by G. P. Taylor
‘Leave it be, Captain Crane, the bird will do you no harm. It is only as real as you want it to be,’ said the woman.
Crane stopped beating the air with his fist. The bird flew higher and higher, rising and falling on the breeze as it stalled and dived over the moor.
‘By what god do you do these things?’ he asked the woman. ‘Why do you torment me so?’
‘You torment yourself, Jacob. You are never satisfied with what you have or who you are. Your heart is restless and you’re a man with no friends. Love is not a word you will ever understand and yet deep within you there is a seed of hope, a tiny mustard seed waiting to grow.’ She patted his shoulder. ‘All you have to do is learn. Go to the Rudda crossroads on the Rigg and you will see your future.’
‘What evil works in you? I should cut you down here and now for witchcraft.’
‘That would do you no good, Jacob Crane. There would only come another and then another. Look at the sky – can’t you see that it will soon be time? There is a change happening in the world. Things of darkness will be commonplace, people will return to this tree to find the power within themselves.’ The woman began to sing for her child again.
‘Why talk in riddles? Tell me who is your master,’ Crane said urgently and raised his hand to strike the woman. But she was gone. He looked around but she was nowhere to be seen. He stood alone on the moor. Then he heard her voice again, singing from by the cairn, calling for her child to return. He ran to the pile of stones by her sacred tree and looked down the path that led from White Moor to the Rigg. In the distance he saw the woman walking between the stones, her shawl and long red hair swirling in the breeze. The black crow flew around her, back and forth from earth to sky, rising and falling with each note that she sang until he could see her no more as she disappeared behind the screen of rowan trees that marked the boundary of the War Dyke.
The Keruvim
CAPTAIN Farrell did not like to be shouted at. He was a military man who had to have order, preferably his order. He had taken as much abuse from Demurral as he could stomach for one morning and his patience was running out.
‘I am sure you think I am a complete incompetent, Vicar, but I do know my job and the last thing you have to tell me to do is how to catch a scoundrel like Jacob Crane. After all, wasn’t it me who took him near to death in the woods last week?’
‘Yes,’ said Demurral. ‘I have seen the scratch on his face.’
‘Scratch? The man was half-dead by the time I’d finished with him,’ Farrell objected.
‘Well, if that is half-dead then there is hope for us all. He is more alive than you and I put together and that is not the way I like it. I paid you well to kill him and you haven’t done the job. Now, tell me, are you going to do it soon, or shall I get someone else?’ Demurral demanded, banging his fist on the table.
‘What’s the rush? These things take time. Like a good wine, they should be savoured and not gulped,’ said Farrell, who by now was feeling the depths of his annoyance.
‘Wait? Is that what you want me to do?’ Demurral asked. ‘I can’t wait any longer: I want him dead tonight and his boat blown out of the water. Every week I look out of my window and there it is across at Baytown, unloading every type of contraband that you can think of. Don’t you realize that it is doing you and me out of our valuable trade? You’re the man employed to stop smuggling, not allow it to go on unhindered.’
‘Then, I would have to arrest myself – and you, of course,’ said Farrell, thinking he was being extremely clever.
‘Don’t be stupid. Don’t they teach you anything in the army?’ Demurral paused and drew breath. ‘You and I are in business. That business is smuggling and we have to do away with the competition.’ Demurral let out a sigh of exasperation as Farrell brushed dust from his bright red jacket and preened his long moustache.
‘Please, Captain Farrell, do one thing. Kill him. I don’t care how you do it, you can bore him to death if you want to, but I want him dead. Throw him from the cliff, have him crushed by a stampeding flock of sheep, do anything, but please KILL HIM!’ Demurral roared. Beadle who was outside the room covered his ears.
‘I thought you could do that, Vicar. After all, you keep telling me of your power and your magic. Surely you must have some sort of spell or curse to do the job for you? Isn’t there a spirit of death you can conjure to scare him into hell? That way it keeps my dragoons out of it: blood on the uniform isn’t very nice, you know.’ Farrell smiled at Demurral.
‘You … you’re a fop and a dandy. You’re a molly, a preened skylark, no better than a tuppenny hag. I wanted someone to do this one thing and I thought you were the man. You don’t go around throwing the magic at problems that can be solved by your own hands. It’s special, beautiful and lovely. Sorcery is like painting a fine picture. You don’t waste the paint.’
Farrell looked at Demurral and then out to sea. Crane’s ship lay just off the coast in the bay far below. In the morning sun it was a magnificent sight.
‘What’s in it for me?’ he asked. ‘I know that there’s more to all that is going on than just smuggling. What’s your plan?’
He raised one eyebrow as he asked the question. Farrell knew that there was something that was being kept from him. He did not like being a soldier. He missed the life of a London socialite. Here in the north it seemed as if he were a million miles from the things he knew and loved, things he wanted to return to as soon as possible. His father had bought him the commission to save him from a failed love affair. It was just to be temporary, to save face for the family, he could soon return. Now, eleven years later, he was still in the north, on a rocky outcrop into the German Ocean, chasing smugglers, shouting orders and tramping the muddy roads from Baytown to Whitby. This, he thought, was no life for a gentleman.
‘If I were to tell you a story, an imaginary tale, could you keep it to yourself and not tell a soul, ever?’ Demurral asked the Captain.
Farrell was intrigued. He didn’t answer straight away. He looked around the room to give himself time to think.
‘If it were a true story then I would honour your confidentiality,’ he answered. ‘If it were a barmaid’s tale then why keep it to yourself?’
‘Because this is a tale of power, with living words that can take root in our lives. Words that can change the very substance of the world. Each word is like an arrow that can pierce the heart.’ Demurral pulled his chair up closer to Farrell. ‘Each time it is told the arrows are let fly to do their work in the world. They are beyond our control, they cannot be aimed and they will find their own target. They will always hit the mark.’
Farrell nodded for him to continue.
‘I take it, Captain, that you will keep my secret?’ Demurral asked.
‘This is more than three sniffs of a beer-stained apron. I will keep it to myself. But what if I should speak of it?’ Farrell asked.
‘Then the creature that you wish me to release on Crane will seek you out in the darkness and tear out your throat whilst you are still breathing.’ Demurral smiled pleasantly.
Farrell raised his hand to his throat and rubbed his neck.
‘Then I will keep silent.’
‘Good. The story burns inside me. You are the only one I dare to tell what is to happen. I will leave it to you to decide the truth.’ He leant towards Farrell and beckoned him to come closer. ‘Imagine two armies facing one another in battle, one more powerful than the other. The weaker force has a captain who forsakes his charger to ride a donkey. Yet despite this his troops fight bravely and are about to overwhelm the larger force. Suddenly in the midst of the battle the captain is captured. He is taken from the field, killed and cast to one side. The battle turns and the small army is overwhelmed and rushes into hiding, scattered like sheep without a shepherd.’
‘Go on, and then …’
‘Many years later there are stories that the captain is alive, somehow brought back to life by a powerful charm, and the battle is about to take
place again. You find that you have the one weapon that can stop him; in fact, with this instrument you will become the commander of the strongest force this world has ever seen. You are given the power over the winds and sea. In one word you can stop time. It is a weapon so powerful that even God will bow down to you and all his angels fall at your feet. What would you do?’
Farrell wanted to laugh nervously; but he sensed that this was not a joke or sorcerer’s tale. His eyes searched Demurral’s face for some sign of truth. ‘I would, I would … I would not know what to do and I would pray to God that such a thing would never happen.’ From the look on Demurral’s face he knew that it was not a story. He knew that Demurral believed it to be the truth.
‘Do you have such a weapon?’ he asked the Vicar, not knowing if this was a stupid question to ask him.
‘Captain Farrell. You’re a military man – does such a weapon exist?’ Demurral countered.
‘If there were such a thing it would be worth all the gold in the world. With a weapon like that no army could stop you. Somehow I don’t think you are talking in parables. Does it exist?’ Farrell raised his eyebrow again, unsure as to what the answer would be.
‘It exists and it is here … in the tower. I have tried it once with unimaginable results. It took a ship and smashed it to the shore, breaking its back like a child snapping a twig. To think that it can sit in the palm of the hand and yet have so much power that the whole cosmos has to respond to its call.’ Demurral chuckled with excitement.
‘How can such a thing work?’ Farrell asked.
‘As yet I don’t fully understand. It’s a matter of faith. All I can think is that it concentrates a forgotten power into a form that is unlike anything seen for thousands of years. The Keruvim has not been used since the time of Moses.’
‘And you have it here?’ Farrell asked.
‘Yes. I suppose you will want to see it?’ Demurral invited.
‘I would like to know what you will do with it.’
‘My dear friend, I will do what I want, when I want and to whom I want. I could do with a man like you to be there with me. Every general needs a captain.’
‘Every captain needs to be paid,’ Farrell replied.
‘That is a minor detail. What country would you like to control?’ Demurral did not appear to be joking. The excitement showed on his face. He looked like a small boy who had suddenly been given some great prize. It was something that he had to share; he needed to demonstrate his importance to someone, and Farrell was the nearest thing he had to a friend. Demurral was incapable of showing warmth to anyone, and knew it. His coldness protected him from unnecessary complications in life. He found relationships too complicated, too demanding. They had to be maintained, worked at, endured. He did not have the patience for all of this. As a small child he had owned a pet mouse, which he kept in a wooden box. For a few days he played with it, allowing the tiny creature to run up his arm and through his clothing. Then he tired of the animal. He closed the lid on the box for a final time and buried it in the garden. He never thought of the mouse again, let alone cared about how it must have died. As he grew older, it became even easier for him to ignore the sufferings of others, and indeed to inflict suffering upon them.
‘Who else knows of the weapon?’ Farrell asked.
‘The only one that matters is Jacob Crane, but even he doesn’t know its true value. Crane is a man with no belief. He’s a hard-hearted scoundrel who would sell his own father if he ever had one,’ Demurral replied. ‘Once he is out of the way we can do what we please.’
‘There is just one small thing that does concern me.’ Farrell didn’t want to ask this of Demurral, but felt an urge within him to do so. ‘What is to stop you from killing me once you have this power?’
‘Nothing. Absolutely nothing. You will just have to trust me,’ Demurral answered as he took a pocket watch from his waistcoat. ‘I have some people in the tower I would like you to meet. They tried to steal the Keruvim and now await their punishment. I can also show you something that will help you to understand what power is really at my disposal.’
Latet Anguis in Herba
IN the tower the snakes lay huddled together in the open box by the door. The cold from the icy breeze that blew in under the oak door kept them subdued except for the occasional lifting of a head above the rim to sniff the air with their long tongues.
Kate, Thomas and Raphah talked of what would happen to them when Demurral returned. Then they fell silent, each of them retiring to the world within, fighting their own fears.
Kate struggled with the rope around her wrists, and realized how securely tied to the chair she was. Helpless as she was, however, her rising anger filled her with determination not to give in to Demurral. It was this anger that fuelled her resolve to escape – either that or to inflict some deep, painful and long-lasting injury upon Demurral in her last few moments of life. In her mind she planned what she would do: she looked around the room and saw that the only things that could be used as weapons were the candlesticks. But then something else occurred to her: when they had been betrayed by Crane they had not been searched. Thomas still had the Varrigal sword wedged down the back of his tunic. It had been completely overlooked by Demurral and Beadle in the excitement of their capture. Kate pictured herself freeing her hands, reaching over to Thomas, taking the sword and inflicting fatal blows on the sorcerer and his apprentice.
She tugged at the golden cord that bound her wrists, but it grew tighter than ever and cut into her skin. It was as if with every thought of escape the cords knew what she was thinking and slowly, like coiling snakes, pulled the knots tighter and tighter. She realized that her dream of escape might not come true.
Thomas could not keep silent any longer. It had been two long hours listening to Raphah whispering under his breath and unable to know or understand what he was saying. Thomas felt deeply about the trouble they were in and believed it was his fault. He should have known not to trust Jacob Crane. When they had escaped from the valley he should have taken Kate straight home and not waited for Crane. He felt a fool, and this captivity was his punishment.
To his mind the best way to escape was to bargain with Demurral, to plead with him for their freedom. Surely he would not refuse. Demurral had known Thomas since he was a lad. Thomas had listened to countless of his sermons, sitting rigid throughout the service in the cold and comfortless pew for hours on end. Could the Vicar ever kill someone that he knew? Thomas leant back into the chair, his hands now numb with the tightness of the cords. He realized that there was a side to Demurral that was secret, a dark, violent side that was kept away from the world. Thomas began to doubt in his own future. He had no one on whom he could call. No one to rush in and save him. He only hoped that the dream he had would come true, that he need never fear death, and that by believing in the King he would have eternal life. This was his only hope.
Throughout all this, Raphah stared at the wall with a confident smile on his face, focusing all his inner thoughts on Riathamus. He became conscious that both Kate and Thomas were now looking at him and listening to the words he repeated over and over again.
‘Blessed be the strength of Riathamus,
Who teaches my hands to war and my fingers to fight.
My goodness and my fortress;
My high tower and my deliverer,
My shield and the one in whom I trust.
He subdues my enemies before me …’
Raphah stopped and turned to the others. ‘Before you ask, it is a song to Riathamus, it is from his Book,’ he said. ‘I’m praying, talking to him; it helps to know his will.’
‘What does this Riathamus say? That we’re all going to die?’ Kate said cuttingly. ‘If that’s all he’s said then it’s pointless, you might as well talk to the ceiling or speak into thin air.’ She tried to shake herself from the chair; the cords tightened around her wrists. ‘It’s your God who got us into this place, so when is he going to get us out?’ she demanded.
‘Have you ever tried to speak to him or do you always let your anger fill your mouth?’ Raphah retorted.
‘I’ve spoken to God many times, but he never listens,’ she declared angrily. ‘When my mother died I asked him every day to bring her back but nothing happened. If he’s God then why is he so deaf? Or doesn’t he care for people like me?’
‘He has more love for you than you have ever realized, but faith starts with an acceptance, acknowledging who you are and knowing your frailty. Then you will see the power and majesty of Riathamus. In our weakness we will find his strength, in our poverty we will find his riches. It is only in him that we will ever find peace. He is the most powerful being in the whole of creation.’ Raphah beamed a beautiful smile at them.
‘Then why are you going to die with us if your God is so powerful?’ she said.
‘Many people greater than me have given their lives for him,’ Raphah said calmly. ‘We all die, it is something we cannot escape. It is more important to know where we are going when we cross the Bridge of Souls.’ Raphah could see that Kate struggled with his words. Her eyes burnt with anger.
‘Words!’ she shouted. ‘Just empty words that can never help, from a god of the imagination. I don’t want to die, not here, never. I want to grow old and fall asleep and not wake up. Then I won’t know what’s happened or where I’ll be. How can you prove he’s real?’
‘You need faith,’ said Raphah. ‘Just a small seed of faith. Something to believe and put your trust in. You’ve hurt for too long, you’re blinded by your pain. Give it up. Let the one who can bring peace heal your life.’
‘How can I believe in something I know nothing about?’ Kate began to cry. ‘I’m frightened, so frightened. I just want this to stop.’
Thomas felt his insides churn with grief for Kate. He had shared so much with her in life and now he knew they would be together in death. He wanted to scream for it all to stop. To take her in his arms and protect her like she had always protected him. She had always been so strong. He felt useless, realizing that he had no power within himself to save her. Kate had always been the one who had the inner strength. The one who would encourage him to carry on, who kept him clothed and fed when he lived in the cave on the beach, bringing him meals and giving him the will to live each day.