A fresh chorus of incredulous gasps filled the church to bursting with another ireful uproar, but Ted ignored it. He was handsome at fifteen, his face so like his father's that Colin gasped himself. For he could have been seeing Elliot as he had when they'd first met, but for the crop of soft, honeyed hair. In awe he looked toward the same deep-set amber eyes and smooth, broad brow—the same determined chin thrust forward punctuating the strong Celtic bone structure beneath—the same muscular body and flawless bearing he carried so vividly in his memory.
Behind in the pulpit, pride expanded the vicar's posture and moisture collected in his eyes watching his son move through the restless crowd taking slow, deliberate steps to the back of the church where he took his seat beside Colin.
Gripping the boy's arm, Colin leaned close. “You didn't have to do that you know,” he murmured.
Ted smiled his father's smile. “I haven't done anything but take my proper place, sir,” he whispered.
Colin squeezed the boy's arm again.
"'Tis good to see you, Uncle Colin."
"'Tis good to see you, too, Ted. I missed you over Christmas holiday, lad."
"I was up to London visiting Grandfather Giles,” the boy explained. “He's getting on you know. We shan't have him much longer I fear."
Looking toward Elliot, Colin couldn't help feeling that the boy's priorities were misplaced, but this was neither the time nor the place to address it and he offered a grunt and a nod instead. “What the devil are you doing here now?” he wondered. “Shouldn't you be at school? Nothing's wrong I hope?"
"Dean Harmon's passed on,” Ted told him. “There's a period of mourning ‘til the end of the month."
"Ahhhh...” Colin breathed, relieved that Elliot's condition wasn't the prompting factor. Giving the boy's arm another squeeze, he took his hand away and looked back to Elliot in the pulpit.
The noise hadn't subsided and the vicar cleared his throat. Somehow the words of the sermon he'd nearly finished on the topic of the Ten Commandments overlapped the ones his mind was shouting and he resumed speaking. Shaky though his voice was, it carried over the din and finally quieted it. As he spoke his eyes were still fastened to Colin's and despite the resonant flow coming from his color-drained lips, that other voice inside was crying, ‘Dear God in heaven, what has driven him into this church'? “These laws, brethren, were given to Moses by the Lord God Almighty,” he intoned meanwhile, “and upon them Christianity is built.
"'Thou shalt not kill', the Lord God said to Moses,” he went on, “but Jesus said that whoever is angry at his brother without a cause is in danger of the judgment. God said to Moses, ‘Thou shalt not commit adultery', but Jesus said that whoever looks upon a woman to lust after has already committed adultery with her in his heart.” He was thinking of Mary as his eyes met Colin's then, and Colin read the tremor in his voice and lowered his head.
For a moment, the rustle of pages as the vicar turned them was the only sound. Looking past him, Colin's eyes fastened upon the window he'd had placed above the altar when the church was built. St. Michael the Archangel looked back, spear in hand, his robes of sapphire and amethyst tinting the altar cloth beneath as the fading light came and went like a pulse beat. While he studied it, a memory stirred from somewhere far off in the blurry haze of his childhood, and hauntingly familiar words stole across his mind:
'We humbly beseech God to command him, and do thou, o’ prince of the heavenly host, by thy divine power, thrust into hell Satan and all the other evil spirits who roam through the world seeking the ruin of souls . . . ‘
He almost said the ‘amen' aloud.
Above in the pulpit, the vicar placed his hands upon the lectern, for then he had need of support. Someone coughed, and the noise was an explosion in his ears. “Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, with all thy soul, and with all thy mind,” he said. And though Colin's stone-cold stare pierced him through, he didn't miss a beat. “This is the greatest of all God's commandments. Can you break any of the others and presume to keep this one? No. ‘Break even the least of these and you have broken it also'."
He laid his hand on the Bible. It stuck to the page clinging to the clammy perspiration that moistened his palm. The magnificent holy book bound in Morocco leather that was Sir John's gift of so long ago somehow failed to comfort him then. “Jesus’ words are here,” he said, stroking the page. “Write them here,” he charged, laying his fist over the lame heart racing in his breast.
Colin winced looking on and Elliot could see his broad chest heave with a mammoth sigh from where he stood.
He went on quickly, “Jesus said, ‘whoever heareth these sayings of mine and doeth them, I will liken them unto a wise man who built his house upon rock. And the rains descended, and the floods came, and the wind blew and beat upon that house, and it fell not, for it was founded upon rock. And everyone who heareth these sayings of mine and doeth them not, shall be likened unto a foolish man who built upon sand, and the rains descended, and the floods came, and the winds blew and beat upon that house . . . and it fell . . . and great was the fall of it'.” Swaying, he clutched the lectern, and Colin stiffened watching him suddenly drain as white as the altar linen.
There was silence in the little church—utter still. Outside the mist steadily dimmed to an angry gray pressing up against the stained glass windows until the day seemed as dark as night. And though the candles flickered stretching their lean tongues to give more light, the altar behind sank deep in the shade of their failure. In the midst of it the cross loomed dismally from the untimely blackness, and the melancholy echo of the vicar's words lived after them, like whispering phantoms mocking from the shadows.
Colin hadn't moved. He sat like a statue on the wooden bench, his arms folded across his broad chest, the white-knuckled fists tucked behind, though the vicar saw, and his tired eyes pleaded.
Nothing stirred—not even the air, and Elliot lowered his head and stood at last on his own, turning back pages in the Bible with a deafening sound. “There is not one among you,” he began again, “who can say, ‘I am ready—my mind is at peace—my heart is pure, and I can enter into the kingdom of God in this hour'. Iniquity sows seed in every heart, elsewise we would ourselves be God. I ask you to destroy that seed before its fruit can flourish. For that fruit is crowned with thorns that kill the soul—that choke and destroy it utterly, and another of God's holy works is wasted. That is what we are, after all—holy creatures in God's image.
"In every shadow, brethren, there is reflected light. In every soul there is the reflection of God."
Colin's eyes said ‘all but one', and Elliot looked away.
It was a moment before he recovered himself. “Love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, with all thy soul, and with all thy mind,” he said steadily, his gentle voice resounding through the quiet with the boom of a thunder roll, “for in His mercy lies your strength, and in your strength, salvation."
Colin sat motionless through Holy Communion, his face stark white in the shadows. He didn't partake, as Elliot knew he wouldn't, and it seemed an eternity before the last parishioner staggered back from the altar rail and took his seat, signaling a pause while the vicar turned more pages.
"Finally,” he said, “let me read to you from the book of Leviticus, chapter five, the seventeenth verse, and hear what God said to Moses, ‘And if a soul sin and commit any of these things that are forbidden to be done by the commandments of the Lord, though he wish it not, yet is he guilty and shall bear his iniquity'.” He bowed his head. “Let us pray,” he said, waiting through the rustle as the stiff-limbed congregation knelt down on the groaning kneelers. Shutting his eyes as the noise subsided, he began the closing prayer.
Through the ritual as the parishioners prayed in silence along with him, he tendered God his own supplication—not for resolution, for strength enough to face whatever it was that had caused the phenomenon occurring there that morning. But when he looked up at last, his faded eyes searching fo
r Colin, the bench he had occupied was vacant.
The congregation had begun to rise. Crestfallen, the vicar bypassed the recessional and hurried down the side aisle toward Ted, who stood in the open doorway scanning the windswept moor, frosted now with dark, brooding clouds.
"Where is he, son?” he cried, gripping the boy's arm.
"He's gone, sir,” murmured Ted sadly. “He's gone back to Cragmoor."
Elliot ripped off his chasuble and thrust it toward the boy. “I must go,” he said. “Stay here, Ted, I shan't be long."
Still wearing his cassock, he ran through the mist toward the shed to fetch Ely and the trap. His heart was numb. Something had driven Colin into the church and now something he'd said had driven him away. That was all that mattered. And for the first time in twenty years, Elliot Marshall left his church without greeting his flock after service on the Sabbath.
* * * *
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Chapter Forty
* * * *
The vicar found Colin seated at his desk in the study pouring over the contents of an old tin coffer when he reached Cragmoor.
"You haven't spared the horses I see,” he remarked as Elliot burst into the room, his cassock sweeping the woodwork.
The vicar's awful eyes were boring into him, and the set jaw he knew so well was throbbing a steady rhythm. Unable to face the fury behind that then, Colin fixed his attention on the coffer before him instead.
"What have you got there?” said Elliot curiosity overcoming exasperation momentarily.
Glad of the distraction while he struggled with the ill-fitting mask, Colin lifted a worn prayer card from the box and offered it toward him. “Relics of my mother,” he said. “They were Father's."
The vicar came closer and looked into the box. There were prayer beads, a faded rose fashioned of French silk ribbon, a small, exquisitely hand-carved ivory crucifix, several letters tied with silk cord, and the card in Colin's hand. He took it from him admiring the likeness of St. Michael on it, and read the prayer on the back.
"My mother was Catholic,” said Colin. “I don't know if Father ever told you."
Elliot nodded. “As a matter of fact he did."
"He never knew, but I used to steal in here whenever he was abroad and mess about in this box when I was a child. It was like a treasure chest, and I put myself at great risk tampering with it. Oh, I dared not take anything from it, though I wanted to. I had more sense than that. I knew that Father came in here and did the very same thing himself. I'd caught him at it. That's what drew me—I was curious. I couldn't have been more than five.
"Over the years I memorized that prayer. I was quite taken with the warrior angel. Even at five I knew I needed a protector. He filled the bill until I was old enough to relieve him. I'd totally forgotten all that until I became reacquainted with the window in your church today.” He got up from the chair and went to the pedestal table where he trickled a measure of brandy from the decanter into a snifter. “A pity he's only made of stained glass. Too bad we can't call him down from that window and put him to work here, eh?"
Elliot returned the card to the coffer. Studying him, he edged closer. “All right, Colin,” he said guardedly, “what brought you into that church today?"
"Must have had too much of this last night,” said Colin around a chuckle, exhibiting the glass. “I'd completely forgotten it was Sunday."
The vicar shook his head jutting a firm chin. “That won't wash, Colin,” he said. “You came to me for something and I mean to know what it was."
Colin glowered. “Don't take a fit,” he snapped. “Here, have some of this why don't you?” He offered the decanter.
"At this hour? Colin, what's gotten into you? What the devil's going on here?"
Colin sighed and slapped the decanter down. “I went riding and wound up at the Cross,” he mouthed in annoyance, “I looked in on you at the vicarage, but you weren't there, and I came ‘round to have a look in the church.” He took another rough swallow. “Didn't want to waste the trip. And it didn't dawn on me that it was Sunday ‘til I opened those bloody doors. I felt like a horse's ass standing in that doorway. There was nothing to be done then but go in and sit down. I must have looked the complete idiot. But you were no better, my friend. I dare say you nearly fell out of the pulpit—you should have seen your face."
The vicar shook his head ignoring Colin's lightheaded laughter. There was no trace of humor in his fractious scowl. “I saw yours, Colin,” he said. “Nooo, I won't buy this. There's something very wrong here, and whatever it is it's gotten you desperate enough to invoke St. Michael and come after me at last. My God, except for my wedding, you haven't set foot in that church in twenty years. And the last time you went ‘riding and wound up at the cross', was nine years ago when Ted was five-and-a-half, and the only reason you came there then was to tote the boy home after you'd saved his life. You lied about it then and you're lying about it now. Just what sort of a fool do you take me for?"
"As to the last of that, don't tempt me to tell you,” Colin snarled, “as to the former, no, I haven't set foot inside it and I shan't again I assure you.” The act he'd contrived dissolved and his eyes grew cold. “It's as I've said. If you don't choose to believe me that's your prerogative, Elliot. I have nothing more to add to it."
"You're a liar,” cried the vicar. “What have I said that's turned you away?"
Colin slammed the glass down sloshing liquor over the rim and his hand as well without noticing. “Who the devil do you think you are to stand there and call me a liar?” he shouted. “I've told you all you're going to hear, so you can get back in that goddamned trap of yours—your commandments with you—and go wear yourself out on somebody else. Your talents are wasted on me.” He stormed back to the desk taking the glass and decanter with him, slammed the lid on the coffer, and shoved it back in the desk drawer roughly.
The vicar's posture crumbled and he raised his hands. “All right, Colin, I was angry just now and I'm sorry,” he forced, “but I know there's something wrong here and it's got to do with Malcolm. I also know you're afraid to involve me because George, blast his meddling, has you frightened out of your wits that I'll drop down dead if you sneeze before me. Now, Colin, that is absurd. Don't bury me yet. I'm still very much alive. My heart isn't what it used to be, I'll concede, but I'm hardly at death's door. Now then, what the devil did you want in that church today?"
"Why must you insist upon expanding this out of all proportion?” growled Colin. “I wasn't driven into the church. I didn't know it was Sunday, damn you. I . . . I wanted to talk to you about finding a stable hand. I thought perhaps someone in your congregation might be coerced out here—if not as a resident, at least on an hourly basis before the dung out there mounts up to the loft. That's all there was to it."
The vicar shook his head again. “Not good enough,” he snapped. “You must think me an imbecile. I'm hardly that, Colin. Don't insult my intelligence. You came to me today for help—I know you did, and then you changed your mind. You haven't fooled me, my friend, for all of your acting the role. You're good at that, Colin, and with most people it's very effective I should imagine, but not with me—I've known you too long. You need help here somehow and you're afraid to ask, either because you don't think I'm strong enough to get involved, or because of something you heard in that church. Which is it, Colin—or is it both? For the love of God, man, have you forgotten who I am? I shan't judge you."
"No,” flashed Colin, “because you shan't get the bloody chance."
"I have said something, then. I knew it. Oh, Colin, Colin, what was it that drove you out of that church just now?"
A chorus of blood-chilling laughter from behind turned them both around with a start toward Malcolm leaning against the woodwork in the open doorway, watching.
Heaving with an exasperated sigh, Elliot turned away.
"You in church, Uncle? I'd have paid to have seen it,” Malcolm rejoiced, dabbing at the moisture
that had collected in his eyes.
"You'd have had to bribe the devil to let you enter in, bastard,” snarled Colin. “That I'd have paid to see."
Malcolm ignored him. “Please do go on, don't let me disturb you,” he said through a chuckle. Pushing off from the doorjamb, he strolled inside bursting into laughter again. “This is just too precious,” he warbled. “I'd have given my eyes to have seen it."
"You may give them yet and for less,” spat Colin.
"There couldn't be much less,” said Malcolm. “What was your sermon about today, good vicar?"
Elliot made no attempt to reply. The marks on the dark youth's face and Colin's seething rage aimed in their direction had captured his attention. It made him more than a little curious, but his own agenda was a far more urgent concern.
"You don't have to answer,” said Malcolm. “I did hear something just now about commandments I believe. Which one was it, Uncle, that made you turn tail and run? I dare say you could take your pick. Let me see . . . could it have been . . . thou shalt not kill? You're mulling that over about now I'll wager. Or . . . thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's . . . whatever? Or perhaps . . . thou shalt not commit adultery,” he jeered, exaggerating the word with a broad smile and bared canine teeth. “That one alone ought to have done it I should think."
"He knows them,” Colin marveled. “There's something for that blasted diary you keep, Elliot. Cite it as the second miracle of the day why don't you? Though if it were my book I'd give it first order."
Agitated, the vicar had reached into his pocket and taken out his pipe and tobacco. He filled the briar, lit it, and began drawing on it through the lean, curved stem clamped between his teeth.
"You keep a diary, do you?” breathed Malcolm, surprised. “I didn't know that."
"You don't know everything do you, bastard?” snarled Colin.
Malcolm laughed, tossing his dark Gypsy hair, while bearing down upon the vicar with cold, narrowed eyes. “I thought only old maids and widows kept such things, but since you do, please be sure to letter my name correctly. I do want my descendents to recognize it after all, and you'd best reserve a few pages while you're at it. I'll give you something to fill them with soon.” He chuckled again. “I told you, Uncle, that my knowledge of theology would astound you. As to those stiff-necked rules your God is supposed to have given to some senile old chap by the name of Moses, I know them quite well. Stuffy business actually. Would you care to hear me recite them for you?"
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