James Herbert - The Shrine

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THE SHRINE [02-05-4.9]

By: James Herbert

Synopsis:

COME WORSHIP AT THE SHRINE

If you are lustful, your most carnal desires will

be fulfilled.

If you are greedy, wealth will be yours for the

taking.

If you are holy, you will learn of a force greater

than all your dreams of the divine.

If you are a disbeliever, you will be converted or

you will be destroyed.

Bow before the shrine and little Alice, the angelic

child who stands before it and casts her light over

the world ...

... as the flames of hell leap up to conquer

heaven

itself. . . .

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The author and publishers gratefully acknowledge

permission

to include the following extracts:

From "The Little Creature," "The Ogre," and

"The Ghost"

hv Walter de la Mare, by permission of the

Literary Trustees

of Walter de la Mare and the Society of

Authors as

their representative.

From Alice's Adventures in Wonderland and I

hniu caret have the Looking

Glass by Lewis Carroll, published

by Macmillan Ltd.

Old Nursery Rhymes in The Oxford

Nursery Rhyme Book, published

by Oxford University Press.

From "The Crystal Cabinet" by William

Blake, "A Slumber

did my Spirit Seal" by William Wordsworth,

"Wake

all the Dead!" by Sir William Davenant,

""I he Hag" by Robert Herrick, and

"Alison Ciross" and "bar emima" in The

Vaber Book of Children's Verse, published

by Faber and Faber.

From The Secret Garden by Frances 1 iodgson

Burnett, published

by Frederick Warne Publishers Ltd.

From "The Juniper Tree," "The Three

Golden Hairs of

the Devil," "Rumpelstiltskin," ""I he

GggHggse Girl," "Pitcher's

Bird," "Hansel and Gretel," and "Little

Snow White," in The Brothers Grimm:

Popular Folk Tales, translated by Brian

Alderson, by permission of Victor Gollancz

Ltd.

From Peter Pan by J. M. Barrie,

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James Herbert - The Shrine

by permission of Ho.cr

and Stoughron Children's Books, copyright

[*copy] Great Ormond

Street Hospital.

From "The Little Mermaid," "The Emperor's

New Clothes,"

and "The Snow Queen" by 1 fans Christian

Andersen in Hans Andersen's Fairy i8ales,

chosen by Naomi Lewis, published by Puffin

Books, copyright [*copy] 1981 Naomi

Lewis.

From "On bei Lord" by Samuel Tavlor

Coleridge, "Three

Witches" (.8harms" by Ben Jonson,

"Look Out, Boys" by

Oliver Wendell right-brace lolmedds, and

"Kehania's Curse" by Robert

Southev in I'hc Heaver Buok of (disreepy

Verse chosen by lan

and Zinka Wood backslash ard, published by

right-brace (nmlyn Paperbacks.

From Pollyanna by Eleanor H. Porter,

by permission of

Harrap Ltd.

From "Shadow Bride" in The Adventures of

Tom Bombadil by J. R. R. Tolkien,

by permission of George Alien and

Unwin.

From "The Two Witches" by Robert Graves in

Collected

Poems, published by Cassell Ltd,

by permission of Robert

Graves.

From "Grave by a 1 folm-oak" by Stevie

Smith in Collected

Poems oj Stevie Smith, published by Alien

Lane, by permission

of James MeGibbon, the executor of

Stevie Smith,

and the publishers.

From "The Curse Be Ended" in The Family

Reunion by 1. S. Eliot by permission of

Faber and Faber Ltd.

Red blood out and block blood in,

My Dannie says I'm a child of sin.

How did I choose me my witchcraft kin?

Know I as soon as dark's dreams begin

Snared is my heart in a nightmares tfin;

Never from terror I out may win;

So dawn and dusk I Dine, peak, thin,

Scarcely knowing t'other from which-

My threat grandma-She was a Witch.

was The Little Creature," Walter de la .mare

Alice! a childish story take,

Andwitha childish hand

Lay it where Childhood's dreams are twined

In memory's mystic band,

Like pilgrim's wither 'd wreath of flowers

Plucked in a far-off land.

Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, Lewis

Carroll

ONE

Down with the lambs, L'f) with the lark,

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James Herbert - The Shrine

Run to bed children

Before it gets dark. Old Nursery Rhyme

the SMALL MOUNDS OF DARK earth scattered

around the

graveyard looked as though the dead were pushing their

way

back into the living world. The girl smiled

nervously at

the thought as she hurried from grave to grave. They

were

molehills. Moles were difficult to get rid

of; poison one,

another moved into its lodgings. She had often

watched

the molecatcher, a round man with a pointed face,

and

thought he looked like a mole. He grinned as he

delicately

dipped stubby fingers into his baked-beans tin and

plucked

out a strychnine-coated worm from its wriggling friends

and relatives. He always grinned when she

watched. And

chuckled when he held it toward her and she jumped

away

with a silent shriek. His lips, ever wet, like his

dosed

worms, moved, but she heard nothing. She hadn't

for as

long as she remembered. A shudder as the

molecatcher

mimed eating the writhing pink meat, but she always

stayed to watch him push his metal rod into the earth

then

poke the worm into the hole he had created. She

imagined

the mole down there, snuffling its way through solid

darkness, hunting food, searching for its own death.

Digging

its own grave. She giggled and couldn't hear her

giggle.

Alice stopped and took withered flowers from a

mud-soiled

vase. The headstone against which the flowers had

rested was fairly new, its inscription not yet

filled with

dirt nor blurred by weather. She had known the

old

lady--was she just bones now?--and had found the

living

corpse more frightening than the dead one. Could you be

alive at ninety-two? You could move, but could you

live?

I he time span was incomprehensible to Alice,

who was

just eleven years old. It was hard to imagine your

own

flesh dried and wrinkled, your brain shrunken

by years of

use so that instead of becoming wise and all-knowing you

became a baby. A hunched, brittle-stick

baby.

She dumped the dead flowers into the red plastic

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James Herbert - The Shrine

bucket

she carried and moved on, her eyes scanning the

untidy

rows of headstones for more. It was a weekly task

for her:

while her mother scrubbed, dusted, and polished the

church,

Alice removed the drooping tributes left

by relatives who

thought those they had lost would appreciate the

gesture.

The flowers would be emptied into the groundsman's

tip

of rotting branches and leaves, there to be ritually

burned

once a month. When this chore was completed,

Alice

would hurry back into the church and join her mother.

Inside, she would find fresh flowers ready

to adorn the

altar for the following day's Sunday services, and

while her

mother scrubbed, she would arrange the glass vases.

Afterward, she would dust down the benches, skimming

along each row, down one, up the next, holding

her breath,

seeing how far she could get before her lungs

exploded.

Alice enjoyed the work if she could make it a

game.

Once this was accomplished, and provided her mother

had no other tasks for her, she would head for her

favorite

spot: the end of the front pew at the right-hand

side of the

altar.

Beneath the statue. Her statue.

More fading colors caught her eye and she

skipped

across a low mound--this one body-fength and not

mole-built--to

gather up the dying flowers. Tiny puffs of steam

escaped her" mouth and she told herself they were the

ghosts of words that lay dead inside her, words that

had

never themselves escaped.

It was cold, although it was sunny. The trees were

mostly bare, their naked branches seen for the

twisted and

tortured things they really were. Sheep, their

bellies swollen

with slow-stirring fetuses, grazed in the fields

just beyond

the stone wall surrounding the churchyard. Across the

fields were heavy woods, somber and greeny

brown,

uninviting; and behind the woods were low-lying hills,

hills that were lost completely on misty days.

Alice stared

into the field, watching the sheep. She frowned, then

turned away.

More flowers to collect before she could go inside where

the air was not quite as biting. Cold--the church was

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James Herbert - The Shrine

always cold--but winter's teeth were less sharp

inside the

old building. She wandered through the graveyard, the

tilted headstones no bother to her, the decomposed

corpses

hidden beneath her feet causing no concern.

The sodden leaves and branches were piled high,

higher

than her, and the girl had to swoop the plastic

bucket back

and swiftly forward for its wasted contents to reach the

top. She reached for stems that fell back down and

tossed

them once more, satisfied only when they settled

on the

heap's summit. Alice smacked her hands together

to dislodge

the grime on her palms, feeling the sting, but not

hearing the sound. She could once, but that was long

ago.

When she listened intently and there were no

distractions,

she thought she could hear the wind, but then Alice

thought

that even when no breeze brushed her cheeks or

ruffled

her yellow hair.

The small, thin girl turned and began to walk

toward

the ancient church, the empty bucket swinging

easily by

her side. Back, forward, back, forward,

gleaming red in

the cold sunlight. Back, forward, back--and

she looked

behind her.

The plastic bucket slipped from her fingers and

clattered

to the ground, rolling in a tight semicircle

until it came to

rest against a stained green headstone. Alice

cocked her

head to one side as though listening. There was a

puzzlement

in her eyes and she half-smiled.

She stood still for several seconds before allowing her

body to rurn fully, staying in that frozen

position for

several more long seconds. Her half-smile

faded and her

face became anxious. She moved slowly at

first, making

for the rough stone wall at the rear of the churchyard,

then

broke into a run.

Something tripped her--probably the corner of a

flattened

gravestone--and she tumbled forward, her knees

smearing green and brown from the soft earth. She

cried

out, but there was no sound, and quickly regained her

feet, eager to reach the wall and not knowing why. She

kept to the narrow path leading through the

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James Herbert - The Shrine

cluttered

graveyard and stopped only when she had reached the

wall. Alice peered over, the highest stone on

a level with

her chest. The pregnant sheep were no longer

munching

grass; all heads were raised and looking in the

same direction.

They did not move even when Alice clambered

over the

wall and ran among them.

Her footsteps slowed, her shoes and socks

soaked by the

long grass. She seemed confused and swiveled

her head

from left to right. Her small hands were clenched

tight.

She looked directly ahead once more and the

half-smile

returned, gradually broadening until her face

showed only

rapturous wonder.

A solitary tree stood in the center of the

field, an oak,

centuries old, its body thick and

gnarled, its stout lower

branches sweeping outward, their furthest points

striving

to touch the ground again. Alice walked toward the

tree,

her steps slow but not hesitant, and fell to her

knees when

she was ten yards away.

Her mouth opened wide and her eyes narrowed, the

pupils squeezing down to tiny apertures. She

raised a hand

to protect them from the blinding white light that

shimmered

from the base of the tree.

Then her smile returned as the light dazzled

into a

brilliant sun, an unblemished whiteness. A

holy radiance.

TWO

Another Maiden like herself, Translucent,

lovely, shining clear,

Threefold each in the other closed-- O ,

What a pleasant trembling fear! "The Crystal

Cabinet," William Blake

the WHITK VAN SLID TO AN

abrupt halt and the driver's

head came uncomfortably close to the

windshield. Cursing,

he pushed himself back off the steering wheel and

smacked

the hardened plastic as though it were the hand of an

errant child.

The van's headlights lit up the trees on the

other side of

the T-junction and the driver peered left and right,

grumbling

to himself as he tried to penetrate the surrounding

darkness.

Page 6

James Herbert - The Shrine

"Should be right, got to be right."

There was no one else in the van to hear, but that

didn't

bother him: he was used to talking to himself. "Right it

is."

He shoved the gear lever into first and winced at the

grinding sound. The van lurched forward and he

swung

the wheel to the right. Gerry Fenn was tired,

angry, and a

little drunk. The public meeting he had attended

earlier

that evening had been dull to say the least, dreary

to say

the most. Who gave a shit whether or not the more

remote

houses in the area went on to main drainage? Not

the

occupiers, that was for sure; a linkup with the sewage

system meant higher rates for them. Nearly two

hours to

decide nobody wanted drains. They preferred

their cesspools.

As usual, Rent-a-Left had prolonged

proceedings. A totalitarian

sewer network was good for the cause, Fenn

supposed.

He hadn't intended to stay that long, hadn't even

needed

to. The fact was, he had fallen asleep at

the back of the

hall and only the noisy conclusion to the meeting had

aroused him. "I'he agitators were angry that the

motion for

had been defeated--good headline in that: local

sewer

MOTION defeated. Too pithy for the

Courier, though.

Pithy. That wasn't bad either. He nodded his

head in

appreciation of his own wit.

Gerry Fenn had been with the Brighton Evening

Courier for more than five years now--man and boy,

he told

himself--and was still waiting for the big one, the story

that would make world headlines, the scoop that would

transport him from the seaside town's local

rag to the heart

of the journalistic world: Fleet Street!

Kermit applause for

Fleet Street! Yeeaaay! Three years'

indenture at Feaastboume,

five on the Courier. Next step: leader of the

Insight team on

the Sunday Times. Failing that. News of the World

would do.

Plenty of* human interest there. Dig up the

dirt, dole out

the trash. File the writs.

He had phoned the newsdesk after the meeting,

telling

the night news editor (who hadn't been

amused by Fenn's

Page 7

James Herbert - The Shrine

instruction to "Hold the front page!") that the

meeting had

ended in near riot and he had barely escaped with

his

vitals intact, let alone his notebook. When

the news editor

had informed him that the office junior had just

resigned

because of an emotional crisis in his

sixteen-year-old life,

so the vacancy was available, Fenn had modified

his story,

explaining that the meeting really had been lively and

maybe he should have left sooner but when the

wild-eyed

Leftie had rushed the platform and tried to stuff

a turd (it

looked like a dog's, obviously just used for

effect) into the

nostrils of a surprised lady councillor, he

figured. . . .fenn

held the phone away, almost seeing the spit

spluttering

from the earpiece. Excited pips brought the

tirade to an

end, and a fresh coin renewed the connection. The

news

editor had gained control by then, but only just.

Since

Fenn enjoyed the country route so much, there were a

couple of little items he could cover in that area.

Fenn

groaned, the news editor went on. A trip

to the local cop

shop: find out if the Bov Scout

impersonators (bob-a-job,

once inside, pension books, loose money,

small valuables,

gone) were still impersonating Bov Scouts. Pop

into the Focal flea-pit: were feminists still daubing the

sexy posters outside with antirape graffiti and

chucking runny tomatoes

at the screen inside? On the way back,

visit the trailer

camp at Partridge (ireen: see if they've

got their power yet

(the Courier had run a small campaign for the

residents

encouraging Seeboard to connect the site

to the grid--so

far it had taken six months). Fenn asked if

the news editor

knew what the bloody time was and was assured of

course

he bloody did and was Fenn aware that all his

night shift

had produced for tomorrow's editions was one RTA

(road

Traffic Accident) and one diabetic poodle

who went for

checkups in a bloody Rolls-Royce? And the

R'FA wasn't

even fatal.

Page 8

James Herbert - The Shrine

Fenn got mad and advised the news editor of his

agitated

state and informed him that when he returned to the

office he would show the news editor just how mad

really was by shoving his copy spike right up his tiny

arse,

wooden end first, and by stuffing the nearest typewriter

into the fat mouth which was always full of shit but never

kind shit, then brain-drain the Courier totally

by handing

in his resignation. He told the news editor

good, but made

sure the receiver was resting on its cradle before he

did so.

His next call was to Sue to tell her to expect

him when

he got there, but there was no reply from his flat.

Then

none from hers. He wished for Chrissakes she would

move

in with him permanently; it was a pain never knowing

where she was likely to be.

Thoroughly morose, he did what he was paid for.

The

Boy Scout impersonators were now

impersonating jumble-sale

collectors (one old lady had even lost her

false teeth--

she'd left them on the kitchen table--but was

understandably

reluctant to talk about it). The flea-pit had

been running Bambi for the past fortnight (expected

trouble next week when Teenage Goddesses of

Love and Sex in the Swamps were

playing). He drove to Pat-ridge

Green and saw only candlelight

through the trailer windows (he knocked on one

door

and was toToday to piss off so didn't bother with any

more).

He scraped in to the nearest pub just five

minutes before

closing time and fortunately the landlord wasn't

adverse to

afs once the main crowd--two domino players

and a

woman with a cat in a wooden cage--was

cleared. Fenn let

it slip that he was from the Brighton Evening Courier,

admission that could have got him shown the door

pretty

promptly, or engaged in an informative

after-hours drink.

Landlords generally sought the good will of the local press

(even the most drab were contenders for the Pub of the

Year Award) unless they had some private

reason for

feeling bitter toward journalists (exposed

marital upsets,

too many voluptuous barmaids in the business,

or reported

Page 9

James Herbert - The Shrine

unhygienic kitchens was usually the cause for their

distrust).

This one was okay; he even allowed Fenn to buy

him a

rum and pep, a gesture that had the reporter

mentally

scratching his head--shouldn't the landlord be cozying up

to him, not the other way around? He wasn't in

to investigative

journalism tonight--Fleet Street and the world's

wire services would have to wait until he was in the

mood--so why the hell was he treating the landlord?

Oh,

yeah, so he could drink after time, that was it. Fenn was

tired.

Three pints and forty minutes of unexciting

conversation

later, Fenn found himself outside in the cold

night air,

bolts snapping behind telling him the drawbridge

was up,

the public house was no longer a refuge but a

stronghold,

built to resist the strongest invaders. He

kicked the side of

the white van before throwing himself into the driver's

seat.

The vehicle was an embarrassment. It carried his

newspaper's name, white lettering in a brilliant

red flash,

on both sides. Very discreet. Very undercover. The

Courier had fallen out with their usual fleet hire

company and now the journalists had either to use their own

cars, for which

there was no gas allowance, or the one and only

spare

delivery van. Great for tailing suspected

arsonists or dope

peddlers. Great for keeping an eye on illicit

rendezvous

between well-knowns who should well-know better.

Ideal

for secret meetings with your favorite grass.

Would Woodward

and Bernstein have met Deep Throat in a fucking

white van with Washington Post emblazoned on

its sides?

The headlights barely pierced the darkness

ahead and

Fenn shook his head in further disgust. Bloody

things

were never cleaned. Christ, what a night. Sometimes

the

late shift could be good. A nice rape or

mugging. The

occasional murder. Brighton was full of weirdos

nowadays.

And Arabs. And antique dealers. Funny things

happend

when they all got together. Trouble was, many of the

best

stories never got into print. Or if they did,

they were

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JamesHerbert-TheShrineTHESHRINE[02-05-4.9]By:JamesHerbertSynopsis:COMEWORSHIPATTHESHRINEIfyouarelustful,yourmostcarnaldesireswillbefulfilled.Ifyouaregreedy,wealthwillbeyoursforthetaking.Ifyouareholy,youwilllearnofaforcegreaterthanallyourdreamsofthedivine.Ifyouareadisbeliever,youwillbeconvertedoryouw...

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