Turn left to go back to the beginning. Where have you been? How many ducklings did you spot and how many duckings did you see? ...and where is the coffee shop?
Sunday Stroll – Sunny Saunter
churches
Unhallowed Ground – part three
THIS IS THE FINAL PART OF THE STORY AND FOLLOWS ON FROM YESTERDAY’S
That evening the vicar left his dreary sixties vicarage, switched on his torch, made his way in the dark across the churchyard and slipped in a side door. In the vestry he looked around at the various cupboards. He had sorted through a few shelves of books and paperwork, without finding anything of historical interest. Now he had a good reason to search everywhere for any records that had survived from previous centuries. He felt like a character from an M R James horror story, though the electric light bulb dangling from the ceiling was not quite as atmospheric as candles or a lantern. In a story the vicar would have opened a book that he should never have touched… with horrific consequences. John Dee did not believe in such things, though even as he chuckled to himself he imagined being the one who discovers the victim, not the hapless vicar who has suffered the unspeakable death.
He pulled aside a dusty old velvet curtain that hid a door with a childish thrill, anticipating a secret room. He tugged at the door, falling backwards as it opened easily. But all it revealed were a few books that looked as if they had suffered fire and flood. Too damaged to be of any worth and yet someone had been reluctant to throw them out. John carefully picked up one at random and took it to the table in the vestry where an ancient table lamp gave only a poor light, but John was not going to wait till morning.
It proved far too damaged to read properly, all he could hope for was snippets that might give clues. If it had originally been a journal or parish records no dates had survived.
…and on this day did the villagers bring him to… claiming… performed evil deeds.. demanding … be tried …all witnessed against him… I feared he may be innocent, a rogue and trickster mayhap, but not… black arts to be hanged… some affirmed he was of the undead
John felt a trembling of excitement or dread as some of the words became clearer.
as …to the gallows he cursed the villagers and all their descendants, saying he would return to take revenge. Thus it was that Jacob the carpenter fashioned a wooden stake while six strong men dug a grave thrice six feet deep.
John shuddered, the story was slotting into place, unless deep graves were commonplace in this Godforsaken place.
I entreated the villagers to behave as Christians, not heathens and allow the man to be buried with dignity until that terrible day of judgement.
The vicar was quite relieved that the day of judgement had been dispensed with in the 21st Century, or at least he hoped it had.
But they heeded me not..
John felt empathy with the poor vicar
was stand within consecrated ground and pray for his soul…
thus Jonas Warlock lies in an unmarked grave in unhallowed land where no man now dare walk.
A name, the poor man had a name. Tomorrow night at the service they would know who they were remembering. The next pages were missing and John could just make out a faded signature, Rev A Crowley. More research could be done later, if any other records existed of an unimportant little village. In the meantime, Warlock’s skeleton was safe from interference. The unsafe dig would need to be shored up properly before removal could be considered. John Dee would not let the small matter of lack of proof spoil his service. As far as he knew, the Book of Common Prayer did not contain such a service so he would make one up, with a bit of imagination and a good deal of Duolingo Latin. Fortunately the Reverend Dee’s main attribute for his calling was a rich, sonorous baritone voice.
With a new moon and only the graveyard and nature reserve surrounding the church, a thick darkness seemed to lie between the church and the bland vicarage building that was not yet a home. He was glad of his torch and he told himself there was a proper autumn chill in the air, not that he was bothered by what he had just read.
The church was full on All Hallow’s Eve, some of the children, dressed in skeleton onesies and witches’ outfits, looked more like they had come for a party, but they were here. John began his introduction by holding up the crumbling book.
‘Within these withered pages lies the testimony of the reverend A. Crowley. We do not yet know much about him, except that he was compassionate in a time of ignorance and myth. Jonas Warlock was unfairly tried and lies just the other side of the church wall, forever excluded from God’s kingdom, or so our ancestors believed. The Christian faith is all about forgiveness, that is not ours to give, but we can pray for the soul of Jonas and welcome him back.’
The congregation was impressed with the vicar’s Latin prayers and a musician had come forward to volunteer to blast out the dusty pipes of the organ. His playing owed more to ‘Phantom of The Opera’ than ‘Hymns Ancient and Modern’ but that didn’t seem to matter. Everyone surged out into the night, some to shine their phone torches over the wall, though all they could see was the tarpaulin over the rigging. Others steered clear and made their way briskly past the regular graves.
At last John Dee was alone, glad now of the old cloak he had found in the vestry and worn for dramatic effect. Closing the doors behind him, he felt the darkness close in. The last flickers from people’s phones had faded into the night and though he had intentionally left his phone at home, he realised he had forgotten his heavy duty torch.
As he quickened his pace, trying not to stumble, he felt a hand grab his shoulder. He turned and for a moment thought the dark shape was a shadow until it spoke. It was a stranger dressed in a black cloak and cowl, for one moment John tried to be rational. Perhaps there was a monastery hereabouts and the monk had come to pay his respects… He attempted to ask the figure if he had been at the service, but his mouth was dry.
The voice was rasping as if it had not been used for a long time.
‘No I am not a monk. Reverend John Dee, I have you to thank for releasing me at last from my grave, I knew this night would somehow come so I could keep my vow and I have all eternity to act.’
When he pulled back the cowl from his face, the vicar knew this was not a vampire, or a ghost. Even in the utter darkness John Dee was drawn to the eyes of this creature and what he saw there was beyond anything humans could imagine. Pure evil did exist and he was facing it. Could the God John Dee did not believe in protect him?
Unhallowed Ground – part two
Tonight’s tale follows on from yesterday’s.
The next morning the team arrived early and the vicar and the robin watched with interest as slabs of rough grass were carefully removed to expose the soil, but then progress slowed as the team painstakingly marked out squares with string and appeared to be brushing soil away with toothbrushes. John Dee had to leave for his appointment at the local primary school. The head had been delighted when the vicar offered to visit the school. She welcomed fresh input to their school project ‘Layers of Time’ aligning with the interest in the dig. But if she was expecting him to talk about Romans she was soon disappointed. John didn’t like children much, however they were part of his calling and he found he soon had their interest when he started describing the more gruesome aspects of history. He ignored the expression on the teacher’s face as he moved onto public hangings and burials in unconsecrated ground. Before she could interrupt him he rounded off his talk with the politically correct plan to understand the wrongly accused of the past.
The vicar returned to the dig just in time to hear a cry of surprise and fear from a young woman and see other team members grab her before she was sucked into the sink hole that had suddenly appeared. It was not large, but wide enough that she could have slipped in. With great presence of mind the vicar had his camera out and leaned over the wall to take a picture before the leader of the dig ordered everyone to move right back. They joined the vicar on the safe side of the wall.
‘I saw a ladder’ gasped the girl.
John brought the pictures up on his phone screen, a bit blurred, but they did seem to show a wooden ladder. There was excited chatter. Some were pragmatic and thought it must be an old sewer, while others suggested a secret tunnel to the church. Romans were forgotten about for the moment.
‘It is not safe for us to proceed at all, we need the council to send in their engineers’ said the dig’s leader.
John was disappointed, hoping a mystery tunnel would be of nearly as much interest as skeletons and they only had a short time to produce historical drama for the locals.
‘I’ve got an idea,’ piped up another young woman ‘my boyfriend’s a potholer and even better, he is on the potholing recue team. They could check this hole more safely than council workers.’
‘Yes let’s get this underway before the council gets involved,’ said John ‘after all, you have permission to dig, does it matter how it’s done?’
The emergency potholers treated the operation as a good training exercise. Within an hour all sorts of rigs and pulleys were set up so the volunteer could be lowered without stepping on the ladder. Initial shining of torches showed the ladder went down a long way. The ropes were played out and he disappeared out of sight to report back on his radio that the narrow passage down widened into some sort of cavern. His boss ordered him not to go any further, lest the whole lot came down on top of him.
They all heard his reports from down below ‘I’ll try and take photos, it’s a small space, oh my god, bring me up…’
He was helped off with his helmet and he looked pale and shocked.
‘Skeleton…’
‘A catacomb?
‘Just a small space and a skeleton laid on a slab of stone.’
‘A burial in unconsecrated ground, just as we expected,’ said the vicar ‘but why so deep and why the ladder?’
‘Whoever buried him would need a way to get back up, whatever the reason.’
‘Or he could have requested in his will that a ladder be installed in case he wasn’t really dead and then he could get out. People used to be scared of being buried alive.’
‘Still are’ said someone else.
‘He was definitely dead,’ said the potholer ‘he had a large wooden stake through his ribs.’
‘A vampire?’
‘Poor chap’ said the vicar ‘he probably had a disease which makes your mouth bleed and could have had mental health issues as well. We don’t have vampires in England.’
‘Yes we do’ piped up someone else ‘Count Dracula landed in Whitby.’
‘That is fiction’ sighed the vicar. ‘We will certainly pray for him at the All Hallows’ Eve Service tomorrow night, I trust you will all be there.’
Tuesday Tiny Tale – Unhallowed Ground – part one
The Reverend John Dee had always dreamt of Salisbury Cathedral, striding across the green gazing up at the tall spire, pointing to a heaven he didn’t believe in. It was the beautiful setting that appealed to the vicar; he pictured himself as a new deacon cycling by the water meadows, smiling at other cyclists and walkers, enjoying a drink in the pub by the mill. Dining in the evening with fellow clergy interested in history and nature.
Instead, John Dee found himself in a bleak town in sole charge of Saint Justin’s parish church, a church under threat of being deconsecrated, its few remaining parishioners left to the ministrations of visiting lay clergy. But St. Justin’s was also an historic Saxon church which experts, who didn’t actually attend church themselves, felt should remain dedicated to Christian worship. No other clergy wanted to take it on and no other parish wanted John Dee. He only agreed because of his love of history and nature. The church was surrounded by a large graveyard, accidentally rewilded. Next to the grounds of the church was a nature reserve of a few acres, fields and a copse protected for eternity from the encroaching ugly town by a trust endowed by a local of great standing centuries ago.
As John Dee stood leaning on the churchyard wall in the autumn sunshine, listening to the robin’s sweet song, he took some pleasure in his new little kingdom. But there was a difficult side to his new calling, the bishop expected him to revive the congregation and inspire locals to attend services and put money in the collection. He could rustle up a few stirring sermons on the internet, but how to get locals there in the first place, especially as he didn’t particularly like people.
He decided to turn his attention to the letter that had arrived that day. A team from the university in a neighbouring more interesting town, had been given permission to do a small test archaeological dig just the other side of the wall. They were hoping to find traces of a Roman Villa. The robin would be happy with a supply of juicy worms, but John did not want his peaceful sanctuary disturbed. Then he recalled a bizarre conversation with his oldest parishioner.
She told him this very field was the resting place of evil, where the wicked were buried in unconsecrated ground after being executed or struck down with nasty illnesses they deserved. John had been amused and tried to suggest modern thinking would no doubt consider they had been harshly treated for stealing a loaf of bread or having mental health issues. But the old lady had no truck with modern thinking and warned him that field must not be disturbed for fear of releasing evil.
John Dee was struck with a new idea. Halloween would soon be upon them and he would somehow spread rumours that the dig might come upon skeletons not Roman tiled floors. After all, it was traditional for those not worthy to enter the Kingdom of God to be buried on the other side of the wall. Before interest could wane he would hold a service on All Hallows’ Eve to pardon those poor souls and welcome them back into the family of the church; an excellent alternative to all the commercial rubbish and greed at Halloween. The bishop should approve.
Serene Sunday – Sunlight and Shade
Pictures and a few words from the past
Silly Saturday – Strange Strollings
Going for a walk is all many of us are allowed to do in lockdown and a change of scenery is always good. The photos are courtesy of my sister in Australia.
Time for a walk.
Is it far?
I think we have missed the train.
Neighbour’s rockery is looking good.
Which way in?
Better Go before we leave.
Lucky we got a lift back.
Friday Flash Fiction – Reaching The Moon
For a moment he couldn’t remember where he was, not unusual as he was increasingly losing touch with reality. The long June days and sudden spell of sunshine had made the short nights warm and dry and he had been sleeping better. If an alcohol and drug induced coma could be called sleep.
Churchyard, graveyard, still above the ground; that’s where he was, for weeks, or months perhaps. He turned his head with difficulty, had the other two already gone? It wasn’t always easy to tell. His dreams were hard to recall, staring up at the full moon in the clear sky, that could be real, but there was a little girl who loved the moon. He read her favourite moon stories; bears who couldn’t sleep looking up at the moon, daughters who asked their daddies to give them the moon. Jono hadn’t given her the moon, or much at all. His daughter, that’s right, he had a daughter once. Moon stories was all he could remember; when did he leave or was it they who left? Such a long time ago.
Christmas, he gave her a moon book. Christmas was for children. Christmas was for shelter, how many. One year they found his sister, the last person he wanted to see, he left before she could come and fetch him, left before he had even had his feet seen to. After that he just made up his name and now he didn’t even recall what his real name was.
Jono did not even recall what his daughter’s name had been. Grown up now, did she go to the moon, had anyone been back to the moon since that first time on his tenth birthday? A ladder to the moon, he told the little girl daughter he would find the longest ladder in the world and they would climb to the moon, not tell anybody, be back by morning.
People, so many people going in the church, but not Jono, he never went in there in case they wanted to help him. Most people ignored him, but do-gooders wouldn’t leave you alone. He struggled to stand, good thing about gravestones, they helped you up… one day they would push him down.
Jono found his feet taking him up the stone steps, with the people, excitement, chatter, something was happening; happening to the church, to the people going in or to him. Mostly he looked at the ground, but today something made him look up and there it was, the Moon, hanging there motionless, hanging above them all. How could it be inside the church instead of up in the sky?
At last he had fetched his daughter the Moon, but how could he show her? There she was, a little girl, but there was another child and another, how could he tell which one was his. Looking up made him dizzy, he sat in a pew and drifted into a moon dream.
‘A moon in the church?’ said Chris.
‘Yes, I saw it on Facebook, we must go and look, some kind of art installation, but it’s accurate, NASA and all that scientific stuff. I used to love the moon when I was little, that’s the only thing I can remember about my father, reading to me at bedtime. He said if he couldn’t find a ladder long enough to reach the moon I would have to wait till I was grown up and become an astronaut.’
Chris laughed. ‘My mother thought we would be living on the moon in the Twenty First Century.’
The church was humming, everyone looking up; a real moon suspended above the nave, huge, still and silent except for the Apollo voices and moon music. She was surprised how affected she was and hoped Chris wouldn’t rush her. They took pictures, posted them on Instagram and Facebook.
Chris was ready to go, they were meeting friends for lunch, she paused halfway down the aisle, whispered to him.
‘That old tramp, do you think he’s alright, he looks like he might be dead.’
‘Come on, we’ll be late for the others, he’s probably out of his head on drugs. Always a few homeless sleeping in the churchyard. One of their street team can sort him out.
Inspired by Museum Of The Moon
Read more about my visit to the moon here.
https://www.ccsidewriter.co.uk/chapter-five-beach-writer-s-blog/
Friday Flash Fiction – Secret Society
It started as a joke, Barbara got the idea from Saga magazine; she thought it would pep up our sex life. Dressing up and meeting new people; I wouldn’t call it an orgy and we didn’t believe we were really worshipping the devil. Obviously we met in a deconsecrated church, we didn’t want to upset the new lady vicar at Saint Stephens, especially as Barbara’s flower arranging club meets in their hall. Saint Peter’s has gone Pentecostal, so they would have taken us too seriously. The community centre was off limits with all their health and safety rules.
We managed to attract quite a few young people, which was nice. As Barbara said, in the dark what does age matter and as we were all anonymous it was very pleasant and relaxed. I was High Priest, but we were due to elect a new committee in the spring. We had bought all the costumes and paraphernalia on the internet, amazing how many sites there are. It was through the internet that Geoffrey got in touch, a mousy middle aged man who Barbara tended to avoid, but he was a good addition to the group, had some very imaginative ideas and some good props.
A typical meeting? Well we didn’t kill any chickens, I get queasy at the sight of blood. The setting of the semi derelict church made it very atmospheric; burning of herbs, spreading of salt, raising arms, throw in some Latin, then a few fertility rites. Barbara said she was having nothing to do with Geoffrey, he was creepy. She preferred the young chap who worked in Sainsburys, we did not let on we recognised him of course and I doubt he recognised us behind the shopping trolley.
When did it start to go wrong? The girl who had the fit was fine afterwards, lucky we had a paramedic amongst us, but we didn’t see her again. We did wonder if it was she who contacted the local paper. It was Geoffrey who spotted the planted reporter. I was just summoning ‘The Devil’ when we thought we heard a snigger. Geoffrey looked him straight in the eye, his usual reedy voice sounded different that night.
Do you think he has horns or will he arrive in a dinner suit, tall dark and suave? He’s here already, has been all along.
I’ll just catch the football on telly if I leave now said the young man shakily, adding as he safely reached the outside door and if I wanted to attend an orgy it wouldn’t be with you lot.
Numbers were down at the next meeting, though I could hear excited mumblings as I got robed up in the vestry. I was just about to start my opening incantation when Geoffrey interrupted.
We were just having an interesting discussion; did you hear what The Pope said yesterday? For a priest to abuse children is as evil as conducting a black mass; rather touching I thought, at least he gets it.
I didn’t understand what Geoffrey was getting at and assured him we were all consenting adults who broke no laws. It was as if he could read my mind.
No, you don’t GET it do you, I’m re… I mean HE’s REAL. Why have people in the past couple of centuries considered themselves cleverer than their ancestors?
By now he was addressing all of us, a chill I can’t describe had descended upon the room.
Why do those in the Western World dismiss traditions in the third world as ignorance. You give Him no credit at all; murderers are always mentally disturbed, forgotten their medication or taken too many steroids…or you blame it on other innocent humans, too much bureaucracy, not enough bureaucracy, hilarious that no one dares blame crime on Evil. Of course it’s the more insidious influence I enjoy, infiltrating every human institution.
Can we just get on with the evening entertainment called out a voice muffled by his mask.
That’s all it is to you isn’t it, all of you.
Geoffrey seemed different now, taller, his voice deeper.
I don’t need all this play acting, but what will you play next, the end game?
We all shuffled nervously, some sidled towards the door. Whoever he was you couldn’t argue with what he said.
Pathetic; every century you think you have the answer to improving the human condition; religion, science, education for all, democracy, communism, medicine, love, communication, even space exploration, how on earth (forgive the pun) is that likely to work? By the way, there is nothing out there so don’t bother looking.
Then he was gone, I mean literally, he was there, then he wasn’t.
Muffled voice said he was going to call it a night, wasn’t in the mood any more, nobody else spoke, they just shuffled off.
Barbara said her instincts about him had been right, but she still refuses to talk about any of it. I suggested we could still dress up at home, but she said rather sharply that it would hardly be the same.
They’re turning it into a Tesco now, that redundant church.
Saints and Sinners
If you enjoy anything that is free you have probably been to a free lunchtime concert. I have been to them in all sorts of places; theatres, town halls, cathedrals. Cathedrals are particularly good for accidentally enjoying free entertainment if you come upon a rehearsal. Even wrong notes sound great when pounded out on the pipe organ in a beautiful cathedral, the organist hidden from view up in the organ loft. Many cathedrals invite you to ‘make a donation’ or just charge you to go in; these historic buildings are expensive to care for. Exactly how this happens varies.
At Lincoln Cathedral you can walk in, stand at the back and take in the view. To go any further you have to pay. One day while visiting relatives in Lincoln we were walking back to their house and decided to pop in to the cathedral. We were greeted with singing that sounded familiar from the past. The Swingle Singers, are they still alive? We saw them at the London Palladium in Something BC ( Before Children ). Yes indeed and they were rehearsing for a concert that evening, we stood at the back and listened. Another time at Lincoln Cathedral we popped in and came across Mark Elder conducting Tchaikovsky with the Halle Orchestra, in rehearsal for that evening’s concert. The relatives wondered why we took so long to get back to their house.
Last week was Christchurch’s Music Festival. The Priory is the parish church with the longest nave in England, larger than many cathedrals and is over nine hundred years old; a beautiful place for music of all sorts and there are concerts all year round. I managed to get to three very different lunchtime concerts, the Bournemouth University Big Band, a lone tenor and two organists; described as Four hands, Four Feet and Four Thousand Pipes. The Priory was packed and of course they do like you to put some money in the plate on the way out. There were ticketed evening concerts as well.
The Priory has regular organ lunchtime concerts all year round and it was these that inspired my short story ‘Saints and Sinners’. What would happen if the resident organist was jealous of the guest organist, if the priest in charge was so protective of his historic church and its music that he would do anything to protect its reputation? Hambourne is a delightful riverside town and Hamboune Abbey is its treasure. Father Jonathon’s love of his church and music left no room for marriage or a partner of any sort.
In the free concerts I have been to no disasters have occurred beyond someone’s phone going off during the quiet movement, or rather strange people wandering around looking lost. But at Hambourne Abbey something very dark happens, in ancient churches, who knows what happened in the past? What restless spirits inhabit the organ loft?
At weekly writers’ group I found myself writing more stories about Hambourne and the people that live there; separate stories, but with a link. I didn’t want them to become a novella instead I included them as The Hambourne Chronicles in my second collection of short stories. I was going to call the collection Saints and Sinners until I discovered how many other books on Amazon had the same title, so it became Hallows and Heretics. There are five chronicles in amongst twenty four tales that take you through the year.
You can download Hallows and Heretics on Amazon Kindle for £1.48 or buy the paperback for £5.99.
$us 2.01 $us 7.29 from amazon.com
Times and Tides of a Beachwriter 