by Ken Altabef
At the far end of the chapel, the apse and altar were still intact. The bible! His most precious possession, a copy of the ‘Great Bible’ published by Myles Coverdale at the request of the Archbishop of Canterbury. The book was over two hundred years old, dating back to 1539. Desmos believed his copy had rested in the hands of King Henry VII on more than one occasion. He kept the book in a small drawer under the podium. He could not stand to have it burn. He must save it. This urge conflicted with another, less sentimental impulse, to run from the chapel and call out for the bucket brigade. But of course the soldiers maintained picket guards at night. Surely they had seen the blaze by now and were already mobilizing. The book! He had just enough time to save it.
He had only taken a few steps into the nave when a flicker of movement caught the corner of his eye, an indistinct flitting figure. He heard someone laugh. And then something struck him on the head. He fell, hitting his shoulder against the sharp corner of one of the pews.
Demons?
No. Faeries!
His ears were ringing from the blow to the head and he coughed on the rising smoke. The blaze was rapidly consuming the wooden pews, and racing toward the altar. He felt more than ever that he must rescue the book. His ears ringing, his eyes watering, he coughed and sputtered as he took another few steps toward the curtain of flames.
“What the hell, man!”
A pair of strong arms gabbed him by the shoulders and spun him around. It was Lieutenant Simms.
“Hell?” Desmos sputtered. “What?”
“Come away, Vicar,” said Simms. His face looked demonic in the orange glow. A savior or faery assassin? Faeries could deceive…
Simms dragged him toward the open doorway. Desmos struggled senselessly, still thinking of the book. Finally, the smoke proved too much and he gave in to the coughing and sagged helplessly into the Lieutenant’s arms. Outside, Desmos saw the bucket brigade rushing back and forth. He could hardly breathe. He staggered out the door and into the summer night.
He ran a few yards from the blaze and collapsed onto the grass. Half the chapel had already been consumed and these few soldiers with their buckets knew it was futile to continue. Simms called them off and instructed them to focus on preventing the fire from spreading beyond the collapsing chapel. As there were no other buildings in close proximity the building was to be sacrificed. The fire would consume itself. His Coverdale bible! Gone!
Desmos pressed a handkerchief to his temple to staunch the flow of blood trickling from his battered scalp. He had not imagined that. Who was the misty figure who had attacked him? Who would do such a thing?
He started to cry. This chapel wasn’t just a building of wood and tarpaper and nails. It was the house of the Lord.
He was still sitting there in the morning when the sun came up. Dawn rose over Everbright as on any other day. The birds that made their nests in the trees of the park were singing.
The King’s soldiers avoided the charred ruin of the chapel. They were not eager to lift shovel in the hot summer sun, and were more than content to wait for official orders before starting on the sweaty cleanup. Besides, it was the Vicar’s responsibility to sift through the wreckage first and salvage whatever might remain. He, in turn, was not eager to do so.
Around ten o’clock a single rider came cutting across the field. He pulled up just a few feet from where Desmos sat.
He was a man of mid-forties wearing a suit of plain black cloth with only a hint of embroidery on the edges and pockets. His waistcoat was likewise black and tightly fitting around a muscular frame. He wore his own hair in a short cut and around the neck a knotted lace cravat. Desmos recognized that dour face as the King’s agent, Oliver Doakes. Desmos sent reports to him periodically but had rarely seen the man in person.
Doakes leaned down from his saddle. “Arson?”
“Yes.”
Doakes raised his head to survey morning at Everbright. “Arson and assassination. I’d say you’ve got quite a faery problem here.”
Chapter 44
The Vicar’s new bedroom in the military barracks was quite similar to his old room in the chapel attic. Lieutenant Simms had been kind enough to put him up in Captain Abercrombie’s private bedroom. The Captain’s belongings had already been shipped off to his wife at Bedfordshire and the room was empty and bare. Desmos had always taken his meals with the brigade anyway and was well used to their company.
And yet, his new bedroom was so unlike the old. For one thing the men next door were exceptionally noisy, staying up late into the night talking and laughing or playing cards and dice. There was no window at all, no little slice of sky to remind him of the glory of God’s creation. No fresh air. And Desmos found himself continually wanting to go downstairs to the chapel to sweep the floor or polish the pews or mend the frayed altar draperies. No, this wasn’t the same at all.
He glanced at his pocket watch—one of his few personal belongings to have survived the chapel fire. Almost eight o’clock. He must be off for his appointment. He donned his soot-stained white robe and reached for the small pocket bible on the bed stand. All of his own books had been destroyed. This well-thumbed, dog-eared version had been donated by one of the men.
Desmos paused at his bedroom door and turned back, having forgotten the napkin that contained the little squares of hard biscuits he had blessed as makeshift holy wafers.
It was a short walk from the barracks to the great ash tree at the center Seelie Park. A pleasant summer night too, except for the sight of the charred patch of bare earth where his chapel had once stood.
Desmos approached the base of the tree where two of the heavy roots formed a Y across the ground. The portal that led to down below. His timepiece confirmed the correct hour but where was his host?
“James?” he called out. He circled the tree but found no one. “James?”
Glancing back at the Y-roots, Desmos saw a grotesque head pop up amid the magical patch of primrose. Desmos stepped back, alarmed by the hideous oversized owl eyes that had emerged from the glittering portal.
“Vicar?”
Desmos regained his composure. It was only one of the Changed Men.
“Hardison, is that you?”
Hardison turned his head to the side and screeched.
“Oh, Lord…” sighed Desmos.
As if nothing untoward had happened the Changed Man turned back to his visitor, said, “Come along Vicar, don’t tarry. Souls need saving,” and disappeared back into the hole.
Souls need saving, Desmos thought. Indeed.
He descended the small wooden stair and followed his guide through the dim halls of Barrow Downes. Having visited the place several times already, Desmos was familiar with the way but on this occasion he had no lantern to show the path. His owl-eyed friend was apparently quite capable of seeing in the dark.
“What happened to James Grayson?” Desmos asked.
“Master Grayson could not come. He’s feeling somewhat ill.”
“Oh, my. Well, I hope it’s nothing serious. Do you have a physician available down here?”
Hardison stopped, bent double then lunged at something in a darkened corner. He came back empty-handed and said, “Master James is sort of our physician, ain’t he?”
“Is he?”
“He’s been helping us, curing us like, so we don’t have to be misfits no more.”
“Really. And how has this been accomplished?”
“Faery magic.”
When they arrived at the cavern that housed the Changed Men, Desmos took stock of the changes in the Changed. Most remarkable was Roderigo, previously of the dog face. The man had been restored entirely to his normal self. He had dark hair instead of tangled twiney growth, a normal if completely unattractive face and a broad smile. Several of the others had been improved as well. This must be evidence of the ‘cure’ Hardison had spoken about. If this kept up, these men would be returned to polite society in short order. They could then be free to return to their former
lives and families. They might even attend services in his chapel, if there had still been a chapel.
After arranging the men in neat little rows, Desmos began by relating the tragic events that had consumed the chapel. He apologized for the lack of sacramental wine, and began his sermon.
James drifted in and out of sleep. The onslaught of divergent tastes continued to ravage his tongue, permeating even his dreams. Spoiled yogurt, ginger root, dried pork, shoe leather, sea weed, a strange combination of carrots and mint. As if propelled by this wild flight of sensations, his dreams were faery things. Ever-changing faces, madcap flights through the air, a flurry of August leaves, the plight of a lone shoot of ivy as it strained to reach for the sunlight.
He shuddered awake.
From the next room, he heard Vicar Desmos delivering a Saturday night sermon to the Changed Men.
James glanced down at his right arm. After his most recent treatment of one of the Changed Men, James’ right arm had turned entirely purple, the muscles gnarled and twisted painfully, his fingernails blackened and mildly clawed. Looking at it now, the arm appeared mostly normal but still had a mild discoloration, as if badly bruised.
He should stop. He knew that. Absorbing the Wild Tyme from the Changed Men was affecting him in ways he could not even begin to understand. But he had promised to help them and as long as a cure was within his means he intended to go through with it. No matter the cost.
The Vicar’s words echoed through the thin cavern wall:
“In the year that King Uzziah died, I saw the Lord, high and exalted, seated on a throne; and the train of his robe filled the temple. Above him were seraphim, each with six wings: With two wings they covered their faces, with two they covered their feet, and with two they were flying.”
James recognized the passage as part of the book of Isaiah. He felt dizzy again, and fell back into half sleep. The images were strong and clear. Faeries with six wings, faeries surrounding the Lord on high.
“ ‘Woe to me!’ I cried. ‘I am ruined! For I am a man of unclean lips, and I live among a people of unclean lips, and my eyes have seen the King, the Lord Almighty.’ Then one of the seraphim flew to me with a live coal in his hand, which he had taken with tongs from the altar. With it he touched my mouth and said, ‘See, this has touched your lips; your guilt is taken away and your sin atoned for.’
“Then I heard the voice of the Lord saying, ‘Whom shall I send? And who will go for us?’
“And I said, ‘Here am I. Send me!’ ”
James dreamt that he stood in the place of Isaiah, cowering before the Lord as he was surrounded by His faeries.
“He said, ‘Go and tell this people: Be ever hearing, but never understanding; be ever seeing, but never perceiving. Make the heart of this people calloused; make their ears dull and close their eyes. Otherwise they might see with their eyes, hear with their ears, understand with their hearts, and turn and be healed.’ ”
James did not understand the message the Lord was giving him. Heal the Changed Men? Was this a mandate from on high?
“Lord?” he asked. “For how long, Lord?”
And He answered: “Until the cities lie ruined and without inhabitant, until the houses are left deserted and the fields ruined and ravaged, until the Lord has sent everyone far away and the land is utterly forsaken. And though a tenth remains in the land, it will again be laid waste. But as the terebinth and oak leave stumps when they are cut down, so the holy seed will be the stump in the land.”
What? Terebinth? Stumps?
James saw again the vision Gryfflet had shown him. Everbright burned to the ground, the trees all laid bare. Charred stumps littering the ground. He didn’t understand at all.
“Thank you, Vicar,” said Roderigo. “That service did us all very well, I think.”
Desmos beamed back at him. “It lifted my heart too, and I sore was in need of it. These are trying times for me, my friend. But look at you, Roderigo! Your voice has returned, and your handsome face as well.”
Roderigo blushed slightly. “Handsome? I was never that, but…” and here he rubbed his smooth cheeks as if he still could not believe they had been restored to humanity, “it’s a pleasure to be able to shave again. I owe a great debt to Master James.”
“And the Lord above,” added Desmos.
“And the Lord above,” agreed Roderigo. He spoke with less enthusiasm than Desmos would have liked, coming from a man who had not two minutes ago consumed holy wafer.
“Trying times,” repeated Desmos. “And tiring ones as well. I had better nip back up to the surface and take myself to bed.”
“I can see you up,” said Roderigo.
“No need,” replied Desmos. “I am quite familiar with the way by now. Send my best wishes to James. I pray for a swift recovery from whatever ails him.”
The Vicar took the lantern from its nail on the wall and left them with a final “Good night, all. Good night.”
He proceeded through the caverns of Barrow Downes on his own, his thoughts mostly centering on plans for the morrow. It would be Sunday and he had no chapel from which to deliver his sermon. He could minister to the soldiers inside the barracks, perhaps with a brief ceremony at breakfast, but none of the faeries would be in attendance. How would he get out his message of Isaiah for them? The problem was a ponderous one. He resolved at last to stand under the great ash, his feet upon a soap box if necessary and shout the word of the Lord out to any ear willing to listen. Yes, that was just the thing. A heartfelt sermon delivered on the very spot slated to host the evening’s pagan ceremony and dance! Such a service might do some good to counteract whatever debauchery the faeries had planned for the evening.
For now, all was quiet in Barrow Downes. Desmos encountered few faery-folk as he traversed the caverns. Most were still at work on the surface, busy with preparations for their feast, hanging colorful banners and paper lanterns from the trees and some-such. Though he knew the way, the similarity of the cave passages soon got the better of him, turning him around and sending him through an area of the settlement he had never seen before.
He found himself in a great cavern, humid and dark, where a field of mushrooms grew. He spun the tin wheel of his lantern to the widest possible beam, but the darkness still seemed to greedily swallow the light. The air was thick with the woodsy smell of wild mushrooms growing in a green, damp place and the musky scent of little furred creatures blindly scurrying among them. The mushrooms were a botanist’s dream—so unusual in shape and size. Many had strange colorations of purple and orange that marked them as poisonous to human beings. He marveled at the variety of species all around him, treading carefully along a narrow footpath. Even though he knew this diversion was only going to take him farther from his goal of the great ash tree, he couldn’t help himself.
In the next chamber of this botanical wonderland he found giant mushrooms planted in neat rows. They each stood several feet high and the flesh of the strange plants was slimy and nearly translucent. As he passed his lantern close, he saw something that sent him recoiling in horror.
Trapped within these mushrooms were the children of Barrow Downes. Actual children, ranging from infancy to several years old. He peered upon the face of a faery girl-child, floating naked within one such mushroom. Her eyes were open but she did not notice Desmos or his light. A dreamy expression was writ across her face, not unpleasant, as she floated in a pool of shimmering fluid.
The Vicar spun around, unsure of what to do. This was an outrage, an unnatural abomination!
He was startled further by a vague, ominous whispering sound. What new horror was this? He should be getting back on the main path. But curiosity seized him again. He traced the sound to a small alcove at the side of the cave. He found nothing of interest, nothing that he could see, but had the definite impression that his vision was distorted in this place, purposely so, by some lingering glamour the faeries had placed there. He sensed a thing of great power here, perhaps a weapon. He could fee
l its presence. An ancient weapon. The whispering continued, rising and falling, perhaps speaking in an arcane language he could not recognize. The strange murmuring had the effect of producing a string of impressions which he felt were akin to the spiritual visons of the saints in their rapture.
He heard the clanking of steel on steel, his eyes blinded by fire; he tasted blood; he heard the singing of angels.
The whisper resolved itself into a name: “Arondight.”
Desmos was unsure of its meaning but suddenly felt as if he had trespassed on something holy, that he had gone too far, looked too deeply into the secrets of this place. He imagined a host of vengeful faeries with pointed teeth coming for him.
He turned and found his way back to the main path.
Chapter 45
Stroiata-arbae, thought Threadneedle. Emotion trees.
Though he’d never seen them before, he recognized them easily. The thin silvery bark, the drooping, pearlescent leaves. And this little patch of wonder amid Everbright’s extensive gardens afforded him a new opportunity—to touch them. He was familiar with their unique properties, having witnessed their wonders while sharing Dresdemona’s thoughts during their lovemaking long ago.
He stepped close to one of the trees, stretching out a hand to touch the underside of one of its leaves. A clear note rang out, D flat if he was not mistaken, and a starburst of pale purple light erupted from the surface. Threadneedle felt a ripple of emotion—regret.
He regretted missing Dresdemona’s dance in this grove. It had been an impressive performance by all accounts. But his absence had served a good cause. He hoped that Trask, on his way to Belgium even now, was faring well after his ‘treatment’.