Rape of the Soul

by Dawn Thompson

  "No,” said the vicar, “there's not one shred of her in him, Colin, I told you that when he was born. I agree with you about Malcolm for the most part, God forgive me. I told George the same. Believe me I don't defend that child, but you're a fool if you don't see that your attitude is what's stimulating him. He's found out how to annoy you and he's made a game of it. It's going to be a dangerous game when he's older if it's not gotten in control right now. You might give that some thought."

  Laughter answered him. “If you think I can't hold my own against the likes of that, you'd better think again, my friend. I could snap him in two with one hand—and you bloody well know it."

  "Now,” sallied the vicar, “but as you observed once yourself when he outgrew the nursery, he's going to grow up—and he hates you already."

  "Let him, I shan't lose any sleep over it."

  "I don't like the workings of that nefarious mind of his. He is intelligent far beyond his years and he's using it to the wrong purpose. You don't think like that, Colin—neither do I, and that puts us at a disadvantage. I wouldn't want to speculate as to what goes on in that brain of his—much less have to strategize against it. ‘Tisn't natural."

  "'Tisn't supernatural either, Elliot, if you're going to go off in that direction on me again. You can save all that rubbish for your fireside chats with Howard. The bastard's mortal enough. I ought to know, I've shed enough of his blood."

  The vicar glowered, tapping the ashes from his pipe at the hearth. “You've got to stop that, Colin,” he said. “If anything happens to that child out here, they'll put a rope ‘round your neck so fast you won't know what's happened. ‘Tisn't worth it, and you know it. I've been telling you that for years."

  "You should live with him awhile, Elliot. Do you want to know what happened here last week? My prize mare's offspring, Exchequer—you remember, the colt Vulcan sired four years ago?"

  The vicar nodded.

  "Well, he's a spirited devil—puts Vulcan to shame. Harris has been trying to train him for me, since Vulcan's only good for stud. It's quite a task, and I don't have to sing Harris’ praises. He's the best—despite the fact he's not getting any younger. Well, last week the bastard spread a handful of brambles under that black beast's girth, and Harris nearly broke his bloody neck."

  "Oh, Colin, is he all right?"

  "He'll mend. Just dislocated his shoulder. Howard patched him up, but he could have been killed."

  "I must go ‘round and see him. I like Harris, Colin, he's been such a good friend through it all."

  "Yes, I know, and if he wasn't such a good stabler we'd have lost him. But that's not the whole of it by a long shot."

  "Go on, Colin."

  "Christ, I could go on all day and you wouldn't have the half of it. When the little bastard's not driving me to distraction, he's after Amy. Evidently he senses her fear and he haunts her with that maddening sardonic smirk on his face—follows her like a bloody shadow. Just last Thursday week he put a dead rat on her pillow. You know how superstitious that woman is. It took me half the day to calm her down and the better part of the next to convince her not to give notice."

  "Who's been looking after him since you let Martha go?"

  "He looks after himself. He's down at that bloody ring when he's not hanging off the cliff out there. Oh, how I pray for a rockslide."

  "What the devil does he do at those stones, Colin?"

  "I don't know, and I don't care to find out—not after that episode with the pup. Not one day goes by that I don't have one of the help down on me for some horror the bastard's done. I can't afford to lose any more servants. You know no one will come out here to work for the tales that have spread. An estate this size should have at least twenty or thirty servants—bare minimum. I've got five, not counting Harris and the Wythes, of course, but then, Father never kept a full staff out here either—only a handful. Cragmoor has never been a home after all—more of a holding pen.

  "Everyone is hard-pressed. Why, the laundry is all but shut up, except for once every week or so when the maids take turns with the washing. The wringers and mangles have all gone to rust for lack of use. The whole place is falling to ruin around me. Five house servants, Elliot. And if I didn't take the wenches I do have into my bed we wouldn't have them either. How the devil do you think I got them out here?"

  "Ahhh, my God,” breathed the vicar in disgust.

  "Indeed,” launched Colin. “Do you know that I caught the little bastard watching me at it awhile ago? He was hiding out on the terrace in my chamber peeking through the French doors. I didn't discover him there until afterward. I nearly pitched him over the bloody rail, goddamn his soul—if he's got one. I doubt it, Elliot. He claims he is an atheist you know. Christ knows how he even knows what the word means."

  "Colin, this cannot go on; it simply cannot."

  "Don't start that again, Elliot, this is a time for rejoicing, remember?"

  But the vicar scarcely heard him. Thinking the matter over had knit his brows in a skeptical frown. “Colin, you're looking for an easy solution and I'd like to believe that St. Simeon's is some sort of an answer, but—"

  "Doesn't matter,” Colin interrupted. “We're to be rid of him temporarily at least, and that for the moment is enough."

  * * * *

  They left on schedule the following afternoon. A cold, dreary gloom hung over the coach-and-four Colin had rented from the livery as it sped over the rutted course parting a milling black fog.

  They spent the first night in the Mendip Hills, and the second just south of Stroke-On-Trent. It was a fairly quiet journey with Malcolm brooding over the changing scenery, most of it spread thick with snow once they'd left Cornwall behind.

  They passed over the mountainous terrain through lush forests that smelled of pine and pungent bark in the crisper altitude. The great spreading trees infusing the air with their heady perfume stood in clusters so dense that their spiny arms all but blotted out the brief glimpses of sky overhead, plunging the wood into eerie green darkness.

  Malcolm observed the sights he had never seen with a stoical expression that couldn't be read, though, sitting opposite him in the roomy coach, the vicar studied it thoroughly. He was glad of Malcolm's quiet mood. He had no desire to engage him in conversation. The child stared out of the window over the bleak winter landscape, his eyes lit with a strange cold fire that pulsated, setting them atremble. He looked but seemed not to see, absorbed in whatever dark thoughts the vicar couldn't imagine, until they finally reached St. Simeon's.

  It was a sprawling collection of buildings nestled close in the valley, their backs to the Pennines looming tall to the east, their faces toward a pine forest, fragrant and thick to the west, where a little wooden church squatted in the snow drifts beside the road.

  The hall office and dormitories were spread out wide before a labyrinth cut into tall green hedges frosted with snow. In the center lay a garden housing a shrine to the patron saint, cold and desolate in winter without flowers to touch the maze with color.

  The coach pulled into a circular drive and the vicar climbed out with Malcolm in tow and led him toward the steps. A middle-aged housekeeper ushered them into the study, where they awaited an interview with the vicar general. Several moments later Carlisle entered. He seemed older, with a great deal more gray in his hair than Elliot expected; it was nearly white. Time hadn't treated him kindly, and as their eyes met a spark of recognition crackled between them.

  "Elliot?” cried Carlisle. “Elliot Marshall, is that you? Well, of course it is. I don't believe it! It's so good to see you again.” He grabbed the vicar's hand and shook it, clapping him on the arm.

  Elliot looked into the faded gray eyes of his old colleague and friend with mixed emotions. “Hello, Andrew,” he murmured. “It's good to see you, too. How have you been keeping?"

  "Well, just fine, Elliot—just fine, and yourself? I heard that you'd married."

  "I'm well,” said Elliot. “I did marry, but . . . she died in
December. I have a little son."

  "I'm dreadfully sorry for your loss,” said Carlisle. “I've heard splendid things about you and your parish out on the coast. The bishop is pleased. Of course I took all the credit, having taken you under my wing, as it were, back at Holy Martyrs. Do you ever miss it, Elliot, the old parish—London?"

  "Of course—and you, too, Andrew. Forgive me, I feel as though I deserted you back there. I've always regretted the way we parted."

  "Nonsense! We mustn't dwell upon God's judgments, Elliot. He knows best after all. Don't give it another thought. It's all in the past."

  Elliot couldn't help but wonder if God had one thing to do with that judgment, and he knew he would doubt it until his dying day.

  The vicar general saw him struggling with the memories and shifted his attention to the dark, brooding child at his side, who had taken it all in with much interest. “And this young gentleman would be Master Malcolm Chapin,” he said. “Sir John's grandson?"

  Elliot had never looked upon the child as Sir John Chapin's grandson. It took him by surprise, and his nod was hesitant. “Y . . . yes,” he said, “I've brought him along for his uncle."

  Carlisle pulled the bell rope beside his desk arousing a large marmalade cat that had gone unnoticed before, sleeping in a tall armchair in the corner which matched its coat exactly. It yawned and stretched, then glided to the floor and stretched again creeping closer lazily.

  Malcolm studied it, but the cat flicked its tail and scurried away from the child. It shrank back and crouched against the wooden leg of the desk watching the onyx eyes trained upon it with its own, slanted and yellow, while its stiff tail quivered stirring the air.

  "Well, Master Malcolm,” said Carlisle, strolling closer, “welcome to St. Simeon's.” He offered his hand, but Malcolm didn't offer his in return.

  Elliot nudged him with a well aimed elbow and the boy's white fingers fell limp and cold into the vicar general's waiting palm.

  "Well then,” said Carlisle, ridding himself quickly of the child's insipid grip, “and how old are we, Master Malcolm?"

  "I was six last November,” said the child. The vicar nudged him again. “Sir,” Malcolm amended.

  "Ummmm,” grunted Carlisle. “Well then, you've had no formal schooling elsewhere I take it?"

  "I can read and write some—sir,” said Malcolm, looking askance toward Elliot's elbow, aimed to thump his head a third time.

  "Can you now? Well, that's encouraging isn't it? And most admirable I dare say. All right, then, I hope you will be happy here. You'll find our rules are strictly enforced, but out boys seldom need correction. The atmosphere here at St. Simeon's is most congenial. I'm sure you will acclimatize easily."

  The door opened and another cleric whom Elliot didn't know entered closing it behind him. He was tall and fair, wearing rimless spectacles over blue-gray eyes that scrutinized Malcolm thoroughly.

  The vicar general stooped and picked up the cat, stroking it with a gentle hand as he nodded toward the cleric. “This is Brother Stevens, Master Malcolm,” he said. “He will collect your things, show you to your dormitory, and settle you in."

  He introduced the brother to Elliot, and while they exchanged amenities Malcolm took a particular interest in the cat, whose sharp eyes hadn't left him.

  Carlisle set the animal back in the chair. “He's fond of this spot,” he said of the cat, “it's quite his favorite place, he haunts it night and day.” Dismissing the animal with a fond, vigorous stroking, he turned back to Malcolm. “All right, Master Malcolm,” he intoned, “go along with Brother Stevens—and mind him. There will be ample time for us to get acquainted a little later on."

  Once they'd left the room Carlisle turned back to Elliot. He motioned toward the lounge while he sank into his chair behind the desk. “Sit down, Elliot, he said. “Most unusual young gentleman you've brought me I dare say."

  Elliot sighed taking his seat. “Andrew, I've brought you a handful of trouble, I'm afraid."

  "The lad's a bit of a problem, eh?"

  "A bit more than a bit. He fancies himself an atheist."

  "Does he,” popped Carlisle with a start, “at his age?"

  "Indeed he does, and from some of the horrors he's instigated I'm inclined to believe it's a fact. I'll not pretend that the edification of master Malcolm Chapin is going to be an easy task—if it can be done at all. I really doubt it, Andrew, but I hope you can turn his thinking ‘round, because it's truly dangerous as it is."

  Carlisle frowned. “Well now,” he said, “let me settle you in at the vicarage, and after dinner we shall have a nice long talk about your charge. I'd like to hear about some of the ‘horrors’ he's instigated, Elliot."

  "I'm anxious to tell you the whole of it,” said the vicar. “I'm so close to the situation out there I fear I've lost my objectivity. Perhaps you can shed some light on the problem for me, Andrew. I don't know how to deal with it on my own anymore."

  * * * *

  While that talk was taking place, and after the Hall and dormitories were quiet with all the residents closeted in their chambers for the night, Malcolm stole back down to the vicar general's study. He moved stealthily along the shadowy corridor on feet that made no sound, and slipped into the room closing the door behind him.

  His onyx eyes scanned the blackness and after a moment fastened upon those of the vicar general's cat. Yellow and shiny, they blinked back from the direction of the upholstered chair in the corner.

  Malcolm crept close and reached toward the animal, his thick lips curled in their chilling smile, but the cat sidestepped the claw-like fingers and leaped stop the vicar general's desk. Stalking it Malcolm grabbed again, but the cat arched its back and spat, baring sharp, pointed teeth that gleamed in the darkness and sprang in attack.

  Malcolm laughed aloud and moved aside like a toreador. Missing its mark, the cat landed on the floor, but before it could get its bearings, Malcolm had it by the throat.

  Gripping hard, the crooked fingers squeezed and twisted, crushing bones—wrenching its squat, fragile neck until it twisted completely around. The cat's head dangled down resting upon the dark child's hand, its tongue still warm and moist thrust out full length between teeth gnashed in a sneer. Finally it lay still in his fist, its wide-flung yellow eyes bulging over a running nose leaking blood.

  Satisfied at last that the cat was dead, Malcolm carried it to the vicar general's desk and arranged it there with great ceremony on the soft velour blotter alongside the stack of papers awaiting Carlisle's attention in the morning. That done, he stepped back observing the arrangement thoughtfully, then came closer and jiggled the twisted head again to be certain it had gone clear around, and that the hideous, distorted face lay where it would be seen to the best advantage.

  Finally pleased, he gave a crisp nod and tiptoed out of the study as silently as he'd come, melting into the cold, dark shadows along the corridor unseen.

  * * * *

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Twenty

  * * * *

  Upon finding the gruesome remains of his cat, the vicar general called Malcolm to account at once, but the clever child feigned innocence, whining and sniveling while he shrank in mock horror from the dead animal exhibited before him.

  Knowing he would surely be questioned, he deliberately lost his way in the dormitory corridors that morning making certain to be caught and sent off in the right direction. He presented his defense wailing that upon such short acquaintance with the school, he couldn't possibly have been able to find his way back to the vicar general's study without a guide. He entered the grueling interview with a mastery of tearful pleadings that he shouldn't be sent packing for a crime he didn't commit. Hysterically he stuttered and hiccupped in despair that his uncle was a wretched, drunken bounder who beat him unmercifully at every turn and would doubtless kill him outright should he return home so soon after coming. Meanwhile, fully secure in the knowledge that Elliot had left at first light and was
well on his way back to Cornwall, the child knew there wasn't any immediate danger of that.

  Andrew Carlisle wasn't in the least taken in. He'd listened to Elliot's tales intently, and afterward his troubled thoughts had kept him from sleeping most of the night. Appalled though he was over the situation, he wasn't about to give up all that easily on the dark, cunning child, if for no one's sake save Elliot's, and Malcolm was sent to his classes along with the rest.

  Blatantly self-confident, having gotten over his first hurdle unscathed, the child made his atheistic convictions plain the very first day. He stood his ground in the cold, austere little classroom and mouthed his sacrilegious views full in the face of the vicar general and several members of the teaching staff, to say nothing of the curious collection of children, some of whom began to consider his opinions if for no reason than that he dared to express them.

  Admiration for the dark child's courage stirred milling voices into a rumble of threatening sound, and Malcolm was promptly removed from the classroom and from the communal sleeping quarters as well, and closeted instead in a private chamber cell in the faculty wing to meditate upon his shocking behavior on an empty stomach, while the others went on to dinner in the refectory.

  The culmination of that was a stiff program of religious indoctrination to commence at once under the supervision of Brother Stevens, consisting of two extra hours of religious instruction daily after the regular scholastic routine. They were to be held in the little church rather than the classroom, the atmosphere there being much more dramatic, given the purpose of the sessions, and they were to continue until some sort of improvement was noted in the child's shockingly heathen convictions.

  Malcolm had to be dragged bodily to the first session. Shrieking like an animal, the child wriggled and squirmed, collared by the young cleric's firm hand, while he pulled him along through the snow to the brown-shingled church by the roadside. The boy's claw-like fingers clutched at the railing flanking the steps. Sheathed in ice, the wrought iron stung his bare hands, but the brother pried them free and half carried him kicking through the spotless white double doors, bolting them shut behind him.