Nine
1
The priest stirred the pot. He watched the slices of turnip rise to the surface of the grey stew. There was meat in there, he knew, not much but enough to fulfil a band of mendicant monks. The meal would satisfy them and they would give thanks to their god and grant himself kind words and pleasant smiles as befitted their calling. He would respond with weasel-words and grovelling gestures to proclaim his own unworthiness as host to such fine guests. Thus they would each perform their allotted roles until the play’s end when the monks would retire to their makeshift beds in the sacristy of the church and then he could leave them to their fate. He stirred the pot some more, caught a piece of gristly steak on the end of his spoon and carried it to his mouth. He sucked and he chewed but the flavour was lacking, the meat tasted just as grey and lifeless as the rest of the stew looked. He swallowed it but his hunger was not eased at all. He needed to visit the Abbey for that. He needed real meat, freshly killed with the blood still dripping. His mouth watered at the thought. He gathered it with his tongue and spat into the pot.
There was a knock at the door. The priest put down his spoon, allowed himself a brief smile and went to greet his visitors. A solitary monk stood on the threshold. The priest ushered him inside and expressed surprise that he was alone.
“I have been sent on ahead to see the lie of the land. We do not wish to cause comment by arriving en masse. The sight of seven monks converging on your house would surely lead to idle gossip among the good folk of Normancote and word would soon reach the Abbey of Achor.”
“Quite true,” answered Father Paul, trying to see beyond the hood to divine the features of the monk. “You are not Brother Thomas, to whom I wrote expressing my concerns.”
“He waits with the others. You must tell me everything you know of the Abbey, then I will return to our camp and inform Brother Thomas.”
“Then you won’t be staying the night here?” the priest asked nervously.
“It would not be wise under the circumstances. Perhaps when this business is over we will be able to partake of your hospitality.”
“That’s a pity,” said the priest. “I have made a fine meal for you all. Too much for me to eat alone. Perhaps you would like a bowl of stew?”
“Later, perhaps. For now, tell me of the Abbey and the activities of the Cistercians.”
“Well....” The priest tried to think. He was not expecting this. He knew he would have to tell these monks about the Abbey, it was he who had called them here. Stupid fool. If only he’d waited awhile. Now he had been told to deal with the problem. Of course he would have help when it came to killing the intruders, all he had to do was settle them down for the night. Abbot Philip would deal with them then. His original plan had been to tell them that he had been mistaken, that the Abbey was truly a force for good. In truth his letter had contained a hint as to his change of mind and it should not be too difficult to persuade these monks that it were so. But the Abbot had forbidden such a course. He had heard of the Dark Brethren and knew that they would not just go away on the strength of the priest’s word, particularly as it had been changed so radically. No, he had to tell them that the Abbey was evil, had to assure them that their services were still needed, and had to pretend that he was still committed to the destruction of the tower. Once they trusted him, he could take them wherever he might, tell any lies he wished about the force they would be facing and thus lead them to their beds like lambs to the slaughter. But he doubted his own powers of dissemblance. He feared being caught out in the lie. If Abbot Philip respected this enemy enough to insist on their destruction then how could he, a mere acolyte, hope to fool them? So he had decided to play the simple priest, pretending ignorance of the nature of the evil which stalked his parish. He could essay that role with ease, keep his head bowed, his manner humble and hope that they would tire of questioning him. Now he was confused by the appearance of this single monk at his door. If he gave no information then he would become suspicious. If he gave too much then the rest of his company would not join him for the night and he would be unable to continue with the Abbot's plan. “Well....” He repeated, then halted again as the monk pulled back his cowl and fixed him with his eye.
2
Brother Edgar looked up at the tower of the church of St. Mary (Manacled) and adjusted the mechanisms on his wristbands. He said a silent prayer that they should work as well as when Barnabus fitted them, if the need arise. He made his way to the priest's house and knocked on the door. The priest who opened it greeted him with a friendly smile and bade him enter his humble abode. Edgar let his gaze wander round the room, looking for signs of ambush but also for anything out of place, ‘anything queer’ as Thomas had said. If Father Paul had been turned by the inhabitants of Achor then there might be clues in his house but he saw nothing untoward. The room was mostly bare, just odd sticks of furniture, a crucifix on the wall, a cooking pot over the fire, all seemed normal. He sat down and answered the priest’s questions.
They had decided not to risk staying with Father Paul overnight for if the trap was to be sprung that would be the obvious time. All would have to be on their guard and a good night’s sleep would thereby be lost. Better to remain under the stars for one further night, despite Brother Barnabus’ objections, as the weather was not inclement and the woods near the village afforded good cover. They had taken the Roman road from Statford and on the way had passed through a number of small villages. They had dined well in the last of these, had bought enough provisions to get through the week and had engaged a young lad to take a message to the priest of Normancote alerting him to their visit this evening. Brother Thomas had then decided that Edgar should be sent on alone to spy out the place, contact Father Paul and report back, so he had left them in the woods as the sun began to sink behind the trees and had walked the last mile into the cursed village. For cursed it was, Edgar could tell by the way the few inhabitants on the streets stared at him as he passed. They gave him not looks of welcome, or even curiosity, but scowls of downright anger and hate. He found himself hurrying towards the church. He had to force himself not to run. Now he sat and watched the priest and wondered whether he too was infected.
“Then you won’t be staying the night here?”
Edgar shook his head.
“That’s a pity,” said the priest. “I have made a fine meal for you all. Too much for me to eat alone. Perhaps you would like a bowl of stew?”
“Thank you, Father, but I have already eaten. Maybe the poor of the parish might benefit from my lack of appetite.”
The priest gave a hearty laugh. “There are no poor in my parish.”
Edgar was puzzled. “But the village is hardly thriving, Father. On my way here I noticed most of the shops and manufactories were abandoned, and what people there were on the streets were dressed in dirty rags and I am sure I noticed a hunger in their eyes.”
The priest chuckled. “The quality of a man’s life rests not on the contents of his stomach. Have you not noticed our fine new church? It is the pride of the town. Masons came from as far as London to aid in its construction. That is sign, if sign were needed, that Normancote is blessed by God.”
“And yet you wrote to warn us of the evil influence of the Cistercians and their Abbey?”
The priest’s smile faded for an instant. “Of course, there have been problems and we must work together to drive those iniquitous monks from our land. But the town and its people are protected by the Lord, you need have no fears on that score. My people are anxious to see the Abbey fall and all who dwell therein consigned to the fiery pit from whence they came.” Then he laughed again and offered Edgar a cup of wine.
“Thank you Father, but no, I have no taste for it. I find it dulls the senses.”
The priest laughed again. “Sometimes we need to take the edge off them somewhat, don’t we Brother? Many a time when I'm hearing the confession of some young maiden and she begins to tell me more than she need, well that’s the time to pour a drink and let the penance take care of itself. If you know what I mean?” And he gave Edgar a lascivious wink.
Brother Edgar stood up. “I will go now Father and rejoin my friends. Perhaps you could give me directions to the Abbey then we shall go there on the morrow.”
The priest became flustered for an instant then regained his composure, his ruddy face breaking into yet another grin. “Directions! Perish the thought, Brother. You have travelled long and hard to get here. You have come on my insistence to help me in my battle. I cannot send you off alone to fight the evil monks of Achor. I must accompany you. I insist on it. I will meet you tomorrow and will take you there. Now where shall we meet? Where is your camp?”
Edgar thought a moment and considered the possibilities. If the priest could be trusted.... No, he rejected that idea. Then if he intended to lead them into a trap.... Well, where was the harm in that? A trap that is expected ceases to be a trap. “We will meet you at the crossroads to the south of the village, two hours past daybreak.”
“Excellent, Brother. I will be there and I will lead you to the fight.”
“I’m sure you will Father. I count on it.” And with that, Brother Edgar took his leave of the curiously jolly priest.
3
At the crossroads the seven monks stood waiting patiently for the arrival of their guide. Brother Thomas was in deep discussion with Edgar, while Barnabus and Takashima talked of the interesting properties of lightning and Moyses and Brother Nemo looked at the sky and the gathering clouds and wondered if it might rain. Arianrhod stood alone, buried in the voluminous folds of the black habit Brother Nemo had insisted she wear to disguise her appearance. She was one the Seven, they treated her as their equal, they shared their food and their accommodation. They did not ask her to take on the duties of cook or laundress, they certainly did not ask her for those special favours only she could give, they were always courteous and kind, and still she felt all the more alone. If Brother Nemo had given her more explanation of her part in this band of brothers, then she might have understood a little better and might thus be able to assume the role.
One thing she knew well was how to dissemble, how to adopt another’s mannerisms and portray them as her own. Up to now her life had not been easy, it had been filled with the need to hide and escape unwanted attention, and she had learnt the skill of evanescence in order to survive. Now she could fade into any crowd and lose herself within. Not only that, her disappearing trick gave her the opportunity to observe the others in the crowd and hone her talent. Thus, now as she watched the priest walk down the road from Normancote she could tell by his gait that he held secrets none of her brothers were privy to.
Last night when Brother Edgar had returned from the village he informed them of his suspicion that the priest intended to lead them into a trap. He had been seduced by the evil of the Abbey of Achor, of that Edgar was certain, but they all agreed that to be led knowingly into a trap removed the crucial element of surprise from the hunter and handed it to the prey to use in his turn. Now Arianrhod was beginning to doubt the wisdom of their course. The priest was pretending to hurry, they could all see that, but she felt that there was something else in his manner.
“Brother Thomas,” said the little priest, puffing in an exaggerated way and clasping the hand of the old monk, “it is good to see you again after so long. I must apologise for my tardiness, but my time is not my own, one of my parishioners insisted I mediate in some matter concerning a goat. Still, we are all here now, let us make haste to the Abbey, it lies this way.” And so saying, Father Paul led them down the left-hand path. The Dark Brethren fell in step behind him, Brother Nemo waddling along behind.
As the group made its way down the road, Arianrhod slackened her pace until she was alongside the fat monk.
“Brother Nemo, I fear there is something strange about this priest.”
“Of course child, he means to lead us to our doom. We have no doubt of his character. You keep close to me and no harm will befall you.”
“No Brother, there is something else about the man.” Arianrhod wanted to stop the procession in order to warn them but a sizeable gap had already opened up between them and the rest of the brethren, so instead of stopping, Brother Nemo quickened his pace. Arianrhod could do nothing but walk alongside him and try to explain her misgivings. “We all feel he has been subverted by the Abbey of Achor, but if so then he expresses no fear about the forthcoming battle.”
“Because he leads us into an ambush. He is confident we have not discerned his duplicity, so he looks forward to our certain demise,” interrupted Brother Nemo.
“No Brother, it is not that. He would express some sign of nervousness, worried that we might see through his deception, but he seems not to care.”
“Then perhaps we are wrong and the good Father has not strayed from the path of righteousness.”
“In which case he would be worried for our sakes. Either way he would show more interest in our strength, would have more questions, would either use this time to encourage us for the fight to come or would try to undermine our confidence. Instead he walks on ahead seemingly oblivious. He doesn't care about us or the outcome of the fight.”
Brother Nemo slowed down. “Meaning, Brother?”
“I don’t know. I just know there’s something wrong.”
The priest had led them off the road and down into a narrow gully which wound its way between two steep, grassy banks. The way was narrow and twisted but then he led them round a final bend and the landscape opened out, the hills thrown back, the ground flat and evenly covered with short grass. The place was a natural amphitheatre and the Dark Brethren stopped in their tracks. It was not the natural beauty of the scene which halted them however, it was the sight of twenty knights in full armour on horseback.
Brother Nemo turned to Arianrhod and said, “It seems you were right.”
Brother Moyses looked at the knights arrayed against them. He saw their round silver helms with the flattened tops, he saw their white surcoats emblazoned with the red cross, and then he spat out the word, “Templars.”
4
Father Paul was scrambling up the nearest bank, desperate to flee the coming fight. Brother Thomas eased his way to the back of the group, joining Brother Nemo and Arianrhod. Meanwhile Takashima and Moyses had armed themselves with swords and Edgar was kneeling on the ground, a dozen arrows stuck in the earth before him and a thirteenth already notched and ready to be fired from his bow. Barnabus was also on the floor, but he remained unarmed, busily searching for something in his capacious bag. Arianrhod’s eyes were fixed on the Knights Templars. They stood in line, their horses unnaturally still, no sound, no movement, like some vast war machine waiting for the lever to be pulled to send them into deadly action. Behind them and above, a skylark fluttered in the cloudless sky, busy searching for its nest. Arianrhod wondered what to do. Should she run like the priest or should she hold her position here between Brother Nemo and Brother Thomas? No one spoke, no commands were given, no strategy discussed. It was as if each of the Dark Brethren knew their role exactly, only she was seized by this total bewilderment. The lark dropped from the heavens and there was a moment of unearthly peace and then all was war.
The Templars charged, splitting into three groups as they did so. The central force came thundering towards them across the flat grass, while five knights wheeled off at each side, careening up the banks, intending to catch the monks in a pincer movement while at the same time using the downward slope to give them enough speed to crush their puny enemy into the dirt. Arianrhod watched the sunlight glistening off whirling maces and scything swords and waited for the end, comforted by the knowledge that it would be swift but disconcerted by Brother Nemo's whistling. Only Edgar seemed to understand the situation. She marvelled at his skill as he loosed three arrows in quick succession at the group of five on the right-hand slope. Three horses lost their riders, killed by arrows which pierced their armour and bit into their hearts. Meanwhile, on the left, Brother Barnabus had found what he was looking for, a curious tube which he was now filling with bits of metal and black powder. The main Templar force was a matter of ten yards from Takashima and Moyses who just stood there, their swords pointed to the ground, waiting to be overwhelmed. Then, all of a sudden, all of the horses stopped. They did not slow down, they were not reined to a halt by their masters, they were just stopped in their tracks by some unseen force. The air was filled with flying knights as they left their mounts and tumbled to the ground. Moyses and Takashima went to work with their swords, while Edgar finished off the two Templars who rolled down the bank towards him.
The original force of twenty had been reduced to five. Unfortunately this was the breakaway group from the left and as they scrambled to their feet and shook off their confusion, they began to converge on the nearest monk, who was still fiddling with his tube of powder. Brother Thomas yelled a warning to Barnabus who looked up and saw the five knights bearing down on him. He threw the tube away and banged his wrists together across his chest. His hands were instantly filled with two short daggers which he threw at the nearest Templars. They fell to the ground, each with the handle of a dagger protruding from the eye slit in his helm, but there were still three to deal with. As Arianrhod began to run to his aid, she heard Brother Thomas mutter something and she saw one of the Templars suddenly split in half. His whole body was rent from crotch to head and as the two sides began to peel away and spill his innards on the ground, Arianrhod fell to her knees and was violently sick. The two remaining Templars seemed to mimic her action. They fell to their knees, but then hurled away their weapons and pulling off their helmets, began to beg for mercy.
Brother Barnabus got to his feet, looked across at Brother Thomas and shrugged his shoulders. “I miscalculated the time they’d take to reach me.”
Brother Thomas shook his head. “You miscalculated the time it would take you to find the thing in that bag of yours. No matter, ask your captives to join us back at our camp, we need to talk.”
The Dark Brethren gathered up their weapons, their two prisoners and their newest, and rather ashen-faced member, and left the field of battle.
5
The battle had lasted a mere few minutes. The black-clad monk turned to the one in white and said, “You see?”
“I see indeed, Brother John, I am most grateful for your intercession. I have heard tales of the prodigious gifts of the Dark Brethren and this demonstration proves they were no exaggeration.”
The two figures stood up, brushing dead grass and leaves from their habits. They had watched the confrontation from behind a rough patch of bushes which crowned the hill behind the Templars’ position. Now they looked down on the scene of carnage. Eighteen bodies lying dead, twenty horses roaming free, nuzzling the grass in the silent arena. They watched the Dark Brethren walk off down the gully, back towards the village with their prisoners in tow.
The white monk turned to Brother John and said, “One thing does puzzle me however. You said they would be five in number, that one was dead and you were the seventh and yet...?” he let the question hang there and waited for reply.
“What can I tell you? The night I left, Brother Takashima was dead and now he is alive. There is no mistaking his technique with that deviant sword. What do you suggest, that they have the power of life over death? I think such a secret would be hard to conceal from their own brethren. I fought alongside them on many occasions and the sweat of fear basted every brow before the battle commenced. No, it was some game they played and I was the butt of their jest. The girl colluded in their subterfuge to draw me out and give them cause to dismiss me. I was never wholly welcome in their company.”
“You surprise me, an affable fellow like yourself,” commented the white monk. “And the queer one who spewed up his guts and played no further part in the battle, I failed to see the point of that in their overall strategy?”
“Him I have never seen before. I suspect he’s just some poor soul they picked up on the road to make up the numbers. Numbers are very important to them. I doubt you have much to fear from him.”
“That’s comforting,” said the white monk, “but what of the others? The one with the bow, the Moor and the walking dead man with the curious sword, these were all most skilled but warriors are a tedious crew and we possess the means to deal with them. But the one who stopped the horses, the one who split that knight in twain, what of them? And, for that matter, the one who spent the battle oblivious, making some device which he never got chance to use, what of him?”
“Brother Barnabus,” and the one-eyed monk gave full vent to the sneer in his tone, “he is a rude mechanical, a workman of the basest kind. He has no knowledge of war and no heart for the fight. He seeks to cover his cowardice with plans for great machines which will take the place of the sword and the hand and the will to guide it home. That trick with the knives was down to luck not skill, he could never make the shot again. He is a dreamer, that is all, he poses no threat. Likewise the fat one, Nemo, he is nothing more than a bloated belly on legs, he is kept for amusement only. But the other one, the leader of the Dark Brethren, he is the source of all your worries. Brother Thomas is the one who brought down the horses, who split that poor devil without a second thought. He is privy to the spells of Jesus Magus, he is the one you must destroy. Do that and the others will collapse in disarray and pose no further threat.”
“Easier said than done, Brother John. I am open to suggestions. Did Brother Thomas ever reveal to you any of these ‘spells’ which we might use against him?”
“A few, Father Abbot, but they were of the healing kind. If any of your followers are afflicted with leprosy then I can cure them, likewise I can make the blind see and the lame walk, but when it comes to driving the Gadarene swine over the cliff, or as in this case, causing them to halt at the edge, then I am powerless to help.”
“A pity. I suppose that splitting trick is also unknown to you?”
Brother John just shrugged his shoulders.
“I would have liked to see that done again. For my own amusement, you understand? I found it most...entertaining. Never mind, there must be other ways in which you can aid us. Could you use your powers of persuasion to bring Brother Thomas to the Abbey for a private performance perhaps?”
“Takashima maybe, Edgar, Barnabus and Moyses, and of course Nemo, but Thomas would never succumb. No the problem is yours Father Abbot, I have done my part in alerting you to the strength of the forces you face. If I had not intervened then you and all your monks would be as dead as those brave men down there. I wish to see the end of the Dark Brethren but I have had my fill of orders, I do not intend to pledge allegiance to another faction. So do not ask me for further help, I have saved you once and for that you owe me. Beyond that I will just say that when the final battle occurs I will be watching, but from a safe distance.”
The white monk smiled. It was not a cheerful sight. His face was long and thin and pasty white. As it contorted with his grin his skin stretched tight and gave him the look of a sun-bleached skull. “Of course Brother John, we owe you our heartfelt thanks, you have certainly saved our poor Abbey from destruction. Let us leave this place and retire there forthwith to partake of some refreshment. We have the finest cook in England in our kitchen and the finest meat in the country roasting on his fire. We will not be troubled by your Dark Brethren for a while at least and when we are, it will be up to us to face them alone. I understand your fear. Having seen that man cut straight up the middle I admit to a strange tingle of apprehension myself.”
Brother John stared into the eyes of the death’s-head mask and saw nothing. He decided to ignore the gibe about his lack of courage and added another name to the list of those over whom he had no power. Following the Dark Brethren along the road from Statford he had picked up enough gossip from those they passed to lead him to Achor and enlist the aid of the Abbot. His sole intention was to destroy the Dark Brethren but after seeing yet another display of their indomitable strength he was beginning to doubt whether they could be defeated by anything save the hand of God.
And as the thought escaped his mind, the Abbot widened that awful grin and said, “Our God has many hands.”
And all Brother John could say in reply was, “I am hungry.”
And the Abbot said, “Well then, let us go to the Abbey and eat.”
6
Hugh d’Argentein thought he must be dreaming. He was still in the woods, still held captive in the camp of those black-robed devils, his arms around the tree trunk at his back, his hands tied. He struggled again to break the knot as he had tried all through their interrogation but this time the rope gave way and then he knew it was a dream. He looked at his companion slumped against the next tree. He stealthily moved across and put his hand over William’s mouth lest he should cry out when wakened. As his friend struggled out of sleep, Hugh reassured him with a glance then set to work untying him. With a whispered command to wait and watch, he returned to his original place, and let the dream continue.
On the other side of the campfire six of the Dark Brethren were on their knees. There was a deep thrumming sound in the forest glade, vibrating the ground so that Hugh felt rather than heard the weird chant. In front of the six kneeling monks stood the seventh, cowl thrown back, long black hair cascading down around a face of perfect beauty. Hugh was disconcerted by his reaction to that face but it was impossible to tear his eyes away. The seventh monk was intoning some devilish incantation in an unknown tongue, his eyes cast down at some object he held in his hands, hidden from Hugh’s sight by the other six. Then the seventh monk gave out a piercing shriek and held the object over his head and Hugh saw it plain and gripped his tree. The other monks bowed their heads, whether from respect or fear, Hugh had no way of knowing, this was their ceremony not his. The weirdly beautiful priest then lowered the accursed thing and murmured more guttural, then raised it again and the heads were bowed once more. A third time he did it but here the sequence changed and the banshee scream gave way to a different voice. The six monks raised their heads and looked at their precious god while the seventh continued to hold him aloft. The god, the demon more like, spoke to the congregation. Spoke in words Hugh could understand. He looked across at William to see if he shared his dream, the dream which was fast becoming nightmare, for the object of adoration for these Dark Brethren was a man's head, bearded and mobile and capable of speech despite being completely unattached to a body. William’s eyes were transfixed by the sight and Hugh turned once more to face the wondrous apparition.
The words which came from the head might have been comprehensible to Hugh but their sense was not. The disembodied head spoke in riddles like some ancient oracle, casting out phrases like ‘silence is twice as fast backwards’ to dance on the wind like the sparks from the fire at the centre of the glade. Hugh watched the shimmering lights and listened to the voice and his mind was stirred from its sleep and he felt for the first time the wonder in the mind of God. And then for a moment all was eerie silence. The chanting stopped, the head was lowered and the Dark Brethren rose from their knees. The priest then presented the head to each of the monks in turn and they kissed it full on the lips and said the words, ‘Baphomet gratias’. The ceremony over, the head was then put back in its box and the seven monks made ready to sleep. Hugh listened to their mutterings, caught odd words here and there, words like ‘power’ and ‘might’ and ‘origin’ and ‘source’. Slowly his mind went to work piecing all he had seen and heard on this strange day together. He had witnessed the power and might of the Dark Brethren at first hand. Had seen a force of twenty Templars, well-trained and battle-hardened, defeated by a motley band of seven monks. One so fat he could scarce move, another in his dotage, a third who took no part at all in the battle. This was no regular army, this was an aberration in the mind of God. And yet these paltry seven had smote his brothers down without incurring a shred of damage to their own side. It was witchcraft, it was magic, it was sorcery, that was the only explanation. They had been warned by the Cistercian from Achor and they had laughed in his face. They had heard the rumours of the Dark Brethren but what cared they for the tales of pisspot merchants and scullymen? They were the Knights Templars of Kel, they were the match for any band of mendicant monks. But twenty had ridden from the preceptory that morning and only two were now alive. Hugh played the battle in his mind for the thousandth time. He saw the horses stop in unison, saw his comrades fall, saw the mighty frame of Meurisse de Domremy split from ballocks to brow.
Hugh’s heart was filled with the passion for vengeance but his mind counselled caution. If he waited until they were all asleep, for their power had caused them to become complacent and they had neglected to post a guard over their prisoners, then he might succeed in killing two or maybe three before the alarm was raised. Instead he would steal the source of their power, he would take the blasphemy that was Baphomet and would flee into the forest. The time would come when he could bathe in the cold blood of revenge but first he must act like a thief in the night and then he must discover the secrets of the miraculous head for himself and for all his fellow Templars. He would make his way to the preceptory at Dover and thence to France where he would consult with the Grand Master. Soon the message would be spread abroad and then every Templar in Christendom would share in the secret power of the Dark Brethren.
7
Brother Edgar opened his eyes to confirm what his ears had told him, then sheathed his dagger. “They’ve gone,” he said and the rest of the Dark Brethren ceased their play-acting and sat up. All except Brother Nemo who had sunk himself so deep in his part that he had fallen asleep. Barnabus leaned over to rouse him but Brother Thomas shook a finger and indicated they should let him sleep on.
“Nearly drifted off myself,” said Moyses, “I thought they were never going to go.”
Barnabus looked at the spot where he’d left Baphomet in his box. “They took it then,” he said, failing to disguise the disappointment in his voice.
“That was the idea,” said Brother Thomas.
Takashima leaned across and put a hand on Barnabus’ shoulder. “You can always make another.”
Barnabus brightened immediately. “I could, it would take time of course, but I have already thought of some improvements I could make to the mechanism. ‘Silence is twice as fast backwards’, much too obscure, I’m sure I could get the next one to respond more sensibly to any question it was asked. It could carry on conversations, could be a portable companion to take on long journeys, in fact there’s no reason why it should be disembodied. In fact....”
“Leave such thoughts for later Barnabus,” interrupted Brother Thomas. “Our mission is not yet accomplished. Those Templars were not placed in our path by accident. We were engaged to put on a show and I can guess the identity of the audience. Still, we have succeeded in planting the seed of Baphomet as we intended and with any luck the weed will grow quickly and infect the whole body of the Knights Templars.”
“Keep the buggers off our backs for a while,” said Moyses.
“Language, Brother Moyses, though I agree with the sentiment.” The old monk smiled. “Speaking of which, child, I should perhaps have warned you that I am fluent in your native tongue.”
In the dim light of the dying fire no one could see Arianrhod’s cheeks redden. “Forgive me Brother Thomas but without a text to read I had to rely on memory and my father’s curses seemed more appropriate than the Paternoster.”
“You played your part to perfection, my child, as you all have done today. I must admit our success worries me slightly. Maybe our luck will not hold.”
“Is that all it is Thomas,” said Takashima, “luck?”
“Sometimes I wonder,” replied the old man.
“And what of God?”
Brother Thomas looked into the dying embers. “Ask those Templars if you want to know whose side He fights on.”
“Luck, fate, pure blind chance,” said Takashima, “what hope have we against such an enemy?”
“ ‘Silence is twice as fast backwards’,” said Barnabus. Then he added, “Goodnight” and went to join Brother Nemo in that other land.
1
At first we walked, each house in the town disgorging its occupants and turning the stream into a river. Then the pace increased, the people at the back pushing forward, eager to get on. We trotted, the children skipped, someone started to sing and everyone joined in and some broke free from the current and danced alongside. By the time we broke off from the highway and entered the woods, some of us were running, brushing back the bloated ferns which overhung the well-beaten track. We plunge down dips and surge over banks, we crest the final rise and see the tip of the tower rising beyond the tops of the trees, our song breaks up with cheers and loud cries of exaltation. Then the tide breaks through the edge of the forest and flows down the grassy bank into the clearing, down to the abbey, down to the refectory, down to the tower, running and falling and rolling and tumbling, down to the smiling company of white monks who wait to greet us with open arms. We have arrived for the feast.
I am lucky to be here. I could be still in Potley, sipping thin gruel and listening to my brother’s tales of the Holy Land. He means to go roaming again, he shared the secret with me last week, with me alone. He has not even mentioned it to Katherine and she goes on believing they will be married by Christmas. I should have liked to see her face when she realises he’s gone and this time for good, but I have my own life to live. ‘Never go to Normancote,’ my daddy always said, ‘or you will sup with the devil.’ Only two miles distant from my home and yet as exotic as the Holy City itself. So where else should I go but to Normancote on May Day, to partake of the feast and make merry. That's as good a start as any for a young maid out to see the world.
If daddy could see me now, or Robert for that matter. He told us tales of many things and some I even believed, but did he ever run with a crowd, run towards something completely unknown, drunk on the expectation of others? For once in my life I do what I will and I accept whatever awaits. The people of Normancote are cheering and whistling and laughing, they are so happy. I am infected with their disease. I grasp the arm of the man next to me and we dance.
Now the white monks lead us to the refectory. We sit at the long tables and wait. I have heard them talk of the feasts of the past, how every year the food gets better, the wine warmer and thicker. They lick their lips and smack their chops and play with their knives and plates. Then a wonderful aroma wafts through the room and the food arrives, each monk carrying in a vast platter piled high with meat. And such meat as never I tasted before. The sweetest pork, the most succulent venison that I ever dreamed of eating is cast to the slophouse. Can Moses himself have dined better on the manna from Heaven? Surprisingly in this house of God, we do not say grace, but then no one can resist the temptation of this glorious food and it is only after the last morsel of flesh has been sucked from the bone that we all give thanks to the providers of the feast, the great Lord and the Knights Templars.
I am full, replete, gorged on flesh. Others in the party are becoming merry with the wine, downing great flagons of the rich red brew, though I must admit it did not appeal to my palate, lingering too long in the throat and spoiling the taste of the meat, so I sipped from my chalice sparingly. I do not need alcohol to raise my spirits. I am one with that man over there dancing on the table. I am one with that old woman in the corner lifting her skirts and singing a lewd song. I can dance with the company, I can sing, I can cast off my past and live again.
The Abbot calls for silence, then bids us all go outside for the moon has risen, the fires have been lit and it is time to give thanks and praise to the Lord. I shuffle with the others out of the refectory and into the grounds of the abbey. What a sight there greets my eyes. Huge bonfires have been lit and send their flames to the sky, lighting up the scene as though it were bright midday. The two biggest fires flank the entrance to the tower and I feel that all of our attention is to be fixed on that point. I am jostled by the happy crowd and soon find myself pushed to the front. The tower soars to the stars above my head and I face the large stone which lies on the ground before the door. A curious thought crosses my mind and I wonder why the rock was not moved before the tower was built. Warmed by the fires and soothed by a full stomach, I find myself caught up in the motion of the crowd as it begins to sway gently from side to side. My mind is lulled by the movement, by the warmth, by the low chanting which rolls through the air, a strange sound composed of words unknown to me, ancient words, forgotten words, dead words. I mimic the sounds and join the crowd in their song, all unknowing what I sing for. Then the door of the tower opens and the Abbot appears, holding a curious object, a thing which glistens in the firelight. The crowd stirs at the sight of this misshapen wedge of gold, the chant rises in pitch as its speed increases. The swaying motion becomes less rhythmic, more frenetic. I feel myself buffeted on either side as I strain to keep up. Then the golden thing is placed upon the rock before the tower door and the Abbot cries out, “Ab lanathanalba akrammachamarei e e e, thy children await.” And then I see four white figures approaching me and I try to sink into the crowd, and I turn my back on the altar with its grotesque golden idol and I beat my hands on the chests of the men and women who bar my way. I fall to the ground and try to squirm between their legs but they kick me back and the four white monks lift me to my feet. They drag me to the rock and each takes an arm or a leg and they spread me across the altar so that I feel the accursed golden thing press against my spine. Then the Abbot stands above me with a sword in his hands and he places the tip against my breast and then it is my turn to cry out. “Thomas!” I scream. “Brother Thomas!” And the sword presses into my flesh and skewers my heart and the rich, red wine flows. I turn my head and see the open doorway of the tower and I see something move in the darkness. A great cry goes up from the crowd, drowning my pitiful pleas for help, as the children glimpse their god. And then my heart stops beating.
2
Brother Moyses had made himself a cosy nest in the crotch of a large oak at the edge of the forest. He sat there with his cowl hanging low to cover the whites of his eyes and thus hidden from the enemy he watched the company stream out of the abbey and assemble on the ground before the mighty tower. He saw the Abbot appear with that strange lump of gold and felt an insect crawl over his shoulder. He waited for the signal from Brother Thomas and brushed a spider from his hand. This was the plan, to sit and wait for the signal, then to attack. To remove as many of the white-clad monks as he could before they ran for cover, for run they would when the arrows of his brothers began to fly. He saw Arianrhod being pushed to the front of the crowd and felt something skitter down his back. The main attack would come from the hill opposite the tower, where Brother Thomas waited with the bulk of their force. He and Takashima had been deployed elsewhere to spread confusion and cause the good citizens of Normancote to panic. Another spider crawled along his right leg. He must be sharing their nest.
Moyses watched as Arianrhod was dragged from the crowd by four mock-Cistercians. So, her obvious skill of dissemblance was no match for these particular sons of Satan. Still, it would not harm her to have her pride dealt such a blow. She had been so confident in her ability to infiltrate the villagers that Brother Thomas had amended his initial plan so that she could play this part. Another spider explored his sleeve. Originally Brother Thomas had just expressed regret that there would be inevitable casualties among the innocent congregation of the Abbey of Achor but Arianrhod had expressed horror at the thought and had suggested she be allowed to move among them so that when the fighting began she could sound the alarm and alert them to the danger, then lead them all to safety. Another spider.
Moyses watched as Arianrhod was stretched out on the rock. He thought it strange for Brother Thomas to wait this long before signalling the attack. Now if Edgar or Barnabus were in charge then the delay might be explained, for Edgar had a weakness for the dramatic and might tempt fate for sake of capturing the extreme moment, and Barnabus would never have his equipment ready in time. But Brother Thomas was their leader and he was old and he was wise and he was allowing Arianrhod to be sacrificed. Something was wrong. Moyses shook the cowl back from his eyes and saw a thousand spiders fall into his lap.
The sword was hovering above Arianrhod’s breast as Moyses reached for his bow. He was no match for Edgar or Takashima but he was a good enough archer to make the shot. His bow and a quiver of arrows were slung across his back and that is where they remained. Moyses tried to move his arms but they were locked at his sides. He felt the spiders crawling over his face, into his nostrils, his ears, his eyes, trying to force his lips apart. He felt their webs spinning over his body, tying him down, fixing him to the wood of the old oak tree. Millions of spiders going about their natural work, but with some common purpose ordained by some outside force, some bestial god commanding them to do his bidding. Moyses watched as the sword fell and Arianrhod died and the signal from Brother Thomas never came.
As the spiders spun a fresh cowl over his face, Moyses caught a last glimpse of the scene at the foot of the Tower. He saw Arianrhod lying dead and bleeding on the altar, he saw the Abbot step aside, he saw the monks and the people of Normancote bow their heads, and finally, through a thickening film of gossamer white, he saw the spiders’ god slither out of his nest.
3
Barnabus was searching through his bag when Brother Thomas called him over. He pointed down below to the Abbey where the people were milling about and then to the door of the tower which now stood open. The Abbot of Achor stood before the door holding a yellow rock.
“He did not leave the building with the mob, although we saw him enter there earlier,” the old monk explained, “so there must be a connecting passage underground. He used the tunnel to reach the tower. I suggest, Barnabus, you do the same. Edgar, you go with him for protection, I will remain here and give the signal to the others to attack.”
Edgar considered for a moment the change in strategy. They were to provide a frontal assault, supported by Moyses on the right flank and Takashima from behind. His departure would weaken the force of that attack, but given Brother Thomas’s powers, not significantly. Besides, this change would bring Barnabus unseen into the tower so that he could destroy it from within and they were all agreed that that would bring a swift end to the battle. So he said nothing, nodded once to Brother Thomas, once to Barnabus, and started down the hill.
Barnabus picked up his bag. “I’ll set off the screamer when all is ready,” he said to Brother Thomas, but the old monk wasn’t listening, was too intent on the scene unfolding below. So Barnabus repeated his warning to Brother Nemo then hurried off after Edgar.
They worked their way round to the back of the Abbey buildings, crawling through the ploughed fields of the Cistercians’ farm and into their garden. Neither said a word, though Barnabus sensed some disquiet in his companion. When they finally hit stone ground again, the path that ran between beds of parsley and mint, Edgar shot to his feet and began shaking himself and brushing at his habit. Barnabus asked him what was the matter and Edgar hissed at him, “Did you not feel them, crawling all over you. The very earth was alive. We did not move, we were carried along, borne to our own destruction.” Barnabus was taken aback by the terror in the voice of this most dour member of the Dark Brethren. Then he heard a number of clicks and cracks and looking down in the dim light he saw the stone path littered with snail shells. As Edgar brushed at his clothes, more of the tiny beasts fell and then Barnabus checked his own person, finding colonies of grubs and earwigs, slugs and wood-lice nestling in the folds of his habit. Two acolytes of St. Vitus danced in the garden of the Abbey of Achor in the light of the gibbous moon.
Barnabus finally noticed that as soon as the little creatures were dislodged they tried desperately to return to their old home and they also appeared to be gathering their relations from the soil on either side the path. He indicated as much to Edgar and whispered, “Should we not find sanctuary inside the Abbey?” Thus they ran to the nearest door and found themselves, to judge by the smell, in the kitchen. Barnabus was thankful Nemo was not with them or else their progress would again be halted while their gluttonous brother searched for the source of the fabulous aroma which assailed their nostrils. Barnabus himself was sorely tempted to lift the lids of the vast cooking-pots which lay around, hoping to take a taste, but they had wasted enough time already. Edgar hurried across to the next door which led into the refectory. Barnabus followed him into the vast hall. It was the largest building in the Abbey, covering much more ground than either the church or the dormitory. They did not stop to wonder why, just took a moment to gain their bearings, then searched for another exit besides that which they knew led straight outside. The refectory was vaguely lit by the light of the bonfires shining in through the high windows but that was enough for Edgar’s keen eyes to see the door in the west wall. He led Barnabus towards it but as he pushed it open, he stopped and turned his head as if to listen.
“What now, Edgar?” whispered Barnabus.
Edgar shook his head for silence. Barnabus listened too but all he could hear was the muffled chanting of the crowd outside. “You carry on, I think I heard something over there,” said Edgar, indicating the far corner of the refectory. Barnabus looked in that direction but could make out nothing in the shadows. “Find the tunnel and wait for me. I'll be along shortly.”
“I’ll come with you,” said Barnabus.
“No time,” replied Edgar. “You have to get into the tower as quickly as possible and I don’t know how well they’ve hidden the entrance. You go on ahead and start searching, I’ll make sure there’s no one at our backs.”
Edgar crept off into the shadows and Barnabus went through the doorway. He was perfectly able to take care of himself but suddenly losing Edgar as his companion meant he had to concentrate harder on the perils of the journey and put to one side his calculations of the force required to topple the tower. It was pitch-black in here so he reached in his bag for a candle and his flint box. In the sudden burst of light he saw various insects fleeing from the fire and he gave himself another shake. He was in a corridor, with doors spaced at regular intervals on either side. These he presumed were the cells of the Cistercians. He recalled the layout of the abbey as seen from the hill where Brother Thomas must now be giving the signal to attack, there should be a door at the far end of the corridor which would lead outside and then he would have to cross a small patch of open ground before he entered the church. Logically the tunnel would be located in the church, presumably in the vault, since it was the closest building to the tower. As he walked down the corridor, trying to ignore the sounds of crunching and squishing beneath his feet he had a sudden thought and stopped. Brother Thomas had said the Abbot had entered the refectory and then had reappeared from inside the tower. He never saw him cross to the church. So the tunnel must be here.
Barnabus hurried down the corridor and came to the last door on the right. He tried the handle. The door opened onto a small empty room. In the centre of the floor was an open trapdoor and Barnabus could make out stone steps leading down into the earth. He hesitated. Should he wait for Edgar or should he press on. alone? Some niggling doubt played at the edge of his mind, some feeling of unease fluttered in his belly. So he was afraid, no shame in that. There was a small window in the wall through which the light of the bonfires flickered. He looked outside and was horrified at the scene. Arianrhod lay bleeding on the altar, the white monks and the people of Normancote stood with their heads bowed, and from out of the doorway to the tower slithered some vast abomination. Where were the rest of the Dark Brethren? Where were the stars of Takashima? Where the flashing sword of Moyses? Why was Brother Thomas waiting so long to call them all to battle? Barnabus wheeled from the window, his mind made up. There was no time to wait for Edgar, he must go into the tunnel alone. His task was to destroy the tower, he did not need Edgar for that. And still the doubt gnawed at his brain.
He rushed down the steps and started to walk along the passage. The tunnel had been well constructed. These Cistercians were master-masons. It was not high enough to walk without stooping but it was not the narrow crawlway he had been expecting. Barnabus held his candle in front of him and tried to see the end of the tunnel. It should not be far away. There was no light ahead so he presumed the other trapdoor was shut, otherwise there would be firelight trickling in from the open tower door. And the doubt finally reached a nerve and tweaked it and Barnabus looked more closely into the blackness ahead. The door to the room had not been locked, the trapdoor had been left open. They were confident in their wickedness or perhaps they meant to leave a swift avenue of escape. Barnabus stopped. Or maybe, just maybe, they wanted them to find the secret passage, wanted them to walk along it, confident in their virtue. Barnabus took a step back. He looked at the darkness ahead. He took another step, took another look. The darkness was much closer. It was moving down the tunnel towards him. Barnabus turned and ran but before he could reach the stone steps he felt the darkness grab his legs and pull him over. The darkness engulfed him, tugged and tore and dragged him, screaming, back up the tunnel.
4
Takashima stood behind the tower and looked up. He had expected to meet some opposition here, but he was alone, listening to the sounds of the people on the far side. True, the creatures of the forest were acting strangely tonight and he had had to unsheathe his sword to deal with a pack of wolves, but he had met no man on the way to his appointed place. Now he had only to climb the tower and wait for the signal. He estimated the height at over three hundred feet. It was well within his capabilities. He closed his eyes and concentrated his mind and swift as the wind Takashima ascended to the top of the tower.
From here he could see everything. Brother Thomas on his hill. Brother Nemo apparently remonstrating with him, pointing out something below - presumably he had seen some food. Takashima smiled. He followed the pointing finger and looking over the low wall which circled the top of the tower he saw directly beneath him the Abbot of Achor plunging a sword into Arianrhod. Takashima started back at the sight. The wolves must have delayed him longer than he thought. No wonder Brother Nemo was so upset with Brother Thomas. Still there must be a reason to delay the attack. He could not see Barnabus or Edgar, and Moyses was as black as the forest which hid him. Whatever Brother Thomas’ reason, Takashima would wait no longer while one of the Brethren lay dying beneath him. He stepped up to the wall and took the stars from the pouch on his belt. He laid them in a row. There were thirteen, for their only information on the Cistercian community at Achor was that it consisted of one Abbot and twelve monks. Takashima's task was to kill as many of the white monks as possible, without harming the villagers, and so he had brought thirteen stars. He also had his bow slung across his back and his sword at his hip for when he descended from the tower. Whatever the other members of the Dark Brethren were up to, Takashima knew what he had to do and there was no force on earth capable of deterring him.
Takashima picked up the first star. It was less than two inches in diameter but its serrated edges and five points were razor sharp and if on target could cut through a man's throat or even his skull and fell him in an instant. Takashima leant across the parapet and took aim at the Abbot's bald pate. He put one foot back to steady himself, his sandal scraping the metal grate that was set in the centre of the tower’s roof, and pulled back his arm ready to throw.
The star fell to the ground in a spiralling arc and landed harmlessly in the grass. The force of gravity alone helped it dig its way a few inches into the turf. Then a shower of stars fell from the tower, twelve in all, scattering themselves at the feet of the Abbot of Achor. Curious, he looked up in the sky and saw a yellow monk being hurled around the heavens, attached to earth by a long, black, silken thread. The Abbot of Achor thought it appropriate that the Oriental monk should emulate one of the kites of his homeland before being sliced to death as the black hand of his master dragged him through the grating at the top of the tower. He looked at his god and smiled. The black mass of shifting, tarry stuff formed a thousand heads, a thousand mouths echoing the white monk’s smile.
5
Edgar turned once and watched Barnabus go through the doorway, then he followed the sound of the voice which whispered his name, into the dark corner of the refectory. He drew a dagger from his belt and let it rest against his thigh, holding it by the blade, ready to hurl it at whatever called to him from the shadows.
“Well, Edgar,” came the whisper, “whatever have you blundered into now? Come closer, that’s it, closer. I’m here, over here.”
Edgar made his way around the long tables and benches and tried to see beyond the flickering light from the high windows. Finally he brushed against the farthest table, the one in the corner, completely hidden in the shadows, too far to catch any of the wandering light.
“That’s right,” whispered the voice, “here I am and here you are. Let there be light.” And a candle sparked aflame and Edgar found himself staring into the face of Brother John.
He was seated at the table, eating. On the plate in front of him stood the boiled head of a man, its skin bloated, its eyes hanging from their sockets. John had cut off the top of the skull as one would open an egg and was dipping a metal spoon into the man’s brains. He took the spoon to his lips and sucked in the flesh, then as he chewed he said, “Want some?”
Edgar shook his head.
“It’s quite good really, although I know you’ve tasted better. That little Jew girl we basted in honey and roasted on the spit outside Jerusalem, nothing could compare with that I grant you, but boiled Templar brains are really quite tasty. You’re sure you won’t join me?”
Edgar strengthened his grip on the dagger blade until he drew blood from his fingers.
“Now, now Edgar, let’s have none of that. I called you over here in friendship. I offer you food. And wine, of course! No wonder you view me with such disgust, I make a poor host. I do believe I would forget my head if it were not on the plate in front of me.” He put down his spoon and reached for a flagon and two goblets and poured a drink for himself and Edgar. “Come now, you have time for a drink surely?” He passed the cup to Edgar, who picked it up, took one sniff at the contents and dashed it to the floor. “Lost your taste for blood too, I see. Well it takes time to adjust, I suppose. Get all that bread and wine out of your system and return to the real thing. You’ve been away too long, been corrupted by the old man. You should have kept your options open, Edgar, like me. My stomach can still take rich food like this, whether I’ve killed it or not. Speaking of which, that was a fine display you put on for us yesterday. In fact I think I’m eating one of your victims now.” John took the head in his hands and inclined it towards Edgar. “Recognise him? No, of course not, just another dead Templar. Another poor soul fallen foul of the mad crusade of Brother Thomas. Still it all ends here. The Dark Brethren is finished Edgar. You are no match for the Abbot of Achor and his friend in the tower. Have you seen it yet?” He waited for a reply but Edgar just stared at him and ran his thumb along the blade of the dagger. “Well, you will, and you will be amazed, I guarantee it. Such power, such force, such majesty, such terrible beauty. You’ll beg to join us then and I will let you, out of friendship. So, Edgar, sit awhile and we will talk of the old days while our new god goes about his work. The girl is dead already, Barnabus is buried, Moyses hangs from a tree and Takashima floats in the sky. Who remains? That tired old man, the fat one and you. It won’t be long now.”
Edgar made to lift his dagger. It was the slightest of slips but it was enough for John. His mind had been blank, filled only with the pain as he kept cutting his hand but he sent that one message to his brain to get his hand to move and John intercepted the command and threw it back in Edgar’s face. The dagger rose, slipped between his fingers until he gripped the hilt and then Edgar turned its point towards his own heart. He stood there, paralysed by the power of John’s mind.
John shook his head and smiled. He pushed his plate away and came round the table to stand in front of Edgar. “I really thought I could convince you. I thought you had more sense than the rest. Think man, think of what we could be with that beast at our backs. We could rule the world and you would give all that up for the sake of what? A wizened greybeard, a fat joke, a toymaker, a monkeyman and a slant-eyed yellow fool, are they really worth your death? Or is it the girl? Tell me it’s not the girl, tell me it’s nothing so pathetic as love. Where does she fit in anyway? That was a great trick of Takashima’s, playing dead to draw me out, but I don’t know why she stayed with you. I mean, do you all share her equally or does the old man dole out her favours depending on who kills the most Templars? You can’t tell me can you? I won’t let you speak. I won’t let you move. I’ll let you stand with that knife pointed at your chest until I decide to let you drop it or plunge it into your heart. I’m stronger now, it’s that thing in the tower, it feeds off us then spits it back so we all share the power. That’s the relationship you need with a god. None of this wait till you’re dead and then you can come to my house and adore me. I want more than that from a god and I want it now. I don’t want to wait. I want to enjoy my life, I want to experience all that life has to offer and I want to gorge myself sick in the process. Now I can do that and you can too if only you'll see the light and drop that dagger.”
Edgar could move. He turned the knife toward John and...the knife turned back to face his heart. John shook his head and went back to his meal. He took an eyeball and sucked at it reflectively.
“You know what I don’t understand Edgar? How someone can change so much. In the Holy Land we were the best of friends, people would remark on how alike we were. We shared the same taste in women, we enjoyed the slaughter of innocents, we drank together and whored together and yet here I sit, master of all I survey and there you stand, a dead man.” And as he said that, the dagger in Edgar’s hand began to push through his habit, through his skin, through his flesh until it pierced his beating heart.
6
Brother Nemo ran as fast as his overburdened legs would carry him. Ran down the hill, away from Brother Thomas, away from the Abbey of Achor and into the safety of the forest. He needed to wipe those images from his mind: Arianrhod on the altar, Takashima in the air and the look on Thomas's face. Let his mind be blank and let the peace which passeth all understanding infuse his soul. He must find a safe place to sit and rest. Out of breath, his lungs bursting, his heart racing, he slowed to a trot and then a walk. He felt the creatures of the forest come out to greet him. The laws of nature were all adrift. Things that burrowed beneath the earth and never breathed the open air were now breaking the surface of the land and biting into his feet. Bats and owls swooped from the sky and clawed his head. Brother Nemo staggered on, away from that accursed place and its evil influence. He came at last to a stream, fast-running through the forest, trickling down over stones and pebbles and glistening bright in the moonlight. He waded into the centre of the stream. He felt the water run cold around his ankles, over his feet. He bent down and scooped up a handful of pebbles, counted out a number in his right hand and dropped the rest, listening to the splashes. The light of the moon that glinted on the ripples, the sound of the pebbles falling through the water, the feel of the stream as it wove around his flesh. Brother Nemo chased the horror away and sank into the perfect blank that was his mind. Brother Nemo threw the pebbles in the air.
7
Brother Thomas sat on the hill, hidden in the long grass and ferns. He watched the people come out of the Abbey, watched them assemble before the tower. He searched out Arianrhod and kept his gaze fixed upon her as she was jostled by the crowd to the front. He began to feel uneasy and reached for the horn he was to blow to give the signal to attack. But he waited, Arianrhod knew what she was doing, would want to be in a good position to order the crowd to flee as soon as the white monks began to fall. Then the door in the tower opened and the Abbot of Achor appeared. Thomas had not seen him enter the tower by that door, had not even seen him leave the building with the others. There must be a secret entrance, underground. Thomas told Edgar and Barnabus to investigate. With Takashima behind and Moyses on the right they were strong enough to deal with Achor’s forces without having to rely on Edgar’s bow. Barnabus had greater need of him. He watched the Abbot place something on the rock in front of the tower. He considered asking Barnabus to leave one of his optical devices so that he could take a closer look and then he realised he didn’t need any artificial aids. The thing was as clear in his sight as if he stood before the rock itself. As if he were standing where Arianrhod now stood. He wished himself in that position, closer to the thing, although he need not be there, it was clear in his sight from here. Clear in his sight, that thing of gold and liquid form, that wondrous object, thing of beauty, that golden image of a god.
Thomas watched as Arianrhod was dragged to the altar and was stretched out upon it so that she covered the thing. But Thomas could still see it there beneath her, could see it, almost feel it burning through her body, that was how wondrous this thing was, this image of his new god. And Thomas watched as the Abbot took the sword and held it over Arianrhod. And Thomas watched and did not hear Brother Nemo shouting at him to sound the attack. And Thomas watched as Arianrhod died. And Thomas did not see Brother Nemo run away. And Thomas did not blow his horn. And the signal to attack never came. And Thomas watched the thing, the golden thing, the wondrous thing, the glorious thing, the image of God. And then God came out of the tower and Thomas watched and looked upon the very face of God.
1
Brother Nemo was sinking. He beat his arms and kicked his legs and kept his eyes and mouth tight shut. If only he could do the same with his nose, he thought, as the smell of the putrid water engulfed his nostrils. He struck out for the bank and, with some difficulty, dragged himself up by the brickwork and heaved his vast bulk onto the towpath. He got to his feet and shook himself like a dog then waddled over to the pile of rags, soaked to the skin, his habit dripping a trail of foul-smelling slime behind him.
The pile of rags moved at his approach, then uncurled itself and spoke, “You’re wet.”
Nemo countered through chattering teeth, “And cold. Could we light a fire?”
“Of course, if you want to get arrested. Here,” and the raggedy man tossed Nemo a filthy piece of cloth, covered with pictures of curiously shaped chimneys and the remains of words, ‘veni o St’. “Dry yersen with that and get on with it. I want get back to sleep. Big day tomorrer.”
Thunder filled the air and light splayed down on either side of the tunnel as one of Barnabus’ contraptions crossed the bridge above. Nemo wiped his face, then threw the dirty rag back on the pile. “How do we destroy it?”
“You can’t.”
“Then what do we do?”
“Pray to Jesus. He’s a mate of yours, inner he?”
Nemo fell to his knees and his spongy habit shot out a slimy spray. “If he still walked among us, then he would be fighting at our side. He left me here alone to fight the beast but he gave no instructions how to kill it.”
“It cannot be killed.”
“Then what do we do?”
“You have had a millennium to prepare, to learn the ways of your enemy, to gather knowledge and power, and what have you done? Grown fat and lazy.”
Nemo beat his breast thrice and murmured, “Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.”
The raggedy man laughed, a keening wail that echoed against the roof and beat back through Nemo’s ears, making the water rush to burst the drums. “Keep that dead tongue talk for the magic act, I don’t dig it no more. You blew it man, you blew the whole gig. See.” He pointed at the canal as it ceased to exist. The bridge disappeared and the two of them sank into the mud of a fetid swamp. “That’s Barney buggered.”
Nemo looked round at the changed landscape. Fires burned in the distance and he could make out the rough outlines of stone castles and mud huts standing all crooked on the horizon. There were odd screams falling through the night air and he could make out another, deeper sound, a muffled grunting coming ever closer. He looked at the raggedy man and asked, “Is this what you prefer?”
“What’s the difference? It’s all the same to me. You could have changed it but you failed. End of story. Now, either you go back and bury your dead, or you stay here and enjoy the fruits of your defeat.”
“I shall go back and I shall change all this, back to how it was, back to how it should be.”
“Nothing changes, all remains the same. That lesson at least, I would have expected you to learn.”
“No, never, there must always be hope.”
“Faith yes, charity maybe, but never hope.”
Nemo sank a little further into the bog and watched the bulrushes stir in the wind.
“Come,” said the raggedy man, “let us move before the new men get here. When they catch sight of you I doubt they will be able to contain themselves and I do so hate a scene.” He uncurled himself and rose to his feet, then started to splash through the shifting ground, away from the movement in the rushes.
Nemo made to follow but his bulk was too great, he was firmly stuck in the mud. He called out after the retreating figure, “You wanted this to happen. You prefer it this way.”
The bunch of rags on the stick-like frame stopped and turned. “Want? Prefer? It is all the same to me. I am the nothing out of which all this came. I do not choose the path you take, you choose it for yourself. I cannot be held responsible. I cannot tell you what to do. I do not care. Understand that, if nothing else, I do not care.”
Nemo screamed, “So what is the point of it all?”
The scarecrow hurtled across the swamp, in the time it takes for a butterfly to beat its wings, and pushed his face from out his raggy hat. He fixed Nemo’s eye with his rheumy gaze and reached into a pocket of his mourning suit. He took out a box of little sticks and struck one against the side. In the bright flash of fire Nemo saw the world turn in the bead of snot which hung on the end of the raggedy man’s nose. “There is no point.” As the fire died and the world turned on the thinning string, he added, “But there are possibilities. Infinite possibilities.” He tapped his nose and the world shook. “Variations on a theme and I must confess that from time to time I enjoy a good laugh.” And with that, the scarecrow beat his breast three times, then danced off into the gloom.
Nemo sank still further in the mire. And the men soft approached and he saw them crawl on all-fours like beasts and their heads were misshapen and their mouths hung slack and their teeth were long and jagged and their eyes were dead and their naked bodies were covered with hair. And Nemo’s mouth was covered by the stagnant slush, and he emptied his mind and prepared to return. The last image he held of the world to come, the last image he flung into the black, black night, was the charred stick floating before his eyes.
2
As the point of the dagger pierced his heart, Brother Edgar felt the shadow drop from his mind and knew that John, the job well done, had relinquished his control. As he took his last breath, Edgar smacked his left wrist against his thigh. At the sound, John looked up from his food and found he had the briefest moment to reconsider his opinion of the toymaker before the small knife sliced its way through his solitary eye and buried itself in his brain.
3
He remembered the fire. It took its strength from the wood. The fire grows as long as there is fuel to feed it. The beast cannot be destroyed. The fire cannot be destroyed unless the wood be destroyed. But a simple puff of breath can put out the fire. No, that was a conflicting image. That was not the point. There was no point. Then why strike the match?
‘What is a match?’ thought Brother Nemo as he stood in the stream and watched the pebbles splash around him. ‘No matter’, he thought and remembering the fire, ran from the stream and lumbered up the hill. Thomas was not where he left him. He looked to the confusion below and sought out his brothers. Arianrhod still lay on the altar, Takashima still waved in the air. Barnabus he knew was dead. Edgar was nowhere to be seen. He made out Thomas, dancing with the others at the feet of his new master. If they could be called feet, the undulant feelers stretching out and sucking the souls from the happy, smiling people. If Barnabus was dead then so too was Edgar for his task was to protect his brother. That left Moyses. Nemo looked to the edge of the forest, down to the right of the hill. In the light from the fires he could make out a strange white shape hanging high in a tree. From this distance he could see no more than that, but it was something strange, something that had not been there before, and whatever it was he felt certain that Moyses was its cause.
Brother Nemo skirted the open ground and keeping to the edge of the woods, made his way as fast as he could to the old oak tree which bore the strange white fruit. With difficulty he climbed the trunk, noticing with distaste how the bark moved beneath his skin, how the wood itself seemed alive. Finally he perched himself on a sturdy branch and stared at the massive spiders' web. He took out a knife and began to slash the gluey sheets aside, careful not to cut the thing that they imprisoned, for now he was this close he could make out the shape of the big black fly they had captured and now feasted upon. When enough of the web had been destroyed, Brother Nemo grabbed onto Moyses’ arm and pulled with all his might. The two monks fell from the tree and landed on the forest floor, Nemo full of joy that his brother still lived, Moyses spitting out spiders and stamping them into the earth. His body still half-paralysed by the venom, Moyses tried to run from the woods into the open. His tongue swollen and his mouth still alive with the burrowing creatures, he mumbled at Nemo that he had to get to the fire, had to burn himself free from his tormentors. Brother Nemo had delivered him from hell, but he still lived on in purgatory.
“There is no time for that!” yelled Brother Nemo. “I need your sword-arm and I need it now. They all must be destroyed. Men, women and children, we must slaughter them all. The beast feeds off them, he gains his strength from them, the stronger their souls the greater his power. Help me Brother Moyses, help me kill them or mankind itself is doomed.”
Moyses looked at Brother Nemo in disbelief. He looked upon the fair field full of folk and wondered what madness had gripped his brother. The people were happy, smiling, laughing, dancing merry in the bonfires’ light. They were no more a worthy adversary than the spiders he spat from his mouth. Then he laid eyes upon the great beast, the black behemoth of terror, which poured out of the tall tower and hung over the scene like a thundercloud. He saw its fingers licking at the legs and arms of the children, making them dance to his tune like some vast puppet-master in the heavens. He followed other strings to their demonic dolls, found Brother Thomas on the end of one, Takashima dangling in the sky on another.
Brother Nemo shook him out of his stupor. “See, Moyses, see what I mean? It grows with their adoration, it feeds on their will. We cannot destroy it. We can only weaken it. Go, take your sword and do your work!”
And Moyses took his sword from its sheath and he stepped out of the forest and he walked among the people and brought an end to their merriment.
4
Brother Takashima sailed through the air, caught in a grip of iron. He tried to free himself, even though he flew five hundred feet above the earth, he dug his fingers into the flesh of the beast and tried to ease its hold. He would worry about the fall when he was free, there would be time to collect his thoughts and manage a slow descent. When he was free, when he was rid of the thing which enfolded him and squeezed the breath from his lungs and made to burst his heart. He dug into the stuff and the stuff just oozed out and trapped his fingers, flowing over his hands. It was not cold to the touch, nor hot, it was thicker than oil but had the same black sheen, it held him like iron but iron can be broken, iron can be melted, iron can be struck and smashed. Takashima was held in a grip so strong it squeezed the very essence of hope from his mind.
Takashima could not free himself, he could only wait for the final squeeze which would release his soul. Meanwhile he watched the events beneath. He saw Moyses walk out of the woods and stride into a circle of dancing children. Takashima would have screamed if the beast had let him, but his cry of anguish was strangled to a sob as he watched Moyses swing his mighty sword in a great arc, lopping off the heads of all the infants with one stroke. Takashima saw the bodies fall and wept for his brother and the tears flowed freely and his sobs grew louder and he felt the grip of the beast weaken slightly as though it too was momentarily overcome with grief at the sight of such senseless slaughter. Moyses strode on, hacking down the misguided citizens of Normancote without pause and as each body fell to his brother’s madness Takashima felt the monster recoil from the sight until he began to wonder which black thing, man or beast, was truly worthy of that name. He watched the white monks draw their swords and approach Moyses, and part of his mind wished them well for if he were down there on the ground he would no doubt be on their side against his erstwhile brother. Then he noticed how close to the earth the beast was bringing him, as though it had tired of playing him like a fish on a line and now sought to draw him back to land, back to the tower.
Takashima saw Moyses disappear in a flurry of billowing white and flashing silver as he was engulfed by the Cistercians, then he dragged his eyes away from the fight and concentrated on his own imminent death. The body of the beast lay sluglike on the ground, outside the door to the tower. His various appendages spread out from there, but as Moyses began his insane attack on the innocents Takashima noticed how many of the fingers were being withdrawn, crawling slowly back to the centre. Now it was his turn. The tentacle which held him in the air was returning home. Unfortunately for Takashima, the route was via the tower, which meant through the metal grate on the roof. Takashima tried again to free himself from the black ooze which held him fast but it was still no use. As the tower rose up to meet him and he saw the metal bars of the grate waiting to slice him like a side of bacon, Takashima emptied his mind of everything save that one sight. As the arm of the beast was sucked through the hole and into the belly of the tower, Takashima brought his mind to bear on the mortar round the stones which held the grinning grille in place. If Jesus Magus could roll the stone from the tomb then he should be able to move a few pebbles.
Takashima hit the roof of the tower, his body slamming against the metal grate and his mind giving one last, mighty shove. In a cloud of exploding mortar, the stones around the grate collapsed and Takashima continued on his way, dragged by the beast down through the dark tower, cushioned by its jellied sheath from being ripped apart by the rough stone walls.
Takashima shot out of the door of the tower and into the light. He saw Arianrhod splayed across the altar, he saw Moyses standing in the middle of the field surrounded by bodies, and he saw the mouth of the beast opening to greet him.
5
“You have lost, Nemo. Best admit it and bow to the inevitable.” Thomas indicated his god, gorging himself on the souls of the people who danced before him.
Brother Nemo cast a quick glance in that direction, long enough to confirm his belief that the beast was physically shrinking as Moyses went about his terrible work. He had followed his brother’s path of blood, making his way through the mayhem, seeking out the strongest of the new god's acolytes. Out of the corner of his eye, Brother Nemo could now see Moyses engaging the white monks, parrying their blows and dealing out his own. He marvelled at the power of his brother. He was master of his mind and lord of his body. He had overcome the paralysis of the poison which had seeped into his system, the venom which ate at his muscles and his nerves had been rejected, and he had put aside all the weakness of emotion and steeled himself to the task in hand. He was as wondrous as any machine designed by Brother Barnabus and just as inhuman. As the white monks fell dead on the field of red, Brother Nemo answered Thomas. “I bow to no one save Jesus Magus. If you can still hear me Thomas, then fight this thing that has taken hold of your mind. Stop the dance, smell the flowers, feel the water, see the air.”
As he heard these words, Thomas immediately fell to his knees and stared up at Brother Nemo. Then, unable to look his mentor in the eye, he bowed his head and began to weep, his whole body racked with shuddering sobs. Brother Nemo took pity on his old friend, opening up his heart, his soul and finally his mind. Thomas raised his head and, as Brother Nemo saw the black tears streaming from his eyes, said, “Never mind.”
Nemo felt his body splitting in two. He had known pain before but none such as this. He looked back at the beast and saw it swell in triumph. As his guts began to spill on the ground he saw Moyses struck down by the Abbot of Achor. Thomas was right, they were defeated. Brother Nemo reached for the cord round his neck and broke it. Dangling on the string was a small piece of wood, not carved, not fashioned in any shape, not polished except by a thousand years of Brother Nemo’s sweat. As his body slowly split apart, Brother Nemo held up the bit of wood and said to Thomas, “This is a piece of the one true cross, I cut it from the beam with my own hands. It still bears the stain of his blood. I have carried it all these years as a memento of that day. You have won Thomas, you and your new god. I wish you both well. And before parting,” the pain was too great to permit himself a smile, “I leave him this as a token of my esteem.”
The grin on Thomas’ old, cracked face suddenly froze as he realised what Nemo meant to do. He lurched to his feet and tried to stop him, but his body was far weaker than his mind and as Nemo’s head split neatly in two, Thomas watched the fragment of the one true cross fly through the air, true to the course Nemo had intended.
6
Takashima brought all the power of his mind to bear on the monster that faced him. He looked into its manifold eyes and tried to plumb the depths of the leviathan’s soul. All he found was madness, deep, dark, brooding nightmare without form or logic, simple visions of the grotesque swimming around a pit of black despair.
He dragged his mind back from the edge and tore his gaze away from the oily equivalent that gaped before him, that vast parody of a mouth with black tongues shooting out and curling in the air, ready to suck the flesh from his body. Behind him, Takashima saw Brother Thomas fall to his knees before Brother Nemo, apparently pleading with him to stop Moyses and his senseless slaughter. The whole field had been turned into a charnel-house with dismembered corpses strewn over the grass like so many sheaves of wheat and the instrument of this bitter harvest was still standing, though not so firmly as before. Takashima watched Moyses face the last of the white monks, the Abbot himself. The two figures stood surrounded by the dead, one in white, the other dressed in black, but his habit now so sodden with blood it glowed red in the firelight.
Takashima was resigned to his own fate and his inner strength had wasted away as he witnessed the madness of his brothers. As one of the tongues of the beast lashed out and picked up a dainty morsel lying within easy reach, Takashima was given a slight respite on his inevitable doomward path. The grip on his body did not slacken but he was held fast in mid-air while the foul abomination sucked the tousled blond head of a small boy into its gaping mouth. Takashima dragged his eyes away from this preview of his own fate and saw Brother Thomas raise his eyes to Brother Nemo. Brother Thomas wept tears as black as night. Takashima saw the thin tendril of the beast which snaked across the grass and disappeared under Thomas’ kneeling form. He saw Brother Nemo start to waver, his habit splitting, his body beginning to shed blood. And he saw Moyses fall, struck down by a slashing blow from the Abbot's sword which cut through his shoulder and sliced down his chest. He watched his brother in his death-throes, staggering towards the Abbot, trying to land one final blow, but his hand just grazed the Abbot's face and then he dropped to the ground. He heard the Abbot of Achor scream in triumph and he felt the behemoth strengthen its grip, saw its body grow in size, noted the number of new feelers reaching out and gathering in the harvest of the dead. Finally, Takashima understood, but it was too late. As Brother Nemo was rent asunder he threw something in his direction, but it was no weapon he could use on the beast. He watched the thing fly towards him and realised it was merely the last act of a desperate man.
So when the piece of the one true cross hit the arm of the beast which held him in its unyielding grip, Takashima expected nothing to happen. Instead he found himself on fire, flung away and burning like a distant comet hurtling through the heavens. He landed against the rock which held Arianrhod, his habit soaked with flaming oil, the fire eating at his skin. He stripped himself and faced the end as naked as the day he was born. Weaponless, his bow and arrows so much tinder to the fire, his sword a twisted wreck of blackened metal, he looked to the beast, hoping against hope that whatever Brother Nemo had thrown into it had spread its destructive force throughout its massive body. But disappointment clouded Takashima’s eyes. The bulk of the beast was unharmed, only that single arm had been transformed in the explosion and now lay smouldering across the field, the thick black smoke rising from a river of oil. The beast had many others to take its place and was even now sending them out to renew its hold on Takashima.
Naked he faced them, the spreading beast, the Abbot of Achor and Thomas. Takashima eased his way around the rock, glanced at the face of Arianrhod, so peaceful in death, and remembered his own brief sojourn in that dark domain. He would return there shortly, but not before making sure he was the last of the Dark Brethren to die. The sword was still stuck in Arianrhod’s body, so he dragged her from the altar and wrested it away, then in one swift movement aimed the sword at Thomas and let it fly.
Thomas saw the instrument of death approaching. Thomas had time to move out of the way. Thomas knew he was about to die. Thomas saw only the wondrous thing of gold which lay on the altar, now revealed again in all its glory. Thomas stood still and did not take his eyes from the entrancing golden vision until the force of the sword hit him in the chest and buckled his knees. Even then he knelt awhile and gazed upon the thing while he waited for the final breath to leave his body.
Takashima was the last of the Dark Brethren. He saw the Abbot bearing down upon him wielding a mighty sword. He saw the great beast by his side, smaller now that Thomas was dead, but still of considerable size. He had no time to run and hide, he must stand his ground and die. He tried to mend the power of his mind, to send it screaming into the beast to smash it now that it was weak, but it was no use, Takashima too was weak, was tired, was finished. The Abbot of Achor looked straight ahead and swung his sword before him. Takashima leant slightly to the side and the great sword missed him by inches. The Abbot smiled and stared straight past Takashima and swung the sword again. Takashima moved back a little to keep himself out of range and felt something sharp beneath his foot. Looking down he saw the stars he had dropped from the top of the tower. He stooped and gathered up a handful. The Abbot swung his sword again and this time sliced through the corpse of Thomas. The Abbot crowed in triumph and Takashima knew that Moyses had had a final trick up his sleeve. Every spell of Jesus Magus had its darker side. The Abbot was blind.
The beast however was not and it now sucked in all its power and dragged toward its centre all the strings and slicks of oily substance that traced across the field of battle. It formed itself into the figure of a man, to confront the last of the Dark Brethren on his own terms. But this was a gigantic travesty of a man, stretching a full six feet above his white companion, it slouched on all-fours, its slavering mouth hanging open, revealing oily black teeth and a wandering tongue. Takashima faced them both with the stars in his hand, the blind Abbot, the architect of all this misery, and the great beast by his side, and he made his choice. For a second, the sky was full of falling stars and then the Abbot’s body found them all a new home.
The monster gave a great howl and shrank before Takashima’s eyes. The black ooze folded in on itself, losing all shape and substance. The arms and legs of the loathsome gargoyle were sucked into its belly, while the head lolled about on its distended neck until it too was drawn back into the body of the beast. Takashima studied the golden idol on the altar and noted the similarities. When he looked back the monster had gone. At first he thought it had completely disappeared but then he saw a large black rat scuttle past him and run through the doorway of the tower. Takashima considered following the thing but he was bone-weary. All he wanted now was to sleep.
He looked over the battlefield, hoping to see one of his brothers appear from out of the shadows, but there was no movement anywhere. The bonfires were beginning to die down now so there was too little light for him to conduct a thorough search for the remains of Edgar and Barnabus. That would wait till morning. He stooped down over the dead Abbot and pulled his habit off him. It would do for a blanket. Takashima settled himself down by the side of the rock and closed his eyes.
“Is it over? Did we win?”
The voice cut through his dream of flying on the wings of a dragon and roused him from his slumber. It was still dark and the fires still burnt, he could not have slept for long. Takashima shook off the white hood and stared into the face of Father Paul, the priest of Normancote. For a second, in the dim passageway between sleep and waking he had thought the voice belonged to Barnabus or Edgar, but now he realised they had both made a mistake. Takashima made a move to grab the priest but his reactions had been slowed by his too brief rest and it was Father Paul who had the advantage. He also had a weapon. He drove the dagger into Takashima’s heart and with a reedy cackle to mark his triumph, the priest killed the last of the Dark Brethren.
7
Brother Takashima woke from a dreamless sleep. The first rays of the sun drifted over the brow of the hill and illumined a scene of misty stillness. A deep, white blanket was drawn over the field and all the bodies of the dead slept safely beneath. Small, black hillocks sent a darker mist into the air, the dying remnants of the bonfires, charred wood and grey ash. In the distance he could see two figures wandering, floating through the misty sea, causing ripples where they walked. They were dressed in the black habits of his brethren and as they came nearer he searched beneath their cowls for some sign of their identity. The pain in his heart was passing slowly away and all the aches of his body were being soothed by the life-giving mist. He remembered the last time he died but it had been nothing like this. There had been nothing to see, nothing to feel, just nothing. Now he had passed over that empty chasm into this other land where his body would be healed and he would be reunited with his friends. He recognised them now, the tall figures floating towards him through the fog. It was Brother Moyses and Brother Edgar come to wish him well and see him off on the next stage of his journey. Back to the world, in what guise this time? To learn and to grow and to atone for past misdeeds, that was....
“Are you getting up or what? There’s work to be done.”
The voice broke Takashima’s reverie and he stared up to see Brother Nemo standing over him with a spade in his hands.
“Twice in a week, you should be used to it by now, although you did make the trip by yourself this time with no help from me. I’ve roused most of the others but we must bury this accursed thing before I bring Thomas back.” He offered the spade to Takashima, who stood up on shaking legs and promptly lost the white habit that was covering him. “You’d better get some clothes on first. Arianrhod is next and I wouldn’t want her thinking she’d landed in Hell.”
Takashima’s mind whirled with questions. He was no longer dead. He looked at the scar in his chest where Father Paul had driven the knife. Father Paul! If he still lived then they were not safe, the monster would grow again. “Brother Nemo, all were not killed. I died at the hands of the priest of Normancote. If he escapes then the fiend will....”
“Calm, brother, smell the flowers, hear the birds, breathe the air. Father Paul is even now praying to his god. They are safe at the top of the tower. When I awoke and saw Thomas and the Abbot and you lying dead and the beast nowhere to be seen I thought you had killed each other in the final fight. Then I noticed the wedge of gold had disappeared from the altar and so I knew one more still lived. I revived Edgar and Moyses and set them on his trail but it was Barnabus who found the errant priest while going about his work to fell the tower. The beast is still only slightly bigger than this,” Nemo reached into his scrip and held up the thing of gold, “but Father Paul will not provide him with much meat to grow. That is a man with a soul the size of a rat’s. Barnabus took the thing away without any fight and left them crouched in a corner, with the poor wretch offering his fingers for his god to gnaw upon. Now, go inside the church, Moyses has fetched our bags there. Get yourself dressed then come back and help me dig.”
Takashima pulled the white robe over his shoulders and started for the church, leaving Brother Nemo standing over the body of Arianrhod. The sun had broached the hilltop now and the morning mist was rising from the field, revealing the carnage of the night glistening with drops of dew. As he stumbled over hacked limbs and headless bodies he heard the song of a skylark high in the heavens mingling with the voice of Brother Nemo as he said, “Talitha koum.”
Inside the church, Takashima noted the fine layer of dust which covered everything. There was a cold emptiness about the place, and although there was a tabernacle on the altar, which no doubt contained a piece of bread, no spirit of Jesus Magus rested here. He scooped the film of slime from the water in the font and briefly splashed the blood and dirt from his body then found his bag and dressed. He was preparing to leave when Arianrhod entered the church. She wandered in on unsteady legs and smiled at him. He could tell she longed to ask questions but he needed to see Brother Nemo again before he could supply the answers, so returning the smile he hurried back out into the daylight.
Brother Nemo was sweating over the hole he was digging in the field. Takashima took the spade from him and continued the work while Brother Nemo flopped on the ground and wiped his face with a rag.
“Why not just destroy the thing?”
“Blast it with the tower into a million pieces?” replied Brother Nemo. “It won’t work. Moses tried it. Then Joshua buried it and it remained safe for over a thousand years, if we dig the hole deep enough then maybe we can rest for longer.”
“Can you not move it with magic straight through the earth?”
“And have it fall out the other side? No, Brother, we must dig the earth and cover it well and use no spell or power of mind on that bedevilled thing lest it turn it to its own advantage. It cannot be destroyed, it belongs to mankind, just as the beast it calls from out the darkness is at home in the minds of men. It is indestructible but it can be hidden from sight and if we ring it round with these,” Brother Nemo took seven iron crucifixes from his bag and placed them on the ground, “then maybe they will dampen its voice enough to let us live in peace.”
“For all eternity?”
“It is a terrible gift I have bestowed on you, Takashima, and now I have compounded the sin by raising all our brothers.”
“Save one.”
“Thomas’ turn will come when this thing is buried.”
Takashima stopped digging and wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve. “Maybe we should let him sleep. If we do have to face the beast again then Thomas will be of little help.”
“No, Brother, we must be seven, it is the way things are. Besides this is not the only monster in the world. We will encounter others and who knows which of us will succumb to their charms.”
Takashima resumed his work and contemplated the future. “But we can never be killed.”
“In truth I do not know. We owe our lives to the Master’s magic, it is a powerful force but not the only one in the universe. One day we may meet its match. I have died before and returned again but this last time I was sure it was my final end.” Brother Nemo fingered the scar which perfectly bisected his face. “Then I awoke and pulled myself together and waited for you to join me. I wondered about the others, thought I should maybe let them rest, but I have lost so many friends over the years. There must always be seven, and for so long I have been watching while the other six die and leave me alone. This time I called a halt. Maybe I was weak, selfish, cruel or foolish, I don’t know. But I did it and now we face the future together.”
“But what does that future hold? Must we guard this place for all eternity?”
Brother Nemo laughed. “Immortality may be a terrible gift but to spend eternity in Normancote would be tantamount to adding yet another circle to Hell. No, we may wander where we will but if the tower be rebuilt and the beast grows again then the Dark Brethren will be called to assemble here once more.”
Brother Nemo stood up. He took the thing of gold from his bag and threw it at Takashima’s feet. Then he handed him the seven crosses. “Bury it, Brother, bury it deep. Ring it with these and cover it, cover it well.” And then he walked away.
Takashima scrambled out of the hole and shouted after the retreating figure, “Until then, Brother, what is our task? What are we meant to do?”
And the fat monk turned and called over his shoulder, “Veniost, Takashima, veniost.”
Takashima rolled the unfamiliar word around his mind and could make no sense of it. But as he dug his spade into the pile of soil at the hole’s edge and began to bury the accursed thing, he smelt the daisies and the buttercups and he heard the song of thrushes and blackbirds and the distant lark and for an instant he thought he understood.
The air was filled with screams. The five monks stood on the hillside and watched as Brother Barnabus came running out of the tower carrying yet another strange contraption, a long tube with a funnel at one end and deflating bladders ranged down its sides. He ran away from the tower then stopped when he saw the stooped figure digging in the dirt in the centre of the field.
“Is it deeply hidden?” asked Brother Edgar.
“Deep enough,” replied Takashima.
“Never enough,” said Arianrhod.
“Enough for now,” said Brother Nemo.
Moyses just shook his head and said, “I will take him with me back to Whitby. The sea air will do him good.”
They watched Barnabus drag Brother Thomas from the field and help him up the hill. The old monk fought him all the way, but when he saw the others watching him, he shook off Barnabus’ arm and ran to Brother Nemo.
“I couldn’t find it Brother, I got the string though, but there was no sign. I wanted to keep on looking but Barnabus stopped me. I can go back though, go back down, search again. I’ll find it, I’m sure I will.”
Brother Nemo took the cord from the old monk’s hand. He fingered the notch where the piece of wood had worn the leather away. It had been a good pretence, a sign his mind was still whole and active. Brother Nemo had only glanced at the ground a couple of times, looking for the piece of the one true cross, curious to see if it had survived the collision with the flesh of the beast, but Thomas had noticed straightaway and used that as cover for his real quest. “Not now Brother, we must leave this place, our work is done. The thing was destroyed. It is no more.”
“No!” yelled Brother Thomas. “It still exists and I shall find it.” As he made to rush back down the hill, he was caught by Moyses and Edgar. The earth began to shudder beneath their feet and a low rumble felt its way up through the ground and shook their ears. A cloud of dust rose up from the foot of the tower and then the whole structure exploded into a million pieces. Stones and timber rained down over the field, burying the altar and the bodies of the people of Normancote that Edgar and Moyses had piled up around it. The force of the explosion rocked Thomas to his knees. He began to thrash about on the ground, squealing and howling, beating his fists upon the grass.
As the dust settled around them, Barnabus took out his magnifier and held the double tubes to his eyes.
“Do you see it?” asked Brother Nemo.
Barnabus searched the debris of the tower, then put the instrument away and shook his head. “I can still feel it though,” and his body shivered at the memory.
Moyses helped Thomas to his feet and put his arm round him for support. The old monk was crying.
The seven monks stood on the top of the hill, then turned their backs on the ruined tower and departed that place. When they came to the road, Brother Moyses said his farewells and headed north, almost carrying old Brother Thomas along with him. The rest walked back to Normancote, stopping in the deserted village only long enough for Brother Nemo to shake the dust from his feet, before going down to the crossroads. There, Brother Edgar struck out to the west and Brother Barnabus and Brother Takashima, deep in conversation, went east. Arianrhod watched them depart and waited for Brother Nemo to say goodbye. She had cut her ties to the past and her future lay before her like an unending wilderness with no signposts to guide her.
Brother Nemo reached in his scrip and brought out a small box. He lifted the lid and took out a white cylinder which he placed in his mouth. With a wink of his eye the end of the cylinder caught fire and he breathed in. Then he took it from his lips and puffed out a cloud of smoke. He offered the box to Arianrhod and she gingerly took one of the cylinders and mimicked his actions. He winked it alight for her and she drew in the smoke, then coughed it out again.
“It’s not to everyone’s taste,” said Brother Nemo, “but if we are to be immortal then we might as well enjoy what we can. Do you have any pressing plans?”
Arianrhod shook her head and tried to quell the feeling of queasiness rising from her stomach.
“Then I suggest we take the road south and I will teach you how to smell the flowers and hear the birds and see the air.”
And so the oldest and the newest members of the Dark Brethren, he who was first and she who was last, started to walk along the road to the future, their heads wreathed in a cloud of smoke.
(THE DARK BRETHREN by Jeff Hartnett was first published in 1993 by Uproot Books Ltd.
1997 edition published by Inverted Tree Press, Milton, Stump, England.
Copyright Jeff Hartnett 1993)
[ Home ] [ Contents ] [ Download] [Photos] [Sounds] [ Fruityman ] [ In Stump II ]
[ Dr. Shock and the University of Stump ] [ The Dark Brethren ] [ Dr. Shock and the Dark Brethren ]