Hearts of Darkness (18 page)

Night fell and the forest quietened. Here upon the green we huddled at the heart of the village. More sounds of pain and distress could be heard, faint but unmistakable. I tried to rid myself of the notion it was the corpses bewailing their fate. It was hard to think of sleeping. Each time the wind picked up, the ropes creaked, swinging in harmony with the cooling breeze. Howe disappeared to find his tools.

I thought of Jane, her soft warm body. Tears pricked my eyes and I sought to shake the memory from my head for fear I would ne’er find her again.

Sleep came when I focussed upon Dowling’s breathing, imagined myself rising and falling in time with his gentle snoring. I told myself I would be walking out of Shyam tomorrow morning, come what may. I dreamt of a river, briskly flowing. It picked up my boat and
swept it back to London in a long straight line. I stared ahead, trying not to look aside at the men and women running down to the banks, flinging themselves into the water to be rid of the burning fevers. But I couldn’t avoid John Hancock, black hair pressed down about his gaping, white face, eyes fixed upon my boat. He slid into the water and swum towards me, faster and faster. Then he disappeared beneath the surface and reappeared at the bow. He gripped the front of the boat and heaved it downwards, trying to sink me. The boat rocked wildly as I prised off his fingers.

‘Wake up, Harry.’ Dowling shook me hard. ‘Wake up!’

I opened my eyes to see his huge face hanging close above mine like he thought to kiss me. I suppressed a scream of terror and pushed him aside, trying to collect my scattered thoughts. Marshall Howe lay flat upon the ground facing the sky, chest heaving in steady rhythm.

‘He’s asleep, Harry,’ Dowling whispered. ‘He took down the corpses.’

I looked to the scaffold. Five short ropes tied to the beam, but no bodies.

‘Where did he put them?’ I asked, thick-headed.

‘I don’t know,’ Dowling whispered. ‘But Josselin has not come back.’

I eased myself to my feet, one eye on Marshall Howe, and peered into the blue darkness. No one else around. ‘We should try the church.’

We trod quiet as we could towards the churchyard. I pointed to the rectory. ‘A candle in the window. Perhaps the Reverend has seen something.’

Apart from the candle, the building stood silent and dark, a square shadow crouching with malintent. I stood at the gate, unwilling to approach closer. We didn’t even know if he buried his wife yet.

Dowling sniffed the air with vague unease. He nudged me aside and pushed the gate too hard, so it swung against the short stone wall with a sharp crash. I cursed him silently and squeezed my hands so tight I could barely open them again.

The roses appeared black in the gloom, as if the flowers were strange receptacles, night harbingers of plague. Dowling sneezed, which violent noise sent fear stabbing through my heart. He eased open the front door and poked his head through into the darkness.

‘Mompesson?’ he whispered, so hoarse he made himself cough.

I felt like pushing him inside and closing the door behind, so loud and unnatural he sounded in the balmy night. He received no reply and stepped inside, still crouched. I waited in the night air, senses attuned to the sound of footsteps. I heard clear his passage about the house, heavy boots marking his passage from room to room.

‘Not at home,’ he announced, upon finally emerging. ‘Nor his wife.’ He cleared his throat, placed his paws upon his shaggy hips and regarded the surrounds with grey perplexity.

‘Unless he heard you coming from the other side of Shyam and is hiding under the bed,’ I said.

He shook his head. ‘I looked under the bed and in the cupboards too.’

A fleeting picture of Mompesson flickered across my mind, stood upright in a cupboard with his dead wife held tight to his chest. Never had I felt so attuned to the world about me. ‘The church,’ I suggested.

We headed towards the ring of linden trees marking the boundary of the churchyard. A path cut through the shadow, dark and winding, offering every opportunity for ambush, but all we encountered was the wind, rustling the tops of the bushes.

The squat square tower stood stark against the blue night sky,
the height of twelve men. Afront of it a tall stone cross with strange etchings. Gravestones shone ghostly luminous in the moonlight, the walls beyond casting sinister shadows about the periphery.

‘Look there.’ Dowling pointed at a dark oblong, not ten paces from the cross.

It was a long hole, freshly dug. ‘It can only be for Catherine Mompesson if none others are permitted burial.’ I walked close enough to gaze within. ‘It’s empty.’

‘She lies somewhere,’ Dowling grunted, before heading towards the chancel door. It was unlocked.

Inside was dark, as we expected, but not ahead. Candles flickered, drawing us forward like reluctant pilgrims. Also a noise, a muffled sound of anguished muttering, mournful and angry. My every instinct bid me leave, yet my head told me we neared a secret, one we needed to understand.

The chancel was clearly built new, for the stone was bright and plain and smooth. Ahead of us a grand arch, and beyond that the nave. I stepped stealthily ahead of Dowling, bidding him be silent with a sharp chopping of my hand. He seemed to understand, for his heavy breathing quieted and he trod softer than I thought possible.

I stopped at the edge of darkness, unable to suppress a gasp of horror. The groaning came from a figure lain prone upon the floor, on its belly, feet towards us and head away, making such dark and awful noises that it didn’t hear my unwitting exclamation. It was Mompesson. Most dreadful though was the nature of the congregation.

Catherine Mompesson sat on the front pew, leaning slightly to one side, head lolling on her left shoulder, white dress soiled with dark stains about her bodice and the ends of her flowing skirts. Though her eyes were closed her mouth was not, jaw dropped upon her chest
like she died of thirst. Upon either side of her, though not touching, sat two more women and a child, clothes torn and ragged, skin whiter even than Catherine Mompesson. All dead.

Elks and the clerics sat in the pew behind wearing grisly necklaces of thick rope, skin black in contrast to the pallid complexion of Catherine Mompesson. Those from the gibbets who had started to rot slumped in a line three pews behind. A sickly sweet smell hung in the air, the unmistakable perfume of death and decay. Mompesson lay in front of them all, sobbing loudly.

I stole a glance at Dowling’s big head and saw the fear writ plain upon his face, the death of something within his soul. I fancied he saw a part of himself in Mompesson, as he saw in every man, with that detached compassion that distinguished him from most others who professed a love of God.

Mompesson begged forgiveness, I supposed. His wife slipped further to one side, a crooked mannequin. No doubt he saw her death as judgement upon his own worthiness, for Godly men saw significance in everything that happened in their lives, a commentary upon their own conduct, as if God had nothing better to do.

We stood frozen, Dowling and I, not knowing what to do. I feared the consequence of our discovery, for the sounds emanating from Mompesson were so raw and violent, I feared he truly lost his mind.

Something slithered away to our right, like a bag of coal being hauled across the floor. It moved in the shadows, sliding towards us from the direction of the north wall. I couldn’t move, imagining a figure with no legs, dragging itself by the arms. A black face emerged into the passage of dim light afforded by the candles, eyes ranging the altar to our side, unseeing. My heart froze against my ribs, a block of ice.

‘God help us!’ I whispered too loud, for it jerked its head immediately in our direction, searching for the source of my utterance. I held my breath, for its appearance was fearsome, face soiled, eyes staring. It was a man, I had to remind myself. He pulled himself forwards across the stone floor again, unable to stand upon his legs it seemed.

Another groan and I blinked to clear my tired eyes, for I thought I saw another of the dead figures stir. Mompesson heard it too, and pushed himself up onto his knees. He knelt there still a moment, ears pricking, until he noticed as I did a movement upon the second pew of the far aisle. Not all these folks were dead.

He clambered to his feet, body bent, attention fixed upon the movement, feet shuffling sharp upon the floor. A barely suppressed excitement plucked upon his arms and legs, as if he believed his own prayers brought the fellow back to life. Then he strode across to his wife and took her head in his hands, as if he checked to see if his efforts worked with her besides. But there would be no resurrection that night, for her skin greyed since last we saw her and the bubo stood out hard and black despite the poor illumination.

The figure on the ground turned its head to Mompesson, and groaned out loud. Mompesson turned, then fell backwards to the floor when he saw the man for the first time. His face sagged as he seemed to recognise the figure. He knelt down at its side afore turning his head towards us. I stood stock-still, praying he hadn’t heard us, and he looked away again afore striding towards the font. His footsteps sounded loud upon the stone floor, as they walked away and then returned, fetching a small cup of water.

He seemed calm enough now as he knelt again and held the cup to the man’s mouth. The blackened figure drank noisily, thrusting forwards with his head like he would swallow the cup whole. Once
he relaxed, so Mompesson’s attention once more switched to his wife, staring at her with sweet longing.

‘Reverend!’ called a voice from the shadows at the back of the church.

Mompesson leapt to his feet.

‘You have taken the transgressors and brought them into God’s house,’ the voice called. Josselin stepped out of the shadows, arms held aloft in wonderment as if he had never been in a church before. ‘To the Lord our God belong mercies and forgivenesses. Have they all confessed their sins?’

Mompesson stopped to stare at his wife again, as if the notion she might be a sinner was new.

Josselin sat upon the second pew, well away from Elks. ‘I ask God’s forgiveness, for I am ashamed.’

Mompesson stared with wide, white eyes. His nose was covered in blood. He must have hit it on the floor when he lay face first.

‘I was sinned against,’ Josselin said. ‘Betrayed. Not once, not twice, but three times. I gave way to vengeance, when I should have sought guidance of the Lord my God. For that I am truly sorry.’ He bowed his head.

Mompesson’s jaw twitched. ‘If the Lord do not help me, whence shall thee help me?’ he whispered, pitiful. ‘When the Lord thy God shall enlarge thy border, I will eat flesh, because thy soul longeth to eat flesh; thou mayest eat flesh, whatsoever thy soul lusteth after.’ He looked again at his wife. ‘Would that I could eat her flesh.’

Which proclamation baffled me. Did he crave to be one with her once more, resenting her parting? Or was he merely hungry? I looked to Dowling for some enlightenment, but he averted his gaze.

‘The Lord thy God will raise up unto thee a prophet from the midst
of thee, of thy brethren, like unto me. Unto him ye shall hearken,’ Mompesson proclaimed, voice distant. ‘A good man obtaineth favour of the Lord, but a man of wicked devices will he condemn. That is how it is supposed to be.’ He sighed. ‘I thought I acted in the service of the Lord.’

‘So you did,’ Josselin assured him. ‘I blamed you for the sins of Thomas Elks, but that was wrong.
He
betrayed me, not you, nor God.’

Mompesson shook his head, a tear gathering at the corner of his eye. ‘Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. The Devil appeared before me in familiar form, yet I did not recognise him.’ He froze, blinked, then looked at Josselin with fresh eyes. ‘What are you doing here?’ He looked upon the corpses as if seeing them for the first time. ‘You should not be here, James Josselin. This is God’s house.’ He staggered to his feet and drew a deep breath. I feared he was about to shout.

‘I am leaving tomorrow,’ Josselin said, calm.

‘You cannot leave,’ Mompesson replied, frowning like he didn’t understand. ‘No one may leave until the plague is gone.’

‘I am leaving.’ Josselin approached him closer. ‘For I have further reparations to make. If you fear God has forsaken you then listen to what he is trying to tell you. Rebellion is as the sin of witchcraft, and stubbornness is as iniquity and idolatry.’

Mompesson fell to his knees and his face sunk beneath a lake of tears. ‘You think Catherine is dead because I did not listen to God?’

Josselin placed a hand upon Mompesson’s head. ‘If it were only sinners that died of plague then we would have been the first to die, yet we live. It is not our place to question the wisdom of God, rather it rests upon us to …’ He frowned. ‘I came here in search of forgiveness,
Mompesson, yet I am stood here with my hand upon
your
head.’

Mompesson took one of Josselin’s hands in both of his own. ‘Pray to God and he will forgive you, if you be truly repentant.’

‘Which advice you should follow yourself,’ Josselin replied. ‘For it is the answer to your anguish. You still have a flock.’ He cast his eye upon the grisly scene. ‘A living flock. All these people must be buried.’

‘Aye,’ Mompesson sighed, pale and limp, the frantic scrabblings of his former feverish state now dissipated. ‘And may God have pity upon us miserable sinners, who are now visited with great sickness and mortality.’

‘Amen to that.’ Josselin wiped his palm upon the seat of his trousers and headed out towards the chancel.

Mompesson knelt before his wife and laid his large head in her small lap, a moment of intimacy upon which we were trespassing again. Dowling shuffled backwards into the chancel, and I followed, keen to be away. We reached the door without being heard, and stepped out into the night, straight into the arms of Marshall Howe.

Josselin leant against the wall of the church, arms folded. ‘Spying again.’ He clicked his tongue and shook his head sadly. ‘You didn’t tell me you worked with Withypoll.’