Herald of the Hidden (2 page)

‘There are many. Historical events often become intertwined with folk tales and romantic fiction. . . .’

‘I am thinking of one in particular. It endured in progressively corrupted forms from the very earliest times until last century, although today it may only be encountered in obscure antiquarian papers. It has a particular relevance in view of our present dilemma.’

The academic looked at my friend incredulously.

‘It is preposterous,’ he murmured, dismissively.

Ralph lit a pungent cigarette, a tactless irreverence I thought, though it clearly did not occur to him, for he was immersed in a line of thought I could not follow.

He continued abruptly, ‘I am not an expert. You are. Please confirm for me a number of points.

‘Not long after its foundation, the dedication of this church was changed, wasn’t it? It had been to Saints Cosmas and Damian. Presumably they were appropriate at the time. . . .’

‘They were brothers with a reputation for skilful and pious healing,’ asserted Ronald Alwyn, stirred by this diversion to the historical origin of the church.

‘Quite. And then this was altered to St Michael & All Angels. Would it be fair to surmise that this occurred when Guy Fitzgilbert took complete domination, and the original dedication was somewhat . . . inconvenient?’

‘Yes, that is what is usually believed.’

‘We saw Guy Fitzgilbert’s tomb chest in the crypt. The stone carving is very worn and blurred, but I believe it originally depicted Michael slaying a fearsome dragon.’

‘Yes, it is a scene from the
Book of Revelation
. The dragon represents Satan.’

‘And that symbol occurs everywhere in the crypt.’

‘That is natural. It represents the church’s patron saint. It became, too, something of a heraldic device for the line.’

‘Guy Fitzgilbert’s line,’ emphasised Ralph. ‘Where is Peter Fitzgilbert’s grave?’

‘No-one knows,’ replied Alwyn. ‘Presumably his brother forbade his burial within the crypt, so he was interred elsewhere, possibly in an unmarked cist somewhere on his own estate.’

Ralph mused for a few moments, still drawing at his cigarette.

‘I have a further question. To your knowledge, has the church been restored at any time before?’

‘It would seem not. That is why it so badly needs repair. There was, I believe, an attempt to carry out major work last century, but it was never carried through. Perhaps the expense . . .’ Mr Alwyn’s conjectures faded as he was struck by a new thought.

There was a quite lengthy pause. In the stagnant air I felt a sudden sense of unease.

Ralph spoke quietly.

‘I think by now you know the nature of my interest in this church. I am in complete earnest. I can tell you what the contractor’s workmen said to you, and furthermore I will show you why, in your position, I would believe them.’

Ronald Alwyn said nothing. He bore an expression of tired resignation.

‘Amongst other talk about the general atmosphere up on the roof, the high incidence of accidents and suchlike, you were told that they have caught glimpses of a huge winged creature, like a giant bat or vastly abnormal crow, I should think. It has disturbed them before: but just recently it soared out of the tower and alarmed them quite drastically, probably around dusk. They said they had never encountered such a beast before and it quite unnerved them; and that it must be removed or confined before work can continue, because its sudden appearance again could undoubtedly cause a workman to lose his balance and either fall or do irreparable damage. They put all this to you as cautiously as they could; but plain beneath their practical observations was a hint of deeper dread and aversion.’

Mr Alwyn nodded very slowly.

‘That is why there was no work going on when I looked around here a few days ago: and why there has been none since?’

He nodded again, weakly.

‘If you are ready, I would like you to look outside,’ proposed Ralph, and he pulled open the heavy arched door, causing a sudden rush of sunlight that made me blink. Ronald Alwyn and I followed as he ambled along the churchyard path to one of the chunks of dislodged masonry. He crouched down beside this, turned it slightly to one side and held it steady for our inspection. Visible despite the battered surface caused by impact were eight deep grooves gouged into the mellow stone, in two sets of four. The lack of weathering or grime suggested that these marks were recent. They were such that only a hard, sharp tool could be responsible, or . . .

‘I believe these to be claw marks,’ said Ralph, calmly, ‘And I have examined some of the smaller shrapnel that has exploded on the ground after being pushed from the roof. Similar markings may be discerned.’

Ronald Alwyn looked rather pale and uncertain.

‘But what you are saying is . . .’ he objected.

‘That this church either harbours some zoological freak or another kind of monstrosity, yes,’ interrupted Ralph.

He stood up and pointed at the desolate trees, stark against the cold sky.

‘Look: stout and strong limbs have been torn or broken from those trees. There has been no storm. What was responsible? No-one’s been doing any lopping have they?’

It was evident from Mr Alwyn’s reaction, his gaze becoming more agitated, that no such arboriculture had been undertaken.

‘I must have time to think about this. I really do not know what to think. Perhaps . . . yes, I will see the Rector, Eric Hollis. He is a Vice-President of the Trust.’

‘It would be a good idea. I am only too happy to come along. Or meet him later, as you choose. I will be around the village, and waiting until six o’ clock. Please meet me before then.’

‘Yes, do leave this with me, Mr Tyler. I will take urgent steps, and see what can be done.’

We strolled away across the grounds along the thin damp footpath, and back to the village. It was a quarter to one, time enough to partake of a pint or two, and maybe obtain a snack. We found The Plough in Enderby to be a decent inn with a vacant corner table, and after a welcome draught of bitter, I burst into the fray.

‘Come on then, what do you think? What’s the legend about the Fitzgilberts?’ I demanded to know.

‘You heard what I said,’ objected Ralph.

‘Yes, but you didn’t say everything. I felt I was getting half the story,’ I protested.

Ralph lowered his voice.

‘In straightforward terms it is this. We don’t know how the elder Fitzgilbert, Peter, met his death, but we can pretty well guess it was at the instigation of his brother. Now the old tales allege that in the course of their feuding, both of them were guilty of great infamies, and not above invoking forbidden powers. There used to be a whole ballad cycle about the hideous crimes they committed, but now only fragments are preserved. One of the most enduring but obscure episodes has the dead Peter Fitzgilbert returning in the form of a banshee-dragon creature which is eventually slain by a champion owing allegiance to Guy. This is undoubtedly a very coloured version of some original myth, since it has taken over certain characteristics from the renowned St George tale. We do not therefore know whether the rededication of the church to St Michael was a cause or a result of the myth.’

I was beginning to feel a little uneasy at the direction this conversation was taking.

‘You surely don’t think that this giant bat . . .’ I rather gulped out, as a certain process of thought presented itself to me.

‘I’m only following the facts,’ insisted Ralph. ‘From the beginning, having excluded vandals, I was presented with a feat of great balance and agility. Then I observed the markings on the debris and the snapped branches. I was already aware of the traditions surrounding the church, but detailed research confirmed my suspicions in a very singular way. The disruption is caused by a winged beast, the same seen by the workmen. What remains to be seen is whether it will appear again, and if it will respond to a certain course of action.’

‘Why has it emerged now?’ I wondered bitterly. ‘Because of the disturbance caused by the restoration work?’

‘Partly that, I would say. But also, don’t forget, the church has been redundant for more than a year.’

‘So?’

‘No services. No prayers. Little use. And if I suspect correctly, one ceremony in particular was neglected.’

**

‘Was it the custom,’ enquired Ralph of the Reverend Hollis, when we had gathered at the custodian’s cottage in response to a message from Ronald Alwyn, ‘to hold a special service on or near the 29th September every year?’

‘Why, yes, of course. That is St Michael’s feast day, and it is only natural that a church dedicated to the saint should commemorate the fact.’

‘What form did the service take?’

‘It was fairly unexceptional. I would lead the congregation in a general procession around the church, blessing its physical structure. There would follow a sermon always upon the theme of St Michael, a special prayer and a reading.’

‘So the service was not necessarily of local origin?’

‘Mmmm, it follows certain common formalities, true, yet there were characteristics I believe to be unique.’

‘Such as?’ prompted Ralph.

‘The most notable was the reading. It was not from a book of the Bible, but from an apocryphal text. You will perhaps know, Mr Tyler, that such works are often far from orthodox. Though they originate at about the same time as the books of our Bible, they were excluded because in some way they were not satisfactory. Some, however, are of greater value than others. They vary from the preposterous to the intriguing. I . . .’

‘Could you tell me a little more about this particular reading?’ interrupted Ralph, adroitly avoiding further exposition about the nature of apocryphal gospels.

‘It was from the
Testament of Abraham
. That is a work attributed to the second century, I may tell you. There is a passage which describes St Michael rescuing souls even from the depths of Hell. It is very powerful. An incumbent of the nineteenth century has written it out in a very elegant style, and it was my practice to read from that.’

‘And for how long has this custom continued?’

‘It is hard to say.’

‘Did it originate with the Victorian incumbent you mentioned?’

‘Oh, most certainly not. Amongst the parish records there used to be his journals, covering about nine years. He speculates at intervals about the origin of the unusual reading, but so far as is known it has always been a feature of the St Michael’s Day service.’

‘And there was no service this year?’

‘No. The church is redundant.’

Ralph turned to Mr Alwyn, who had been listening intently, like myself, to this dialogue.

‘And when did the workmen begin to feel uneasy? When did they first catch sight of the . . .
giant
bat
?’

The secretary of the Trust answered as if reluctantly.

‘Earlier this month.’

‘So. No service, complete with its unusual elements, is held on the 29th September, though this has been the custom since time immemorial. A few days later, in October, the disturbances begin. There is clearly a connection.’

My friend was spelling out his suspicions in an attempt to win over the Reverend Hollis, who had earlier voiced misgivings. He repeated them now, politely, carefully.

‘I am familiar with the incidents at St Michael’s, Ralph,’ he began. ‘And, like yourself, find the explanations so far to be unsatisfying. But you have impressed our Secretary here with a very bizarre theory. We must not allow our concern at these misfortunes to get out of hand. Although the church is no longer in my direct care, I naturally take a great deal of interest in its continued wellbeing. What you are propounding will attract a notoriety that is far from desirable.’

Ralph scowled and slid further into his armchair.

‘I do not believe you fully appreciate your position,’ he responded coldly. ‘There will be no work upon the church until this matter is resolved. It will not go away. So far as my past experiences suggest, it is usual for the image, or creature, however you wish to regard it, to gather in strength and purpose by every day and night it is left beyond control. Eventually, its instincts will be concentrated to a supreme degree, which it will be too late to halt. At the moment it appears falteringly, at intervals, venturing little beyond the church. But for how long?’

Eric Hollis stared at Ralph gravely.

‘What is your solution?’ he asked, cautiously.

‘We have to be there when it next appears,’ my friend replied. ‘That means a round-the-clock watch, though I do not think we will have long to wait. And we must be prepared to act.’

There was silence. I was conscious of the unnaturally loud ticking of a wooden-cased clock on the sideboard of the custodian’s parlour, as if in emphasis at Ralph’s words.

‘Alright,’ at length accepted Revd Hollis, sighing. ‘I’ll go along with your plan, with the absolute condition that, whatever transpires, our explanation to the general public shall deal solely with plain and rational matters. I will let you try out your theory because otherwise whatever else I do will involve publicity—whether changing contractors, calling in the police or experts, or consulting other clergymen.’

I grimaced. Ralph shrugged.

‘There is little interest in this matter outside of Enderby,’ he replied, ‘aside from a few idle lines in the local paper. And the contractors need only be assured that the problem has been dealt with. When it is appropriate to do so, I will let the facts be known. But not for a number of years.’

That evening witnessed certainly the most unusual service that had been held in the church of St Michael at Enderby. It contained the form and ritual of the St Michael’s Day commemoration, surely the first time this had been held nearly a month late. The congregation was small, even by modern standards, numbering only four, and that including the vicar. The doors were locked against the remote possibility of other worshippers. And one of those present paid little heed at all to the proceedings, but roved restlessly around the aisles and corridors of the church.

It was at Ralph’s suggestion that this curious re-enactment of the old service was undertaken. He was convinced that it must play a crucial part in recent events, its absence a kind of catalyst to the sombre happenings since. So, the Revd Hollis led us through the blessing of the walls and structure of the church, in a solemn if uneasy procession, and then spoke with commendable conviction of the legend of St Michael, to his audience of two, Ralph being preoccupied. Sitting on the narrow pew, my mind too was, as it is said, ‘elsewhere’. A tingling, dry-mouthed nervousness had been with me since we had enclosed ourselves within the dim, cold, hollow expanse of this disused church. Always in the past, when I had accompanied Ralph Tyler on his researches into the stranger, darker incidents of provincial existence, there was an element of doubt. The Herefordshire case, for instance, might have been an unfortunate accident only, events at Hubgrove could admit of a psychological explanation: the still unsolved quarry burial case was replete with uncertainties. But this was altogether different, for my implicit faith in my friend’s judgement led me to anticipate some distinctly real encounter with a force outside of rational experience.