Guy N. Smith - Sabat 4 - The Druid Connection

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CHAPTER ONE

THE YOUNG curate shivered in the cold and felt uneasy. Something was wrong but

it was difficult to work out exactly what. The atmosphere for a start; when he

had set out on the quarter-mile walk from his home to the church, a warm

spring breeze had fanned his cherubic features and the setting sun had almost

blinded him. Now, and it could not be more than twenty minutes later, it was

almost dark and very cold. Getting colder by the second.

The Reverend Philip Owen felt slightly dizzy as he stood by the lychgate and

tried to recollect his senses. The last twenty minutes seemed to have slipped

away without him noticing. He wiped his forehead with the back of a flabby

hand; his fingers came away wet and cold. His throat was raw and dry as though

he had an infection of some kind. He was ill, he decided; sickening for

something. He was trembling slightly and little shivers ran up and down his

spine. A chill perhaps, or the flu. He had always been susceptible to viruses.

At 31, and still a bachelor, he felt the years closing in on him . . . just

like those deepening shadows all around him were doing right now, obliterating

familiar surroundings and creating a previously unknown hostile world.

He tried to swallow and realised just how painful his throat was. He should

return home and go straight to bed. No, it was better that he prepared the

church for early communion now rather than face a mad scramble in the morning.

Indecision, apprehension mounting into . . . fear!

It was ridiculous, Philip Owen told himself. There was nothing to be

frightened of here, not in the grounds of God's house. That meeting at the

church hall was to blame for all this, the way a crowd of irate parishioners

had vented their wrath upon him. The vicar had conveniently found an excuse to

be absent and left Owen to face the anger of those whom he had always thought

to be his friends. And, inevitably, the bishop was unavailable for comment.

You couldn't blame the people though. The Church had deceived them, held them

in contempt over this latest issue. Philip Owen felt the guilt welling up

inside him because he was a party to this deception. It was dishonest but he

hadn't the courage to tell the vicar so. It was all so glib, like the

confidence trick it was.

The whole thing had begun just after the war when Sir Henry Grayne, a resident

of the village, had bought ten acres of land adjoining the cemetery and then

willed it to St Monica's church in trust. Church land forever, a last bastion

to repel the spread of greedy jerry-builders, or maybe one day it would become

an extension to the graveyard. And this might be needed before the decade was

out, the way the village was growing, almost into a sprawling suburb of the

town itself. Sir Henry Grayne had been a regular worshipper at St Monica's. He

was a multimillionaire even in those days, his own grave a monument to his

life. Philip Owen felt a pang of guilt as he remembered the huge marble

headstone, now green with moss and spotted with bird droppings. Sir Henry had

invested a moderate sum of money for the stone to be cleaned and maintained

regularly but nobody had touched it for the past five years. Why? Vicar

Mannering had been reticent when Philip had introduced the subject a few weeks

back; murmured some excuse about the cost of labour these days. The curate had

been going to ask about the church roof too, but his courage had failed him.

Sir Henry had set up a trust for that too, so why had Vicar Mannering launched

a restoration fund to try and save its sagging timbers?

Oh, the reason was obvious. One didn't really have to ask. The Henry Grayne

Trust money had been used to support Mannering's own church, St Peter's, the

'mother' church. The trustees were as much to blame as the vicar but there was

no doubt that the money had all gone. The Reverend Mannering would supply an

explanation if anybody had the courage to ask outright: 'The Church of God is

all one and the funds were needed to support the mother church because without

a mother church St Monica's would have to be closed down.' Bishop Boyce would

back him up and, in the end, lesser mortals would be shouted down.

Owen felt the blood coursing through his veins, anger that started his temples

throbbing and an ache to begin behind his eyes. Perhaps he wasn't well after

all. But the clerical leeches weren't satisfied with just the misappropriation

of Grayne's grave and roof money, Now they saw an opportunity to grab the lot.

What use was that land to anybody? A pittance from the grazing rights and they

weren't yet ready to consecrate it. So why not sell it while there was a boom

in building land?

Owen clenched his hands until his fingernails gouged his palms. There had to

be some corruption somewhere otherwise Bishop Boyce would never have obtained

outline planning permission for a hundred houses on that tract. It wasn't

until they were ready to put the land up for sale to the highest bidder that

the villagers became aware of what was going on.

The young curate gulped, felt his stomach muscles contracting. Suddenly he was

the meat in the sandwich, the buffer between Boyce, Mannering and the

residents of the village. The villagers had rallied in their united protest,

directed their venom at Owen, and he couldn't come up with the answers. At one

stage he thought they were going to physically attack him as their fury

reached its pitch. He wanted to blame the bishop and the vicar but his own

courage had failed him and his stammerings had been drowned by their abuse,

their threats.

Now he was back here in the darkness, almost relishing the task of preparing

for communion because he wanted to be alone with . . . Oh God, no, he didn't

want to be alone here any longer!

So dark, so cold; the whispering of the breeze through the tall yew trees a

venomous hiss; clammy fingers seeming to reach out of the blackness and touch

his sweating flesh. He cowered, flung up his hands to cover his eyes and

prayed that when he took them away he would see the spring sunlight, feel the

gentle warmth of an April evening and find that it had all been a fevered

hallucination.

It was as though some powerful invisible force grabbed his wrists, dragged his

hands away from his eyes, screamed with an icy gush of arctic wind 'Look!' Oh,

merciful God it could not be. This was all a sick nightmare inspired by the

illness which had come upon him with the speed of a ravaging plague.

Philip Owen could see but it was not fully light. There was a kind of greyness

as though the night had given way to dawn and a malodorous mist swirled across

the cemetery turning the tombstone into hideous, unrecognisable shapes - that

moved!

He wanted to run but his feet were firmly fixed to the ground as though he

stood on steel plating wearing magnetic boots. He tried to close his eyes to

shut everything out but his lids refused to lower. A scream was in his mind

but his vocal chords were paralysed like the rest of his body.

They were people, at least they had a vague semblance of human shape, came at

him out of the fog, reached for him with fingers that were deathly cold as

they stroked his flesh in the same way they had done under the cover of

darkness. A dozen of them at least, possibly more beyond his range of vision.

A motley crowd who wore capacious caps made from some kind of loose furry

hide, the reddish brown fur congealed in places as though the unfortunate

animal had been carelessly flayed and the spilled blood had not been wiped

off. Faces that were still hidden in shadow above long belted gowns falling to

filthy sandalled feet, each one of the company carrying a staff cut from a

growing tree, foliage still adhering to the wood. Even in his fear Owen

recognised the oak leaves, green and strong as though they still flourished

out of the severed branches.

'Traitor, you gaze upon the Oke Priests whose faces shall remain hidden.'

Philip Owen wished that he could faint, even death would have been welcome to

spare him from this unholy gathering. They were touching him, fingering him

with a malevolence that had his blood pounding in his ears; the touch of death

upon his trembling flesh!

He tried to pray but familiar, oft-recited lines eluded his crazed brain. The

mist eddied and cleared slightly, enough to give him an even more terrible

view. The lychgate, the cemetery . . . even the church was gone! Just open

heathland with this grove of twisted oaks, their trunks and boughs entwined

with mistletoe. And beyond this, barren heath stretched as far as the eye

could see. No houses, no untidy conurbation that swamped the village!

The curate moaned in terror, a wheeze that died in his throat. The throng were

falling back, making way for a tall, imposing figure that strode through the

oakgrove. Now there was a murmur of fear from the watchers, humbling

themselves and falling to their knees.

'Praise be to Alda whose power is only surpassed by the gods themselves!'

The tall figure halted only a yard or so from Philip Owen. The curate wanted

to shrink away but movement was still denied him. His eyes met the other's,

orbs that blazed hate from sunken sockets, yellowed skin stretched tightly

over the skull, translucent so that it might have been a skeletal head,

hairless beneath the oak wreath which was worn instead of a crude fur cap. The

nostrils were flared into twin black cavities, the mouth a slobbering slit

from which protruded blackened stumps of teeth. The robe was white, a soiled

crumpled garment that threatened to become entangled in the bare feet,

catching and snagging on the filthy broken toenails. Around the neck was a

Bronze Age Irish gold gorget which seemed out of place in this primitive

setting, yet so sinister.

'Behold, Alda!'

The Arch Druid stared into the curate's eyes, a length of saliva stringing

from the leering mouth. 'False priest, you are a traitor to the new religion

and to the one whom you call God. But your treachery reaches afar, and the old

ones are angered. I, Alda, high priest among the Oke Priests, have been

summoned to pass judgement. And there can be only one sentence for sacrilege

such as yours - death!'

A cry went up, the throng were on their feet, wild beasts scenting blood,

looking to their leader for the order to kill. Alda turned slowly, his narrow

mouth widening into what was supposedly a smile.

'The penalty for sacrilege and treachery against the gods, as written in the

Book of Edda, is death. Death by fire so that the offender's body may be

destroyed completely and not offend the Holy Ones!'

'Ayee . . . ' A ragged creature leaped towards the petrified prisoner, seized

hold of him. 'To the Wicker Man and may the gods receive our offering

favourably!'

It was a dream, a nightmare. It had to be. The curate feit himself being

dragged along the uneven ground, sharp rocks grazing his feet and shins. Head

downward he saw the heather beneath him, gorse spiking him as though even the

plant life in this weird place was determined to torture his body. Neither

light nor darkness, the mist creeping back so that its cold dampness chilled

his body. He knew now that this was no dream, even if it defied logical

explanation. Somehow he had stepped back in time to a land of primitive death

where he was to be the victim of a barbaric human sacrifice: death by fire.

Cremation in the bowels of a wicker man, a burning living hell that had

originated in old Scandinavia, embers that had not gone cold.

Beyond the grove the mist cleared again, swirled away to allow the trembling

curate his first view of the Wicker Man. It was a crude effigy standing some

eight feet high on a patch of open heath, a towering monstrosity that reminded

Philip Owen of a hastily stuffed rag doll. Cumbersome, it would have keeled

over had it not been supported by two stout stakes from the rear. He gazed in

awe, his bulging eyes travelling slowly upwards from the pile of brushwood

which surrounded its feet. Grotesque, the body constructed of woven straw,

arms held aloft as though it paid homage to some unknown deity. Then the face

. . . Oh, Jesus, those awful features, eyes that saw and understood . . . and

gloated!

The curate wilted beneath its baleful stare, the cavity of a mouth seeming to

grin down at him. 'Hurry, for the Wicker Man is hungry and the gods must be

appeased before they wreak their vengeance upon those who serve them.'

The Oke Priests dragged him with a new haste, pulling him so close to the

effigy that he could no longer meet those terrible eyes. He almost fell but

was pulled upright. He tried to scream, an incoherent sound that brought jeers

from his captors like nightmarish echoes of his own voice. He wanted to faint,

prayed for unconsciousness that would merge painlessly into death so that when

he awoke he would find himself in the heaven about which he had preached so

emphatically to his congregations. Instead he remained in this living hell

which only needed the fires to be lit.

The straw man had no rear, a kind of half silhouette so that the interior

could be reached by means of a short, crude ladder made from stout branches

tied together. An empty shell, an Adam waiting to be given life. Somehow

Owen's feet found the rungs, the druids' hands moving him like a robot,

supporting him so that he did not fall. Now he was inside the thing, his

paralysed arms being thrust into the Wicker Man's sleeves, a tight fit that

held him upright even though his legs sagged and refused to bear his weight.

Oh God, the stench; it was the foul, nauseating odour of uncleaned stables,

the acrid smell of excreta and urine. He tried to hold his breath but could

not, retched and vomited so that the spew ran down his cassock. Choking,

gasping for breath and drawing in putrefaction; the stink of sheer evil!

He had resigned himself to death, praying not for deliverance but that he

might be spared pain. 'Oh Lord, I am weak and frail ... let me pass over into

Thy . . . '

For the first time he realised that he could see out of this

claustrophobic, suffocating prison, that his head fitted snugly into that of

the straw man as though these ancient Oke Priests had decided upon their

victim beforehand and made it to measure. Through the nostrils he could

breathe the cold damp air of a bygone morning; through the eyeslits he could

see the gathering of cloaked figures standing a few yards away, that tall Arch

Druid gazing up at him, the death-like features twisted into a mask of sheer

hatred.

'Blasphemer, traitor,' the other's words hung in the still atmosphere. 'May

your death appease the wrath of the old ones. And may those who join you in

this sacrilege and treachery be warned by your own fate.'

One of the priests stepped forward and handed a burning crackling branch to

their leader. A hiss of eagerness came from the watchers. 'Burn the false one,

O Aida!'

That was when Philip Owen discovered that his vocal chords were working again.

A sharp intake of breath and he realised that his speech had returned. He did

not scream. Indeed, he was beyond the terror barrier. Instead he spoke with a

voice that had no more than a slight quaver in it as though he was addressing

the congregation at Matins. Slightly condescending, avoiding the temptation to

blaspheme and ask God to forgive them for they knew not what they did. They

knew all right and nothing on earth was going to stop them from burning him

alive!

Tell me, O priests of an old religion, why you do this to me. Kill me if you

will but at least explain to me why I am to die. Surely you would not spill

innocent blood.'

'Innocence?' The one called Aldastared up with shocked disbelief, holding the

flaming brand at arms1 length so that the billowing, pungent smoke did not

envelop him. 'You are not innocent, blasphemer. You have been tried and found

guilty by the Oke Priests and there can be no reversal of their findings.'

'But what have I done? In the name of God, tell me!'

'In the name of the old ones, at the risk of trying their patience, I will

tell you.' Alda moved nearer, an expression of annoyance at this unnecessary

delay on his stretched countenance. 'Your new religion replaced our ancient

one, which we accepted because the new race demanded it. But we, the Oke

Priests, were not dead. We lived on in this place, tolerated your Church

because your God was merely a symbol of our gods. But now . . . now greed has

prevailed and this sacred land is to be used for worship no more, desecrated

and made into a place for those who walk with sin to live upon! Deny that if

though wilt, O false priest.'

The Reverend Philip Owen swallowed, experienced a sudden rush of guilt. The

old man, whoever he was, spoke the truth. To deny it would be to lie in the

eyes of his own God as well as their gods.

The Bishop . . . the vicar,' the curate found himself blustering like a guilty

schoolboy discovered in an empty common room with a cigarette smouldering in

an ashtray. Protests only confirmed his guilt in the eyes of his captors.

'You plead for mercy but your pleas are in vain,' Alda snarled and in one

movement tossed the blazing branch amongst the brushwood around the Wicker

Man's feet. 'The guilt of your fellows is also your guilt. Now you die and so

will they if they do not heed this warning!'

Philip Owen closed his eyes, heard the crackling and spitting of dry kindling,

smelled the woody smoke drifting up from beneath him. He coughed, retched,

tasted bile; looked out again through those eyeholes and saw the gathering

half hidden by the swirling smoke. A noise reached his ears, a monotonous

chanting sound like some kind of tuneless psalm.

One last determined effort at self-survival, but his muscles refused to

respond. It was as though his whole body had been drugged, leaving only his

mind free to suffer the tortures of fire. A brief moment of sheer panic and

after that he did not fight against the inevitable again. It was becoming

unbearably hot in here and no longer could he see outside. His eyes streamed

and smarted but he was unable to close them.

'Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no

evil ... * He wondered if he spoke

aloud but it was impossible to tell because that chanting outside had risen to

a deafening crescendo. A shout, a word or a name that was recognisable: 'Edda

. . . Edda . . . Edda

Now he was clinging to a frail thread of life, fighting to stay conscious even

though he yearned for the peace of death. Screaming because his feet were

beginning to smoulder, smelling his own roasting flesh and being unable to

vomit.

Then leaping flames and indescribable agony, the smoky orange blackness

enveloping him as his cassock caught fire and inferno roared its wrath like an

enraged dragon.

And somewhere, far away, the Oke Priests were still chanting.

'Edda . . . Edda . . . Edda , . , '

CHAPTER TWO

BISHOP BOYCE wanted to vomit at the first opportunity. Vicar Mannering had

done so openly in St Monica's churchyard and the gathering of police officers

had not even seemed to notice. Yet, Boyce told himself, it might be all right

for a mere vicar to spew in public, his complexion a greenish hue, but it was

not becoming for a bishop, the head of the diocese. He gulped, tasted the

sharp acrid tang of bile in his throat, and determined not to look again at

that charred, virtually unrecognisable thing that lay in an area of scorched

grass between two tombstones. The one on the right, that once-impressive

monument to Sir Henry Grayne, looked as though somebody had attempted to

remove the lush growth of moss from the marble with a blowtorch. They had only

succeeded in rendering it to a blackened stump like a giant decayed tooth.

'You're sure this is . . . ' the Detective Inspector almost said, '"was" ...

the Reverend Owen?'

'It's the curate, all right/ Boyce turned away, took a deep breath and hoped

that he wouldn't throw up. 'I recognise the skull formation . . . also that

ring he's wearing.' The former was a lie; no, more of a guess. The latter was

true. At least, Owen always wore a signet ring.

'Well, we'll have to leave the CID chaps to scour this churchyard.' The police

officer stroked a neat pencil moustache and was only too willing to retire to

the local station and commence his written report. Anything to get away from

that!

'I suppose . . . * Boyce drew a deep breath and was well aware how his heart

was pounding inside his fleshy chest, 'I suppose you've no idea . . . I mean,

how could a body just become incinerated like that?'

'I've no idea,' Detective Inspector Groome spoke abruptly. 'There does not

appear to have been any fire except that which consumed the body. Although the

undergrowth and that adjoining tomb are scorched, they aren't burned.^

'Perhaps he was struck by lightning,' Boyce offered, habitually extending his

tongue and licking a small wart which grew on his thick lower lip.

'There was no storm last night.'

'A thunderbolt then.'

'Or the Hammer of Thor,' the policeman said sarcastically as he turned away.

'These boys will come up with the answer in due course, Bishop. In the

meantime I've got work to do. I'll be in touch with you.'

Bishop Boyce stood there in the lychgate and waited for his composure to

return. He was badly shaken but he hoped the others had not noticed it.

Certainly Mannering hadn't. If there had been foul play then it was beyond his

own ken. And that was what really worried him.

Bishop Boyce stood six feet, four-and-a-half inches in his stockinged feet.

He'd gained a Blue at Oxford for rugby and had boxed well in those far off

days when his huge body had been rippling muscle. Now, at fifty, that muscle

had turned to fat, and the small eyes which were almost buried in the fleshy

sockets demanded that glasses be worn; rimless ones that gave him a sort of

owlish appearance. His dark hair had silvered and was thinning outwards from

the crown. During his appearances at cathedral services his capacious robes

hid the full extent of his expanding stomach, and rarely was he to be seen

publicly except on diocesan business. He liked to think that people described

him as 'a big man'. Size was imposing, authoritative; it dominated lesser men.

Once back in his limousine, his chauffeur having been instructed to return to

the palace, Boyce pulled a cigar out of his leather case, expertly bit off the

end and spat it through the partly open window with no small degree of

accuracy. He drew the rich havana smoke down into his lungs and expelled it

slowly. He wouldn't throw up now. Owen was dispensable, as was any mediocre

curate. Young men were queuing up to join the Church, professing to having

received a 'calling' because jobs were scarce. So they kidded the Church to

let them kid the people. Bloody fools, it was a career just like industry or

banking. If you were clever enough you got to the top and then other

opportunities opened up to you . . . like that tract of Sand adjoining St

Monica's churchyard. That fool Owen might have had the courtesy to get himself

burned up somewhere else. The last thing the bishop wanted was for the police

to start nosing around too much just there.

Back at the palace he moved swiftly in spite of his bulk, strode down the long

carpeted corridor to his study with an ease reminiscent of his athletic days

at university. By the time he reached his desk, lifted the telephone receiver

off its cradle and began to dial, his body was damp with sweat but that had

nothing to do with his recent exertions.

The call was answered almost immediately at the other end, a girl's voice

informing him that he was connected to the offices of the county council.

'Get me the Planning Officer' he barked, and waited again, drumming his

fingers nervously on the desktop.

'Stone speaking.' Clipped tones that reminded him of that inspector in the

cemetery. Damn it, the police were getting on his nerves.

'Boyce here.' Impatient, chewing on the soggy butt of that cigar which had

gone out on the journey back here.

'Bishop, why . . . '

'Look, I'll have to be-brief. We've run into a bit of bother and at the moment

I don't know what it's all about, but suffice to say that the police are

swarming all over our patch of land.'

'Oh, my God!'

'Don't panic. They can't possibly suspect that we set up this deal with Darren

Hurst but there's no knowing how far they will pry into it. Just be warned,

don't have any documents accessible which could turn their attention to us.

Get me?'

'Sure, sure. But why the hell are the police at St Monica's?'

'A curate's somehow got himself roasted to a cinder.'

'Jesus Christ! How?'

'I don't know but doubtless tomorrow's editions of the more sensational papers

will come up with a few theories. But we don't have to let that bother us.

Completion date for the sale is only seven weeks away. It looks as though

there might be an appeal by these damned villagers but I'm looking to you to

squash that. This curate, Owen, the one who got himself all frizzled up,

chaired a meeting at the village hall last night. Mannering should have gone

but he chickened out. I'm just wondering if this is some crazy way of getting

revenge on us, some nutcase gunning for us.'

'Jesus!' Stone caught his breath. 'Then none of us are safe.'

'I've another idea but I won't go into that now,' Boyce finally crushed out

the remains of his cigar in the heavy glass ashtray, 'but I just want you to

play it carefully. Seven weeks time and you and I'll be splitting Hurst's

backhander. In hard cash. So play it cool and nothing can go wrong.'

The bishop replaced the receiver and stared up at the ornate ceiling, allowed

his gaze to wander idly round the walls until his eyes rested on a faded oil

painting of a flabby-faced man with long silver hair. The features weren't

unlike his own but it had to be coincidence because there was no direct

bloodline. Just another bishop. The small plaque beneath the frame read

'BISHOP AVENSON 1720-42'.

Boyce wondered how many people had read the history of Bishop Avenson. Look

closely and you saw the portrait of a man who was far from benign and godly;

eyes that tried to avoid your gaze even on the canvas. Thin lips that bespoke

cruelty. The artist, whose indecipherable signature had almost faded out of

the bottom right-hand corner, had been honest at any rate. He hadn't tried to

cover anything up.

Boyce broke out into a sweat again, rivulets of perspiration trickling down

his broad forehead. Avenson, too, had died in the cemetery of St Monica's

church in the eighteenth century! The ancient records spoke of his charred

body being discovered one morning amongst 'the tombstones where he is reputeth

to have supped with the devile.'

There were conflicting accounts of how a burned corpse had been found in 'a

charred place with no evidence of fire about'. Like Philip Owen.

The bishop crossed to his cocktail cabinet and poured himself a stiff whisky

with a shaking hand. He did not like this business one little bit. The police

would not find out much about the curate's death, of that he was certain. He

was more worried that they might find motives for investigating how a tract of

green-belt had been passed for building land. There was no limit to their

thoroughness.

Nevertheless, he could not risk another inexplicable death, apart from the

fact that there was no way of knowing who the unfortunate victim might be next

time. Almost two-and-a-half centuries had lapsed since Bishop Avenson's

untimely death and the evil force apparently lived on.

Boyce's hand was still trembling as he dialled another number. This was one

job in which he would approve of Vicar Cleehopes' intervention. The police

investigations would come to nothing, of that he was certain. The spirit, or

whatever it was, that lurked in St Monica's churchyard must be dealt with as

soon as possible. By an exorcist!

Vicar Cleehopes would certainly not have been identified as an exorcist except

by those who knew him. Small and stocky, approaching sixty, he wore a black

homburg hat to hide his completely bald head, stressing that the headgear was

purely to protect his shiny cranium from the elements. Shy and retiring, it

was almost with an air of embarrassment that he shuffled up the path from the

lychgate to St Monica's church that blustery spring evening. He carried a

small briefcase, the contents of which seemed to weigh him down, slowing his

pace, causing him to pause for breath every few yards or so, his piercing blue

eyes scanning the area around him.

He was uneasy, tense. He always was before conducting an exorcism; not because

he feared any spiritual adversary but because the sheer effort needed to

banish an evil spirit sapped him mentally and physically and at his age he

feared for his health. Each exorcism seemed to require more and more effort.

In fact, he had made up his mind to retire from his calling, leaving it to a

younger man . . . if one could be found. Exorcists were like water diviners;

either you could carry it out or you couldn't. A gift bestowed upon one by God

and it was not the place of a humble clergyman to spurn that gift, as Bishop

Boyce had pointed out to Vicar Cleehopes.

Cleehopes had travelled down from the north of England that same day and had

arrived at St Monica's somewhat travel-worn. Perhaps he should have rested,

postponed the exorcism until the next evening but the bishop had been in an

unusual haste.

'There is something there, Cleehopes,' he had stressed vehemently over the

phone upon the ageing vicar's arrival at the residence of the late Philip

Owen. 'Whatever it is, it is dangerous and must be banished as soon as

possible. I know that you are the one man capable of doing this so I urge you

to go to the churchyard straight away and banish this evil entity from God's

hallowed ground.'

It was not the place of a mere vicar to refuse a request by one so powerful as

Bishop Boyce, With a sigh, Cleehopes set his bag down on the weed-covered

pathway leading up to the church and looked around him.

The wind had strengthened during the last few minutes and he jammed his

homburg even more firmly down on his bald head. It was bitterly cold, too,

demonstrating the treachery of the elements in spring; last week had been

exceedingly mild and sunny, now rain threatened. It might even sleet or snow.

Boyce had stressed that the police were carrying out extensive investigations

into the death of the curate. They might be in or around the churchyard but he

had spoken to Detective Inspector Groome and they would not interfere with the

exorcist. The law was sceptical of evil spirits but the vicar would be allowed

to carry out his banishment of the evil force without hindrance. Cleehopes

shivered. There was certainly evil in the air. He could sense it in the way

the biting wind whipped at him as though it was trying to drive him back down

to the lychgate by sheer force. Go away, old man, this is no place for you. Go

now whilst you are still able to leave unharmed!

The Reverend Cleehopes smelled the smoke before he saw the fire in the

gathering darkness, a pungent aroma of burning vegetation, a stinking garden

bonfire the likes of which residents of suburban housing estates complained

bitterly and instigated petitions against the offender.

He coughed and stared into the gloom. Then he saw the smoke billowing up from

the farthest corner of the cemetery, villainous thick clouds that the wind

whipped towards the church.

Somebody was moving over there, a shape that came and went amidst the swirling

smoke, outlined briefly by the intermittent orange glow from the dancing

tongues of flame. Cleehopes muttered his annoyance. This could be detrimental

to his plans, filling the interior of the church with vile stifling odours

that would only serve to aid whatever evil lurked here. It wouldn't be the

police, they had no need of huge bonfires. A verger, doubtless, engaged upon a

spring tidying up of the graveyard. Well, he would be asked to put out his

fire, ordered to if he refused. Dash the fellow!

Leaving his briefcase on the ground, the vicar proceeded to shuffle towards

the offending bonfire, turning his head to escape the full force of the smoke

which streamed towards him. Twice he had to stop, turn his back, and give way

to a fit of coughing. Finally he was within a few yards of the villainous heap

of smouldering rubbish. He retched, almost vomited. A stench so acrid that its

vile fumes permeated his lungs, seared his intestines. What the deuce was the

fellow burning?

Seconds later he saw the man, a figure that seemed to materialise out of the

eddying smoke, a shape that had him stepping back in alarm, his heart seeming

to flip, miss a beat, then accelerate so that his pulses pounded.

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CHAPTERONETHEYOUNGcurateshiveredinthecoldandfeltuneasy.Somethingwaswrongbutitwasdifficulttoworkoutexactlywhat.Theatmosphereforastart;whenhehadsetoutonthequarter-milewalkfromhishometothechurch,awarmspringbreezehadfannedhischerubicfeaturesandthesettingsunhadalmostblindedhim.Now,anditcouldnotbemorethan...

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Guy N. Smith - Sabat 4 - The Druid Connection

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