by Euan McAllen
Ricardo sat close by in a pew, miles away; watching his vicar; constantly worried for him now. There was a disturbance at the door, and he turned towards it. It was flung open, and in rushed Sinead, face on fire, eyes blazing. Alongside her was Grimble, also looking mad. Ricardo had a bad feeling about this and tried to swallow. He prayed for The Village Hangman to pay the church a visit right now and enforce order.
Tassilo tried to keep talking, hoping the crazy girl would listen, but soon dried up while the congregation looked on, and looking forward to a good spectacle. She began to heckle, which pleased Tassilo, for it made her look stupid, out of control. He aimed to rise above it, to show superiority and maturity, and the pretence of forgiveness. He hoped she would run out of breath, burn herself out, and leave, having accomplished nothing except to make more enemies. He got it wrong, very wrong. His life was about to change and God had no hand in it. God did not want to know.
With great theatricality, the crazy girl pointed a finger up at him, as if to heaven.
‘Sodomite!’ she cried. ‘There he stands before you, preaching morality! Is this the kind of man you want running your church! Has he no shame! Sodomite!’
Tassilo felt an earthquake. Ricardo felt it too. The hairs on the back of their necks rose up. The congregation switched their attention from the crazy girl back to their vicar. Some were disgusted. Some were not surprised. Some thought she had gone too far. This was not her village. She had no right to stir the pot.
Tassilo tried to fight back. He knew he had to.
‘How dare you!’
‘How dare you be in charge of a church? How dare you with him!’
She pointed at her brother, and he nearly melted. His sister was a shadow of her former self. She would hurt anybody, even family. All good had deserted her. He remembered a little girl, holding his hand. He knew they would never touch again. Space opened up either side of him.
‘Get out!’ shouted Tassilo. ‘Get out of here!’ It was feeble outrage.
Sinead, her message delivered, the bomb dropped, damage done, was happy to make her exit and allowed her man to lead her away. Grimble stuck up two fingers to those watching them as they left. The sermon was trashed. The vicar was probably finished. He had one more thing to say.
‘She started the fire! She wants to turn your hall, the centre of our village, into a church! We have our church!’
Tassilo’s words appeared to fall on deaf ears as the congregation got up and dispersed quickly. None wished him well. In the future, asking The Village Vicar for advice would be a difficult thing to do. But whom to turn to? Ricardo also left, to go home, to lie down, and to avoid the world.
The two tornados, Sinead and Grimble, felt high. They wanted to be really high but had no weed. A trip was required, to the back of the Corner Shop, to see The Village Idiot. There Simple Simon appeared, in a welcoming mood. It was nice to have visitors, especially when one was Sinead, for he worshipped her.
Grimble demanded more weed, but all Simple Simon could do was apologize. The garden gate was locked. He could not get in. He was not allowed in there. He was not allowed to hand it out. She had laid down a new law. This was not acceptable to the two tornados. The denial of service drove them mad. They had to have it. Grimble began to hit Simple Simon, who fell down on his knees, begging him to stop. He looked up at Sinead, expecting her to intervene, but she did nothing: she seemed to be thinking nothing. Worse still, she looked like she was enjoying the moment. Only when he became bored did Grimble cease, spit on The Village Idiot, and walk away. Simple Simon didn’t understand. He didn’t understand any of it. He didn’t understand what friends were anymore, how they worked. He had never understood what enemies were and how they differed from friends.
***
Sinead was alone in her tent, talking to God; savouring her victory over the vicar and his indecency. High up on her Landfill, she was the queen of all she surveyed. She could tell Grimble to do anything, and he would do it. Likewise, Simple Simon. Remembering the beating he had just taken from Grimble, she had to force away weak feelings of remorse. He had refused them the magic weed, so he had to pay the price.
She was startled by a noise outside. Someone was climbing the Landfill site towards her. Grimble, she guessed. The tent flap was thrown back. It was the vicar, looking distraught, pathetic, washed up. She laughed, like the devil.
‘Come to me for forgiveness, for redemption?’
‘No.’
The vicar produced a kitchen knife. Sinead was not laughing now. She could only look at the blade - the recently sharpened blade - of his knife.
‘Grimble! Where are you! Grimble!’
There was another sound, almost a repeat of the first, except this time someone was climbing up the Landfill much faster.
‘Grimble!’
Another man bounded into view. It was not Grimble. It was the man she hated to have to think about: it was her brother, the sodomite. Come to save her? She didn’t want to be saved by him.
‘Sodomites,’ she hissed. ‘Grimble save me from these two!’ she shouted.
But Grimble never appeared. He was too busy getting drunk with his mates.
Carefully Ricardo placed a hand on the shoulder of the one he sometimes struggled to love and persuaded him to let go of the knife as he carefully unpicked it from the fingers which didn’t want to let it go.
‘She is evil,’ said Tassilo, very calmly, very precisely, and perhaps correctly.
‘I know. Let’s go shall we?’
‘She wants to destroy us, our church, and our village.’
‘I know. Let’s go.’
Tassilo looked at Ricardo. ‘Are we still good?’
‘Yes, definitely. Let’s go.’
Reassured, Tassilo allowed himself to be led away. Sinead watched them all the way, as the pair of sodomites negotiated their way back down to the ground. Things were dangerous now, she decided. She needed an armed guard, she decided. The Skunks must guard her, always. Grimble must make it so.
‘Sodomites,’ she hissed. She loved to say that word.
Her second victory was short-lived: Sinead was arrested by The Village Hangman. He refused to answer her questions and dragged her before the Elders, who had gathered in one of their homes, safe behind a high wall and guarded gate. He had to hold her firm while the Elders looked her over, like a dangerous specimen. They stared at her like she was alien; only half-alive, only half-present; at least half-mad, and a cauldron of trouble. She was most definitely another witch on the brew.
They had had enough. The crazy girl was a drain on their time, their sanity; a danger to the system, to the status quo. She would never fit in. She could not be allowed to fit in. She could not continue to function here, in their village. They wanted this dealt with quickly, without argument, without hysterics. They threw the charges at her in double-quick speed, not interested in what she had to say in her defence.
She had whipped up unrest: amongst the simple folk of The Village; between the gangs; at the Fete; amongst the vulnerable, fragile churchgoers. She had invaded the church, from which she had been banned. Had she stolen The Village artefacts? Her answer of ‘no’ was ignored. She had been seen out of her mind, incapable, in a public place. She had been seen frightening poor, defenceless children. She was not fit to remain in The Village. ‘No!’ she kept shouting.
‘You will cease promoting your petition,’ said one Elder.
‘It is illegal,’ said another.
‘Yes, illegal,’ said another.
‘Illegal, yes,’ said one more, as if to make absolutely sure.
The Elder leading the proceedings raised his hand to ward her off. ‘Enough! Put her in the holding cell.’
‘Yes, sir. Immediately,’ replied the hangman.
‘Bitch,’ he whispered into her ear as
he dragged her away.
‘His church has been stained by him and must close!’ shouted Sinead defiantly.
When she was gone, the Elders breathed a sigh of relief. The dirty business had been done. They had never seen anything like her.
‘Do we close the church?’ asked one, confused.
‘Close the church? We must always have a church,’ replied another.
‘Yes, we must,’ said another.
‘Why?’ asked another.
The others all turned on the one who had asked why. But no one had an answer on the tip of their tongue.
Sinead was thrown into ‘Holding Cell Two’: ‘One’ being reserved for men. It was dark, damp; devoid of any comforts. It smelt. She thought she was alone, but there was movement in the shadows. A body and face appeared out of the gloom. It was the village Witch.
‘What are you doing here?’ asked Sinead.
‘What am I doing here?’ The old woman laughed. ‘What are you doing here?’
Sinead sat down on the bench and began to sob, and rock whilst holding on to herself for dear life. The old woman returned to her previous position and watched and waited for the girl to talk. Finally she did.
‘What do they do with us in here?’
‘Depends on what you’ve done, or been told you did. Could be expelled. Prison proper. Community service. What have you done, other than piss everyone off?’
Sinead refused to answer that. ‘No, what have you done? Put a curse on someone? An Elder?’
The witch inside the old woman cackled with forced delight and was suddenly standing over her, wanting to hit her. Sinead shrivelled up and put her hands up over her head. There was no god to protect her in Holding Cell Two.
‘Why did you hit my Simon!’
Sinead had no answer, so said nothing. It was like she was back at home, small again; having to put up with an onslaught of questions for which she never had a good enough answer.
‘You will both apologize to him!’
Sinead didn’t object. She said nothing. She wanted to disappear into a hole. It’s a test, she told herself, unconvinced. A stupid test when none was needed. She looked up at the old hag, knowing she would be the first to die. The old woman looked down at the crazy girl, knowing she would be the first to die. The witch gave up the chase and returned to her corner; to let silence sink back in; to try to sleep for she was just an ordinary old woman. The cell divided up into two territories: one for the old, the established, the innocent; the other for the young, the new, the change to come, the guilty.
At some point, when boredom began to hold its own with fear, Sinead stopped feeling downcast and sorry for herself. This experience would make her stronger; she told herself, absolutely convinced. She had the Elders on the run. She had broken the official church and the vicar which went with it. She had shaken off the men, who had tried to dictate terms to her, bully, and dispose of her. Grimble would come to her rescue because God would send him. No one could stand up to his Skunks, not even the Skins. She tried to make out the figure in the shadows, which was the old woman, the old hag, the witch of The Village, knowing that she was the more powerful one in this cell. She could steal away the old woman’s Simple Simon, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. Put a curse on her? Sinead suddenly laughed out loud at such an absurd notion.
‘What’s so funny?’ said the old witch, desperate to know.
‘Nothing you would find funny, witch.’
The silence returned, and relief only came from it when the Royal Doctor of all people paid a visit like he was doing his patient rounds. He had brought a food parcel and a blanket for his friend - allowed under the rules - not knowing that the crazy girl was also incarcerated. He felt awkward as he handed them over to the grateful old woman, feeling that somehow he was failing in his duty. He felt even more awkward when she made no attempt to share her provisions with the poor, underweight, shivering girl. I won’t make that mistake next time, Doc promised himself. He left quickly, embarrassed, not wishing to catch the poor girl’s eye. I am a good doctor; he reminded himself. Ask Ingella.
***
Sinead was not the only one to be brought to account before the Elders that day. The Village Vicar was made to attend a meeting: willingly or under arrest. Tassilo came willingly. The Elders found him a more uncomfortable experience for he knew most of them well. Most refused to look him in the eye but stared at the floor or out the window. He was publicly tainted goods, no longer just tainted in private. They did not like sacking their vicar, especially when there was no one to promote, but this one had lost the respect of The Village; and he was incompetent and prone to violent outbursts according to reports; and he had lost their artefacts: their prized possessions; their glorious connection with the strange, distant, untouchable past. Inexcusable.
After being thanked for all his effort and good works, and being sacked, Tassilo wobbled before falling down on to his knees and sobbing. At that point, the Elders wanted him out of the room, gone, like a troublesome child. They asked The Village Hangman to ‘escort him off the premises please’. To add insult to injury, Tassilo was told he had to vacant the church premises within three days.
After he was gone, the Elders all suddenly started talking with light relief: agreeing, repeating, bemoaning; recycling the gossip.
‘I never liked him.’
‘Nor me.’
‘Nor me.’
‘Me neither.’
‘And me neither.’
‘Perhaps things can get back to normal now.’
‘Perhaps they can.’
‘Perhaps.’
The only dark cloud left was the news that not only were people refusing to pay the new tax, but those who had paid for the church renovations now demanded their money back.
‘Outrageous,’ said one.
‘Outrageous,’ said another.
‘Very,’ added a third.
‘What are we going to do?’
Tricky, thought the rest. No one had an answer to that.
The news of the latest gang antics - now open warfare - had also reached their ears. They agreed to ban the green leaves they smoked, but not tell the Senior Elder, agreeing that he didn’t need to be told; and anyway he was too sick to cast a meaningful vote.
‘So he can continue to use it if he doesn’t know about the ban?’
No one wanted to answer that conundrum.
When the Elders finally stopped talking, murmuring and rattling, they broke up the special meeting and departed back to their guarded, gated houses; slightly more reassured, but still on guard. They still felt on top, in charge, the source of all wisdom in The Village.
***
It started with a morning miserably-managed kiss; a word, or two; a grudge, growing; an outburst; and continued with a lack of respect, a flashpoint born of frustration, a lack of aspiration, a lack of faith, a loss of face. Then one villager stepped up to the mark and a target was picked, and a stone was thrown at the church window, and the glass was smashed. It was a wakeup call, and it woke up the ex-vicar. He had been oversleeping, for he had barely slept all night: reason being, he had gone to bed late, in a bad state of mind; terrified of being found out for his next crime. The crime in question was nothing more than dismantling a tent without the owner’s permission. Her tent had inflamed him so much for simply existing as a promise of a nightmare and insult to come, that he had flattened it. Seeing the tent collapse into a flat piece of nothingness had raised his spirits, but not for long, and all he could do was creep into bed, feeling worse than sorry for himself. During his disturbed sleep, the previous vicar had appeared, drunk as usual. He had pointed a finger and said ‘told you so’ before vanishing.
The man who threw the stone ran off, quick, feeling better for himself. The sound of breaking glass put joy in h
is heart and his step, but not much else. Afterwards, he boasted of his act, and the idea spread, like butter.
A parent who had had enough of ‘education’ messing with his daughter’s head for no good reason crept up on the classroom during the morning lesson and threw a stone at the window, wishing to disturb their peace. It did not break the glass, but it did stop the lesson. Small heads and one big head turned to see a nasty face at the window stick two fingers up and take flight. Those pupils nearest the window screamed, jumped out of their chairs, and stood shaking. Esmeralda dropped her chalk and rushed to the door, to look outside, but not to step outside. Like her pupils, she felt safer in the classroom, far away from the world outside: but not safe enough, for the incident torn her nerves to shreds, and she could no longer teach.
After allowing a period of time to pass, to reduce her anxiety, Esmeralda broke up the lesson. The school was closed that day, until further notice. She did not want to teach anymore, and this was the perfect excuse not to have to. Timothy would understand when he came back. On hearing the news, Doc and Aunt Rosamund both thought it a shame but understood her position. Lady Agnes was on her side, absolutely; but also disappointed that Esmeralda had given up so easily, that she had caved in under the smallest of threats. Ignorant peasants: they didn’t know what was good for them. Mutz showed little interest.
Shaking him off, Lady Agnes went for a walk, to see for herself what all the commotion was about. She was not scared: she had witnessed threats and violence in the kingdom, and The Village did not compare. She did not try to hide her face but walked proudly. She saw disturbances here and there, and at one point clapped: seeing The Village suffer cheered her up. She went to see the school and the damage done as if to take readings.
There, in the playground, she came across a small boy, stranded, crying for his parents. Those parents she did see were in a foul mood. There was some talk of breaking into the classroom and trashing it. In a bold, sudden move, she grabbed the child by the hand, promising him that she would find his parents, and get him home in time for tea.