"The words on your lips are sacrilege,” snapped the vicar.
Malcolm shrugged. “Please yourself,” he drawled. Pacing idly before the hearth, his crooked smile broadened. “Uncle in church,” he reflected, taken by another spasm of laughter, “it must have been priceless."
Spinning, Colin sprang, his eyes wild with rage, and lunged toward the coarse, mocking sound.
But the vicar threw his pipe down on the table and vaulted between them arresting the arm set to launch a mighty fist toward the dark youth's face. With both hands clamped around Colin's wrist, he forced himself into his path, his faded eyes pleading.
Colin struggled against the restraining hands, but when the grimace contorting Elliot's face with the effort came into focus, he clutched, holding his strength in check, and broke his stride. “Christ!” he snarled.
"Colin, leave him be. I need a word with you alone—now."
Colin wrenched free, incensed at having lost what had seemed his ideal opportunity. “In hell,” he spat and stalked out of the study slamming the door.
The vicar hurried after him, but Malcolm's deep voice arrested him, “No, wait. ‘Tisn't any use when he gets like that. I'd like a word with you myself while I have the opportunity."
Curious, the vicar hesitated.
Outside in the hall, Colin turned back when Elliot didn't follow as he expected he would. Muttering a string of curses under his breath, he pressed up close to the study door in the shadows and listened.
"You needn't worry,” said Malcolm, “he hasn't gone far. He'd scarcely leave the two of us alone together. He's not that drunk. No doubt he's outside listening at the door right now—afraid to embarrass himself by coming back in here to protect you. So you see, you've nothing to fear."
"No, I never have, and I've nothing to say to you, either, Malcolm,” snapped the vicar.
"To the contrary,” Malcolm mused, “I expect we have a great deal to say to one another, you and I."
"Is that a fact?"
"Yes, indeed. We've hardly had a chance to talk since I've come home have we? How's Ted these days? I've been meaning to ask."
The vicar stared incredulous, and Malcolm's half smile broadened as he went on without waiting for a reply, “Likable young chap, your Ted, though I dare say he hasn't a trace of the calling about him."
Again the vicar hesitated. He strolled to the pedestal table and took up his pipe again. Relighting it, he puffed an aromatic wreath of smoke toward the ceiling. It was clear that Malcolm was baiting him. His curiosity peaked, he decided to take the bait and see if it might help him discover a clue to Colin's dilemma.
"No, he hasn't,” he said guardedly, “but then, why should he? We are all of us individuals unto ourselves are we not?"
"Quite,” sniffed Malcolm, “though I should imagine you'd be grooming him to follow after you, given your . . . dedication."
"How's that?"
"Your theological convictions,” Malcolm explained wryly. “Under your influence, I'm surprised Ted hasn't copied them."
"One cannot copy convictions, Malcolm. One must feel them strongly inside on one's own. But that's something you couldn't understand."
"And he doesn't—feel strongly toward God on his own?"
"I haven't said that,” Elliot replied through a caustic smile. “Ted is just as devoted to God as I am. It's simply that he's more suited to other vocations in life. If all of us who have such...convictions, as you put it, resigned ourselves to clerical positions, there'd be scarcely a soul left to fill other trades. There would be nothing but churches as far as the eye could see, and if each one took to his own pulpit, there'd be no congregations to preach to."
"Ahhhh, these . . . things you believe in . . . tell me, just how have they prospered you, might I ask? It appears to me that the only thing you've gained getting down on your knees is a fine crop of callouses."
"Malcolm, God doesn't give guarantees. The rewards for our faith in this life are promised to us in the next, or hasn't your knowledge of theology taken you that far in your . . . studies?"
"It can't be that you actually believe there is a life after this one?"
"Not for you I'm afraid."
"Oh,” popped Malcolm, “why not for me?"
"That's ludicrous, given your heritage, as it were,” served the vicar.
"Ahhhh, so we come down to it this quickly do we?” said Malcolm excitedly.
"Why mince words? We've always been down to it you and I. I believe we understand one another, I know what you are, and you know that I know."
Malcolm's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “That's very strange,” he reflected. “Harris said the same thing to me—oh, not quite so eloquently, of course. He was an uncouth wretch I dare say, but his meaning was the same. Take care, good vicar, lest you receive the same answer he's had, and lose the war you're waging here."
"I'm waging no war,” flashed the vicar.
"Aren't you? Think again and you might just find the key to your failure. You haven't recognized your enemy. There is no deadlier error than that in battle, but then I shouldn't be undermining my strategy—even with you."
The vicar drew on his pipe. “Oh, I see,” he said, speaking though a start of enlightenment, “you think that I underestimate you, is that it? Well, you're wrong, Malcolm, there is no enemy so fearsome as the devil."
"Oh, you flatter me, sir,” Malcolm interrupted.
"And his disciples,” Elliot continued, drowning him out with raised voice, “but they are by no means invincible; God is. And for what the faithful suffer at the hands of such as you in this life they are rewarded a hundred fold in the next. So, you see, there is no way I can lose the war, Malcolm, it just takes a little longer in the winning."
"You actually believe all that drivel don't you?” the dark youth marveled.
"Yes, I do. Don't you have any beliefs, Malcolm—is there nothing that moves you?"
Malcolm's black eyes shone, and a sneer turned his half smile down at the corners. “I believe in myself, and the power I have to turn your beliefs into my weapons and set them upon you like dogs to devour your half-truths whole. It's an art worthy of respect, and even you must admit that I've mastered it."
The vicar took a chill. “And, who was your teacher?"
"Why, you and Uncle have both been my teacher at one time or another...at different levels of my education, as it were, and you've both taught me one common lesson between you..."
"And that is?"
"The art of assigning fate."
"To what purpose?"
"Why, to my purpose, of course."
"Malcolm, just what is your purpose?"
"Right now, provoking you. Our differences of opinion make for a stimulating sort of conversation don't you think? As you yourself said earlier, we are all of us individuals unto ourselves."
The vicar nodded thoughtfully. “Ahhhh,” he said, “a very clever demonstration."
"Not really,” sniffed Malcolm. “Yours is an emotional world. That is your failure. You see, mine is not, I live on a mental plain. Therein lies the secret and there's no harm in telling it, because it's something your faith wouldn't let you master."
"Nor would I want to. Tell me . . . devoid of emotion, how is it that you are so in love with your wife?"
"Oh, my dear man,” cried Malcolm, “you have always overrated me. All you of the cloth tend to make devils of those who admit to atheism. I'm surprised at you. You haven’ been paying attention. I haven't said I'm not capable. I'm simply in control."
"Ummmm,” growled the vicar unconvinced.
"And while we're on the subject of atheism,” Malcolm went on, “it's strange, but Uncle and I are a lot alike in our beliefs on that score. How is it that you can accept his persuasion and not mine?"
"Your uncle is not an atheist, Malcolm."
"He's an agnostic,” Malcolm flashed. “There is a difference, but one is akin to the other."
"No,” said the vicar, tapping the ashes from his
pipe against a tray on the candle stand, “if you believe that you're deluding yourself."
"I think not,” snarled Malcolm, raking him with hooded eyes. “If what I've said just now isn't so, he wouldn't resist your influence so thoroughly. And if he did believe and thought God could help him, he never would have left that church today, my dear man, and you know it. But be that as it may—giving him the benefit of the doubt, sir, whether Uncle is or isn't an atheist now, before I'm through he will be."
"I wouldn't be too sure about that, Malcolm, if I were you. If you're waiting for that, you've a long wait."
Malcolm smiled. “Waiting is something I do very well, good vicar,” he said.
"I'm glad,” Elliot sallied. “Patience is a virtue after all, Malcolm. It appears that you do have one when all's tallied."
"Of course. Why just look at how long it's taking me to settle our score. No, I haven't forgotten. ‘Tisn't time for us yet. There now, you see? I'm human at that."
The vicar's pseudo smile dissolved and his eyes waxed cold. “Stand wary,” he pronounced, his voice booming like thunder. “You've not fooled me for one moment here now. I am perhaps the only living soul save your uncle whom you cannot seduce, and you don't like that do you, Malcolm? I know you killed Harris, and I know how you did it. You may have deluded George Howard, but you haven't deluded me."
"Harris was a drunken old man,” said Malcolm dryly. “He stumbled too close to the edge of the loft and a board gave under his weight. I never liked him much, I'll own, but the thought of his poor carcass impaled—skewered through by that fork... What a horrible way to die. Why, I wouldn't even wish such as that upon you. And I do hope he'd downed enough of that rotgut swill Uncle fancies to have spared himself the sight of those awful prongs coming at him. ‘Tis a terrible thing to look death in the face—drunk or sober."
Watching the tremor of excitement in the dark youth's eyes, the vicar paled. Suddenly he could see the stabler falling aware, for he knew Harris had been sober. He could see the deadly steel tines before him so vividly that he felt the pain of the impact himself. But that wasn't a fantasy. The pain was real—in his chest and left biceps. He fought it, taking slow, measured breaths, meanwhile casually groping to be certain that his medicine was at hand as he tucked his pipe inside his jacket pocket.
"Awful, indeed,” Malcolm continued, “and but for that fork he'd been careless to leave wrong-end-to in the haymow, he'd be alive today. It's that simple."
"No,” said the vicar, “you sawed that board and lured him to the edge. You planted that pitchfork, and you made certain he landed upon it. Then you drenched him with brandy so it would look as though he was drunk. But he never drank brandy—never. He only drank ale. It's no use, Malcolm, I know."
"If you've proof of that, accuse me."
"Ha. You're very cunning, aren't you?"
"I should certainly hope so in the midst of such as you, who've been trying to put me in my grave since I drew my first breath of life."
Hesitating a moment, the vicar stared down his nose at him. “Who are you, Malcolm?” he breathed.
"An atheling of hell, good vicar—your hell. Struggle with that awhile if you dare."
"Oh, I dare,” Elliot promised him, his deep, resonant voice trembling with rage.
Malcolm's cold eyes pulsed as they narrowed. “You are a fool and an impotent coward, elsewise I would never had been,” he said, “but here I am, and there you are—living proof that what I say is true. Here you stand, as much of a coward as ever you were. But for that, my puritanical old adversary, I'd be dead today."
"One thing you've just said is true,” growled the vicar. “I am your adversary, demon, but you are the coward. You cannot stand up to what I stand for, and you know it, and you fear it."
"But I can destroy its vehicle,” Malcolm retorted. Beware! Take no false comfort in my supposed fear of you, because it does not exist. Fear is an emotion don't forget. I know it not."
"One day you shall, and I will be there,” Elliot promised.
"Not in this lifetime."
"I will be there,” mouthed the vicar unequivocally, as another pain tugged at his chest. “You see, I, too, am possessed of the virtue of patience, and however long it takes, you have my oath before God—for God—this life or another, I will be there."
"So be it,” snarled Malcolm, affecting a crisp bow.
With a nod, the vicar moved toward the door and gripped the knob. Outside, seeing it turn, Colin hurried along the corridor and darted out through the entrance hall into the wind. Having heard the moribund climax of that conversation, he was anxious for a vantage point where he could watch the vicar leave safely without risking another debate, and he began picking his way toward the moor to the south.
Elliot had opened the study door. His clammy hand was trembling as he clutched the knob, and his lungs had begun to fail him. “The gauntlet is taken up, atheling,” he said, “and now, if you will excuse me, I have better ways of wasting time than repartee with you."
* * * *
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter Forty-one
* * * *
Closing the study door after him, the vicar hurried along the corridor. When he reached the gallery, he turned down the entrance hall and sagged, gasping for breath against the cold, damp wall. Pain called his hand to his biceps. “Blast!” he muttered. “Dear God, don't let me take another seizure in this house."
Groping for the vial in his pocket, he pushed off from the wall, staggered toward the double doors, and out into the blasting wind. Driven hard out of the southwest, it swept his hair back and tampered with his balance. Struggling over the drive toward Ely and the trap waiting nearby, he pulled at the cork in the bottle with numb, trembling fingers. Meanwhile, a stronger gust turned the cold sweat on his forehead to gooseflesh and assailed his cassock, whipping it about his ankles.
Overhead, dark, boiling clouds tumbled close racing the wind that tossed Ely's mane and shook the trap where it stood, inciting the horse to complain and stomp the ground. Icy splinters of rain stabbed Elliot's face, which had lost all color. Nausea took him coming in waves, and dizziness moved faltering legs as he loosened Ely's tether in the thorn hedge and dragged himself into the carriage.
With his weight shifting the vehicle and straining the tack, Ely began to prance and snort, but the vicar scarcely noticed. He gripped the cork in his teeth, his hands being useless for lack of strength, and wiggled it free of the bottle. Then grabbing the reins, he yanked them sharply, but the gelding reared with a bloodcurdling shriek and plunged forward bolting down the drive at breakneck speed before he could raise the bottle to his lips.
"Hold, Ely. Whoa!” he cried tugging the reins, but a sharp, tearing pain ripped through his chest doubling him over, and he pitched forward unconscious on the floor of the trap, the open vial alongside him leaking the precious elixir.
Below, Colin had reached the south road, but the flaw turned him back and he struggled northward with his head bent low into the blasting wind. Hearing the thunder of the horse's hoofs and wild, shrieking cries above the voice of the storm, he looked up sharply in time to see Elliot's black shape jouncing inside the runaway trap as it bore down upon him slicing through a dense curtain of rain.
For a moment he stared mouth agape and then cried out, “Elliot! Oh, Christ!” and sprang along the road ahead of the carriage driving his long, muscular legs in a frantic attempt to gain enough speed to try and stop it as it passed him.
Not having thought beyond that it had to be stopped, he raced on, glancing back over his shoulder, but the trap sped past, all but grinding him under the spinning wheels as he made a grab for the horse's harness, and he bolted after it shouting to the animal at the top of his voice.
Bouncing over the pockmarked roadway, the carriage shuddered and groaned, swaying in the wind, tossing the vicar's limp body helpless inside. But a few scant meters behind, Colin raced after it, every sinew in his powerful legs driving him. And
as the trap almost hesitated struggling over one of the deeper potholes, he dove, a savage cry on his lips, and caught fast with both hands to the back of it.
It tore on, dragging him, though he screamed to the horse, cursing and panting as he tried to gain a better grip and climb up on it. At last, with a mighty effort, he managed to scramble higher but his slippery boots were digging a trench in the sodden road beneath them and his feet couldn't grab a secure enough hold.
The trap listed again tearing over another deep rut, and his buffeted body was tossed along with it. He stiffened, an agonized cry leaking from twisted lips as he was propelled sideways and thrown into the churning wheel. It gouged his left forearm deeply, shredding his blouse sleeve to tatters, and blood gushed from the wound. “Oh, Christ!” he moaned, loosening his left hand grip as the metal band ground into his flesh.
Coming out of the rut, the trap swayed there shuddering, and Colin rolled clear of the wheel at last. Calling upon all the strength left in him, he pulled himself up with his right hand, his cries trailing off on the wind, and crawled on his belly over the calash hood of the flying carriage to the edge. It collapsed with his weight and he tumbled down, glancing off the seat, and landed on top of the vicar on the floor below.
Grabbing the reins, he staggered upright and tugged on them twisting the leather tight in his good right fist. “Sonofabitch! Whoa, you heathen cob! What ails you? Christ! Hold, Ely!” he shouted, swaying with the blinding pain that threatened to bring him down. And the horse finally slowed, danced, and reared pawing the air.
Colin bent the twisted framework of the hood his body had staved in out of the way, eased the vicar onto the seat, and snatched the medicine bottle up from the floorboards. Nearly all of the elixir had leaked out, and he forced what remained in the vial through Elliot's ashen lips and sank down on the seat beside him.
Rape of the Soul Page 52