by G. P. Taylor
He went to the window of the study and opened the curtains. The bright silver light of the full moon flooded into the room, giving everything a mercurial glow. Placing the candlestick on the big round table in the middle of the room, he sat in the leather chair by the fire. He was soon joined by Demurral, who threw a pine log on to the embers.
‘And to what do I owe this nocturnal visit from Jacob Crane?’ he asked.
‘Money, the language of life,’ replied Crane.
‘But I have taken a vow of poverty. Why should I be interested in money?’ Demurral smiled as he spoke, tilting his head to one side.
‘Well, if that is the case it should make my task easier. I have a shipment of brandy in your cellar and you want me to pay for one night’s rent.’ He gave Demurral a stern look. ‘I do not want to pay you. In return for the free board and lodging for my goods I am prepared to give you something that you want.’ Crane took off his leather gloves and neatly folded them across his lap. For several moments the men stared at each other.
‘What could I possibly want? I have everything I desire.’
‘Desire. That is a strange word for a priest. Unsatisfied longing, lustful pleasure from gaining a possession. Conjures up all sorts of things that priests shouldn’t think about. Not really the word for a man of the Church.’ He twisted his leather gloves in his hand. ‘If I were to tell you that I had two people who wanted to relieve you of one of your desires, how much would they be worth to you?’
‘Theft is theft and they would have to go before the authorities and answer for their crime.’ Demurral edged his chair closer to Crane. ‘After all, they conspired to steal something very precious, something I had paid good money for. Surely it is your duty as a good citizen to hand them over freely.’
In one move Crane leapt from his chair, slipped the dagger from its sheath and pressed the long, sharp blade against Demurral’s throat.
‘I am not here to play games, Vicar. Now do you want them for a price, or shall I let them go? You have one of them and I have the other two. For three hundred pounds you can have all of them. I don’t think that for one moment they will ever see the inside of a courtroom, so you can do with them as you wish.’ He pulled the flat of the blade across Demurral’s throat. ‘I hear you like to take the young ones up into that tower of yours.’ He paused and gestured towards the window. ‘I see there has been a lot of digging going on in your garden, and it is not the time of year for planting … But then I suppose it depends what kind of little seeds you have been placing under the earth.’ He held the point of the blade underneath Demurral’s chin, pressing it softly into his flesh.
‘Three hundred pounds will be fine. I’ll have Beadle get you the money. When can I have charge of my new guests?’ Demurral gulped the words, not daring to move.
Crane took the knife away from his throat and put it back into the sheath hidden in the lining of his jacket.
‘I will bring them here in one hour. In return I expect the money to be waiting for me. Any tricks and you’ll be joining your little seedlings. Understand?’
‘Mr Crane, I would never want to cheat anyone who has such a wonderful command of the King’s English.’
‘Tell me, Demurral, what is it that you have got that makes them want to put their young lives at risk?’ His eyes searched the room in the half-light looking for something of value.
‘It is just a trifle, an artefact brought here by an explorer, a religious relic of no real value to anyone other than a pious man like me.’ Demurral hesitated as he spoke, not knowing why Crane should ask such a question.
‘I am a man who has travelled the world. Seeing such a thing would be of great interest to me.’ Crane reached into his jacket pocket and clutched the handle of the knife. He smiled at Demurral.
‘I can understand that.’ Demurral spoke quickly. ‘I don’t think there will be any harm in showing you what this little folly really is.’ He shouted over to the doorway: ‘Beadle, can you bring the case from my room, our guest would like to see what all the fuss is about.’
Beadle had been sitting on the floor in the hallway still recovering from the brew and the blow. He had even forgotten to get the drinks ordered by Demurral. He had forgotten where he was. He tried to drag himself up from the floor and on to his unsteady and very numb feet. In his intoxicated condition he did not know if he had answered or not.
‘Beadle, you drunken ouzel, get up and get the case. My guest is waiting.’ The shout rang out through the house. Both men could hear the sound of Beadle trying to run up the stairs and along the long passageway to Demurral’s room. Loud thuds told them how often Beadle fell, stumbling over a rug, a loose floorboard or his own numb feet.
‘He has a little weakness,’ Demurral said as he raised his eyes to the sound of clattering above his head. ‘He likes to drink. He has so few pleasures in life I would find it so hard to deny him that.’
‘And what is your pleasure, Vicar? Money? Wealth? Power?’
‘No, no, no. I am a man of simple pleasures and I seek to do the will of him who has sent me.’
‘Then it’s not true that you are a liar, a cheat, and some would even say a murderer?’ Crane laughed as he spoke. Demurral did not know if the smuggler was fooling with him. Jacob Crane had a fiery temper from years at sea. At fourteen he had been press-ganged into the Navy. He had taken the King’s shilling and woken up in the bowels of a Navy cutter sailing to India. At the age of twenty-four he had jumped ship and since that time had earned his money as a smuggler and a cut-throat.
Beadle re-entered the room, dragging the long, black, leather case and placed it on the table in the middle of the room. Demurral got up from the chair and lit another candle. He began the ritual of unpacking the acacia pole and the black hand. Eventually, he brought out the Keruvim. Crane looked at the small winged figure as it glowed in the light of the moon.
‘What price did you give for that then, Vicar?’ He wanted to sound as if he had little interest in the value.
‘Not a great deal. These native pieces have no real value. To me it is … er … of religious interest.’ He lifted the Keruvim from the table.
‘What would you do with something like that, then?’
‘Do you believe in the spirit world, Mr Crane?’ Demurral looked straight at him. Then continued to speak in a hushed tone. ‘A world of powers that we could only dream of?’
‘I don’t think that a philosopher’s stone or the witchcraft of some harlot has any use in this world of ours. This is the modern world; religion is for the feeble and the uneducated,’ said Crane boldly. ‘What I have achieved in life is through the work of my own two hands and the blood of those who have stood in my way. I have no place for God or superstitious hocus-pocus.’ Crane stepped closer to the Keruvim, intrigued by the fine detail carved into the gold and the eyes made of pearl.
Demurral ignored Crane’s remarks. ‘Think of a world where we were not the most powerful creatures, where the laws of time and space had been suspended. A place where power and control mattered more than love or charity.’ He turned the Keruvim in his hand so that it glistened in the moonlight. ‘Imagine having more power than God Himself, being able to control the elements, the wind, the sea, or even the rising of the sun. Imagine what power that would give … imagine what satisfaction … being able to destroy everyone who had ever done anything to you. Perfect revenge, and they wouldn’t even know it was you.’ Demurral placed the figure back in the box. ‘I too would never be satisfied with a stone that could turn objects into gold, or the spells of a witch. The only thing that would satisfy me would be the power of God himself.’
Demurral placed the pole and the black hand into the box and closed the lid. He then sat back in the chair by the fire.
‘You don’t desire very much then, Vicar. I thought men of the cloth were supposed to serve the Almighty, not the other way round?’
‘That all depends how long he will be almighty; surely he can’t hang on to his power for
ever.’ Demurral rubbed his hands together and kicked the smouldering log on the fire. It sparked and hissed as the dampness mixed with the red-hot embers.
‘You’re a brave man talking about your God like that, Demurral. Anyway, do you really believe in a spirit world, ghosts and demons?’ Crane walked from the chair to the window and looked out over the sea to Baytown. The lights of the fishermen’s cottages flickered in the darkness beneath the glowing cloud. In the bay he could see the rigging of his own ship, silhouetted against the cliffs. ‘It would take a miracle to make me believe in anything other than the power of the sword or the musket ball. Nothing can turn lead to gold quicker than that.’ He turned from the window and looked at Demurral who was digging at the fire with a long brass poker.
‘With my help, Mr Crane, I could make you the richest man in the world. No more having to go to sea, no more putting your life at risk. You could sit back and enjoy the riches of the nations.’ He walked over to the window and stood next to Crane. ‘Look, all this could be yours and all you have to do is work for me.’
‘I didn’t realize all the county belonged to you. I thought it was the property of the King under God.’ He took a step back from Demurral who was now standing uncomfortably close. The Vicar seemed to be suppressing excitement, as if anticipating some wonderful event that only he was aware of.
‘Things change, Mr Crane, things change. You will witness that tonight. Bring the two thieves to me and that will be the start. Come to the tower and I will show you something that will change your mind for ever.’ Demurral stared into Jacob Crane’s eyes. ‘You were right in what you said, the blood of those who stand in your way can often bring you all that your heart desires. Didn’t some rabbi once say that the man who loves his life will lose it and the man that hates his life in this world will keep it for ever?’ He paused; it was an unpleasant silence. ‘Do you love your life, Mr Crane?’
The Azimuth
OBADIAH Demurral and Jacob Crane stepped off the stone staircase and on to a large flagstone that formed a landing at the top of the tower. Demurral tugged at Crane’s jacket sleeve and pushed Beadle through the doorway. Together they entered a spacious circular room with slit windows filled with dark leaded glass. The moon glimmered through each pane, casting green and blue lights across the stone walls. In the centre of the room, standing in the middle of a circle painted on the stone floor and set between two stone columns that reached to the roof, was a wooden table covered with a linen cloth and a candlestick placed at each end. Above their heads the copper roof thudded and banged with the beating of the wind.
‘Welcome to my holy place, Mr Crane. Far more power here than in any church.’ Demurral flashed his eyes wildly around the dark room. He motioned for Crane to step into the darkness. ‘Don’t be afraid, there’s nothing here that can harm you … Well, not yet.’
Crane made no reply, keeping the growing feeling of unease to himself. He stepped into the circle and stood by the table.
‘Please don’t touch the altar – holy hands, only holy hands.’ Demurral was excited. Just being in the room brought him a deep sense of pleasure.
‘So what is this place for? I thought you restricted your worship to the church?’ Jacob Crane looked around the room. There were signs of faith, the altar, the circle and a six-pointed star painted on the wall in cobalt blue.
‘Church is the place for reciting meaningless words to a God who isn’t listening any more,’ Demurral replied. ‘Here is the place where the answer lies. In each one of us there is a god waiting to be set free. All we need is the key to the power.’ Demurral ran the back of his hand over the white linen cloth that covered the table and looked at Crane to see what response he would make. Crane slid his hand into his jacket, firmly taking hold of the handle of the knife. He could feel the cold metal against his hot moist palms. In his thirty-two years Jacob Crane had seen many things and killed many men. There was something about Demurral that made his flesh creep and his mouth dry. Crane didn’t fear much in life, but being in the presence of this man knotted his stomach and unleashed the impulse to kill him on the spot.
‘So what do you worship, then? Yourself or something else?’ he asked abruptly and waited for Demurral to reply.
‘A god has to be worth worshipping. Personally, I never found that our God could live up to all our human expectations. We ask him to heal, and people die; we ask him to bring peace and all we get is suffering. He tells us to love our enemy and we have trouble loving ourselves. He takes all the pleasure out of life, and when we die will we find paradise?’ Demurral took in a sudden deep gasp of breath, throwing back his long white hair. He composed himself and looked at Beadle. ‘I have been the servant of the Almighty for most of my life, I have suffered for him, been ridiculed for him, and given up everything for him. What did he ever do for me? When I came here I found something else, or should I say … something else found me.’
‘Whatever you’ve found you can keep to yourself. If this is the place where I have to bring the children then so be it. Only make sure you have my money ready when I get here,’ Crane replied, knowing that whatever Demurral was doing it was not good and whoever he now followed it was not God. He turned to leave still clutching the knife in his jacket, wary that this could be a trap.
‘Don’t rush off, Mr Crane. I thought I could show you something that might change your mind about miracles. You are a man of the world, a man who needs proof. Allow me to indulge myself and show you what the world is really like.’
He gestured to Beadle who was standing silently by the wall. Beadle opened a large wooden chest under one of the narrow slit windows. The metal hinges creaked as it opened and a mist of green dust appeared to rise from inside the casket. Beadle reached into the chest, almost falling in, engulfed in the fog, his puny legs straining to keep contact with the stone floor. He lost his balance and fell backwards clutching a large blue rock tightly to his body. Getting to his feet, he carried the rock to the altar table, placing it carefully on the white linen cloth. Demurral bared his crooked, broken teeth in a gleeful smile. He placed both hands on the stone and muttered under his breath.
The rock began to split into two equal parts. Demurral lifted off the top half of the stone to reveal the perfect shape of a man’s hand cut into each segment of the rock and burnished to bright silver. Very slowly he placed each of his hands into the impressions in the stones. They fitted perfectly. He declaimed:
‘Stone that has listened to man but not replied,
Hear my call for the child who died.
Come to me now in brightness flame,
Child of Azimuth, I call your name.’
Demurral bowed his head and stared at his hands. A sudden draught scurried into the chamber from under the oak door, blowing the dust across the stone floor around their feet. The dirt swirled round to form a tight whirlwind in front of the altar. Fragments of silver, green and purple light began to sparkle from within this ever-growing tornado. Before their eyes a young girl began to appear, first her bare white feet, then the hem of a green robe and then the rest of her body and head as if she was being pieced together cell by cell.
Crane did not want to believe his eyes. He pressed himself into the wall of the room, forcing his body as close as he could to the stone. Demurral kept his hands pressed into the quern stones on the altar and stared at the phantom that was now taking shape and substance. He kept muttering in some foreign tongue, coaxing the apparition to take form, demanding its presence.
Crane looked at the child that appeared before them. She was five feet tall with long blonde hair and bright white skin. Around the waist of the green robe was a golden belt, upon her head was a crown of mistletoe mixed with the dark cherries of the belladonna. She had deep black, lifeless eyes. They were the eyes of someone blind that stared out not knowing what they looked upon. There was something familiar about her face. Somewhere Crane had seen this child before.
‘See, Crane. Even your own eyes speak to you of ano
ther world. Can you deny this?’
He looked at Crane and then to the girl. ‘This ghost-child can tell the future. She is the Azimuth, one who is trapped between life and death, past and present. She is the only one I can trust. The Azimuth can never lie.’
Crane noticed that Demurral’s hands were shaking as he pressed them into the stones. He didn’t reply; he could feel the apprehension welling up inside his stomach as he tried to hold on to reality. He gripped the knife even tighter as his eyes turned from Demurral to Beadle and then to the girl. Demurral began to speak again.
‘Azimuth, I call you once more to speak the truth. Tell me of the future tonight.’
There was a long silence. The wind beat on the copper roof that creaked and twisted in the growing storm. Crane looked at the girl, racking his memory as to who she was. His mind cried out that he knew her, or who she had been before she had been transformed into the Azimuth. Beads of sweat trickled across his forehead. His mouth was dry with fear. He could feel his heart pounding as the blood rushed through his veins. The girl began to speak in a parched, soft voice.
‘It will be as you desire. They will come here. The three you seek will be together again.’ The Azimuth did not move as she spoke. Her hands were held gently together as if praying.
‘And what about Crane – is he to be trusted?’ Demurral asked cautiously.
‘A question like that will get your throat cut, Demurral,’ Crane butted in angrily. ‘I’m not so taken in by your witchcraft not to be able to part your head from your heart.’ Crane stepped towards the table, pulling the knife from his coat. The Azimuth held out her hand as if to stop him.
‘He is a man true of heart and he will not change his intention. He will bring them to this place and leave with all that he has come for.’ She turned her head towards Crane. Her dead, blind eyes stared into his. ‘Your life is changing. You will find your heart’s desire.’