Ritual Page 2

  Tuesday dragged its way to midday. The sun searched its white splinters into the narrow streets. The streets were empty. No, not quite. A yellow butterfly danced in the hot light. It danced its fire against the white cottages and drifted into the ice shadows of the alleyways. The butterfly owned Thorn Village.

  Mr. Spark pulled himself into his shop doorway. As he stared into the street, the butterfly brushed its honey wings against his chin. He didn’t notice. He moved away from the shop door and began arranging pink dolls in rows around the sweet jars. A heavy lorry bumped over the cobble stones. He looked up and noticed it was carrying Liquid Chemicals.

  *

  The train from London drew into Thorn Station. The man looked for the third time at the photograph in his right hand. He was playing beach ball on a summer lawn with a little girl. The little girl with her pale hair looked not unlike Dian Spark. In the photograph she was laughing and he was grinning. But, in reality, he was crying behind his sunglasses. Slowly, unhurriedly, he was crying.

  The train had been stationary for two minutes now. With a shunt, it started to move again. The man read the words ‘Thorn Station’ through the window, grabbed his belongings, and even though the train was gathering speed, swung himself with a jolt through the door onto the asphalt. He bruised his knee. The train noticed nothing as it hurried to the sky line. The station master appeared, impressive in his excess blubber, and helped the man to his feet.

  ‘Dangerous, that, sir! Inviting a funeral, that!’

  The man smiled a thank you for the warning and assistance, handed the station master his ticket, checked he was carrying his large briefcase, his wallet and the photograph and moved towards the exit barrier. The station master chugged up behind him. ‘You, er... dropped your paper, sir...’

  ‘Thank you,’ said the man, taking the newspaper and folding it deliberately in two so the photograph of the body of Dian Spark caught the station master’s eye.

  ‘Oh, beg pardon, sir, it can’t have been your paper, can it? I mean, it’s yesterday’s. Someone else must have dropped it.’

  ‘No, it’s mine all right! Do you know where this little girl was buried!’

  ‘Do you know her, then, sir?’

  ‘Sort of,’ nodded the man. ‘In a way I did. Do you...?’

  ‘St. Peter’s Church, sir. Nice and quiet, I understand it was going to be. The funeral. Nice people, her folks. Well, her Mum, Mrs. Spark, well, she’s a bit, erm... well... you know, different... but you probably know all that. Perhaps I’m talking out of turn.’

  ‘Oh, no, you’re not. I’m only her brother,’ said the man, beaming.

  ‘Oh, blimey! Really?’

  ‘No, not really. Just my little joke. Thank you for your help. Would you accept this for your trouble?’

  He handed the station master a half-crown. The station master handed the half-crown back.

  ‘Sorry, sir, I can’t accept it for information concerning the dead. The dead can get a bit uppity about that kind of thing. Even hysterical, sometimes.’

  Without taking his glasses off, the man fiercely rubbed his eyes and moved towards the village.

  *

  Dian’s grave was surrounded by the Gang, who were studiously going through the motions of a funeral. Billy was conducting the service.

  ‘Well, I hope the ghosts don’t get you. We’ll bring you flowers on Sunday—if we can remember. And we’ll go on with our Nature Rambles with your sister—and we’ll do all the things—you know what we mean, don’t you, Dian?’ With his chubby chin pointing towards the church spire, he addressed the Gang. ‘Right, men, we’re all going to sing ‘Onward Christian Soldiers, Marching As to War’, in memory of our friend. One! Two! Three!’

  He conducted the children as they sang ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’. And the children meant everything they sang. After the hymn they threw various articles onto the grave which they’d collected during the morning. A petal-less rose, two toffee papers, three aniseed balls and a rainbow marble. Then they pretended to lower an imaginary coffin on top. Billy and Susan made various abortive attempts to sing ‘The Last Post’. Susan, a pretty green-eyed child, had a clear voice but sang all the wrong notes. Billy sang all the right notes but in the wrong order. Obviously Pastor White was well entrenched in the pub, otherwise he would have swooped on them like Moses with the Ten Commandments. The children completed the funeral by heaping fresh soil over the wild rose and the toffee papers. James and John, the twins, retrieved the aniseed balls and gobbled them down without bothering to wipe the graveyard off them. And Billy pocketed the rainbow marble, which of course was Gilly’s. She sensibly said nothing. There was no doubt at all the funeral was a complete success.

  With a swing of his arm, copied from various films concerning the United States Cavalry, Billy summoned his troops to follow him out of Dead Canyon. Then the Cavalry wheeled round at the churchyard gate. Each soldier picked up a pebble from an adjacent grave and hurled it in the direction of the church. The pebbles ricocheted from the buttresses. Billy’s stone lanced off a stained-glass Jesus.

  Without warning, Gilly ran towards the church. She lugged open the Saxon door and zig-zagged into the ice light. The door clanged behind her.

  The children did not wait for her return but left the churchyard. They began a game of hop-scotch down the centre of the street as the stranger, briefcase in hand, approached them. As soon as they saw him, their good humour edged into aggression. Billy winged a pebble at the stranger’s feet.

  ‘This is our street! Get off it!’

  The stranger ignored the pebble and moved toward the graveyard. Another stone twinked the lock of the gate as he was about to open it. The stranger turned.

  ‘Come here, boy.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘I said, come here! And I meant it!’

  Warily Billy approached, prepared to dodge the deserved clip on the ear, which did not come. The stranger looked down at the boy, then reached in his trouser pocket and handed him a sweet.

  ‘Beads for the Indians.’

  ‘You what, mister?’

  As he said this, Billy snatched the sweet from the stranger and stuffed it in his mouth without even removing the wrapper. He chewed it over twice, then mumbled through it.

  ‘My Dad says never take sweets from strangers. You never know where they’ve been.’

  Billy then spat the wrapper out, followed by the sweet, in the direction of the stranger, and ran off.

  Fortunately for the stranger, unlike James the labourer, Billy was a very inaccurate spitter, so his trousers were preserved. The Gang followed their brave leader. So, the Indians were proving troublesome. Whatever were the settlers going to be like?

  The man brushed a thin streak of hair over the balding spot in the centre of his scalp, and walked into the graveyard. He decided on a circular tour. It took a good five minutes before he sighted Dian’s grave some three hundred yards away.

  Suddenly he saw a small figure helter-skelter between the grave stones. Running after her, he was lashed across the eye by a yew tree. His sunglasses flipped onto the grass. The sun’s prongs jabbed at his eyes. Blinded by the light, he crunched his head against the tree. Gums grazed, the tang of bark in his mouth, and temporarily blinded, he crouched to his knees. Then, using his hands as feelers, he probed for his glasses. It took over a minute to locate them. He carefully fitted them onto his nose and adjusted the plastic behind his ears. He looked round the graveyard. The grave dancer had gone. Blood tasted pleasantly salty on his lower gums. Picking up his brief case, he moved to Dian’s grave.

  He studied the inscription, then lowered his eyes. A sprig of garlic lay on the grave bed. The stranger licked the blood from his gums and wondered. He bent down to pick the garlic up. A shadow crept along his spine and slid its icicle into the base of his skull. Another man’s shadow was freezing him. The stranger turned his head, skating his eyes along the ground. His tongue pricked on the roof of his mouth.

  A pair of black sh
oes were the first things he saw. A black gown hung one and a half inches above the shoes. The gown was belted, and was set off with a white circular collar at the throat. The face of Pastor White sprouted out of the collar. The stranger moistened his tongue again. The spikes of fear returned to his subconscious. It was only a God man.

  3

  The God man spoke quietly.

  ‘And who is having the specific pleasure of desecrating a virgin’s grave? I do hope I’m not intruding on your good work!’

  Pastor White’s face glowed with sarcasm. Obviously he chose his words with delight and precision. He was now in his middle sixties, with a hoar frost mat of hair and a deep tan.

  The stranger, still holding the garlic flowers, smiled through his sunglasses and stood up.

  ‘May I introduce myself?’

  ‘You most certainly may.’

  ‘My name is David Hanlin. I’m not desecrating this grave. I simply picked up this bunch of garlic flowers because it is a strange phenomenon. Not exactly in themselves, but certainly in my field of research.’

  ‘Do explain yourself.’

  David found himself talking in the same pedantic tone as Pastor White. This disturbed him.

  ‘I am not suggesting that the garlic flowers themselves are odd, but I am suggesting that they carry unpleasant implications when found on a new grave. Like this one. Necromancy, etc. And I am carrying out a village to village research on religious cults for London University. Christ is not amongst them. I hope I’m making myself clear.’

  ‘Not very. Research into the Old Religion, eh? Presumably you are being humorous? Witchcraft, as such, exists in certain uncultivated areas of Ireland and Scotland and maybe un peu in East Anglia, but I, personally, backed by God himself, of course, have stamped out any shadow in my parish! I know I am making myself clear.’

  With an index finger, he pointed at the church spire.

  ‘The slender arm of Christ cuts through the villagers’ nightmares now. I have firmly printed a cross on their hearts. Occasionally a little fever breaks out in the lower orders towards Midsummer, but communion skins the naughtiness off their groins—if you follow my accurate but doubtful metaphor?’

  Hanlin did not bother to follow Pastor White’s involved syntax at all.

  ‘Forgive me for saying so, Reverend... er…’

  ‘White. As in “snow”. If you follow me?’

  ‘Of course. Well, Reverend White, could I possibly look inside your church?’

  ‘God’s house is accessible. Even to you. But, if I may presume; why? If I may presume.’

  Communication was progressing fast. The settlers were going to be very helpful.

  ‘Well, there were certain occult signs in the last village church I went to which escaped even the vicar’s notice. The signs are generally harmless. Not always, though.’

  ‘May I ask which village you applied your doubtful Sherlock Holmes’ ability to before this? May I ask?’

  Insatiable, isn’t he; thought Hanlin. The pedantics of the Reverend were beginning to irritate him, but he controlled his tongue.

  ‘A church in Tintagel. Early this morning.’

  The lie sounded very sincere in the early afternoon sunshine. Like the lie concerning London University. Like all the lies of today. He was a very accomplished liar and knew it. He didn’t enjoy it.

  ‘If you would not mind, Mr. Hanlin, the name of the church? If you would not mind!’

  Hanlin quickly read the wording on the church gate and without thinking said, ‘St. Peter’s Church,’ praying to God that there was such a church in Tintagel.

  There was a pause. What a pause!

  ‘Oh, yes, I know it well, Horatio, I mean, Mr. Hanlin, of infinite jest. Unfortunately, I mean that.’

  Hanlin was now completely bewildered.

  ‘Let me show you our exquisite Saxon Church, Mr. Hanlin.’

  At last.

  ‘The spire was added at a later date—I think. God’s fore-finger was unknown in architectural terms…’

  O, he’s off again.

  ‘... during the choppy Saxon days, if you follow me...’

  Yes, I’m following you, but for Christ’s sake lead me into God’s tomb before I explode with your verbosity. Never heard anything like it. Some people make God’s position relatively impossible in a modern society.

  ‘You’re so kind, Reverend White.’

  Eventually Reverend White lead him into the church. Into the ice light, the frosty saints and the stained glass. As soon as they were inside, Hanlin removed his sunglasses with relief. The irises of his eyes were a subtle mixture of king-purple and pink. Not very pretty. They glimmered opaque and pale as the flag-stones. Even when the ice light caught them, they did not glitter. But they were very disturbing to look into because of their smokey unreal colour. Their flatness throbbed like perch eyes in translucent water. The Reverend could not prevent himself from staring into his eyes. He was temporarily hypnotised by their flesh colouring. With a penny, David rubbed the inflamed corners. He pressed the cold penny onto the source of pain. Slowly the pain subsided.

  ‘Your eyes, Mr. Hanlin...’

  ‘Interesting, aren’t they? They don’t get on very well with sunlight. It’s a shame. I love the sun.’

  As he said this, he stroked a ribbon of light on the sleeve of his green tweed jacket. His other hand changed the grip on his briefcase. It was mercifully cool in the stone shadows of the church. The dark stained wood of the choir stalls lead to the polished marble of the altar. Everything was rich but simple. Diffused sunlight and liquid glass rippled on the face of the altar. And then he saw there was no cross. The altar was completely empty. Nothing. Hanlin stared at the Reverend.

  ‘The cross, Reverend? Where’s the cross?’

  Reverend White edged his sepulchre mouth into a doubtful smile.

  ‘Oh, dear me, yes, it’s missing, is it not? It often appears to evaporate in sunlight, if you follow my lyrical meaning!’

  He must be mad; Hanlin thought. Taking it so calmly. I wonder if the grave dancer I saw was responsible?

  ‘Shouldn’t you report it to the Police, Reverend?’

  ‘Oh, dear me, no! The cross always comes back—even brighter than when it left. It is, as if—how shall I phrase it—a cherubim had put in polishing overtime. So I never worry.’

  Hanlin’s reply to this was to run down the centre aisle of the church. The Reverend was startled, to say the least.

  ‘You shouldn’t gallop about in God’s House, you know!’ the Reverend shouted, galloping after him. ‘God usually has his midday hibernation approximately now. He has to work very hard!’

  David had already reached the altar, on which he found another bunch of garlic flowers, and something else. The Reverend panted up to him. David pushed ‘the something else’ into the Reverend’s hands. The Reverend saw what it was and dropped it. A shrivelled monkey’s head. David grinned.

  ‘No occult here, eh? I suppose the garlic flowers on tomb and altar, spiced with a monkey’s head, are simply projections of my imagination!’

  Reverend White bent down and retrieved the monkey’s head. He examined it with increasing horror. He began muttering to himself.

  ‘I warned them! In the lightning name of Christ, I warned them! Who would dare, during my angelical reign, who would dare place a shrunken anthropoid’s head on my high altar? This is really removing Lucifer’s trousers! Get it out of God’s bedroom! Remove it! It defiles God’s sheets! Forgive my hysterical and lascivious imagery, O Lord! But remove it!’

  ‘Of course, Reverend, no need for the histrionics! You settlers appeal to me even more!’

  This time the Reverend was bewildered. David’s eyes flamed a clear yellow through the pink tissue. The Reverend tried to assemble his thoughts while David watched him, smiling.

  Mr. David Hanlin really is a distasteful homosapien, isn’t he? He is more obsessive about the Satanic Rites than the lower classes. There is something of the split entrails
of a rabbit with myxomatosis about him. Definitely unhealthy! O Lord, help us—I mean, help me—now and in the time of the intruders! In the ancient days, Hanlin would be flogged over the village boundaries or dunked in the local pond as a warlock. O, for the Ancient Days! Hymn number... oh, dear me no! Control yourself, Saul White, hate is not regarded pleasantly by our Lord! Though he only had Pilate to deal with! And I have a garlic-anthropoid finder on my platter! Let this cup be taken from me...

  Half way through this generous reverie, Hanlin left the church. Once outside, he mapped out the course the grave dancer took over the graves with his index finger. Then he re-entered the church. The Reverend had not noticed his departure.

  ‘Where was the girl killed? I mean, where did the accident take place exactly?’

  ‘What girl, where, who? O, it is you. I had forgotten you were there. You should have told me you were there. Oh, you are muddling! What do you want? I mean, go away! Anyway, which girl’s accident? Do I mean that! No, I do not!’

  Hanlin laughed and pulled out the photograph of Dian Spark in the local newspaper. The Reverend was obviously startled.

  What does this bolshevik stranger want? He probably wants to dig up her body. I know, he’s a vivisectionist—or something.

  ‘Are you a vivisectionist—I mean, a Resurrectionist! Or a Seventh Day Adventist!’

  Why did I say that? He will think me a verbose sententious old duffer if I continue in this over-bloated fashion!

  ‘Where did she die, priest? Where? Games are over. Daddy’s home! Where?’

  There was no smile in the purple eyes now. Only triggered power. The pupils were sooty tunnels. The Reverend moved up and down on his toes like a nervous ballet dancer.

  ‘How dare you address a deputy of God’s High Throne in that tone of look—I mean, voice!’