No immediate joy awoke in him for he had travelled too long in the shadow of oblivion just recently. All the same a faint glow of triumph made its presence felt. He knew, now, that come what may he would go far in his chosen profession because, due to fortune and an unsuspected ability, he had succeeded where almost all had failed. In the time it took the library clock to strike five he had gained his Ph.D. The spell would work!
He prepared the sleeping spell he had been taught, set his tower to tumble in ten minutes and placed the spell on himself. With a little resistance the mind accepted its reality and Tobias gently slid forward on to the desk.
When he woke precisely ten minutes later he found himself in somewhat different circumstances. Two of the younger monks were carrying him rapidly through the corridors of the monastery. Their faces carried expressions of concern. Behind them Tobias could just see from his undignified position an elderly monk hurrying along in equal perplexity.
Tobias let them know, in a voice of thunder, that he was compos mentis and felt much put upon. He was gently lowered to the cold floor.
Dignity and feet regained, he was told what had happened.
His experiment’s timing had been bad. When Tobias was missed at dinner, a messenger had been despatched; he had found a coma-victim and, much alarmed, enlisted help to bear the casualty to the infirmary.
At any other time Tobias would have been amused but after his ordeal he felt drained and lacked humour. The monks were all solicitude.
‘Bless me, Curate, but for the life of me I thought you were dying.’
‘Are you well, Brother? Should you be standing?’ And so on.
Tobias started an explanation of his admittedly bizarre behaviour, but rapidly appreciated that a credible explanation was beyond his powers of invention.
‘ … merely an unusually deep trance, Brothers; nothing to be concerned about, but thank you very much for your prompt charity.’
Nobody was convinced. The monks drifted away puzzled and disturbed, and the wealth of ‘Curate Oakley and his strangeness’ stories received a further handsome endowment.
Tobias was fully aware of this and another diplomatic visit to the Abbot was called for.
CHAPTER 15
In which our hero is very ill and reads the ‘Book of Ecclesiastes’.
Waking for early mass the following morning Tobias began to have some inkling of the measure of his achievement. He checked and in some instinctive way knew that the potential for the spell was still there and permanently fixed into his experience. Once learnt, like any other skill, a spell was very hard to lose.
Getting up, however, knocked some of the ebullience out of him. His joints were stiff; he felt burnt out and weariness was gnawing at him.
Not tonight though; tonight he would have hour after hour of luxurious uninterrupted sleep. This would be but the first of the many and varied prizes that his discovery would bring him. But it was a prize, the presentation of which he barely survived.
Retiring at the normal hour of nine-thirty p.m., he set himself a six-hour ‘tower’. That would give him a margin of time before breakfast in which to consider the experiment’s result. Then he placed himself to sleep.
What followed was probably the very worst night of his life. Sometime not long after his artificial dropping-off, the nightmare started and Tobias went through his paces again and again. At length he reached a point where his alarm and distress were such that he would have woken up. However the tower was still some two-thirds complete and accordingly there was no such escape. A part of his awareness knew that he was trapped in a mere dream but self-imposed iron bonds firmly held him and the agony continued and continued.
Time has little meaning in the confines of sleep and dreams and Tobias endured an infinity of discomfort. Somehow he knew it would have an end and at first that was comforting but then as whole epochs seemed to pass and waking memory faded, he ceased to believe in any form of existence other than his current tribulation. Again a part of him knew he was sweating profusely and writhing wildly but that was in a physical world remembered only dimly.
His shrieks at length roused the monastery but neither the Abbot nor Physician brother could do anything to allay his torture. Unbeknown to Tobias a sad and solemn exorcism service was held over him that night but to no immediate avail.
And then his resistance ended and his eyes opened much to the delight of the monks who were in vigil at his bedside. However this release brought little relief for, sorely damaged, he lay speechless and with dulled eyes. The soup which they gave him he vomited out immediately. Only when one of the monks made to leave the room did he show any sign of life for Tobias had no wish to be left alone with his imaginings at that moment. Thereafter it was arranged that the room remained crowded and a light shone in it throughout the dark hours.
And in this manner Tobias celebrated his entry into the higher ranks of practising magicians in Christendom.
Recovery was slow and for days he lay in a stupor. His condition was not so bad as it outwardly appeared to the monks, however, for a day or so after his ordeal Tobias gathered enough strength to push his mind into the meditation trance and there he rested, re-gathering his personality and energy. To inform the monks of his partial recovery would have been to dissipate vital resources and so he remained recumbent and passive. The one positive development was that, perhaps burnt out by dreadful repetition, the dream did not return. He was rid of that particular demon at least.
After four days he was sure of his identity again, his soul once more well back from the dark edge to which it had been dragged. Eventually he opened his eyes and in a hoarse voice announced his return to the world of man.
Several days on from that, fully himself again, up, dressed and active he had a very difficult interview with the Abbot in an attempt to explain away what had passed. Tobias had long observed that all the best lies used a plating of truth and he thus pleaded an unusually appalling dream. He then hinted at grim secrets learnt in selfless service of the Church. Milne was most understanding but at their meeting’s end remained suspicious. This young man was the most worrying and opaque character he had had to deal with in all his long years of handling the lives of the Church’s chosen. He had not ruled out demonic possession and pondered at length as to whether his exorcism had taken. In the succeeding week he fired off salvos of letters to those of his contacts who might be able to help in his assessment. Their replies brought him little comfort for their opinions were almost equally divided.
And so the matter dragged on until at length and quite reluctantly, Abbot Milne was obliged to give Tobias the benefit of the doubt.
Meanwhile, feeling the power of increased scrutiny upon him, Tobias buried himself in religious duty so that not even the most critical of judges might find any fault. But all the time, despite the initial setback his mind was bubbling with excitement at the new vistas before him.
The way ahead was clearer than ever before, now brightly illuminated by the torch of abnormal ability that he bore. Yet even this light could not reveal the end of the road.
All of which was a far cry from Tobias’ humble occupation on Christmas Eve in the year of our Lord 1984 when he, along with two other monks, was seated in the refectory kitchen peeling a mountain of potatoes in preparation for the morrow’s dinner.
The last few weeks of recovered health had served him well and his physical and mental strength were now back to their normal level. He had conserved himself and had therefore done little in the way of research, and had curtailed his jaunts outside the monastery. Such efforts as he had expended had been directed at re-establishing himself in the eyes of the monastic community. To some extent this had been successful and whispers of the possessed magician had diminished and lost their initial power.
At any rate on this day of festival with the snow falling lightly outside, Tobias felt inclined to be expansive and thought he might serve the cause of his reputation’s rehabilitation by conversation with his
workmates.
He knew them vaguely by sight but this was the first time that duties had thrown them together. Both were considerably older than he and, having nothing else to go on, Tobias selected the least taciturn-looking to make his opening. He leaned forward and briefly eyed his prey before starting.
‘It looks as if we’ll be some time,’ he gestured vaguely in the direction of the potato pile.
The monk looked round in mild surprise. Tobias had made the wrong choice; he could see no intelligence behind those eyes.
‘That’s true,’ the monk replied.
Tobias turned with hope to the other peeler seated to his right.
‘Still, I find repetitious work only occupies a small part of the mind after a while and thereon your thoughts are free, is that not so?’
Monk number one got in first, however. ‘Most true, Curate – so long as my work doesn’t suffer I call to mind the psalms in number order. I’m trying to learn them by heart you know.’
‘Really? How interesting.’ Tobias tried to look fascinated.
‘It’s taken me many years, eight to be precise. That’s as long as I’ve been here.’
‘How far have you got?’ Tobias was mildly curious.
‘Number Twenty-three; my memory is rather poor but I can remember bits of the rest.’
‘How singular.’ In case that had sounded a little acidic, Tobias hurried to redress the impression. ‘What about you, Brother: to where does your mind wander?’
The second monk turned his head slowly to regard the magician. He had a lined and expressionless face. ‘Nowhere in particular, Curate: I find even potato peeling can take up all my attention if I so wish.’
‘You so wish?’ said Tobias brightly.
‘Oh yes, most definitely, I try to bring all of myself to everything I do however small and insignificant.’
‘Even potatoes?’
‘Even potatoes.’
The psalm-learning monk was edging to enter the conversation but couldn’t quite think of the method.
‘What on earth for?’ said Tobias. He was quite curious; the tired looking monk had spoken with a voice of intelligence and education. His answers seemed to be the tip of an interesting iceberg.
‘Well,’ said the monk slowly, ‘I don’t want to sound fatuous, and forgive me if I do, but the answer to your question is “Why not”? Potato peeling is an honourable and valuable task and not fit to be despised.’
Tobias was intrigued. ‘Valuable certainly, I’d not dispute that. But outside the context of this monastery, it would hardly be a fit occupation for a gentleman of your evident breeding and education.’
The monk smiled gravely. ‘Thank you for your compliment, Curate; I must concur with your comment but I think that is the outside world’s mistake and not ours.’
The psalm-learning monk saw the opportunity for his entry to this interesting conversation, saying, ‘Brother McCrone was at Oxford and was set to be a fine lawyer before he heard the higher call; is that not so, Brother?’
‘All true, Brother,’ he replied.
‘In what way do you feel this to be the higher call?’ Tobias had hardly uttered the last syllable before he realised what a faux pas he had committed.
Brother McCrone turned to face him with the faintest element of surprise in his eyes. ‘But surely you already know the answer to that one, Curate?’
Tobias thought on his feet and regrouped quickly before he did his reputation more harm than good. ‘Well naturally, Brother; I just thought it would be interesting to hear your assessment of the vocational call.’
‘It is that state of mind which allows me to think nothing of the outside world’s vanities and clamour and, hard as it may be to believe, a gift that allows me to see God’s service in preparing a humble vegetable.’
McCrone was not actively participating in the process of argument, his statements were issued, calm and definite, from an inner stillness that could not be whipped into storm by Tobias.
All of which was dragging from cover, bit by bit, the arbitrary intemperance which Tobias kept from view. ‘In my particular field of service to the Church, and thereby the Almighty,’ he said, ‘much emphasis is placed on good works, although not at the same time discounting faith. Given this, we also perceive that the greater the developed talent, the greater the range of good works possible. In my humble estimation an Oxford-trained lawyer could have a great capacity for the propagation of good abroad in the secular world, Lord knows there’s enough that do the opposite; and yet you tell me there’s greater right in bequeathing your talents to the kitchen tasks which any scullion might do. I don’t see it, Brother; I just don’t see it.’
The Son of the Lord Himself did such things; he did not shirk the humblest tasks.’
‘But, thanks be, he did not make them his career.’
Once again the monk turned to face the proto-priest but his busy hands did not cease for a moment. His voice was heavy with weariness.
‘Read Ecclesiastes, my friend. It succinctly deflates all the worldly vanities which you so admire. That is all I can say to you.’
To this Tobias had nothing to say and with all Christmas spirit defeated, he turned his attention to his task in order to dissipate his anger.
That night, as the monastery clock chimed in Christmas Day, Tobias read as McCrone had suggested and thus perceived the basis of the monk’s detachment. It was his second reading since Tobias had, some time ago, made it a point to read through the Bible from cover to cover. However, it became apparent that on the first occasion his concentration had gone amiss and the words of the Prophet had not registered at all.
Now, on this day of festivity, Tobias had to admit that the writing was of some philosophical merit but found the reasoning therein was characteristically at fault. Whether McCrone took his opinions from Ecclesiastes or found that his own experiences or opinions concurred with it, was immaterial; either way he was misinformed and deluded. Tobias was cynical in many ways but had a naïve and passionate trust in temporal power which it would take more than a defeated lawyer and ancient writings to dispel. Far more convincing teachers had shown Curate Oakley what was vanity or not.
He decided to retire for a few hours before the first service at which his presence was required and as he lay down his empty, cold head, the strains of Midnight Mass still in progress wafted on the night air as a soothing lullaby. That night, contrary to custom, he slept well.
CHAPTER 16
In which our hero hears an interesting confession.
Tobias had been as good as his word and had sought the Abbot’s permission to take the blessed sacraments to Lady Susan Warrilow and this was gladly given. Having had much practice, the Curate was swift and adept in his duties and there was considerable time to talk and dally without being away overlong and thus arousing suspicion.
He came to respect the old lady’s active mind which belied her spent body. On occasion, when he had given her communion, lively discussions would arise and sherry, wine and wafers would be served by the ubiquitous and silent Amy. He came to look forward to these little holidays and increased their frequency from occasional to regular weekly events thereby presumably earning Ambrose his much-needed lie-a-beds.
On one particular Sunday morning in May 1985, a week or so after his birthday, Tobias was called upon to perform another religious function. He always thought that Lady Susan treated his spiritual ministrations in a decidedly off-hand way but among the ranks of the laity this was not entirely uncommon and he did not think it of any great moment. That morning was no exception and he obligingly jollied the ceremony along so as not to impose unduly on his fidgety congregation’s patience. Once done, they repaired to the main living-room (with due respect to propriety, communion was given in the tiny chapel constructed in a usually shut-down wing of the house), and Amy armed Lady Susan into her high-backed chair beside the roaring blaze. When the maid had left and Tobias was settled comfortably on an ancient chaise longue, the old
woman fixed him with a gaze of quite startling intensity and spoke in a voice as clear as a bell.
‘Why do you think I have you come here, Curate?’
‘Well, madam, to … ’
‘None of your false prattle, Oakley – I can see you through and through to the very core; or lack of it should I say.’
‘I’m sorry, ma’am, I don’t know to what you refer or what you wish to hear.’
‘Please, Curate – Tobias – on this one occasion give an honest opinion, I beg of you.’
He regarded her coolly, quickly checking back through his past impressions of her to see if he could remain one step ahead of whatever revelation was to come. ‘OK … I’ll be honest, I’ve no real idea why you have me come here to celebrate communion. For the benefit of your soul?’
‘To send me to my Maker in peace.’
‘Confession?’
‘Just so, my dear Tobias, and you’re just the man for the job.’
‘But why all this melodrama? You must know that as a magician-priest at my present level of training, I am empowered to hear confessions just as I am allowed to celebrate communion.’
‘Of course. What I meant was that you are precisely the man to hear this particular confession.’
‘Why?’
‘Because with almost any other priest what I am going to tell you would bring my life to a premature close.’
‘I am curious to know what makes me special, ma’am.’
‘You’re nearly empty, boy; you were full once but it’s all been syphoned out and now you’re a husk. There’s not an ounce of religion in you, so anything I might say won’t worry you an iota.’
‘My lady, I don’t feel I deserve this — ’
‘Oh hush,’ she interrupted, ‘do you take me for such a booby as not to see you for what you are? Calm down. I mean no insult – in fact I know you well enough to realise that you’re secretly flattered by my description – is that not so?’
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