A Dangerous Energy

by John Whitbourn

  Still in an uncharacteristic mood of relaxation, Tobias lay on the ground, hands behind his head. Then it occurred to him that he still had his pipe and baccy pouch (a gift from Diane) in his gown pocket from the previous night. He filled and lit this and so his contentment was complete.

  And when absolute quiet grew wearisome he amused himself by peopling the houses below. Alas, his imagination was such that generally some very dark and tragic speculations emerged.

  In one was a venerable magician, a doctor of magic once of Oxford University, now shunned and mistrusted for his strangeness and unpredictable temper. Here alone he whiled away the lonely blank hours till death, devising more and more arcane spells, never to be used. Here he lay alone in bed, fearful, listening for taps at the window and creaks on the staircase and no natural fire ever cheered his house.

  In the other lived a once-respected nobleman, now long fallen from court and Church favour and hopeless and bedridden – all dignity gone, he was attended at last only by his once-beautiful, consumptive daughter. Servants fled when money and prestige fled and so, alone, they lived, a burden of labour or guilt to each other, reduced to growing their own vegetables in what were once flower beds.

  All of which was quite untrue, of course, and a terrible presumption to boot.

  After a while he heard the monastery clock faintly striking four; there was plenty of time but he felt minded to get back. Unless any repercussions occurred that night concerning his jaunt, he knew he had established a certain degree of freedom. The afternoon had raised his hopes; if he knew he was free not to, he would devote himself to research more wholeheartedly, to his visions and ideals. To his destiny.

  The ever-watchful gate-keeper saw him return and enter the library and he wondered (as did all the monks) just what it was that this personable and polite young magician had done wrong. A minor heretic probably, come to be straightened out; they had had a few such before. But the door-man was gloomy by nature and he leant back and mentally charged Tobias with horrible murder and the death of innocents.

  CHAPTER 12

  In which our hero’s progress is described.

  At a quarter to five in the morning, a horrified Tobias, although still deep in sleep, heard the monastery bell. In the fleeting irrationality of interrupted repose he would have given his talent away for another half hour’s sleep but his body, obedient to habit, started to move and he rolled out of bed, his eyes still tightly closed. Getting up was like physical pain to him but once his feet were on the floor the battle was won again for one more day.

  Dimly he saw a bowl on his table; he lumbered forward and plunged his face into the freezing water therein. The shock of this and the effort of containing a scream reminded him he was alive. Tiredness left him slowly to be replaced by a false glow of energy as his metabolism was deceived into believing it was daytime. From experience Tobias knew this would fade by mid-morning to be replaced by nausea and taut nervous energy. It was a miracle he had not killed someone yet.

  He slid his gown over his head, strapped his boots on and combed his long hair into a semblance of order. This done he stood for a moment to compose himself and then grimly strode out of his cell.

  Having a captive magician-priest meant that nearly all of the monks’ ceremonies could be concelebrations and they eagerly seized the chance offered. It was as well Tobias had learnt his liturgy and observances so thoroughly at Rugby, for he seemed to spend many of his working hours using them.

  He crossed the cloistered central square, negotiated lengthy corridors, and finally swept into the chapel annexe where several senior brothers were preparing the communion vessels. Through long practice they were wide awake and disgustingly cheerful despite the hour. Tobias’ reply to their greeting was less than wholehearted. He numbly waited until everything was laid out and then purified the chalice, paten and corporals. Try as he might, he could not stop yawning even as he joined the procession out in the chapel where the congregation of monks were waiting for the first religious observance of their lengthy day.

  The magician’s rôle in a concelebration was largely a symbolic one; he only really came to the fore at the beginning, in the greeting, and again at the end during the dismissal. At this point in his life Tobias could have wished for a more active involvement for he lived in fear of relapsing into sleep and tumbling over the altar. In truth he wished he were not there at all since he doubted the necessity of displaying the might of the Church in its temporal guise to a horde of its firmest captives.

  Even worse it was a sung mass and while Tobias had a deep and impressive voice in conversation, in song it turned into a grating rumble. He had learned to keep his responses moderately pitched and soft to avoid pained expressions from those nearby.

  On that chill June morning Tobias thought that his one bit of useful research would be to ascertain if it were possible to sleep with one’s eyes open.

  ‘The Lord be with you’

  ‘And also with you’

  After four months at the monastery, early mornings were no longer so painful. One of the beauties of monastic life was that any demands it made were compensated by the allowances made for the weakness of the flesh. In this way five o’clock eucharist was mitigated by compulsory early-evening retiring. At first Tobias found nine o’clock bedtime irksome and unnatural but after a week he found it absolutely essential.

  By August 1984 Tobias was beginning to find his feet and life had become less intolerable – hard it still was, but bearable. He was beginning to feel the benefits of a regime of regular hours, abstemious diet and little stress. To his surprise he found himself leaner, fitter and even happier. His waking life fell into three neat compartments: religion, work and free afternoons. The first was empty of meaning to Tobias but the ceremonies brought some comfort as a safe and unchanging routine. Work was arduous but beneficial. His free-time research was proceeding wonderfully; he could not know but the seeds of his future masters degree and Ph.D were sown and started to grow in that dry dusty library; he had probably covered more ground and coined more ideas in the last four months than in his entire last year at Rugby – no mean feat in itself.

  Sometimes, however, he needed to clear his head and in this mood his feet took him into the forest. He rarely met anybody on these jaunts, an odd forester or tinker perhaps, but he did not seek company. A woodsman he’d encountered had spread the word of a wicked magician abroad in the woods and the other foresters, duly cautious, kept an eye out and therefore generally avoided him.

  He found numerous obscure paths and slowly, bit by bit, parts of the forest became familiar to him. It was not love of Nature that particularly inspired him to walk so, although he found his surroundings pleasing and conducive to mental repose. Rather it was the lack of human company and therefore the lack of need to maintain reserve and to raise shields. Temporarily he could once again be the boy of some seventeen years ago: open, relaxed and careless. But these were only in the nature of holidays, a temporary indulgence. Back at prayer or work or study the same old mind still ticked away, restless and energetic. He was in no danger of losing sight of the real Tobias.

  Very often he would return to the hilltop clearing he had discovered on his first afternoon out. He found it an ideal place to smoke a quiet pipe, read, or simply gaze at the view. Piles of timber appeared and disappeared in between visits so the place was obviously frequented, but Tobias was never disturbed there.

  It was in this way that Tobias passed his twenty-fourth summer and he was not discontent.

  Every so often the Abbot called to see him or asked Tobias to come to his office. He was under no illusion about these interviews; they were by way of a progress assessment, the reports of which were doubtless despatched to Rugby. In his efforts to impress and deceive, Tobias was up against a problem, for the Abbot – the Bishop’s friend – was no fool. Abbot Milne was a short wide man of obvious peasant stock and with all a peasant’s cunning. Bright beady eyes behind a lumpish nose gave a predatory
impression which even Tobias found disconcerting. He would have given much to know exactly what the Bishop of Rugby had said of him so as to ascertain what starting point the Abbot’s opinions were founded upon. The man himself gave not even the vaguest indication of what he thought; he was all friendship and solicitous enquiry, but he engaged in verbal sword-play.

  ‘I do hope your stay here is seeming beneficial, Curate.’

  ‘Oh yes, Abbot. You have a beautiful setting here – it’s a welcome change from city life.’

  ‘I suppose your life in Rugby was something of a strain?’

  ‘No more than to any other long-suffering townsperson – it had its compensations you know.’

  ‘Of course. To be sure. Still, I’ve always felt a righteous life was just that mite harder in the hustle and bustle of a town.’

  ‘I bow to your superior knowledge, Abbot.’

  ‘We are most concerned that you do not become bored with our painfully slow way of life, Curate. I was wondering whether you’d like to pay a weekend visit back to Rugby – just to reassure yourself that life goes on y’know.’

  ‘That’s uncommonly kind of you, Abbot. I’m very tempted to accept but I’ve settled into the routine here and my work is going so well that I’m loath to leave it.’

  ‘Oh dear … well, feel free to visit any other area if you wish. I was not trying to limit your movements.’

  ‘Not at all, Abbot. Now my parents are passed on there’s nowhere else that would attract me other than Rugby. I have many dear friends there but just at the moment I feel my time is most profitably spent here.’

  ‘Just as you wish my boy, but I have some letters for you which your old Bishop has forwarded from Rugby.’

  ‘Actually Abbot … ’

  ‘Two have the Waith family insignia – most exciting; you obviously moved in high circles, my boy. And there’s one which seems to be from London, quite a bulky letter too.’

  ‘I mean no disrespect, Abbot, but since I’m supposed to be in a year’s retreat here I’d just as soon leave the letters until I move back into the world when their tidings would be more appropriate. If it was anything urgent I would have been told.’

  ‘Oh. Well, that’s most commendable, my boy. You’re obviously very much into the spirit of things. I can never resist reading my personal letters straightaway, but of course they get fewer as you get older. Anyway, I will put your correspondence in a bundle and keep it safe for your day of departure.’

  ‘Thank you, Abbot.’

  And so Tobias passed his ordeals of temptation and firmly told the Abbot to ‘get thee behind me’. But he knew these were only the surface ripples of an implacable campaign which he was powerless to influence or subvert. An intellect too adroit and shrewd to be easily deceived was devoted to examining his state of mind and so all Tobias could do was maintain a front of such honest good as he could muster. Whether this would satisfy his examiners he could not say; he just had to hope so.

  All of which was rather a pity because although Tobias quite liked the old Abbot, whom he associated in his mind with Mori and the Bishop, there would always be a barrier between them and Tobias had to forgo any idea of his usual easy-going relationship with authority.

  In his heart of hearts he felt assured that if he did exactly what he was told for a year and subdued all but his most innocent inclinations, then the Church Universal would never dispense with the services of so valuable and talented a hireling.

  And of course he was entirely right.

  CHAPTER 13

  In which our hero has a dream and meets a new friend.

  For the third time in a week Tobias started from sleep and jerked into a sitting position in bed. He was sweating profusely despite the cold of his room. Wide awake, he slid out of the covers and placed his feet on the floor and his head in his hands. His teeth were bared because he was furious with himself.

  When he had calmed somewhat he fumbled in the dark for his gown, from which he drew a box of matches. Striking one, he sought his pocket watch.

  Ten past twelve.

  The match slowly burned down and darkness returned. It would have been reasonably simple for him to produce a light spell giving some pallid illumination but a lighted window in the monastery would be unduly conspicuous at this hour.

  The hours loomed long before him, for there was little prospect of further slumber that night and so instinctively he lit another match and searched for his pipe. Soon enough he was puffing away although without any contentment.

  It had started about a month before, infrequent at first but growing stronger and more regular. In his dream he would be before the Avon Street chapel again. It was merrily ablaze and over the fiery bales at the door could be seen the puzzled and gentle face of James Cherry. After this the dream varied. Usually Tobias would fire his pistols again and again at the face, never missing and never reloading, with horrifying and bloody results – save that Cherry never fell but stood horribly and increasingly mutilated yet always recognisable. At other times two hits would knock the figure backwards, yet no sooner had Tobias reloaded than the apparition would reappear, miraculously restored and unwounded, and so the massacre would continue without alleviation. Even in his sleep a part of his mind knew this was but a dream yet this did not make it any the less horrible. It inspired in him a composite feeling of fear, sorrow, hate and sickness which increased as the dream prolonged itself. Until, at last, a point would come when he was catapulted into painful wakefulness.

  For Tobias it was intolerable that he of all people should suffer from such a feeble commonplace as a recurrent dream. Here was something he couldn’t rationalise away, something beyond the savage reach of his cold, heath-born mentality and he didn’t know what to do. It meant acknowledging that, even now, he was not the master of his ship – a bitter pill.

  Only when the pipe was dead and most of the horror had left did he slip back beneath his blanket and invoke the dozing trance learnt in his student days. It was a comfort but no substitute for sleep; the long day before him would be a severe trial.

  When part of his researches had reached a particularly satisfactory point Tobias took the opportunity to have an afternoon off, partially to celebrate and partially to give his mind a rest.

  It was a pleasant sunny day for a walk and because he was feeling energetic he decided to eschew the forest and walk straight along the road to the outskirts of East Grinstead, see the fabled city from afar and straightaway return. Perhaps that would tire him sufficiently to escape another dream-ridden night in favour of real slumber.

  But Tobias was profoundly unimpressed by his view of the sedate, commercial town, rested twenty minutes and began the return journey. It came on to rain quite heavily, and so he quickened his pace; however, with such a long walk before him, he was destined to get soaked.

  An hour later, completely drenched and in low spirits, he was drawing near the monastery when a covered pony-trap sped past him. As bad luck would have it, Tobias was passing a submerged rut in the road at the time and from this the trap’s wheel sprayed him liberally with mud and cold water. Under this provocation even his famed self-control cracked and something reasonably incomprehensible was shouted to speed the vehicle on its way. However its way was not far since a few yards on the trap slowed and turned into a drive which Tobias in his damp misery had not noticed.

  At the head of the drive it stopped and a face peered out from the side cover. A hand beckoned to him.

  Tobias took three deep, calming breaths and then squelched his way to the trap.

  The hand belonged to an old lady wrapped deeply in a cocoon of shawls and blankets. Beside her was the driver, a young ginger-headed man. Both looked at the muddy apparition before them with interest. The horse, impatient at being delayed in the rain, fretted and steamed.

  ‘Good day, madam,’ said Tobias.

  ‘I am so sorry – I feared we would splash you when we passed, but it is so difficult to slow down on a rainy road, isn’t
it Ambrose?’

  The driver nodded earnestly.

  ‘I insist you join us, Father, and I will have your clothes dried – it is the very least I can do. I will be dining shortly; perhaps you would like to eat?’

  At that moment Tobias felt very low and the immediate prospect of food and warmth was temptation beyond endurance.

  ‘Ma’am, I would be most grateful; you are too kind.’

  ‘Not at all, Father – now follow on in haste before you catch your death.’

  Tobias stood back hastily as the trap lurched forward and thereby narrowly avoided another barrage of mud.

  And so it was that in half an hour he was seated before a generous fire inside one of the two houses he had noted on his very first walk in the forest. Clad in servant’s clothes and drinking mulled beer, he couldn’t help but feel cheerful. But with returning normality came more mundane considerations.

  ‘I’m much obliged to you ma’am, but I’m afraid the monastery expects me back for dinner; so, alas, I must decline your offer.’

  Much had been sorted out in the last thirty minutes. The old lady was much older and feebler than her voice and his brief glimpse of her face had given him to suspect. A young dark-haired maid had been awaiting them at the door with the old lady’s stick and had helped ensconce her in a high-backed chair before the fire. The frail old personage was then laden with yet more shawls and scarves. At least, this was what Tobias presumed for he had been led away by the coachman to a room where he divested himself of the sodden gown and put on a spare ‘Sunday best’ livery that smelt of mothballs.