The Lychgate
Page 23
“Similar. Various forms of spelling exist: L-I-C-H, L-Y-C-H etc. It’s from the same root. An old English word for a corpse. These days you’ll find the image of a lich confined to fantasy literature. But, they do have a foundation among ancient folklore.”
“So what are they?”
“A lich was believed to be a spiritual leader or holy man who inscribed runes that could resurrect his body after death, when recited by a devoted follower. What came back wouldn’t be a whole person; rather a corrupted nightmare like that thing outside. A commander of demonic forces, able to raise and control the dead. That’s one story, anyway. Nonsense to your average sane person. The stuff of swords and sorcery, not real history or archaeology.”
Abigail licked her dry lips. “Unless you dig one up on the South Lincolnshire Fens and it turns out some folktales have more credence than you thought possible.”
“Yeah, except that,” Bob replied.
“So what’s the plan God has given you to save us, Reverend?” Michaela asked.
The old minister emitted a long blast through hair-encrusted nostrils. “Ever since I arrived at Deeping Drove, I’ve endured those nightmares I mentioned about the beast. But they’ve always included a series of other identical images.”
“What images?” Dean Claridge shifted in his seat.
“This parchment burned with fire. The ashes scattered into a chalice of water from the well. A flashback to that creature stranded at the lychgate, as if it can come no further.”
Daniel Charter moved closer. “With respect, Reverend, we need to drive this thing away, not trap it here with us.”
Colefax continued. “Finally, before the rising of the sun, the chalice contents are emptied into the river flowing east. That’s about the time I wake up.”
Darren Clements leaned against a wall, opening and closing the breach of his shotgun as his head shook. “Oh that’s great. The creature you nicked that pouch from doesn’t appear to be missing it. It’s already back from the dead. Does anyone seriously believe torching its scribble will do anything?”
Bob folded his arms. “Do you believe your own eyes when you look out that window? Okay, let’s hear your suggestion then?”
Darren clamped up.
The historian touched the minister’s leg. “Go on, Reverend. What else have you seen in these dreams?”
“Images of St. Guthlac, I believe. I’m not sure. There’s a tonsured monk wearing animal skins. In one of them he confronts a demoniac and throws back his clothing. I assumed it to be the saint, because of this church.”
Bob scratched his chin. “Well, Guthlac was supposed to have lived in an oratory where Crowland now sits. He dressed in animal skins. Opinion is divided over whether he remained in solitude or ventured out to the wider world nearby. I’ve copies of The Guthlac Roll, if they’ve not burned up with most of my hut. They depict him doing some things you suggest. Maybe he came here?”
“That’s what I thought,” Colefax said. “During one dream, he blessed a well on the outskirts of a village. Could it be the same well around which this church was built? Its water is so fresh.”
The historian weighed up the possibility. “It’s close enough to Crowland. Back when these were a series of islands connected by inland waterways, he may have visited. What happened about the demoniac?”
“The monk removed his belt and drove demons out of a villager with it.”
Bob sat back. “That’s also on The Guthlac Roll. Are you sure you’ve never seen it?”
The vicar shook his head. “It’s not familiar.”
Abigail hunched over. “Excuse me, Reverend. Did you say he drove out demons with his belt?”
“Yes. It was an act of faith. Oh, I’m sure the item itself is nothing special. The kind of thing the early church might have turned into a relic if they’d found it, like phials supposedly containing the blood of Christ.”
Bob grinned. “Yeah, or pieces of the true cross which - if connected - would rise fifty feet in the air.”
Abigail stared at the historian. “Or the kind of personal item his sister might have spirited away, when she returned to his tomb.”
Blood drained from Bob’s face. He’d studied The Guthlac Roll half a dozen times in the last year and never made that connection.
Michaela observed their facial exchange. “What? What do you two know?”
The historian sucked on his teeth for a moment. “This time last year, Abigail and I uncovered some old cloth and a belt over in Peakirk. I had them both carbon dated.”
“And?” Dean asked.
“And they match the right era for what we’re talking about.”
“Did the saint live in Peakirk too?” Naomi asked.
“No,” said Bob. “But his sister Pega did. Tradition has it, she removed some items from his tomb before it was relocated.”
Hope sparkled in Michaela’s wounded breast. “Where’s the belt now?”
“Well, I was going to give it to my university, before everything went south with my academic career. Last time I checked, it was in an old metal box underneath the bed in my hut.”
Darren tapped the barrels of his shotgun against the stone wall. “Burned spell books? Magic belts? I know we’re desperate, but would you people listen to yourselves?”
Naomi lifted one timid hand to get the vicar’s attention. “Excuse me, but we aren’t dealing with a demoniac, are we Reverend?”
Colefax stiffened, increasing pains in his chest causing him to flinch. “Not as such. I put it to you those reanimated corpses contain nothing of the precious souls who once inhabited them. Even if they do evidence personal knowledge of our lives. Like I said, the belt became a symbol of the monk’s faith. I’m sure it was nothing more than an item of clothing.”
Michaela couldn’t allow herself to let go of new-born hope during such a time of despair. “But it could have power. If we got hold of it.”
The vicar sighed. “That ritual of fire, chalice, water and river is the recurring theme in my night-time images. The ones relating to our beast. I know nothing about the belt, other than witnessing the monk use it to deliver a villager from possession.”
Darren Clements walked about with meandering steps, then stopped in a huff. “Even if those fantasies were real, can I point out an obvious problem?” The church remained quiet and the robber proceeded. “To get to the belt - if it’s still in one piece - or tip water in the river, we’d have to make it beyond the churchyard boundary. Maybe you haven’t looked outside lately, but it’s a fucking monster convention between us and the lychgate. Then suppose you reach the river or Bob’s hut and none of this works? Where are you gonna go? We’ll have given up our only safe spot.”
Dan stood and stretched. “What are you going to do when we’re starving to death and those things are still waiting for us? Nobody will come to help. We’re an isolated community. That’s a deliberate choice we made. Isn’t that right, Connie?”
Constance Creek also rose, a curious light dancing in her pupils. “It is.” She strode in a ponderous circuit around the group. “There have always been ghosts at Deeping Drove. Nineteen years ago, our predecessors ran from pursuing spirits and vapours, rather than regenerating corpses. Yet those fleeting spectres still bowed to their master’s will from beyond the grave.”
Naomi fidgeted. “You speak as if you were here. Like you know what's happening.”
Connie whirled on her heel with a trill laugh. “I was, and I do.”
The widow’s mouth dropped open.
A crazed expression rose from the corners of Connie’s mouth. “I was twelve when I heard and answered Nechtan’s call.”
Bob’s face darkened. He didn’t take his eyes off her. “Nechtan? That’s the moniker belonging to the skeleton we dug up, I assume?”
“It is.”
The historian raised one eyebrow. “If my book learning serves me true, his name means ‘damp.’ Appropriate for the climate.”
Connie glared. “I would
suggest a more respectful tone when speaking of your new lord and master. You will all soon join him, as he reclaims his flock.”
Bob’s eyes narrowed. “I get it. He once held sway over one of the tribes here, didn’t he? Before they converted to Christianity. What happened? Did they give Nechtan the old heave-ho after they were baptised?”
Constance clamped her teeth together, almost frothing at the mouth. “Vile, alien, usurping religion.”
Naomi Hargreaves swallowed hard. “If you were twelve, you must have been part of the Fenland Free Saints. Weren't they a Christian community?”
“My mother and father were. They remained oblivious to Nechtan’s beautiful song in the night. So consumed were they with zeal to restore this abomination. A canker on the spot where his faithful once did the master’s bidding.” Connie motioned to the church rafters.
Darren Clements raised his shotgun.
Dean Claridge held up a hand. “Easy.” He focused on Connie. “Tell us what happened.”
The community founder’s face evidenced further detachment from sanity. “He called to me, hungry for souls to right the wrong done to him. I was a little girl. What match would I have been for the grown-ups around me?”
Daniel Charter’s face paled, his mind racing back to that ghostly replay of a murder by the river. “So you killed one of your own peers.”
Connie laughed. “It was so easy. ‘Rhubarb and Custard,’ everyone called us. Howie and I were inseparable. Out of sight by the river, it wasn’t difficult to hold him underwater.”
Daniel fumed. “And nineteen years later you did it again, didn’t you?” His eyes watered. “Tim didn’t fall in the river and drown; you murdered him.”
The woman offered a dismissive wave. “There was a certain irony to the repetition. Especially when Custard’s ghost appeared and distracted the boy. Made my job that much easier. Nechtan wasn’t satisfied with the souls of sheep and pigs, though they helped him regain some of his power. When our resident criminals killed the builder, that really got the ball rolling. On Halloween night, with the boundary between worlds at its thinnest, all things become possible for Nechtan.” Her tone softened. “How I long to be one with him.”
Michaela growled, images of her beautiful, murdered daughter dancing across the stage of her mind. “Then what are you doing in here?”
Connie offered no reply.
The teacher went on. “You’re frightened, aren’t you? Now you’ve seen first-hand what you’ve unleashed on the world, being ‘one’ with it has lost some of its lustre.”
Robert Mason leaned across the back of his pew with folded arms. “So that’s why you came back here as an adult to start another community. Living off-grid was a ruse. A way to separate frustrated, desperate people from outside interference or help. You’ve been growing a new congregation of spiritual slaves, ready for that ancient, deposed cultist outside to feed upon. I’m curious: how did you read the parchment text? I’m assuming that’s how a lifeless skeleton started walking around with glowing eyes? You’re the follower who recited his incantations.”
“The words came to me from inside. Like glossolalia to my parents.” Connie smiled at Abigail. “I confess, I couldn’t believe my luck when you dug him up. I’d spent months attempting to concoct a reasonable excuse for that, without success. Thank you.”
The psychic delivered an emotionless gaze. “You’re welcome. And can I say: I hope you die screaming in agony.”
Marie Saint charged forward, handgun raised. “She can fucking well die now.”
In her insane state, Constance Creek became hyper-aware. Marie never saw the weapon seized from her grip, the woman moved so fast. They span together, Connie’s arms restraining and pulling the female robber back against her chest. The cold pistol barrel pressed into Marie’s right temple as the traitor held her firm. Together they backed towards the door. Connie’s eyes glittered. “What do you say we let the master and his brethren in? Unbar and open the door, or 'Angel' will become one.” She clicked the cocking hammer.
Darren covered her with his shotgun. It was a useless gesture and he knew it. No way could he discharge the weapon without killing his girlfriend.
Connie threw back her head and laughed. “What are you going to do, Ding Dong? If you kill either of us, you know what will happen.”
The male robber spat. “My name’s Dinger, not Ding Dong.”
The community founder smirked. “Poor baby. Let’s look at your choices: If you don’t open the door and I open Marie’s head with this gun, you’re all dead. Then whatever arises inside her will open the door. Or you can heed my command and open the door now. Either way, the outcome is the same. No-one can stop Nechtan. This time the lover of my soul will prove victorious.”
Reverend Colefax doubled-over in a coughing fit.
Connie nodded at the struggling minister. “Or we can wait five minutes until the vicar dies and leaves behind an empty vessel for the horde to fill.” She laughed again. “Happy Halloween, everyone. You’ve had your trick; now it’s time for the master’s treat.”
Colefax stumbled from his pew towards the altar. Robert Mason chased alongside, hands outstretched to support him. “Easy, Reverend.”
The old man scrunched the parchments into a chalice set in the middle, lifted one of two lighted candles from the sacred space and plunged its burning wick into the receptacle. The faded writing material flared with tongues of green fire. In an instant, only a small covering of grey powder coated the bottom of the cup.
A deafening shriek erupted from the monster by the lychgate. Its courage-stealing report pierced the exterior darkness. Bodies slammed against the door again, amidst a general hubbub of rage beyond the church walls.
Connie swivelled part-way to face the entrance, still holding tight to her captive. “Your God’s visions are worthless, old man. You’ve only fired Nechtan’s resolve. You’re all goi-”
The rest of the sentence never came out. Naomi Hargreaves slipped round one side of the church during the commotion. She walloped a free-standing brass candlestick against the back of the traitor’s head, knocking her to the flagstones in a heap.
Marie Saint swiped up her fallen gun, span and aimed it at the dazed woman’s face.
“No,” Naomi grabbed hold of her struggling arms with uncharacteristic assertiveness.
Darren Clements dashed across to help the slight, builder’s widow subdue his girlfriend. “Listen to her, Angel. We all want the bitch dead, but you’ve seen what the dead become.”
Marie’s body went pliable. Tears came now. “Jason would still be alive if it wasn’t for her, Dinger.”
Darren held onto her. “She’ll get hers. If those things break down the door, I’ll plug her myself. No way she walks.”
Daniel rummaged around in his jacket pockets and pulled out some twine. “Secure her hands with this. It’s not much, but should keep the creature out of mischief.”
Darren fastened Connie’s hands behind her back in a sitting position.
Marie stepped forward and brought the gun barrel across the front of the woman’s head with a resounding crack. Blood poured from their prisoner’s nose. “I might not be able to kill you. But, don’t think I won’t break your face.” She spat and walked away to cool off, one uneasy eye on the shuddering door. “You sure that’ll hold?”
Darren stood still to watch. “The table won’t let it come inward. But if they tear the door apart, we’re in a world of hurt.”
Bob examined the vessel in the vicar’s weakening hands. “Where did you get this, Reverend?”
“It was already here. Margaret Leonard found it in a cupboard.”
The historian whistled. “It’s old. I mean really old. Even old enough to be…” He took a step back in awe. “Guthlac’s ordination chalice.”
Naomi set down the free-standing candlestick. Daniel reached her side. The widow rubbed both her arms.
“Gooseflesh?” the smith asked.
“Yes.”
“It’s not that,” she replied. “There’s a draught over here.”
Daniel frowned. He lifted a free-hanging religious tapestry swaying in a gentle breeze against the western wall. A stout, iron-studded oak door lay behind it. “What’s back here, Reverend?”
Stephen Colefax cupped water out of a bucket near the well into his chalice. He looked up. “It’s a storage area. Not much bigger than a broom closet. Why?”
“There’s a breeze coming from inside. Does the space have a window?”
“No. It’s not locked. See for yourself.”
Daniel opened the door to reveal a dark cupboard set back in the stonework. “Bob, can I have one of those lanterns?”
The historian hurried over, clutching tight to the requested black iron light source. “What have you got, Dan?”
“I don’t know. Pass me the light.” He took the lantern and squatted before a sturdy chest of assorted ecclesiastical junk. “There’s cool air creeping out from under here.” He tried to shift the chest. “Man, this thing weighs a ton. Give us a hand, will you?”
Together they yanked the chest free of the storage area. Underneath, a crumbling wooden stop-gap plugged a square hole in the floor. Its rotting boards - split and warped - allowed fresh air in from some indeterminate source.
Robert Mason grabbed hold of the lantern. Body pressed against the floor, he dipped his head and the light down through the hole. When his face re-emerged, he licked his lips. “Do you know what this is?”
Daniel shook his head. “Haven’t a clue.”
“It’s an old smuggler’s tunnel. I'd bet my life on it.”
Naomi frowned. “In a church?”
The historian grinned. “Yeah. A lot of old churches have them. Especially near the coast.”
“But why?” the widow asked.
“Back in the day, ministers were often involved in the goods smuggling trade. Some rationalised it as a way to help their impoverished flock against what they perceived to be a corrupt and unjust government. Plus, they weren’t immune to a nip of brandy now and again.”
Stephen Colefax limped over to join them, clutching the filled chalice. “We’re vicars, not saints.” A slight smile broke the contorted pain on his greying face for one moment. “An old friend from seminary had a church down on Romney Marsh. His place featured a tunnel that stretched all the way to a nearby river. ‘The Gentlemen’ - as they often called smugglers - used to bring their contraband in by boat and conceal it in the church, unseen by the king’s men. Later the house of worship would act as an illicit distribution centre.”