelight. “This one has really got a hold of you. I’ve never seen you act like this before. Are you sure it’s not the atmosphere of the place and our current proximity to Halloween? A lot of folklore and fables started with communities huddled around fires for safety, scared of the world outside. Not without some good reason in ancient times. But not today.”

  “Call me nuts if you like, but I’m certain Halloween is a catalyst or enabler for it. The closer we get to that night and its energy, the more I sense psychic tension building.”

  “Connie said they didn’t have any trouble last year.”

  “Yeah, you told me that before. It’s different this time, Bob. Whether that’s because of the number of people here now, or the time we’ve been on site, I have no idea. Something is stirring, and it doesn’t wish us well.” She shook her head to chase away a persistent sense of foreboding. “Shit, do you think I’d make this stuff up?”

  Bob sighed. “No. This is one area you don’t joke about. I’ve never known you to call a duff shot either. Not with your vibrations and visions.” He lifted the kettle with a cloth wrapped around the handle and poured water into their mugs. “This isn’t like last year at Peakirk. We live here. Can’t go digging around in the churchyard and then plead ignorance afterwards. We’ll have to consult Reverend Colefax.”

  “What if he says no?”

  Bob passed her a mug of herbal tea. “We could ask Connie if she can put some leverage on him. Might be an idea to go see her first.”

  “Okay, let’s do that.”

  Frost clung to the roofs and grass after dawn like a subtle dusting of icing sugar. Crystalline glints from the chilly coating sparkled in a clear and refreshing morning with decent sunlight and blue skies. A small party set off from St. Guthlac’s church for the expansive area of ground behind, yet still encompassed by the graveyard boundary. Abigail Walters led the odd group, her stomach muscles acting in the manner of divining rods on the hunt for water. Behind, Robert Mason and Martin Bradbury each lugged a heavy shovel. Stephen Colefax and Constance Creek brought up the rear.

  Connie was most interested to hear about Abigail’s gift. It was one ability the psychic had kept to herself ever since arriving at Deeping Drove. It surprised Bob how easy they found it to persuade the Vicar. Once Abigail reassured him they wouldn’t be digging in the area of a marked grave, any mild objections vanished from his demeanour. There was more to his readiness to go digging than met the eye. Of that the historian was certain. Did Abigail’s insistence the community faced some kind of spiritual danger, cause a flash of recognition on the old minister’s face? Had he sensed something too, or was it mere curiosity? Humour the crazy basket maker? The drunken, mugwort-smoking basket case? Martin was a different proposition. The idea seemed to bring him a weird relief, as if the things which caused Abigail such concern had tormented him. Bob wasn’t given to magical thinking, but whatever lay beneath their feet intrigued him.

  “Here. This is the spot.” Abigail halted next to a patch of brambles, fifteen feet from the nearest crumbling gravestone.

  “Are you sure?” Bob asked. “We don’t want to be digging pits all over the churchyard.”

  “I’m positive. It’s under the bramble bush, several feet down.” She stepped aside.

  “Okay. That’s good enough for me. Let’s get this cleared and start digging.” Bob attacked the unkempt plant with his shovel. Martin joined in and the pair soon cleared enough ground to dislodge topsoil.

  Reverend Colefax looked away from the activity to glimpse a couple hand in hand, strolling around the side of the church. “Now there’s a happy and unexpected sight.”

  Connie smiled. “Is that Naomi and Joe? Good heavens, they’re walking like newlyweds in the first flush of love.”

  Abigail pressed her lips together to hide a satisfied smile.

  “Good morning, everyone.” Naomi’s voice bore an air of confidence and security the assembled group had never heard.

  “Good morning to the both of you,” Reverend Colefax responded. “And what a fine morning it is, too.”

  Joe Hargreaves observed the two men digging shovel-fulls of earth from the unmarked spot. “Are we planning to build something in the churchyard?”

  “Not
quite,” Connie fielded his question. “Turns out our herbalist, textiles and basketry expert is also something of a psychic or spiritualist.”

  “How’s that?” Joe tugged at one ear.

  “She and Bob have a history of unearthing historical objects, based on her, err… intuition I suppose you might say.”

  Joe glanced at Abigail then returned his focus to Connie. “And you’re expecting to find something significant here?”

  Connie knew the builder to be a down to earth, facts and figures kind of guy. Under normal circumstances, she’d expect his response to be delivered with a healthy dose of sarcasm. Today the question appeared genuine. “We’ll soon know. Abigail insists there’s something buried under a patch of brambles that was growing here.”

  Joe kissed his wife on the cheek. “Well, three hands are better than two. I’ll be back in a jiff with another shovel.” He strode back towards the church and lychgate, a certain lightness to his steps.

  Abigail lowered her eyes to avoid the builder’s wife. Whether Joe had mentioned their discussion in the barn, was impossible to tell. But, he’d found his courage and bridged the gulf with his spouse. The psychic didn’t wish any stray hint of self-satisfaction or amusement in her eyes to be evident to the emboldened homemaker and seamstress.

  Fifteen minutes later, Joe returned bearing a shovel. Jason Saint and Darren Clements accompanied him with a couple of pickaxes. Connie was relieved Marie didn’t come along. “You two joining the party?”

  Jason grinned. “Joe mentioned you lot were digging for buried treasure or something. Couldn’t miss out on that.”

  “I don’t think there’s a pile of gold down there, guys. More like something dirty and decayed, but of historic interest,” said Connie.

  The pair of new arrivals put their backs into loosening earth for the three shovellers. Once they passed waist depth, Martin wiped sweat from his brow and rested on the shovel to address Abigail. “How long do we keep digging if you’ve called it wrong?”

  Bob tossed more earth clear of the deepening hole. “She won’t be wrong.”

  Joe laughed. “If we meet someone coming the other way with an Australian accent, will you concede that she is?”

  Bob hesitated to study the builder. “You’re chipper this morning. Get up on the right side of bed?”

  “That’s one way of putting it.” He thrust his shovel deep into the earth with a grunt. “Think I resolved some issues I’ve been wrestling with.”

  The historian joined back in with the digging. “I hear ya. This place has a way of doing that. It forces you to confront your inner demons, I mean. Out there…” he waved a hand across the South Lincolnshire landscape to the world beyond, “lies a plethora of immersive distractions. Here, alone at night with no TV or gadgets, a person finds it harder to hide from themselves.”

  Joe pulled his shovel load out of the dirt. “Hey, there’s something underneath.”

  Bob held up a hand. “Everybody hold it. We need to be careful now. No more picks, chaps. Give us some space, would you?”

  Jason, Darren and Martin climbed out of the hole. The assembled crowd gathered round to watch the historian brush dirt aside from the patch Joe had uncovered.

  “It’s a cloth.” Bob dislodged more earth between delicate scrapes of the shovel and occasional exploring fingers. “It could be a grave. The extremities make it of sufficient size and shape for a body.”

  Joe gave him some space. “There wasn’t a headstone. Any coffin?”

  “No. We’re talking pre first millennium, if I had to guess. This cloth appears to be a winding sheet. Typical way to bury folk back then.” He scraped more earth clear. “It’s in remarkable condition.”

  “Are you sure about the age?” Joe squatted on his haunches in the hole.

  “Need a lab for that. The peat round here is famous for preserving stuff. This corpse was deep enough to benefit from it.”

  Naomi leaned over the edge. “Don’t we need to tell somebody? You know, leave it where it is and allow archaeologists to come in?”

  Bob looked from her to catch the trepidation written across Abigail’s countenance. The psychic gave the man a subtle head shake. Bob cleared his throat. “Not yet, Naomi. We’d better get it out of this pit and under cover, in case the weather changes. An autumn deluge won’t help.”

  Joe stood. “Anything we can do while you work?”

  Bob joined him. “Yeah. If you guys grab a tarpaulin, we’ll slip it underneath the body once I’ve exposed the rest. That way we can haul the skeleton up in one piece and take it to the church.” He frowned at the vicar. “If that’s okay with you, Reverend? The less we jostle the bones around, the better. It’ll need a delicate set of hands to carry the tarpaulin to St. Guthlac’s without breaking them apart. I’m amazed its torso is so well connected. Seems held together with fabric and goodness knows what in the muck.”

  The vicar nodded an enthusiastic assent. “Yes, Robert. As a man of the cloth, I’d say the church is a proper spot to rest what remains of this body. Are you aware of the gender?”

  “Male.”

  Connie crouched at the rim of the pit. “How can you tell?”

  Bob pointed at the outline. “In part because of the bones. The real giveaway from a historian’s point of view, is that leather pouch.”

  Joe hovered his nose closer to a well-preserved container on a cord still attached about the skeleton’s neck. “What is it?”

  “A phylactery. Holy men used them to contain charms or scared writings of significant importance.”

  “So this guy was a monk?” Joe slid his shovel clear of the hole onto the grass above.

  Bob hummed. “Not of the Christian variety. The only Abrahamic faith to use phylacteries is Judaism. That one around his neck isn’t like Tefillin for Torah verses, and this isn’t a Jewish grave.”

  “A pagan holy man, then.” Reverend Colefax walked around the top of the hole.

  Bob shielded his eyes from the low sunlight to meet his stare above. “Does that change things?”

  “Not at all. Please bring him into the church as soon as you are able. Constance, will you help me move a table into one side of the nave to rest him on?”

  “Okay.”

  It was early afternoon before the working men shuffled through the porch entrance at St. Guthlac’s. Between them they carried a taught tarpaulin, doubled over like a stretcher borne by many pairs of hands for stability. That skeletal corpse reclined on the table. It lay with its head resting in a vertical, empty-socketed gaze to the church roof.

  Naomi stood with her husband, Connie and the vicar. She caught Bob's attention. “Have you looked inside the pouch?”

  Bob shook his head. “No. If there’s parchment, sudden exposure to air might cause it to disintegrate. I‘d better not risk it. That’s a job for qualified personnel in a controlled environment. The archaeologists you mentioned outside." He shifted to Naomi's neighbour. "Connie, since we’ve unearthed a body, it’ll need reporting to the requisite authorities. Off-grid we may be, but certain rules still apply.”

  Constance studied the skeleton. Its ribcage and limbs remained intact, strewn with fragments of clothing as yet undissolved. That open-mouthed skull suggested a vitriolic hatred, mingled with curious, unholy glee. “Okay, Bob. Will you do the honours in the morning? Do you know who to see?”

  “No problem. I’ll drive up to Lincoln and sort it out.”

  The church door clicked open again, giving access to the rest of the Deeping Drove community. Everyone wanted a gander at the disturbingly healthy skeleton dug out of an unmarked grave in their ancient churchyard.

  * * *

  The night lay quiet, except for the occasional hoot of an owl or scurrying animal in the undergrowth. Shutters around a black iron lantern provided slivers of light to aid its bearer. Enough illumination not to collide with an obstruction or trip on a stone, but not so much as to announce their presence to the insular community. At such a time, it was expected most
would already be abed. The lychgate whined open with a slight squeak from its hinges. That night-time wanderer slipped through and traced the main path outline to the porch of St. Guthlac’s. Out on the fens and in such an isolated spot, there was no need to lock the church at night. Opportunistic criminals didn’t come near. Ghost stories kept most curious locals from venturing out for a visit. Deeping Drove was a community built on trust. This building remained their central hub, school, place of worship and source of fresh water. It stood open to every member at all times of the day or night. A heavy latch on the main church door lifted with a turn of its wrought iron ring handle. The thick, wood-panelled portal swung open, and the figure disappeared inside. Hesitant fingers opened the lantern shutters to provide more light, away from prying eyes. A thick wall of trees and bushes, interspersed amongst the churchyard boundary fence of cleft chestnut paling, would conceal any errant dancing beams in the windows. No tell-tale movement or shadows to arouse wakeful occupants of the homes a short distance beyond. The lantern bearer edged closer to a twisted, skeletal form laid out on a table to one side of the nave. In that meagre glow, rotting fabric and muck clung to its bones, presenting an image like a half-completed papier mâché figure. Pulse racing and breath heavy, the visitor swung its lantern the length of the ancient deceased. From skeletal toes to wide, empty eye sockets, the corpse received almost reverent attention. The light housing came to a rest on the wooden table supporting those remains. Tentative living fingers moved across the ribcage, to fumble at the leather pouch still secured to the former holy man’s neck. The top slipped open to reveal worn, fragile but whole pieces of folded parchment. They came free without a struggle, not sticking to their housing nor crumbling in the damp, heavy air. With delicate and tiny movements, the pieces were unfolded. Inscriptions in some ancient tongue lay scrawled across each in red ink, written with a thin, spidery hand. From deep within the core of the observer, a pulsing vibration arose. Like a puppet on a string they snapped straight, clutching the paper before the flickering lamplight in an otherwise pitch-black church. The vibration intensified. Fingers of spiritual control clawed at the soul of this living intruder until its fleshy mouth opened in vocal utterances beyond their ken. Time and again a sequence of written words in a dead language - unpronounced for over a thousand years - found oral release into the world of the living. Heavy, guttural and laced with merciless venom, the vile text rose from the page like a resurrected cadaver. Its form and structure sounded out of place in that sacred space of quiet reflection and acceptance. Even to the untrained ear, such tonal qualities suggested a relentless desire for dominance, control and the forcing of its will over others. Faster and faster the words came like a rhythmic chant. With every new round of repetition, the vocal volume increased in a curious fusion of ecstasy, agony, fear and confusion. At the last (near fever pitch), the manipulated shadowy acolyte fell to their knees, still holding the parchment between shaking fingers. All was still in the church again, except a round of gasps as the figure caught their breath and rose back up. The inscriptions were re-folded and slotted into the phylactery once more. Had the facial expression on that skeletal figure altered? How could rigid bone change its presentation to the world? Or was it an aura that lingered in the silence replacing such a bizarre spiritual utterance? Laughter. It felt like laughter, but not the hale kind that is good for the soul. This was the laughter a bully makes at the suffering of others. The laughter of someone who has enjoyed good fortune and decided to lord it over those in need. Not pleasant, nor hearty, nor joyous. It was the sensation of laughter from one who would delight in pushing panicked souls off a perilous ledge into the fiery pits of hell. The lantern jangled. Hurried steps clipped across the flagstones to the main door and chill night air beyond. What had drawn them out at night on such an errand? There was insistence inside. Insistence and the lure of power and love. As the wooden barrier banged shut, what should have been a dark void to human eyes became disturbed. Pews glimmered in a teasing glow like green neon, emanating from the table. Deep in those empty skull eye sockets, twin orbs of emerald light pulsed and grew.