In the beginning God played with the planets,

Set them a-spinning in time and in space,

Stars in the night sky, while sun lit the daytime,

Blue was the globe that was formed for our race.

(Andrew Pratt)

Since the mid-20th century, the names CS Lewis and JRR Tolkien have been synonymous with the ‘high fantasy’ genre of literature. Their collective works have been read by millions, translated into dozens of languages, and have reached new audiences through the various media of radio, television and film; not least, in the 21st century, through big budget Hollywood productions of The Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit and several of the Chronicles of Narnia, including The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe.

This year, 2023, marks the 60th anniversary of the death of Lewis, on November 22nd 1963: the very same day, incidentally, as that of another renowned writer, Brave New World author Aldous Huxley; and also, most infamously, the 35th American president, John Fitzgerald Kennedy. This year also marks the 50th anniversary of the death of Tolkien, on September 2nd 1973. My wedding anniversary also happens to fall on September 2nd: but my wife is probably delighted that I have, thus far, resisted any temptation to dress up as a hobbit or a wizard in homage to the late Professor Tolkien on our special anniversary.

So, a strange conjunction of dates: and that very word - conjunction - gives a further clue as to the subject matter for my lecture tonight. We perhaps most commonly use the term ‘conjunction’ when referencing the meeting together, or close proximity (at least apparently) of heavenly bodies, most particularly planets, on their journeying through the night skies above.

I say apparent - that’s the key term, of course. When these points of light, millions of miles away, appear to come together, it’s merely an optical illusion from our point of view; we’re actually viewing objects which are at vastly different distances from one another, that just so happen to be on the same line of sight from our perspective. A conjunction is, actually, a piece of fiction. It is a fantasy (albeit a powerful and inspiring one).

Fantasies and Heavenly Bodies, taken together, brings us to consider The Music of the Spheres: the title of my lecture this evening. ‘The Music of the Spheres’ refers to the mediaeval philosophical belief that there was a mathematical order in the arrangement of the planets, that harmonised with the mathematical ordering of musical notes. The Greek philosopher and mathematician Pythagoras was perhaps the first to suggest a connection between maths and music. By the time we get to the 17th century, we find that the astronomer Johannes Kepler believes passionately that the cosmic movement of the celestial bodies produces a form of music that, whilst inaudible to the physical ear, is nevertheless capable of being perceived by the soul. This is ‘The Music of the Spheres’. And as I hope to show this evening, it’s a profoundly powerful and imaginative philosophical idea about the nature of harmony within a divinely-ordered cosmos; one that resonated for centuries beyond the Renaissance, ultimately influencing the thinking of modern fantasy writers such as CS Lewis and JRR Tolkien.

So before we go further, a little bit of Cosmography 101…

The word ‘planet’ derives from the Greek word πλάνητες meaning ‘wanderer’. They were so-called because they were bright bodies that appeared to wander in their journeying through the heavens, unlike the fixed courses of the stars. The ancients observed that there were seven such objects in the night skies. They named them in honour of their gods. The Roman names for them are the ones that we, by and large, retain today: Mercury, Venus, Mars, Jupiter and Saturn, to which we would add the Sun and the Moon (names we tend to use in preference to their Latin equivalents, Sol and Luna).

Now, you may already be noting, and wondering, two things. First, you may well be thinking: Hang on - that list of planets is rather inaccurate, isn’t it? Why are the Sun and Moon included as planets? And why are Neptune and Uranus excluded?

(We could also, of course, note the exclusion of Pluto, which since its discovery in 1930 most of us have grown up with as the ninth planet - that is, until the International Astronomical Union demoted Pluto to the status of ‘dwarf planet’ in 2006.)

Secondly, you may also be thinking: What does this list of heavenly bodies have to do with CS Lewis and JRR Tolkien, anyway? Well, as it happens, heavenly bodies, stars and planets, and their place within the grand cosmological scheme of things, turns out to have been of immense interest to both Lewis and Tolkien. And the answer to both of these questions lies in us understanding that Lewis and Tolkien, though writing their works of fantasy in the 20th century, are very much drawing upon far older mythological and philosophical traditions.

Let’s deal with that first question: Why those seven planets? Why are they different from the eight - or until recently nine - that astronomers generally refer to as the planets of the solar system today?

A profound change in our understanding of the universe took place in the 16th century, coinciding with the scientific and artistic revolution that we commonly refer to as the Renaissance. Before the Renaissance, it was generally assumed that the Earth was at the centre of the universe, and that all the stars and planets revolved around it. Because the Sun and the Moon had variable orbits through the heavens, they were included in the select list with the other ‘wanderers’: Mercury, Venus, Mars, Jupiter and Saturn.

Now, as long ago as the third century Before Christ, the Greek astronomer Aristarchus had suggested that the Sun was at the centre of the universe, and that the Earth, and other planets, moved around it: this was the so-called heliocentric model of the universe (from the Greek ἥλιος meaning ‘sun’). However, Aristotle and Ptolemy were proponents of the rival geocentric model, placing Earth at the centre of the universe (from the Greek Γαῖα, the personification of the Earth).

It was this model that was to remain ascendant; until the great trio of 16th and 17th century astronomers Nicolaus Copernicus, Galileo Galilei and Johannes Kepler made a series of scientific discoveries that were to dethrone the Earth from its place at the centre of the universe. The new model, the so-called Copernican model, was, essentially, a revival and refinement of Aristarchus’ observations almost two thousand years earlier.

Later, of course, even Copernicus was shown to be wrong: the Sun isn’t at the centre of the universe either, but is merely a fairly unremarkable middle-aged star rotating slowly through the outer arm of an equally unremarkable spiral galaxy of stars, the Milky Way Galaxy. But at least the Sun still remains supreme within the solar system itself, orbited by those planets that are visible with the naked eye, alongside two others that were only discovered with the development of telescopes: Uranus, discovered in 1781, and Neptune, in 1846. These, then, are the eight planets of the modern solar system: and that is why we distinguish them from the seven planets of classical and mediaeval times.

On then to the second question: What does this list of heavenly bodies have to do with CS Lewis and JRR Tolkien? Before we can answer this, we have perhaps to look a little at the related background of these two remarkable individuals.

Lewis and Tolkien were both born in the final decade of the long reign of Queen Victoria (in 1898 and 1892 respectively). Both fought in the trenches of the Western Front during the First World War. Later they both became members of the English Faculty at Oxford University, which was where they first met one another. Initially somewhat wary of each other, they soon developed a strong friendship that was to last through much of their adult lives (though sadly there was a definite cooling off in their friendship in their final years). Nevertheless, both encouraged and influenced one another in their writings throughout the late 1930s, 1940s and early 1950s: the twenty-year period that saw them produce their greatest literary endeavours.

Lewis and Tolkien were leading lights within The Inklings, a literary circle that regularly met in Lewis’ college rooms, and also in an Oxford pub, The Eagle and Child (which The Inkings rechristened The Bird and Baby). As well as being fantasy writers, and members of the English Faculty, Lewis and Tolkien shared a third attribute: they were both Christians. However, whereas Tolkien had been a devout Roman Catholic since childhood, Lewis’s spiritual journey had followed a more tortuous path. As a teenager, Lewis had rejected his childhood upbringing within the Anglican Church of Ireland, and embraced atheism. Lewis later returned to Christianity at Oxford (partly due to Tolkien’s influence). For his part, Tolkien somewhat regretted that Lewis didn’t convert to Catholicism, but instead returned to the Anglican Church. Tolkien was also, privately, somewhat resentful of the fact that it was Lewis, the recent convert, who now became famous in the 1940s, thanks to his wartime radio broadcasts as an eloquent and effective apologist of the Christian faith.

In many ways, Lewis was also, at least initially, the more successful writer of the two. His many notable works included the apologetical Mere Christianity (based on his earlier radio talks); The Screwtape Letters, a blisteringly funny work of satire, purporting to be the correspondence from a senior devil to his apprentice; and The Problem of Pain and A Grief Observed, two remarkable works that give markedly contrasting viewpoints on the issue of suffering, separated from one another because they were written before and after Lewis’ encounter with a woman whom he came to love profoundly, his eventual wife Joy Gresham.

But Lewis’ greatest legacy is undoubtedly the seven children’s novels that together make up the Chronicles of Narnia, published in successive years from 1950 to 1956. These seven tales recount the adventures of a group of children from our world, who by various means, travel into the fantasy land of Narnia: a land that is inhabited by talking beasts, and protected by a Christlike figure - Aslan, the Great Lion.

Compared to Lewis’ prodigious output across the 1940s and 1950s, Tolkien was wrestling during that same period with one great endeavour: the sequel of sorts to his one significant publication thus far, the children’s story The Hobbit, which had been published in 1937. This sequel was far longer and darker in tone, and was eventually published in three parts, from 1954 to 1955. Its title?

This, of course, was The Lord of Rings: the epic tale of the struggle between the Dark Lord Sauron, the eponymous ‘Lord of the Rings’, and the various Free Folk of Middle-earth - Men, Elves, Dwarves and Hobbits. Together the Free Folk must unite to oppose the Dark Lord’s tyrannical rule, which threatens to plunge all of Middle-earth into unending darkness; unless, that is, the One Ring that Sauron himself made, but which he has now lost, can be destroyed. And ultimately only one small Hobbit stands against the overwhelming might of the Dark Lord…

Thanks to Lewis’ constant, patient encouragement, Tolkien eventually managed to complete his magnus opus. Following his death, a third work, The Silmarillion, was published posthumously by his son Christopher, in 1977. Although it was the last of his major works to see print, some forty years after The Hobbit, The Silmarillion was actually the first of his works in terms of its slow literary genesis. He had begun working on individual tales that would eventually make up The Silmarillion whilst still a young man, recovering from injury in the trenches of the Western Front. These stories would give us much of the mythological backstory to The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings; and between them, these three great works have succeeded in making Tolkien’s Middle-earth the most richly detailed and convincingly realised fantasy realm ever devised.

But once again we ask the question: What do the planets have to do with CS Lewis and JRR Tolkien? Well, let’s turn to some quotations from their works, to find out.

Let’s turn first to a passage from Prince Caspian - the second of Lewis’ Chronicles of Narnia series, published in 1951. The following passage describes a night-time observation of the heavens made by the young prince, the rightful ruler of Narnia, whose throne has been usurped by his wicked uncle (shades of Hamlet) and the prince’s tutor Dr Cornelius, one of his few allies at court as the scene unfolds.

There was no difficulty in picking out the two stars they had come to see. They hung rather low in the southern sky, almost as bright as two little moons and very close together.

‘Are they going to have a collision?’ [Caspian] asked in an awestruck voice.

‘Nay, dear Prince,’ said the doctor (and he too spoke in a whisper). ‘The great lords of the upper sky know the steps of their dance too well for that. Look well upon them. Their meeting is fortunate and means some great good for the sad realm of Narnia. Tarva, the Lord of Victory, salutes Alambil, the Lady of Peace. They are just coming to their nearest.’

The idea that the celestial dance of the planets in the heavens above should be indicative of the fortune (good or otherwise) of peoples and realms on the world beneath, might sound decidedly eccentric today. It doesn’t sit very well with scientific scepticism about astrology; nor with traditional Christian warnings about the perils of dabling in such arts. And yet, according to the pre-Copernican mediaeval worldview, the sharp modern day chasm between astronomy and astrology had not, as yet, opened up. The two disciplines were, essentially, one and the same. And this is precisely the Narnian viewpoint too. Doctor Cornelius had earlier specifically told his young charge:

’

Tonight I am going to give you a lesson in Astronomy. At the dead of night two noble planets, Tarva and Alambil, will pass within one degree of each other. Such a conjunction has not occurred for two hundred years, and your Highness will not live to see it again.’

‘A lesson in Astronomy’. Yet what actually follows reads more like a lesson in Astrology, from our standpoint. But not from the Narnian standpoint. Nor from the mediaeval European one either.

In the mediaeval world, heavenly conjunctions were just as often seen as presaging ill-fortune. Perhaps one of the most famous instances of this was the appearance of Halley’s comet - a comet that passes through the inner solar system once every 76 years - in the heavens in 1066 (the one date in English history almost everyone remembers). Its appearance was noted in the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, depicted in the Bayeux Tapestry, and bewailed by a contemporary English monk with these words: ‘You’ve come, you source of tears to many mothers… for I see you brandishing the downfall of my country.’ And so, of course, it came to pass: William the Conqueror won the Battle of Hastings, and night fell on Anglo-Saxon England.

CS Lewis similarly speaks of disaster being foretold in the heavens above for Narnia, in the seventh and final Chronicle of Narnia, The Last Battle, published in 1956. Roonwit, the wise Centaur, is reporting to King Tirian the results of his observations of the night sky. The auguries are not favourable.

‘Sire,’ [Roonwit] said. ’You know how long I have lived and studied the stars; for we Centaurs live longer than you Men… Never in all my days have I seen such terrible things written in the skies as there have been nightly since this year began. The stars say nothing of the coming of Aslan, nor of peace, nor of joy. I know by my art that there have not been such disastrous conjunctions of the planets for five hundred years…

‘Last night the rumour reached me that Aslan is abroad in Narnia. Sire, do not believe this tale. It cannot be. The stars never lie, but Men and Beasts do. If Aslan were really coming to Narnia the sky would have foretold it. If he were really come, all the most gracious stars would be assembled in his honour. It is all a lie.’

As we all know, the coming of Jesus Christ was accompanied by signs in the heavens. We’re all familiar with this passage from Matthew’s Gospel: After Jesus was born in Bethlehem in Judea, during the time of King Herod, Magi from the east came to Jerusalem and asked, ‘Where is the one who has been born king of the Jews? We saw his star when it rose and have come to worship him.’ (Matthew 2.1, 2)

Perhaps less familiar, though, is the following passage from the Book of Revelation: A great sign appeared in heaven: a woman clothed with the sun, with the moon under her feet and a crown of twelve stars on her head. She was pregnant and cried out in pain as she was about to give birth. Then another sign appeared in heaven: an enormous red dragon with seven heads and ten horns and seven crowns on its heads. Its tail swept a third of the stars out of the sky and flung them to the earth. The dragon stood in front of the woman who was about to give birth, so that it might devour her child the moment he was born. She gave birth to a son, a male child, who ‘will rule all the nations with an iron sceptre.’ And her child was snatched up to God and to his throne. (Revelation 12.1-5)

The language of apocalyptic literature bears more than a few resemblances to that of high fantasy works such as those of Lewis and Tolkien. Who then are these mysterious figures in this passage from the Book of Revelation? It seems like a strange mix of the first advent of Christ and the second. Is the woman ‘clothed with the sun, with the moon under her feet and a crown of twelve stars on her head’ a representation of Mary, the Mother of Our Lord; or is it instead a metaphor for the Church? And does the crown of twelve stars represent the twelve apostles? Or perhaps the twelve tribes of Israel?

The dragon is, of course, as we’re told explicitly a few verses later, that ancient serpent called the devil, or Satan, who leads the whole world astray (Revelation 12.9). The dragon stands ready to devour the woman’s child the moment he is born, sounding more like King Herod than Satan: is this a flashback to the first coming of Christ, then? But we’re also told that this child ‘will rule all the nations with an iron sceptre’ - which points us forward, surely, to Our Lord’s second coming.

This jumble of images, with the cosmic order being further disturbed by the dragon’s tail sweeping a third of the stars out the sky and flinging them to the earth, is all very colourful, and poetic; but any attempts to find an entirely satisfactory historical narrative or a wholly meaningful prophetic outline are surely doomed. That’s not, really, the author’s intent. I believe the Book of Revelation, above all else, is a sublime piece of poetry. In places, it intersects with the same kind of thinking that we find underpinning the philosophy of ‘The Music of the Spheres’.

And ‘The Music of the Spheres’ is suffused with the language of poetry. John Donne, the 16th century metaphysical poet, wrote these words:

The spheres have music, but they have no tongue,

Their harmony is rather danced than sung…

(Upon the Translation of the Psalms by Sir Philip Sidney and the Countess of Pembroke, His Sister)

Whilst the great Bard himself, William Shakespeare, placed these words on the lips of cunning Ulysses in his play Troilus & Cressida:

…But when the planets

In evil mixture to disorder wander,

What plagues, and what portents, what mutiny,

What raging of the sea, shaking of the earth,

Commotion in the winds, frights, changes, horrors

Divert and crack, rend and deracinate

The unity and married calm of states

Quite from their fixture.

(Troilus & Cressida, Act 1, Scene 3)

By the day of Shakespeare and Donne, this mediaeval world-view is already beginning to give way to a new understanding of the cosmos, the adoption of which will soon accelerate further thanks to the discoveries of Galileo, Kepler and Copernicus; but within the vivid imaginings of these poets, ‘The Music of the Spheres’ still has a strong hold. Lewis and Tolkien, as scholars of Old, Middle and Early Modern English, were deeply steeped in a knowledge and appreciation of this world-view; and it is entirely natural that this world-view coloured their own literary endeavours, as they developed their own mythologies of Narnia and Middle-earth.

I’ve given a couple of examples from CS Lewis’ Chronicles of Narnia (and I’ll come back to them later): but I want to turn now to the second of my authors, JRR Tolkien, and specifically, to The Silmarillion. The Silmarillion is actually a compendium of various works, the first of which is called the Ainulindalë. In Tolkien’s invented Elvish language of Quenya, this means ‘The Music of the Ainur’. The Ainur are the highest order of angelic beings that Tolkien conceives to be members of the heavenly power, the first beings to be created by Eru Ilúvatar (‘The One’ or ‘Allfather’): in other words, God. It is these Ainur who assist Eru in the creation of the universe through a holy chanting, or music, i.e. the Ainulindalë itself.

This is how the Song is described by Tolkien:

…It came to pass that Ilúvatar called together all the Ainur and declared to them a mighty theme, unfolding to them things greater and more wonderful than he had yet revealed; and the glory of its beginning and the splendour of its end amazed the Ainur, so that they bowed before Ilúvatar and were silent.

Then said Ilúvatar: ‘Of the theme that I have declared to you, I will now that ye make in harmony together a Great Music. And since I have kindled you with the Flame Imperishable, ye shall show forth your powers in adorning this theme, each with his own thoughts and devices, if he will… But I will sit and hearken, and be glad that through you great beauty has been wakened into song.’

Then the voices of the Ainur, like unto harps and lutes, and pipes and trumpets, and viols and organs, and like unto countless choirs singing with words, began to fashion the theme of Ilúvatar to a great music; and a sound arose of endless interchanging melodies woven in harmony that passed beyond hearing into the depths and into the heights, and the places of the dwelling of Ilúvatar were filled to overflowing, and the music and the echo of the music went out into the Void, and it was not void.

…Ilúvatar sat and hearkened, and for a great while it seemed good to him, for in the music there were no flaws.

This is Tolkien’s own particular version of the ‘musica universalis’, the great universal music, otherwise known as ‘The Music of the Spheres’.

Unfortunately, a discordant note is now introduced to this universal music, when one of the Ainur, the most powerful of the angelic beings, named Melkor, gets ideas above his station.

But as the theme progressed, it came into the heart of Melkor to interweave matters of his own imagining that were not in accord with the theme of Ilúvatar; for he sought therein to increase the power and glory of the part assigned to himself…and he had gone often alone into the void places seeking the Imperishable Flame. For desire grew hot within him to bring into Being things of his own, and it seemed to him that Ilúvatar took no thought for the Void, and he was impatient of its emptiness. Yet he found not the Fire, for it is with Ilúvatar. But being alone he had begun to conceive thoughts of his own unlike those of his brethren.

Melkor is, of course, Middle-earth’s equivalent of Lucifer. Like Lucifer, the greatest of the angels, he becomes fallen because of the original sin of pride and rebellion. Yet Melkor’s attempts to bring disorder into the great music of creation are ultimately futile, as Eru Ilúvatar is able to take even Melkor’s most discordant notes, and gradually incorporates them into the themes of his music.

Then Ilúvatar spoke, and he said: 'Mighty are the Ainur, and mightiest among them is Melkor; but…thou, Melkor, shalt see that no theme may be played that hath not its uttermost source in me, nor can any alter the music in my despite. For he that attempteth this shall prove but mine instrument in the devising of things more wonderful, which he himself hath not imagined.'

Eru Ilúvatar leads the Ainur into the Void: and, behold, they receive a vision of their music made manifest. There, floating in the Void, is the Earth, the world itself, in all its created glory. And even the evil of Melkor has been subsumed into a greater good.

The Ainulindalë was written early in Tolkien's literary career, and it demonstrates the importance of music in his legendarium. According to the literary critic John Gardner, ‘Music is the central symbol and the total myth of The Silmarillion, a symbol that becomes interchangeable with light (music’s projection).’ And it’s very likely, as suggested by Tolkien and Lewis scholar Colin Duriez, that Tolkien’s Music of the Angels directly influenced Lewis, when he came to write his own account of the creation of Narnia.

This is a part of how that creation, as witnessed by some of the children from our world, is described in the sixth novel - The Magician’s Nephew (published in 1955):

In the darkness something was happening at last. A voice had begun to sing. It was very far away and Digory found it hard to decide from what direction it was coming. Sometimes it seemed to come from all directions at once. Sometimes he almost thought it was coming out of the earth beneath them. Its lower notes were deep enough to be the voice of the earth herself. There were no words. There was hardly even a tune. But it was, beyond comparison, the most beautiful noise he had ever heard. It was so beautiful that he could hardly bear it…

…Then two wonders happened at the same moment. One was that the voice was suddenly joined by the other voices; more voices than you could possibly count. They were in harmony with it, but far higher up the scale: cold, tingling, silvery voices. The second wonder was that the blackness overhead, all at once, was blazing with stars. They didn’t come out gently one by one, as they do on a summer evening. One moment there had been nothing but darkness; next moment, a thousand, thousand points of light leapt out - single stars, constellations, and planets, brighter and bigger than any in our world. There were no clouds. The new stars and the new voices began at exactly the same time. If you had seen and heard it, as Digory did, you would have felt quite certain that it was the stars themselves which were singing, and that it was the First Voice, the deep one, which had made them appear and made them sing.

The Voice on the earth was now louder and more triumphant; but the voices in the sky, after singing loudly with it for a time, began to get fainter.

The narrative continues with the rising of the sun, and Narnia’s first dawn; and in that first Narnian sunlight, Digory and his companions at last discover for themselves the identity of that mysterious First Voice. It is, of course, Aslan: the talking Lion who is Narnia’s creator, and later, Narnia’s saviour.

Here, then, is Lewis’ equivalent of Tolkien’s ‘Song of Creation’; here is Lewis’ equivalent of ‘The Music of the Spheres’.

All rather fanciful, and all rather fantastic, you might think. But there’s more. In 2008, the scholar Michael Ward published a book entitled Planet Narnia: The Seven Heavens in the Imagination of CS Lewis.

Lewis himself hinted on several occasions that there was a very specific reason for there being seven novels in his Chronicles of Narnia series. What could that reason be? Why seven - no more, no less? Lewis refused to say more. In the decades since his death, several critics, suspecting there to be some secret theme to the series, have made comparisons between the novels and, for example, the seven sacraments, or the seven deadly sins. None of these suggestions for a hidden meaning have proved terribly convincing.

However, Michael Ward has - in my view - convincingly argued for a link between the sevenfold structure of the novels, and what Jonne Donne - no stranger to the philosophy of ‘The Music of the Spheres’ as we’ve already noted - referred to as: ‘The Heptarchy, the seven kingdoms of the seven planets.’ Ward further suggests that each of the seven Chronicles of Narnia embodies the spirit or nature assigned to a particular planet, and that this shapes the plot and tone of the book.

Let me give you just one example of his thesis. The final book in the series, The Last Battle, is, in many ways, the Narnia Chronicles equivalent of the Book of Revelation. There’s no need for a spoiler alert, for the first six words of chapter one of The Last Battle read as follows: ‘In the last days of Narnia.’ And if the book’s title and opening words weren’t enough, we then read these words at the beginning of chapter two: About three weeks later the last of the Kings of Narnia… No ambiguity, then.

Michael Ward suggests, in Planet Narnia, that the planet Saturn is thematically linked to The Last Battle. The Roman god Saturn - the equivalent of the Greek god Chronos - is associated with Time. So there’s no surprise, really, when an enormous giant named Father Time, who has been sleeping whilst awaiting the End of Narnia, awakens towards the end of the novel, and brings down a final darkness upon the Lewis’ fantasy realm by reaching up into the sky, and extinguishing the Sun. Saturn is especially associated with death and decay; and these are the final, decaying days of Narnia, afflicted by apostasy and false religion. Saturn, the outermost of the seven known planets (according to the ancient heliocentric model of the universe) was also, therefore, the coldest.

Entropy, the end of time, the final heat death of the universe - the second Law of Thermodynamics, with perfect sublime synchronicity, ties together what scientists tell us about the fate of our universe with what The Last Battle, the Book of Revelation and the classical associations surrounding ‘Saturn: The Bringer of Old Age’ tell us. This is how Lewis puts it, in The Last Battle:

Then Aslan said, ‘Now make an end.’

The giant threw his horn into the sea. Then he stretched out one arm - very black it looked, and thousands of miles long - across the sky till his hand reached the sun. He took the sun and squeezed it in his hand as you would squeeze an orange. And instantly there was total darkness.

Everyone except Aslan jumped back from the ice-cold air which now blew through the Doorway. Its edges were already covered with icicles.

‘Peter, High King of Narnia,’ said Aslan. ‘Shut the Door.’

Peter, shivering with cold, leapt out into the darkness and pulled the Door to. It scraped over ice as he pulled it. Then, rather clumsily (for even in that moment his hands had gone numb and blue) he took out a golden key and locked it.

Night falls on Narnia. Saturn has sounded his horn.

That’s just a few examples, from one of the books, and one of the planets, that Michael Ward considers. And he does so, convincingly, with the other Narnia books. The Voyage of the Dawn Treader? The Sun, of course. The Silver Chair? The Moon. And so on…

So, in summary, we’ve seen that the mediaeval and Renaissance concept of ‘The Music of Spheres’ underpins the Ainulindalë, the foundational text of Tolkien’s Middle-earth legendarium. And ‘The Music of the Spheres’ runs organical right through the very structure of Lewis’ Narnia saga, as assuredly as ‘Brighton’ through a stick of rock.

It’s all fantasy. It’s all a piece of fiction. Isn’t it?

Well, perhaps not. In 1965, radio astronomers discovered that if you listen out into the universe, in every direction, you will find what is referred to as Cosmic Microwave Background Radiation, or CMB Radiation for short. This is the microwave radiation that fills all space, a landmark remnant of the Big Bang that ushered in the Dawn of Creation 13.8 billion years ago.

That background noise resonates through the universe at 160.4 GHz - that’s 160,400,000,000 (one hundred and sixty billion, four hundred million cycles per second). It’s far beyond the feeble limitations of human hearing, of course. But go onto YouTube, search for ‘Cosmic Microwave Background Radiation’, and you will find numerous audio videos that will allow you to ‘listen’ to an approximation of what that CMB radiation might sound like, if we had truly had ears to listen. Just as Kepler noted: ‘The Music of the Spheres’ produces a form of music that, whilst inaudible to the physical ear, is nevertheless capable of being perceived by the soul.

Alternatively, you could just listen to Holst’s Planet Suite.

But seriously, my friends: CMB Radiation is the very ‘Song of Creation’ itself. Perhaps Lewis and Tolkien, and Donne, and Kepler and Pythagoras, truly knew that of which they spoke. Music and light. ‘The Big Bang’. ‘Let there be Light’.

The Music of the Spheres.

Two great beasts, ruled by enmity, and ire,

The Red, the White: champions eternal.

Full-burning with ice, filled with coldest fire:

Diabolical rage, depths infernal.

The invaders come: Angle, Saxon, Jute.

Merlin seeks for the One: Arthur, the King.

The finest songs, made for harp and for lute,

Of golden days tell: but also the sting…

Lust, and betrayal: and tears for what’s lost.

The Table is sundered. Camelot falls.

Mordred’s defeated: but Pyrrhic the cost.

The Sword is surrendered. Avalon calls.

Centuries pass - still they wrestle, those drakes,

Till dawn comes again: and Arthur awakes.

Whilst punting on the Cam - The Backs being more scenic than anything along the Isis - my companion drolly ventured:

'Speaking as a Light rather than a Dark Blue the use of unnecessary commas is generally not to be commended.'

I replied:

'Next up - the death of the semi-colon.'

Elizabeth Barrett Browning wrote:

OF writing many books there is no end;

And I who have written much in prose and verse

For others' uses, will write now for mine...

In her first line she was quoting the much-wearied author of Ecclesiastes (12:12), who went on to complain:

…and much study is an affliction of the flesh.

Well, I won’t (and don’t) miss examinations!

But Books…

An afterlife devoid of airy public libraries, dusty old bookshops, dog-eared paperbacks, Shakespeare’s First Folio, the Gutenberg Bible, illuminated manuscripts, fragile papyri, the Rosetta Stone - and even Kindles! - doesn’t bear thinking about.

In my second year at grammar school, I decided to become a school librarian. There were several perks to being a librarian. For instance, we had a small kitchenette annexed to the library - about the size of a boot cupboard, really - in which we could make tea and toast at break-time. Another perk: we could easily ‘check out’ as many books as we liked. But the greatest benefit of being a member of this select band was that we had unfettered access to the ‘black books’ contained within the ‘forbidden section’ - a glass-fronted locked cabinet that contained various volumes to which access was carefully controlled. Unless you were a librarian, that is.

What books lay within this inner sanctum, this Unholy of Unholies? There were various graphic illustrated sex education manuals (well, graphic to the mind of a twelve-year-old lad enrolled at an all-boys grammar school in 1970s Britain: hardly sensational stuff by today’s standards). More interesting was the slang dictionary of the English language, which I eagerly scrutinised for the plethora of intriguing words that, curiously, were omitted from our standard school dictionaries. Restricted access or not, certain pages were blatantly more well-thumbed than others. Which was also the case with the most notorious tome that had been deposited amongst the other ‘black books’: DH Lawrence’s Lady Chatterley's Lover. By the time I came to read it, almost twenty years had passed since the famous prosecution of Penguin Books for publishing this infamous work: perhaps the greatest cause célèbre in the battle against censorship in the 20th century.

The chief prosecutor in that famous trial, Mervyn Griffith-Jones, had become a laughing stock by suggesting that this was not the kind of book ‘you would wish your wife or servants to read.’ Britain was on the cusp of a social and sexual revolution that would shortly consign Griffith-Jones’ world-view to the dustbin of history. He wasn’t alone, of course, in being unprepared for this; as the great Philip Larkin mournfully expressed a few years later in his poem Annus Mirabilis:

Sexual intercourse began

In nineteen sixty-three (which was rather late for me)

Between the end of the Chatterley ban

And the Beatles’ first LP.

Once I had read the book for myself, I must confess to a certain disappointment. It wasn’t a patch on other works by Lawrence, like Sons and Lovers, The Rainbow or Women in Love. Yes: here in the text of a novel, for the first time, I was able to read some of those ‘forbidden words’ I’d previously been looking up in the aforementioned slang dictionary. But, on reflection, I didn’t really understand what all the fuss had been about.

In the same year that I read Lady C, I also read George Orwell’s Animal Farm, followed soon after by his masterpiece, 1984. What had been a vague unease with the idea of censorship now hardened into an unyielding opposition to it. More than forty years on, my feelings on the matter are stronger than ever. As Winston Smith, Orwell’s protagonist in the dystopian nightmare world of 1984 writes, in his diary:

‘Who controls the past controls the future. Who controls the present controls the past.’

Revisionist views of literature, art and music are no less dangerous than revisionist views of history. And, in my view, the rewriting of Roald Dahl (yes, I got to the subject of this Challenge in the end…) is nothing short of monstrous. Or - to use a very Dahlish word - beastly.

Less than a week has passed since I first read, in an article published in The Guardian on February 18th, that new editions of Dahl’s work had been published (in which, amongst other things, Augustus Gloop is now ‘enormous’ rather than ‘fat’; Miss Trunchbull is now a ‘most formidable woman’ rather than ‘most formidable female’; and Mrs Twit is no longer ‘ugly’). And I’m still fuming.

It seems ironic to me that these changes have been made by Dahl’s publisher Puffin, itself an imprint of Penguin - the very publishing house that was once willing to champion DH Lawrence in the battle against censorship. How the mighty have fallen!

Now, it’s important to distinguish between changes of language that might be required for the purposes of understanding and clarity, as opposed to alterations motivated by a desire to bring the thinking of the past into line with whatever happens to be the prevalent attitudes of the current day. Clearly, these are the principles that should be applied when translating from one language to another. Even then, there remains the clear understanding that reading the original text in the original language of composition is always to be desired, if possible.

My understanding of the New Testament, for example, has been greatly enhanced by my reading the text in the original Greek, as I and a few friends have regularly been doing together on a weekly basis for over four years now. CS Lewis, JRR Tolkien and various friends once did exactly the same, almost a century ago, when they gathered week by week to read the Icelandic Sagas in their original tongue, as part of the Koalbiters’ Club (a precursor of sorts to the later Inklings). Much as I love Tolkien’s masterful translations of some of the foundational texts of Middle and Old English (not least that superlative epic poem, Beowulf), I know it cannot compare with the original. If I really want to appreciate Beowulf fully, then I should learn Anglo-Saxon (I have tried, actually!); and then I should read the original text - a text that has not changed for a thousand years. But I shudder to think what text of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory will be available for future readers in a thousand years time; and how similar (or not) it will be to what Dahl originally wrote.

Translating is not, therefore, the same as rewriting. Nor is adapting. I mentioned, in the previous paragraph, JRR Tolkien - surely one of the greatest philologists and wordsmiths of the 20th century. Tolkien’s greatest work, The Lord of the Rings, has been adapted for radio, television and film on numerous occasions. Sometimes, these have been faithful adaptations (such as the wonderful BBC radio version, made in 1981). Two decades later, the Oscar-winning Peter Jackson film adaptation worked under different constraints from those of a radio studio, albeit with a far greater budget; yet that too was also a loving and thoughtful production. Both productions were faced with hard decisions about what to omit, what to retain and what to re-purpose from the source material. The large-scale action scenes were, of course, realised with far greater effect in the film adaptation that would ever have been possible within the confines of a radio studio. By contrast, the radio drama retained much more of Tolkien’s poetry from the epic; a much-loved element of the novel that many of the film’s aficionados, like myself, nevertheless missed from Jackson’s version of the tale. Interestingly, both adaptations completely removed the Tom Bombadil sub-plot (wisely so, in my opinion - some of course will disagree). But I have a great deal of respect for both adaptations, making the very best use as they did of their contrasting dramatic forms.

However, the less said about Amazon’s recent television series The Lord of the Rings: the Rings of Power, the better…

So, adapting is not the same as rewriting either.

What, then, about rewriting? What are the ground rules for this?

One word: Don’t.

Or - to expand slightly - in my view, there is generally only one person who has the authority, should they choose to do so, of rewriting (as opposed to translating or adapting) a work of literature. And that is the original author. Which in the case of the deceased Roald Dahl is now impossible.

It’s interesting to note that very few authors ever do succumb to the temptation - or the pressure - to rewrite their work, once finally published. One of the few recent exceptions I can think of to this is the fantasy author Neil Gaiman, who has published several slightly-revised ‘preferred texts’ after-the-fact of his original published works. There’s also the interesting example of science fiction writer Douglas Adams, who in his own lifetime (let’s forget posthumous travesties like the film adaptation) was creatively involved in several different versions of his most famous work, The Hitchhikers’ Guide to the Galaxy, in radio, TV, LP and novel formats. Sometimes these versions diverged from one another in quite significant ways. So, which one is ‘canon’? The short answer: All of them!

Generally, unlike Gaiman and Adams, most authors have resisted the temptation to revisit their published works; and that isn’t at all surprising, really, when you think about it. When one considers the amount of time and energy that is lovingly poured into crafting their works, you can see why authors, once finally reaching that cathartic point - It is finished - would generally rather move onto the next work, or otherwise take a well-earned rest. And this is still the case, perhaps even more so, if they are aware of the limitations and deficiencies of their work. Returning to Tolkien, the preface to the second edition of The Lord of the Rings contains these remarkably honest words:

The most critical reader of all, myself, now finds many defects, minor and major, but being fortunately under no obligation either to review the book or to write it again, he will pass over these in silence, except one that has been noted by others: the book is too short.

Amen to his last statement.

Sometimes - before publication - authors, dramatists and composers expend considerable energy on rewrites. They cannot bring their work to completion. They set the work aside - hoping to return to it, perhaps. Or sometimes admitting to themselves forlornly that it will never reach that final form. Afraid, even, to finish it. To say: ‘There! It’s done.’ For examples, think of The Silmarillion (Tolkien again). Or Schubert’s famously unfinished 8th symphony. And sometimes Death himself intervenes: none more poignantly so than in the case of Mozart, in the midst of writing his Requiem. Lacrimosa dies illa / Qua resurget ex favilla /Judicandus homo reus (‘Full of tears will be that day / When from the ashes shall arise / The guilty man to be judged’): possibly the final words of the Requiem score that he worked on.

(Let’s not get into whether unfinished works should be completed by other hands - even hands as respectful as Mozart’s pupil Süssmayr, or Tolkien’s son Christopher. That’s another controversy for another time.)

But Roald Dahl indisputedly completed many works. Many of them have become beloved classics of children’s literature. He did not feel the need to rewrite them. With what audacity should lesser writers (and publishers looking for a ‘fast buck’ from ‘new’ editions) feel the need to do so? It’s not ‘artistic reinterpretation’. It’s not reviewing the language ‘to ensure that it can continue to be enjoyed by all today’ (as the publisher's blurb maintains). It’s cultural vandalism - pure and simple.

Yes, there are plenty of controversial works in the vast canon of literature. Are we going to raise the age of Juliet in Romeo and Juliet, or Nabokov’s Lolita, because they make us feel uncomfortable these days? Are we going to rewrite Huckleberry Finn, removing from Twain's work every use of the ‘N-word’? That’s the logical next step - it would seem - from trying to tell us that Augustus Gloop might be ‘enormous’, but he certainly isn’t ‘fat’.

Some commentators have suggested that Roald Dahl is being retrospectively ‘punished’ for his well-documented anti-Semitic views. Well, again, I don’t want to go too far down another rabbit hole, that of so-called ‘cancel culture’; but altering or invalidating another person’s work because of some supposed moral shortcoming in the artist - real or otherwise - is unbelievably facile. Caravaggio was, possibly, a murderer. He also happens to be one of my favourite artists. The late Eric Gill’s sculptures have become enormously controversial recently, in view of discoveries about his personal life. But what, then, about film directors like Roman Polanski? Or the possible proclivities of Lewis Caroll and JM Barrie? Or poets like Jean Genet, once a petty thief; or the perpetually inebriated Swansea poet, Dylan Thomas? What about drug-using novelists like William Burroughs? Or even - in the current moment, most controversially - JK Rowling? Can I divorce the art from the artist? Should I? To what extent does the artist inform the art? Should one appreciate the music, or the novel, in and for itself? Complex questions, to be sure: but the unyielding orthodoxies of ‘cancel culture’ seem to be a most illiberal response to me.

‘Ah, but Roald Dahl is a children’s author’ - comes back the rejoinder. ‘Corrupting the young - we can’t have that!’ Well, I’m certainly not dignifying that criticism with a response. The artificial division of literature into ‘children’s’ and ‘young adult’ and ‘adult’ categories is something I began to reject long before I took an interest in Lady C and the other ‘black books’ in our school library.

If you think a work lacks literary merit - don’t read it. If as a publisher you think it’s had its day - don’t reprint it. Altering the text to suit current-day identity politics, without the author’s express permission, is tantamount to pissing on their grave.

Good art should entertain us, challenge us, inspire us, and even, sometimes, disturb us. Think of one of Picasso’s most famous works - Guernica. It contains some shocking imagery - such as a gored horse, screaming women, a dead baby, a dismembered soldier, and flames. It was meant to shock. It was the artist’s response to the Spanish Civil War and the Fascist destruction of the Basque town of Guernica in 1937. Are we to judge Picasso’s work as too troubling for consideration today? Of course not.

But, then again, are we step by step remorselessly heading for the kind of world that EM Forster warned about in his extraordinary short story, The Machine Stops? In this remarkable work, first published in 1928 (!), the author predicts the rise of the internet (yes, really), human dependency upon machines, and the death of scientific inquiry and artistic imagination. In the story, we are introduced to a Lecturer, an ‘expert’ in French history, who to ‘tremendous applause’ declaims the following to his enraptured audience:

‘There will come a generation that has gone beyond facts, beyond impressions, a generation absolutely colourless, a generation “seraphically free from taint of personality”, which will see the French Revolution not as it happened, nor as they would like it to have happened, but as it would have happened had it taken place in the days of the Machine.’

Sorry Huxley - sorry Orwell. Forster got there a few years before you.

I’m going to give the final word to Salman Rushdie: a man who appreciates the cost of creative integrity, and the dangers of censorship, far, far more than most of us ever will. He posted his reaction to the brouhaha about Dahl on Twitter a few days ago. He wrote:

‘Roald Dahl was no angel but this is absurd censorship. Puffin Books and the Dahl estate should be ashamed.’

Spot on. Now I really need to get around to reading The Satanic Verses.

‘Peter, I’m aware your brother’s being rather difficult at the moment…’

I knew what was coming.

More pearls of wisdom from Mother. All about the importance of shouldering responsibility. Showing more understanding towards my most annoying sibling. Looking after the girls - especially little Lu.

I sighed.

Mother paused, smiled, and took my hands in hers. Continuing to expound her theme more gently, she said:

‘I’m sorry. You’re thinking - not another lecture - aren’t you? I know being the eldest child in the family hasn’t always been straightforward. Great expectations, and all that. It’s been especially difficult, of course, since your Father went away to sea.’

‘I just don’t understand why you can’t come with us, Mother. Judging from the photograph you received with the letter, this old chap’s house has more than enough room for you too. By Jove, it’s practically a mansion!’

‘I’d love to join you, truly; and I have been told I’d be more than welcome. Perhaps I shall be able to visit in a month or so. But I can’t leave my secretarial job just now - you know how important it is in the current climate, Peter.’

What she really meant, of course, was: it’s important for the war effort. But Mother always avoided using the W-word, whenever possible.

‘All right. You can’t come with us. But in that case, I don’t see why we can’t remain in London with you. Who will look after you? Some of the other chaps I know from school are spending these summer hols at home. They’re not being evacuated. I’m not afraid of Herr Hitler and his stinking Stukas. Send the girls away, if you must - but “It” and I can stay, surely?’

*

It was currently my preferred name for my beastly younger brother. Ever since he’d started that horrid new school the previous autumn, he hadn’t been the same. For a long time I hadn’t understood why Mother and Father hadn’t sent him to the same boarding school as myself. But then, just a few days ago, I’d been talking about it with my sisters. My elder sister - who often had a greater intuitive understanding than I of the ways of the world, even if she sometimes expressed that understanding with waspish words - had ventured that it was probably a matter of money.

‘Peter, you don’t seem to realise’ - she had said - ‘that our parents have made considerable sacrifices to ensure you get the very best education. But you are only one of four. RHIP - rank has its privileges - as Father would say. And as the firstborn, you outrank us all. It’s not fair, but it’s true.’

I might have won the ensuing pillow-fight, but I wasn’t sure that I could dispute her penetrating logic. And nothing changed the fact that “It” still had a propensity to act like some insufferable oik at times. His tendency to tease Lu - the youngest and most sensitive of the four of us - was especially obnoxious. That, at least, I was determined to put an end to this summer.

*

I realised Mother was shaking her head.

‘Stay in London? Out of the question. I don’t need you to be my knight in shining armour, Peter. If you want to play the part of gallant champion, then do so for your sisters. I’d feel far happier if you went with them.’

I glowered. ‘Taking “It” with me too, I suppose.’

‘I really don’t like you calling your brother that. He has a perfectly good name of his own.’

‘An old-fashioned Anglo-Saxon one, actually. I’m glad you and Father gave me a sensible name.’

‘Enough, Peter. Give me your word that you’ll be sensible, and that you’ll look after the others. And no outlandish adventures, please. I know you’ll want to explore the countryside, and there’ll be plenty to see and do, I’m sure. Terra incognita, and all that. But I don’t want to receive a letter from this mysterious professor informing me that the four of you have gone missing whilst looking for badgers in the woods.’

‘Badgers in the woods?’ I said enthusiastically. ‘Do you really think so?’

She laughed. ‘Behave. You really are incorrigible. Your word?’

I shrugged, feigning an indifference that I did not feel. ‘Yes Mother. I’ll look after all of them. Even–’

I nearly uttered that impersonal pronoun again. I decided to change tack.

‘All four of us will behave ourselves, I promise. We’ll make you proud that we bear the Pevensie name.’

Mother visibly relaxed. ‘You’re magnificent, Peter. Truly. And remember, this nasty business’ - she meant the W-word again - ‘will be over soon enough.’ I thought not, but knew better than to challenge her excessive optimism. ‘Your Father will be home in no time. We’ll all be back together again. You’ll see. Maybe even by Christmas. Just hold that happy thought, Peter.’

I smiled, but inwardly said to myself: By Christmas. Fat chance of that, now that France has fallen. Last Christmas - the first of this war - didn’t feel much like Christmas, did it? Next Christmas probably won't either.

‘Always winter, never Christmas,’ I murmured. The phrase had popped into my head - from somewhere. I didn’t altogether like the sound of that...

‘What was that, dear?’

‘Nothing.’

Mother hugged me. ‘Cheer up. You, Susan, Edmund, Lucy - you’ll love exploring a big old house in the heart of the countryside. Just wait: you’ll see.’

Prologue

She had been in labour for six hours. Her ordeal was finally drawing to a close.

The delivery room was state of the art. No NHS facility could match it. The equipment, and the skills of the medics, were of the very highest order. And she knew why: for this was to be no ordinary birth. It was the culmination of far more than nine month’s worth of planning.

They had been anxious, for a while, that she would deliver her child too soon. She understood why the timing was so significant.

The clock on the wall registered:

00:00.

A new day was beginning. They were relieved. They told her that now she must push: she was almost done. She glanced across the room.

The others were there, standing back while the medics attended to her. Her husband: and four additional men beside him. Her husband looked sad, his soft-brown eyes conveying a deep melancholy. By way of contrast, the man with the mesmeric gaze standing to his right radiated an aura of triumph.

The music playing in the background had been her selection. It could only be Rossini. La gazza ladra.

Six minutes later the crescendo, and the cry, told her - before she saw him - that her son had been born.

She was exhausted. More than ordinarily empty. She had been nurturing something within her that was wonderful and awesome and frightening. There was no name for it. Now she held him in her arms.

‘He should be named Adam,’ said the man to her husband’s right. ‘I claim that privilege.’ The others nodded their assent. All except for–

‘No,’ replied her husband, sharply. ‘You will not own his name. Ever.’ He looked at his wife - was it sternly or tenderly? ‘You should choose.’

So she did.

Seven for a Secret Never to be Told (Compline)

Oh You Pretty Things

Don’t you know you’re driving your

Mamas and Papas insane

Let me make it plain

You gotta make way for the Homo Superior

(David Bowie)

Berkeley Butterworth had known for a long time that he was different. It wasn’t just his slightly disconcerting physical appearance, with his pale milky-white skin, contrasting strongly with his untidy, Cimmerian curls and over-plump carmine lips; nor the slight but still discernible lack of balance between the jug-like ears jutting out from either side of his rounded face. All that, together with his sad brown puppy-dog eyes, was sufficient to give a comic yet melancholic air to his countenance from a very young age. But Berkeley’s sense of difference was tied up with other aspects of the self beside mere physical appearance.

For instance - unlike most of the other schoolboys in his class - Berkeley preferred ITV’s lineup of children’s television programmes to that offered by the BBC. His Saturday morning viewing favoured the anarchic Tiswas over the more controlled, suburban feel of the Multi-Coloured Swap Shop; and he’d rather soar with Magpie’s eponymous mascot, a corvid named Murgatroyd, than go sailing with the steady crew of the Blue Peter.

Above all else, the adventures of the adolescent Tomorrow People were distinctly preferable to those of the alien protagonist of Doctor Who. More than once, Berkeley had wished he could ‘jaunt’ away, from home or from school, using the teleportation mind powers of John, Stephen, Elizabeth, Mike and the other members of the Tomorrow People - the elite group of Homo superior that had begun ‘breaking out’ of their mental chrysalis with their advanced psychic powers. This was the next step in human evolution, usually manifesting at puberty, and taking the chosen few - and one day, it was to be hoped, the whole race - away from the mundanity, prejudice and thuggery of the far-too-long dominant Homo sapiens (or ‘saps’, as they were generally referred to by those destined to become humanity’s future).

The attraction was obvious to one such as Berkeley Butterworth. There were other ways of being different, after all. Other ways of being Homo.

And without a doubt - it was better than being a sap.

*

Then there was Berkeley’s hidden dressing-up obsession, which in his case took a decidedly idiosyncratic form. Some of the boys from his class had taken to wearing long multi-coloured scarves, in homage to Tom Baker, currently playing the part of the Fourth Doctor. Berkeley too would sometimes wear a scarf - of sorts - when indulging in his playtime fantasies. However, this was the kind of scarf more commonly referred to, in certain religious circles, as a stole. The kind that formed part of the ecclesiastical garb of a Catholic priest when celebrating the Mass.

During the long hot summer following his tenth birthday, Berkeley had converted his play-shed at the bottom of the garden into a miniature chapel, complete with altar and candles. It was here that Berkeley adopted the guise of Father Butterworth. In dressing-up, he made use of scraps of choirboy robes he had found discarded in a skip outside St Agnes’ church, half a mile from home; whilst the priest stole he had cut out from some unwanted curtain fabric which he had blagged from his mother. Within the repurposed play-shed, the rough-hewn altar was in reality a worm-ridden workbench purloined from his father’s garage; whilst the makeshift altar cloth was the torn remnant of a disused net curtain which Mrs Hollins, his bemused next door neighbour, had given to him when he had timorously asked her for it. On a shelf in one corner - in lieu of a pipe organ - sat a tape deck. The audio cassette inside was labelled ‘Gregorian Chant of the Canonical Hours’. He’d pinched it from Declan Duffy’s front room, along with Declan’s Ma’s rosary. He didn’t have a clue how to use it, but with its cultured pearl beads it looked resplendent, lying there on the altar. As did the silver candlesticks, the most valuable repository within his ersatz chapel: well, Berkeley was sure his mother wouldn’t miss them. The Butterworths had ceased giving formal dinner parties some years before, and rarely invited guests across the threshold of their home these days. Theirs had long since ceased to be a warm and welcoming abode.

What had been the origin of the young lad’s fanciful obsession? The Butterworths were not Catholics; his parents had been married in a registry office, and apart from an annual visit to the local nondescript Anglican church at Christmas, none of the family had had much in the way of dealings with organised religion. And as the Butterworth marriage had slowly withered away, even these intermittent visits had ceased.

Perhaps, a psychologist might conclude, Berkeley was simply seeking refuge in religion. If it was more than mere artifice, perhaps his peculiar play-acting was serving as an antidote to the increasing indifference of his distracted parents. Then again, perhaps the bullying that Berkeley had begun to experience at primary school had something to do with it. Or perhaps dressing up as a priest, in the inner sanctum that he had christened Ss Aidan & Cuthbert’s (in honour of the great saints of Northern England), listening to plainsong, munching on Ritz crackers and drinking Ribena (in lieu of bread and wine) and pretending they’d somehow turned into the body and blood of Christ, was all just another way of ‘being different’?

To some extent, maybe. But perhaps there was one further explanation for this sudden desire to ‘play at priest’. That summer, after all, was the one in which Duncan Butterworth had been diagnosed with the cancer that would end his life some eleven months later…

*

Berkeley had watched his father’s decline closely over the course of his final year. To those who did not know Duncan well, initially the change was slow, almost imperceptible. But his son thought of the horse chestnut tree that until the great summer had graced the entrance to the local park. For generations it had stood there: proud, aristocratic, yielding its seeds with patrician civility each autumn to grateful schoolchildren for their seasonal conker games. There it might stand forever. But a few months before, Berkeley had overheard the exchanged contemplation of wiser heads, who had known that tree for seventy years, or more.

‘That ol’ ’orse chestnut’s ain’t looking so grand these days, Bert.’

‘Too right, Bill. Summat tells me there’ll ne’er be so many conkers for the bairns this autumn.’

And so it had proved. Maybe the drought was the final push; but one day in July - three days after learning of his father’s illness - Berkeley had visited the park, only to find the horse chestnut riven in two, split right down the middle. The canker of the stricken leviathan was plain to see: it was rotten to the core. The next morning, council workmen arrived to clear it away; by the end of the afternoon, only the stump remained of a tree that had been beloved by countless children.

Throughout his illness, Duncan had carried on his mysterious work, continuing to visit the office of which he never spoke to Berkeley. Every effort was made to preserve the semblance of normality. But gradually the hospital visits became more frequent. His father’s once vigorous frame began to appear attenuated. His voice, always so thunderous, started to lose its customary resonance; his hair became like gossamer, then, almost overnight, seemed to disappear completely; only his soft-brown eyes, reminiscent of his son’s, remained undimmed.

Then one afternoon in June 1977 Maureen Butterworth arrived at Berkeley’s school early and unexpectedly. Duncan had collapsed, and had been rushed into hospital. Berkeley went with his mother straight to his father’s bedside. He had half expected to find him split open, like the horse chestnut tree; his insides exposed, and his rottenness clear for all to see. That wasn’t quite how it was. But from the deathly pallor of Duncan’s angular face, and the wan smile of acknowledgement that played across his thin pursed lips, Berkeley knew that the final, short phase of his father’s illness had begun.

*

Nine days had passed by since then; and now Berkeley sat alone, beside his father’s bed. Maureen was waiting in the corridor outside, as per Duncan’s request; in his last few moments with his son, he wanted the two of them to be alone.

‘There’s something I want you to have,’ rasped Duncan Butterworth. He was propped up, as comfortable as might be expected, considering how close he was to death. The morphine driver had done its job smoothly and effectively, and had kept the worst of the pain at bay; but there was nothing more that could be done to delay the inevitable. Duncan’s hands, looking more gnarled than his son had ever remembered, were clasped together on his lap, resting upon a book. A Bible.

Duncan must have noticed his son’s look of perplexity. Even now, his eyesight was undimmed. He chuckled. ‘It’s never too late, they say. “Joy shall be in heaven over one sinneth that repenteth.” But I’m done now making my confession to God. Do you still “play at priest” in that shed of yours?’

Berkeley blushed. ‘Sometimes.’

‘That old workbench of mine has woodworm. You could do better than that for an altar.’ Duncan smiled, then started coughing violently. When the convulsion had passed, he lay there, exhausted, his eyes closed.

‘Dad?’ asked Berkely anxiously. ‘Would you like some water?’

Duncan shook his head. His voice, when it came, was weaker than before. ‘No. Too late for absolution with water - holy, or otherwise. Here.’ He pushed the Bible towards Berkeley. ‘Inside the cover. There’s a letter. For you. When I’m gone - read it - but only then. Promise me you’ll burn it, once you’ve read it. That you’ll tell no one of what it says. Promise me, Berkeley.’

‘But– ’

‘No buts. You’re my son, Berkeley. In every sense that matters. When you read the letter - remember that. Promise you’ll do as I say!’ He lay back, gasping. The effort of speaking had almost overwhelmed him.

Berkeley nodded his assent, anxious not to distress his father. ‘Yes, Dad. I promise.’ He gently laid his hands upon Duncan’s, and with a sigh, the dying man released his grip upon the Bible.

A minute passed in silence. Berkeley looked at the bedside clock, watching the second hand ticking off the last moments before nine o’clock.

21:00.

The light was beginning to fade beneath the leaden sky. Not the cheeriest day, this Midsummer’s Day. What a day on which to breathe your last.

The raucous cawing of magpies could be heard from outside. The monastic plainsong of magpies, thought Berkeley. He peered out of the window, and counted the black and white birds, strutting across the neatly manicured lawn below. Seven magpies, searching for fat worms. What did the old rhyme say about that?

Duncan opened his eyes once more, and Berkeley immediately forgot about the magpies. ‘There is one more word I need to hear from you. From a Father to his son.’

Berkeley frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘I know you know the words, even though you were never baptised, or raised, as a Catholic. I need to hear them from you. Your absolution. I’m sorry, Berkeley, for not being what I should have been - to you - for so long. But now I need to hear those words.’

‘But I’m not a priest.’

‘We’re all play-actors. In more ways than one. I’m no Catholic. It might be too late for me, anyway, after years in service to the Enemy; I don’t know anymore. But it’s not too late for you... to choose a different path. Remember that. Just say the words, Father Butterworth.’

Baffled, Berkeley met his father’s clear gaze. His voice might be the merest shadow of what it had once been - but his bright eyes were undiminished. Berkeley raised his right hand; and voice trembling as he did so, he pronounced the words of absolution, making the sign of the cross.

‘Ego te absolvo.’

He leaned over and kissed his father on the forehead.

‘Thank you.’ Duncan looked at his son one last time, and smiled. Then he closed his eyes, and murmured. ‘You’d better send your mother in. I’ve some valedictory words for her too. Just her. Goodbye, my son.’

Berkeley stared at his father, feeling the long suppressed tears finally welling up within. He gripped the Bible tightly, and choked out: ‘Bye, Dad.’ He turned away, and practically ran for the door.

Six for Gold (Vespers)

Goldfinger

He's the man, the man with the Midas touch

A spider’s touch

Such a cold finger

Beckons you to enter his web of sin

But don’t go in

(Shirley Bassey)

Berkeley Butterworth felt uncomfortable holding his mother’s hand as they crossed the road. If Peter Addleton or any of his gang caught sight of him, he’d get a right royal piss-taking in school the next day. Or worse.

‘Don’t dawdle,’ snapped Maureen, practically dragging Berkeley along beside her. She stopped abruptly outside a weather-beaten black door with a polished brass knocker, surrounded by a circle of six brass magpies. How peculiar, thought Berkeley. He squinted, and read the Latin inscription beneath it: Qui dormiens suscitare debet. He would look it up later. The legend on the plate above the knocker was in English: ‘Felsham & Haslett, Solicitors. Office Hours - Monday to Friday, 10:00 am to 5:30 pm.’ Berkeley looked at his watch. Almost six o’clock.

‘Is it closed?’ he asked.

His mother looked down at him, then shook her head. She ignored the knocker, instead pressing the bell affixed to the left hand doorpost. A few moments later, the door opened a few inches, and a face appeared, cautiously looking out.

‘Mr Haslett? We’ve met before. I believe you’re expecting us.’

The door opened wider, revealing a short fussy-looking man, wearing an old-fashioned pinstripe suit with a white carnation for a buttonhole. He stood on the threshold, eyeing up the mother and son.

‘Yes, Mrs Butterworth. It’s been quite a while. Err… do come in. Down the passageway, and up the stairs. My office is the first door on the left.’

*

Josiah Haslett followed them up the stairs, wheezing as he did so. He gestured towards the office door, clearly inviting them to go before him. Maureen pushed the door open, and Berkeley got his first glimpse of Haslett’s other visitor, seated within.

‘Please, do sit down,’ urged Haslett. ‘Berkeley, let me introduce you to–’

‘I would prefer it,’ said the immaculately dressed man facing them - with a calm yet menacing authority in his voice that, Berkeley felt, brooked no dissent - ‘if Mrs Butterworth waited elsewhere, while we enacted our business. As per your late client’s request, I believe. Perhaps the reception area downstairs?’

‘Well, really!’ spluttered Maureen, her cheeks flaring. ‘We didn’t have to come today. All this “cloak and dagger” business - I had enough of that when Duncan was alive. If you think you can manipulate my son, now that he’s dead, you can think again.’ She pulled Berkeley closer to her. Instinctively, he felt afraid.

‘Mrs Butterworth, no one will harm your son,’ insisted Haslett. ‘My sincere condolences on the passing of your husband. A great loss. But the terms of his final testament are clear. I’ll speak to you in due course, naturally, about the will. But first, in accordance with Mr Butterworth’s wishes, Mr Pendergast and I must speak with Berkeley. Alone.’

Maureen released her son, fumbled with the ornate silver and black onyx brooch pinned to her jacket, and threw it onto Haslett’s desk. She turned to the seated man. ‘I’ll have nothing more to do with the Society, Pendergast. Do you hear? I’ll wait for you downstairs, Berkeley.’ She turned on her heel, and left the room without a backwards glance.

*

Josiah Haslett sat down behind his desk; smiled his weak, uneasily smile; and waved Berkeley towards a vacant chair. As he did so, the mantelpiece clock chimed six times.

18:00.

‘Do forgive your mother’s outburst,’ said Pendergast smoothly. ‘She and I have known each other for many years; I’m one of your father’s oldest friends. Grief can have an unbalancing effect, particularly on women of a certain age. She’ll come round. As you’ve doubtless gathered, my name is Pendergast.’ He gave Berkeley a smile that might have appeared congenial, but which the boy instinctively knew to be insincere. This man was dangerous.

Yet there was also something about him that was appealing, almost… seductive. He radiated power. The simple clear cut lines of his a la mode black suit, with its crimson lining, together with his shiny black shoes and narrow tie, ebony black hair and neat goatee, created a strong contrast to the fusty old fashioned tailoring of the older man. Though was Pendergast really the younger of the two? There was some suggestion of a far older man in those mesmeric watchful eyes…

Berkeley shivered.

‘Yes, well, let’s turn to the business in hand,’ said Haslett, leafing through the papers spread across his desk. ’I’ll try and put this into language that you can comprehend, Berkeley - you’re a clever boy, I’m told, but even so - you’re only eleven. Last month, wasn’t it - your birthday?’

Berkeley nodded. ‘Yes, sir. On the sixth of June.’

‘An auspicious day,’ murmured Pendergast. ‘One might even say, a superior day’. The way he said “superior” - with added emphasis - sent a chill down Berkeley’s spine.

‘Err… quite,’ said Haslett. ‘Some of what I must tell you will come as a surprise, Berkeley. A pleasant surprise, I hope. Now, all your life your family have lived in a fairly modest home. Your father, as you know, was a businessman; though as to the exact nature of that business… well, he’s always been rather - shall we say - discrete about it.’

‘I’ve never known about it,’ interrupted Berkeley. ‘I asked if I could see where he worked once - if he would take me to his office. He didn’t like it. I never asked again.’

‘One day, when you’re old enough, you can see for yourself,’ said Pendergast. ‘One day, your father’s business will be yours.’ There was that smile again. And those ever-watchful eyes.

‘But for now,’ continued Haslett, ‘the part of your father’s estate that he has left to you - which is much the biggest part - will be held in trust. Until your eighteenth birthday, Mr Pendergast and two other trustees will administer it. They also sit on the board of directors of your father’s business - Butterworth Holdings - and will continue to oversee its affairs, until you reach your majority. Company matters are not part of my remit; but as the Butterworth family solicitor, I handle legal matters regarding the estate itself. Your mother, rest assured, is generously provided for under the terms of your father’s will. She could, obviously, dispute the will, as surviving spouse–’

‘But she would be ill-advised to do so,’ added Pendergast. That unruffled hint of menace again.

‘I’m certain there’ll be no need to worry on that account,’ said the solicitor, dabbing at his forehead with his voluminous handkerchief. ‘Moving on… you’ll have a small allowance to draw upon yourself, Berkeley, which will increase incrementally year on year, until you turn eighteen. I think you’ll find it sufficient for the time being.’

‘How much money do I have altogether, sir?’ asked Berkeley. ‘I mean - from my father’s - what did you call it? - his–’

‘Estate?’ Berkeley nodded. ‘Well,’ said the solicitor - shuffling through the papers before him - ‘it’s all rather complicated: what with various funds, bonds, shares, property portfolios, and so forth. It’s not like there are bundles of banknotes hidden under the mattress.’ He chuckled lamely. ‘But um - this here’ - he pushed a slip of paper towards the boy - ‘will give you an idea of just how large your inheritance is.’

Berkeley picked up the proffered paper. He looked at the figure written upon it, with uncomprehending eyes. How many zeroes...?

He looked from the sweating Haslett to the smiling Pendergast, and back again. ‘My father left me - all this?’ he nodded at the slip. And inwardly, he thought about the letter that his father had given him - that painful secret letter he had read, and reread, and read again, before burning it, in the dark silent hours following his passing.

It didn’t make sense.

‘Sir, this must be a mistake. Not the money. But him, my dad - leaving it all - to me.’ He pushed the paper back across the desk. For some reason, the picture of Auric Goldfinger from his favourite 007 movie floated into his mind. He was looking forward to seeing the latest Bond film - The Spy Who Loved Me, due out next week - though, naturally, Roger Moore was no match for Sean Connery. And no Bond villain could ever be as memorable or menacing as Goldfinger…

He dismissed the image. He had no desire to emulate Goldfinger. He had been a cold, calculating monster. Rich beyond the wildest dreams of most - yet obsessed with becoming wealthier still. That wasn’t Berkeley. And whatever his personal failings, that hadn’t been his dad either - had it? No man ‘with a spider’s touch’ was he. That sounded more like this Pendergast.

‘It’s a mistake, don’t you see?’ he repeated.

‘No mistake, I assure you,’ said Pendergast, as silky as ever. ‘You’re Duncan’s sole heir. The inheritor of the Butterworth fortune. It’s understandable that you have many questions. We’ll answer them all, in time. But your father kept his true wealth hidden for a reason. You must do likewise, Berkeley.’ It was the first time he’d spoken his name. That faint hint of menace was now directed at Berkeley himself. ‘Understand?’

Slowly, Berkeley nodded. More secrets. He looked once again at the solicitor’s big desk - and spotted his mother’s discarded brooch. With a sudden movement, he reached out, and before Josiah Haslett could object, he snatched up the trinket, and slipped it into his pocket. ‘I’m keeping this,’ he said, in as strong a voice as he could muster - daring either man to object. Haslett gasped; but Pendergast simply smiled.

‘As you wish,’ he said, with a hint of condescension. ‘Just don’t show your mother, there’s a good boy.’

What was the Society she mentioned? wondered Berkeley. But he knew better than to ask that question aloud. Instead, he turned to the solicitor, and reached out a hand towards him. It was the gentlemanly, adult thing to do. He had no intention of shaking Pendergast’s hand. ‘Thank you, Mr Haslett. I should go to my mother now. Can I ask one more thing before I leave?’

‘Oh? Wh-what?’ said the solicitor, taking hold of Berkeley’s outstretched hand.

‘Whatever happened to Mr Felsham? Your - partner? Isn’t that what you call it, with solicitors?’

Mr Haslett let go of the boy’s hand abruptly, as it suddenly scalded. He said nothing, but looked aghast.

It was the saturnine Mr Pendergast - his eyes firmly fixed on Berkeley - who gave answer to what the boy had intended as nothing more than a flippant parting shot.

‘He died, Berkeley. He died.’ He stood up, but didn’t offer his hand. ‘Goodbye - for now. We’ll be in touch.’

Without another word, Berkeley turned to the door of the solicitor’s office, feeling both shaken and stirred.

Five for Silver (None)

Mercury marches –madcap rover,

Patron of pilf’rers. Pert quicksilver

His gaze begets, goblin mineral,

Merry multitude of meeting selves,

Same but sundered

(C S Lewis)

‘Butterworth, did you hear me? Or are you daydreaming again?’

With a start, Berkeley looked up. ‘Sorry, sir?’ He looked at the clock on the wall.

15:00.

Just twenty minutes left until the conclusion of the school day.

Mr Plumtree tutted, and shook his head. ‘I appreciate that double science is not your preferred way of ending the week, Butterworth. Would you like me to repeat the question?’

Titters right across the classroom. Berkeley blushed, and nodded his head.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘What is another name for the metal mercury?’

‘Quicksilver, sir.’

‘Well done. And why was it so-called?’

‘Because it’s the only metal to take the form of a liquid at room temperature. It’s used in thermometers. And it’s shiny.’

‘Good. Anything else?’

‘The Roman god Mercury was the messenger of the gods, associated with speed and mobility. So that’s how the metal acquired its other name. In mediaeval alchemy, each of the seven known metals were associated with the known planets - one metal for each planet. So Mercury was also the name of the innermost planet. The one that circles the Sun in a shorter time than any other.’

‘Astronomical folklore rather than practical chemistry - but spot on,’ said Plumtree, impressed despite himself. Butterworth was a bright lad. When he could be bothered…

‘Turn to page 57,’ he continued. ‘I want you to spend the next ten minutes reading, and noting three specific scientific qualities of mercury in your exercise books.’ Groans across the room. ‘Stop that! No talking, and no snoring either. If you get on quietly, I’ll even let you out five minutes before the final bell.’

As incentives go, it was pretty feeble. But it seemed to work. After a minute or two of silence, the teacher reached over and picked up an exercise book from the pile of first year books on one side of his desk. He might be able to mark half a dozen whilst Form 2B was getting on…

He didn’t notice the screwed-up ball of paper that landed on Berkeley Butterworth’s desk. Berkeley sighed quietly, and slowly unfolded the paper. The handwriting was familiar, but he’d already guessed who had lobbed it, with considerable accuracy. Peter Addleton might be mentally challenged, but he was the best bowler in the class. He read:

After school, Butterballs. You’ll need feet made of quicksilver if you fink you can get past us.

*

They were waiting for him on the far side of the road, loitering just outside the main gate. Addleton and his four cronies, hovering there in their black blazers and trousers, and white shirts: resembling nothing more than five mean magpies, anticipating some fun, though Berkeley. He knew it was hopeless to try to outrun them. That would only make them madder. Besides, there was no hope of ever getting past Lanky Larson, the tallest, leanest and fastest member of Addleton’s gang. He might as well submit. It would be no more than a bloody nose, a Chinese burn, and a few kicks to the ribs, if he was lucky. It was better than being ambushed in the bogs. Last time they had done that they had almost drowned him, he was certain.

Addleton smiled as he caught sight of his prey. He glanced across at Wiggins, who was keeping lookout, making sure there were no pesky teachers nearby who might interfere (although most staff at Kalekirk High were entirely disinterested as to what pupils might get up to once outside the school gates). Wiggins nodded insouciantly, whistling, hands deep in his pockets. Addleton relaxed. Time for some sport.

He sauntered across the street towards Berkeley, his lieutenants falling into step alongside him. ‘Ready for your beating, Butterballs? Or do you think some poncey Greek god is gonna come to your rescue?’

‘Mercury’s Roman - not Greek - twatface,’ said Berkley. He bit his lip. Fuck. What possessed him to say that? Thinking it was one thing, but actually saying it…?

Shit.

He was in for it now. He could see the split-second disbelief on Addleton, immediately giving way to rage.

‘Right, you little toerag,’ hissed Addleton, his face turning purple. His fists were bunched up, and he looked at his companions. ‘Get him!’

There was just one hope, thought Berkley. Best to avoid Larson and that big bruiser Skilbeck; but there was a slight gap between Wiggins and McKillop. Perhaps, just perhaps - it was probably hopeless, but he had to try.

If only he was like that other Quicksilver - the Marvel comic book character. He was a mutant, one of the X-Men; blessed with superhuman speed, lightning reflexes and extraordinary stamina. If only…

The circle was tightening. It was now, or never.

Berkeley darted for the gap. He saw McKillop sneering, and Wiggins extending his foot to trip him up. He swerved, and found himself running straight towards Addleton himself. There was no chance now. He attempted a desperate burst of speed, aware it was futile, and closed his eyes - knowing he was about to make contact with Addleton’s lunging fists…

…and opened his eyes to find himself diving headlong over the patterned sofa that occupied pride of place in his mother’s drawing room. One moment he had been about to hurtle into the unforgiving clutches of his mutton-headed nemesis; the next he was going arse over tit at 5, Whitmore Avenue. His head narrowly avoided connecting with the corner edge of the glass coffee table.

For a full two minutes he lay there, sprawled across his mother’s beloved fake bear-skin rug, gasping for breath, his heart pounding.

What the hell had just happened?

*

That was the first time. A sprained ankle from his awkward landing was the only slight misfortune he had suffered; it was certainly preferable to a beating from Addleton’s gang (who, strangely enough, started to avoid him now, muttering uneasily amongst themselves if he passed even a little too close for comfort).

Initially, Berkeley discovered, his new-found powers of teleportation only worked when he was under a degree of stress. The next time he employed them happened to be after a shopkeeper had spotted him nicking some fags. The protesting shopkeeper had given chase, and Berkeley had run around a corner, only to realise he’d entered a dead-end alley. With the puffing retailer hot on his heels, he had launched himself at the wire fencing that closed off the alley, hoping he might somehow be able to scramble to the top, and heave himself over. As before, he found himself instantly transported to another random place: this time the riverbank where in happier days his father had taken him fishing. He teetered for a moment or two on the edge of the bank, before regaining his balance.

For days afterwards, he wondered if the cops would turn up at his home, pursuing him for his petty larceny. But no knock on the door came. Nevertheless, he made a mental note to avoid that part of town in future.

He read more about the Roman god Mercury - and his Greek equivalent Hermes - and was amused to discover that as well as being the messenger god, and the god of travellers, he was also patron god of thieves. That kind of made sense, he thought.

Pilfering stuff was really nothing new for him. After all, there was Declan Duffy’s Ma’s rosary, and his own mother’s silver candlesticks. Plus her discarded brooch - though maybe that didn’t count. She’d thrown it away herself, after all.

As he sat on the river bank, puffing away at the first of the cigarettes he had purloined during his recent ‘jaunt’ - yes, that was what they called it on The Tomorrow People, wasn’t it? - Berkeley took out the brooch from his pocket. He often examined it; for it was a fascinating object, not least because of the Latin words inscribed upon it that he had seen somewhere else before. It had taken him a while to make the connection; even once made, he was none the wiser…

*

Berkeley had just turned thirteen. He was becoming aware of the dramatic physical and psychological changes that his body was undergoing; and alongside that, he was also wrestling with the fact that his burgeoning sexual interest was directed towards members of his own sex. Girls, in his opinion, were silly and capricious. They did nothing for him sexually; whereas there were a few boys in his class whom he liked very much indeed. Like Charlie Gupta. And Max Dalton. And Skipper Sheridan. But he knew better than to share his feelings with anyone else - least of all the boys who were the objects of his desire…

Learning to control his jaunting techniques simply made adolescence even more complicated for Berkeley than it already was for his peers.

If only he could meet someone who was like himself: ‘same, not sundered.’

Four for a Boy (Sext)

To live is to change,

And to be perfect is to have changed often

(Cardinal John Henry Newman)

Fourteen is a terrible age to fall in love.

The focus for Berkeley’s newfound affections was a blue-eyed fair-headed dreamboat called Cuthbert Caulfield. Berkeley had laughed out loud when first introduced to him: and had received a hefty punch in return. It wasn’t (as Caulfield had initially assumed) because the other boy was amused by his sharing a surname with Salinger’s famous distillation of teenage angst and rebellion. Rather, it was his somewhat unusual Christian name that had struck a chord, reminding Berkeley of those childhood games in the shed-cum-chapel at the bottom of his garden. Eventually, he had plucked up the courage to tell Cuthbert about his ‘playing at priest’ games. And it was Caulfield who, naturally, had rechristened him Aidan.

Berkeley had met Cuthbert in his first week at Cardinal Newman. After twelve months of persistent hectoring, his mother had finally acquiesced to his request for a transfer from Kalekirk - in truth a pretty mediocre grammar school - to the fourth year of the rival Catholic High School.

*

‘I don’t want to be a priest,’ he stressed, unconvincingly. ‘But I’ve never been happy at Kalekirk. Everyone says Cardinal Newman’s a better school.’

Maureen gave him a sceptical look. Always she had said No: and always he had asked again. She folded her hands across her knees, and considered how best to deflect him this time.

‘The fees are quite substantial, Berkeley, for a non-Catholic pupil. I could manage them, just about - but it wouldn’t be easy.’

‘I’ll help, from my allowance.’

She laughed. ‘That will only pay a fraction of the cost.’

‘Every penny I have,’ he insisted. ‘Whatever it takes.’ A cunning thought popped into his head. ‘You keep refusing, mother. Perhaps I should write to Mr Pendergast, and ask him to help.’

‘You will not,’ she answered sharply. ‘Stay away from him, Berkeley - do you hear?’

‘Why do you hate him so much?’

She bit her lower lip. Studiously avoiding his question, she admitted defeat. ‘Very well. I’ll ring Cardinal Newman tomorrow.’

*

Berkeley looked at himself in the hallway mirror. The same familiar clownish face, alas: but he liked the uniform. Okay, the grey shirt and black trousers were unremarkable. But he approved of the purple and yellow striped tie; and the stylish cut of the green jacket. Best of all was the badge bearing the heraldic device of four garden birds - a magpie, woodpecker, finch and sparrow, representing the school’s houses, each facing in a different direction - together with the school motto: Vivere est mutare (‘to live is to change’), part of one of Cardinal Newman’s most often-quoted aphorisms. He was to be a magpie, and had been placed in ‘Four Magpie’ - 4M for short.

Maureen appeared behind him, and gave him an unexpected hug. Maternal shows of affection from Mrs Butterworth were rare. Was she trying to reassure him that she had truly accepted his desire to go to a Catholic school? Whatever her motive, he was grateful.

The doorbell rang. Who could that be? He answered the door - and froze.

Pendergast stood there, smiling. ‘Ready for your new school? You look smart, Berkeley.’ He glanced over his shoulder. ‘I’ve brought the limo.’ He winked at the silent Maureen. ‘Hop in.’

*

‘You know, time is just another dimension,’ mused Cuthbert Caulfield. They had just made love, again, on a mouldering mattress in the disused basement room beneath the gymnasium that they had discovered three weeks before. As so often after a bout of pyretic passion, their minds had propelled them to other matters. Their mental sparring was as important to them as their more physical jousting.

‘If you can move in any direction in space,’ he continued, ‘moving any direction in time ought to be just as easy.’

‘Except it isn’t,’ replied Berkeley testily. He stared at Cuthbert. It was now or never. ‘Believe me,’ he continued, ‘I’ve tried.’

Cuthbert laughed: but seeing the seriousness of the look on his friend’s face, he stopped. ‘What do you mean, Aide?’

‘Remember when I told you about the boys that used to bully me? At my old school?’

‘Yeah. You said it stopped after a while. But you never said why.’

So Berkley told him.

*

The silence between them seemed to last forever. Then–

‘God, you’re serious, aren’t you?’

‘Cuthie, I’d never lie to you.’

‘You can really teleport - like in Blake’s 7?’

‘Jaunting, I call it - not teleporting. But yeah.’

‘Bloody hell. Like - how far?’

Berkeley shrugged. ‘I don’t usually try more than a few miles at a time. More than that is draining. Though my range is gradually improving; as also my control. I don’t materialise on railway lines or in Mrs Hollins’ bathroom any more.’

His friend looked at him in disbelief, then started laughing hysterically. They embraced each other, and kissed; and in that moment, Berkeley knew he would never love another like he loved Cuthbert Caulfield.

‘Never mind “jaunting” a few miles, Aide,’ whispered Cuthbert. ‘Can you manage materialising inside me - the normal way - again?’

*

Fifteen minutes later, as they were dressing in haste, Berkeley said bleakly, ‘It’s not normal, though, is it?’

Cuthbert finished knotting his tie. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Not according to this school. Or the Catholic Church. Or most people. They don’t think that we’re normal. We’re not Homo superior - to them. We’re Homo inferior - sub-humans. Or just plain homos.’

‘Then teach me to jaunt,’ said Cuthbert. ‘If it all gets too much - we can escape. Just like–’

He snapped his fingers.

‘That!’

Berkeley tried to smile, but without success. ‘I don’t believe it works like that. I don’t think I could teach you - it’s something about me. I don’t know…’ He trailed off.

‘You mean like your genes?’

Berkeley nodded. ‘Sort of. Though there’s more to it than that.’ He thought of Pendergast. ‘There’s something else. I don’t know - mystical? Spiritual? Something–’

He wanted to say dark. But he didn’t.

Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the brooch. He handed it to Cuthbert.

‘This was my mother’s. See the words, in small letters, written round the edge? It’s Latin. It means “The Sleeper Must Awaken.”’

Cuthbert examined the brooch, shrugged his shoulders, and handed it back. ‘You’re much better at languages than I am. So what?’

‘There’s more. I saw the same motto at the office of my dad’s family solicitor. I think it might be a password - or a motto - something like that, anyway. Of a secret Society. My parents were part of it. I think my father was pretty high up in it. And I think–’

He gulped.

‘I think,’ he continued, ‘that I’m important to this Society, somehow. That they know about my power. Or suspect about it, at least. I think they want to use me. I’m afraid, Cuthie. Afraid that one day, they’ll come for me.’

‘Hush,’ soothed Cuthbert Caulfield, embracing his friend. ‘No one’s going to take you away from me. Not now - not ever.’

Beep beep.

The alarm on Berkeley’s digital watch told them that their ‘free period’ was over.

12:00.

Time to be elsewhere.

Three for a Girl (Terce)

I may be right, I may be wrong

But I’m perfectly willing to swear

That when you turned and smiled at me…

(Maschwitz & Sherwin)

Berkeley’s abilities were developing fast. Provided he had a focus - a photograph was best - he had now mastered the technique of jaunting across a distance of hundreds of miles. Churchill’s War Rooms, Stonehenge, Glastonbury Tor, the caves of Cheddar Gorge, the cloisters of Iona Abbey… he had visited them all, and many more places besides.

Gradually, Berkeley became convinced that he should be able to teleport with another living person. After all - he’d reasoned - the clothes he was wearing had travelled with him. He experimented by filling his pockets with various objects, and shouldering larger and weightier rucksacks: then carefully concentrating his mind, just as he had learnt to do. Depending on how far the distance, and how great the burden being carried, his efforts were more or less tiring. But the principle seemed clear: he could travel with anything he happened to be wearing, or holding. In theory.

His successful jaunt to the summit of Scafell Pike with Nathan Nethercot’s pet rat in his raincoat pocket was the clincher. Twenty minutes later he was back behind the school bike sheds stroking Tickles, who seemed none the worse for the journey.

The first transdimensional passenger, thought Berkeley. One day, you might be as famous as Laika the dog.

*

That evening he told Cuthbert about his latest breakthrough.

‘So, where do you want to go for your first trip?’

Cuthbert pushed aside his homework, frowning. ‘This blasted algebra is impossible.’

‘You’re in the top maths set, Cuthie. Stop complaining - it’ll be a cinch for you. Were you listening to what I was saying?’

Cuthbert smirked. ‘Course. But I’m not your lab rat. Stick to Tickles.’

‘Don’t you remember, you wanted me to teach you to jaunt?’ persisted Berkeley. ‘Well, I can’t do that. But this is practically the same. I’ll always be the designated driver - but now you can come along for the ride!’

But try as he might - even when he repeated the experiment with Nethercot’s pet before his friend’s distrustful eyes - Berkeley could not persuade Cuthbert to join him on one of his jaunts.

*

Berkeley understood Cuthbert’s caution. He’d freely admitted the close calls he’d experienced in his early experimental days. What was it Han Solo had said to Luke Skywalker?

‘Travelling through hyperspace ain’t like dusting crops, boy.’

Well, he’d not drowned himself, or been run over by an articulated lorry. He’d make sure Cuthbert was safe. A short journey, to start with.

But still the answer was No.

Berkeley began thinking in a different direction. Cuthbert kept insisting that, mathematically, time was just another dimension. What if that was so? If Berkeley could conquer movement in the three dimensions of space, why not the fourth dimension of time? No time machine required. He just needed to unlock another potentiality within his Homo superior mind.

Perhaps if he used a visual focus. Photographs had helped him hone his space-hopping talents. What if they could help him learn how to jaunt through time?

When to first? The Beatles playing in the Cavern Club in Liverpool? Or how about Caesar’s invasion of Britain? No - that would be too much for a first attempt. And there were no photographs to serve as a focus. Something in the relatively near past would be best. Something from a more personal perspective...

Of course. It was obvious.

His mother kept the perfect photograph upon her bedside table.

A photo marking the event that had given him his name.

*

Duncan Butterworth slowly read back the words of his latest diary entry:

June 6th 1956. Bumped into the most gorgeous girl today. Literally. Green Park tube station was unexpectedly closed, and I was running late for work. Heard some big clock chiming 09:00 in the distance - maybe Big Ben? Probably not near enough for that. It was damn annoying, since I was due to meet the mysterious Mr Pendergast today. Had to cut across the overground, and lost my bearings. Running thro Berkeley Square, not looking where I was going. Slap bang into this girl. So embarrassing: but she was pretty forgiving. She’d been feeding the magpies. Taking photographs of them too, she said, pointing to three of them, standing close together. A change from feeding pigeons, I said. Or nightingales, she replied. I didn’t get it - at first. Like the song, she said. A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square. God, I felt like a fool. Then she kissed me. Just like that. It’s weird - there we were, in broad daylight - but no one seemed to notice. Except this lad, standing there, gawking. He was wearing the strangest clothes. It was odd. One moment he was there, the next - not. Such a queer day. The girl’s name was Maureen. You never see nightingales in London, she told me - not really. We sat on a bench, chatting for ages. She gave me her landlady’s telephone number. And got a passerby to take a photograph of us with her camera. A Leica M3. Pretty impressive. Never met such a forward girl before. Felsham was livid when I finally got in at 10:00. Pendergast didn’t show up either.

Duncan picked up his ink pen, dipped it into his pot of Quink, and added:

I think I’m in love.

Two for Joy (Matins)

O loving wisdom of our God!

When all was sin and shame,

A second Adam to the fight

And to the rescue came

(Cardinal Newman)

Berkeley was ecstatic. It was days after the time-travel experiment before he was able to try anything else. He even wondered if he had lost his powers. But his fears of ‘burnout’ were unfounded. When he began testing his faculties again, he discovered that other abilities were beginning to manifest themselves. It might just be pushing copper pennies, for now: but he was doing it, with his mind. And it wasn’t just telekinesis. Now and then he would catch the odd stray thought from a passerby entering his mind. In other words: telepathy.

Were there others like him? he wondered. Or was he the very first Homo superior to ‘break out’ into the world?

Since observing his parents’ first meeting, Berkeley had made other attempts to time-travel, without success. It was frustrating. Churchill’s War Room seemed like a good choice: why wouldn’t it work? He’d tried Iona Abbey - once the home of St Aidan - though, of course, there were no photographs of the place dating back to its foundation in 563. Nothing. Perhaps the emotional connection had to be particularly strong. What could be stronger than one’s own parents’ love at first sight?

His love for Cuthbert, perhaps.

The night before his fifteenth birthday, Berkeley made a decision. He was convinced that Pendergast and the mysterious Society would move against him soon. They would seek to entice him - seduce him - entrap him. Just like his parents. He had to escape. And he would take Cuthbert with him. Tomorrow. He would delay no further. He wrote a note for his mother. He hoped she would understand.

He felt more tired than usual that evening. He would sleep well, for sure. And the next day…

*

‘He’s coming around, Master.’

‘Hello, Berkeley. Happy birthday. It’s 06:00 in the morning. We’re overjoyed to see you.’

His headache was excruciating: even so, he knew that voice. He opened his eyes. Pendergast’s smile was more repellent than ever. Berkeley looked around, taking in his surroundings. It was a dimly-lit room, without visible windows: a dungeon. He was shackled to a pillar. On the far side of the room, bound to an identical pillar, but additionally gagged, was his friend and lover. Between them there was an altar covered with strange esoteric objects that pulsated with evil.

There were five others in the room besides Pendergast, all wearing identical coarse woollen robes. Each had an insignia pinned to their robes: wrought in silver and black onyx, a stylised magpie. Their cowls had been thrown back, revealing their faces. In addition to Pendergast, Berkeley recognised two others. One was his father’s solicitor, Josiah Haslett. The other was his own mother.

Maureen smiled at her son. ‘Thank you for your note. Thoughtful to the very end. You left it too late, though. And as you can see, we brought Cuthbert here too.’

‘Two new magpies,’ continued Pendergast smoothly. ‘Two for joy. Our joy, naturally. Not necessarily yours. That’s your choice, Berkeley. You were destined for this moment, from the day you were born. On the sixth minute of the sixth day of the six month of the sixty-sixth year of this century. Surely you learnt enough from your Catholic teachers about the Book of Revelation to glean what that means? You can be the first of a new humanity: truly Homo superior, with extraordinary powers. But if you refuse, we will destroy you both. So: which will it be?’

One for Sorrow (Nocturns)

Seven times a day do I praise thee

because of thy righteous judgments

(Psalm 119:164)

Aidan put aside the manuscript. His contemporaries would not decipher it. Written in Modern English, it told the tale of two boys - their friendship, their love, their parting.

Seven years ago: fourteen centuries to come.

*

‘Which will it be?’ repeated Pendergast.

In answer, Berkeley’s mind blazed forth, engaging every sinew, fibre, fundament of his psyche. The cords tying both boys snapped asunder, the diabolical altar was overturned, and Pendergast’s shrieking acolytes were thrown against the wall. As the floor heaved and the pillars cracked, Berkeley crossed the short distance to Cuthbert, still gagged, lying on the ground in a swoon. He embraced him. Their eyes met; and Berkeley felt Cuthie’s mind touch his.

‘I love you, Aide. Forever.’

Berkeley closed his eyes. An image of one place formed in his mind. He ignored the despairing cries and the crescendo of chaos rising about them.

Every fundament... focused on the Abbey. A safe haven. A dream given form. The path was clear.

Someone had grabbed him. Unbalancing him. Pendergast. Shouting above the tumult.

‘My son!’

Berkeley was losing control…

Everything was crashing down.

Blackness.

*

He didn’t know where - or when - Cuthbert had ended up. But he could make a shrewd guess.

As for Pendergast - God alone knew.

He knew his history well. One day Aide would search for Cuthie along the slow path. His former powers had died. Overloaded. As dead as his digital watch, last vestige of a future life.

The bell was ringing for Nocturns. Was it 03:00 now? Best guess.

The lone magpie, Murgatroyd, that had befriended the man once called Berkley cawed at the window of his cell.

Singing the monastic plainsong of a solitary magpie.

Commentary

The important abbey of Iona was founded by the Irish monk St Columba in 563. St Aidan was an Irish monk born in about 590 who spent much of his early life at Iona, before founding a new centre at Lindisfarne in about 634. From here he was responsible for the conversion of the kingdom of Northumbria to Christianity. He died in 651. St Cuthbert was born in about 634, and lived in boyhood in the Scottish Borders. In 651, on the night Aidan died, he witnessed a great light in the sky, which he later interpreted as angels carrying the soul of Aidan heavenward. He became a monk, eventually becoming Bishop of Lindisfarne, and continuing the missionary work of his predecessor Aidan to great effect. He died in 687.

As monasticism developed, the tradition of praying seven times daily became central to Christian religious life. The name and times of the so-called ‘canonical hours’ of prayer have varied: the scheme suggested by the chapter titles and timings mentioned in The Book of Hours is not intended to be definitive. The attentive will have spotted that the ‘counting down’ of the ‘hours’ from one chapter to the next is accompanied by a progressively shorter narration: time is literally ‘running out’ on Berkeley as the story progresses.

This story began as a Prose Challenge featuring the line (supplied by Hunter Graham) ‘The Monastic Plainsong of Magpies’. The well-known folk-song about magpies provided chapter headings (in reverse) and themes as the story unfolded. An earlier and slightly different form of the first chapter was submitted as a stand-alone piece to the Prose Challenge proper, entitled Homo Superior.

And of course Aide was reunited with Cuthie before his life’s end. The historical timeline allows for it. How could it have been otherwise?

Seven for a Secret Never to be Told

Berkeley Butterworth had known for a long time that he was different. It wasn’t just his slightly disconcerting physical appearance, with his pale milky-white skin, contrasting strongly with his untidy, Cimmerian curls and overplump carmine lips; nor the slight but still discernible lack of balance between the jug-like ears jutting out from either side of his rounded face. All that, together with his sad brown puppy-dog eyes, was sufficient to give a comic yet melancholic air to his countenance from a very young age. But Berkeley’s sense of difference was tied up with other aspects of the self beside mere physical appearance.

For instance - unlike most of the other schoolboys in his class - Berkeley preferred ITV’s lineup of children’s television programmes to that offered by the BBC. His Saturday morning viewing favoured the anarchic Tiswas over the more controlled, suburban feel of the Multi-Coloured Swap Shop; and he’d rather soar with Magpie’s eponymous mascot, a corvid named Murgatroyd, than going sailing with the steady crew of the Blue Peter.

Above all else, the adventures of the adolescent Tomorrow People were distinctly preferable to those of the alien protagonist of Doctor Who. More than once, Berkeley had wished he could ‘jaunt’ away, from home or from school, using the teleportation mind powers of John, Stephen, Elizabeth, Mike and the other members of the Tomorrow People - the elite group of Homo superior that had begun ‘breaking out’ of their mental chrysalis with their advanced psychic powers. This was the next step in human evolution, usually onsetting at puberty, and taking the chosen few - and one day, it was to be hoped, the whole race - away from the mundanity, violence and thuggery of the far-too-long dominant Homo sapiens (or ‘saps’, as they were generally referred to by those destined to become humanity’s future).

Oh You Pretty Things

Don’t you know you're driving your

Mamas and Papas insane

Let me make it plain

You gotta make way for the Homo Superior

(David Bowie)

The attraction was obvious to one such as Berkely Butterworth. There were other ways of being different, after all. Other ways of being Homo.

And without a doubt - it better than being a sap.

*

Then there was Berkeley’s hidden dressing-up obsession, which in his case took a decidedly idiosyncratic form. Some of the boys from his class had taken to wearing long multi-coloured scarves, in homage to Tom Baker, currently playing the part of the Fourth Doctor. Berkeley too would sometimes wear a scarf - of sorts - when indulging in his playtime fantasies. However, this was the kind of scarf more commonly referred to, in certain religious circles, as a stole. The kind of scarf that formed part of the accoutrements of a Catholic priest when celebrating the Mass.

During the long hot summer following his tenth birthday, Berkeley had converted his play-shed at the bottom of the garden into a miniature chapel, complete with altar and candles. It was here that Berkeley adopted the guise of Father Butterworth. In dressing-up, he made use of scraps of choirboy vestments he had found discarded in a skip outside St Agnes’ church, half a mile from home; whilst the priest stole he had cut out from some unwanted curtain fabric that he had blagged from his mother. Within the repurposed play-shed, the rough-hewn altar was in reality a worm-ridden workbench purloined from his father’s garage; whilst the makeshift altar cloth was the torn remnant of a disused net curtain which Mrs Hollins, his bemused next door neighbour, had given to him when he had timorously asked her for it. On a shelf in one corner - in lieu of a pipe organ - sat a tape deck. The audio cassette inside was labelled ‘Gregorian Chant of the Canonical Hours’. He’d pinched it from Declan Duffy’s front room, along with Declan’s Ma’s rosary. He didn’t have a clue how to use it, but with its cultured pearl beads it looked resplendent, lying there on the altar. As did the silver candlesticks, the most valuable repository within his ersatz chapel: well, Berkeley was sure his mother wouldn’t miss them. The Butterworths had ceased giving formal dinner parties years before, and rarely invited guests across the threshold of their home these days. Theirs had long since ceased to be a warm and welcoming abode.

What had been the origin of the young lad’s fanciful obsession? The Butterworths were not Catholics; his parents had been married in a registry office, and apart from an annual visit to the local nondescript Anglican church at Christmas, none of the family had had much in the way of dealings with organised religion. And as the Butterworth marriage had slowly withered away, even these intermittent visits had ceased.

Perhaps, a psychologist might conclude, Berkeley was simply seeking refuge in religion. If it was more than mere artifice, perhaps his peculiar play-acting was serving as an antidote to the increasing indifference of his distracted parents. Then again, perhaps the bullying that Berkeley had begun to experience at school had something to do with it. Or perhaps dressing up as a priest, in the inner sanctum that he had christened Ss Aidan’s & Cuthbert’s, listening to plainsong, munching on Ritz crackers and drinking Ribena (in lieu of bread and wine) and pretending they’d somehow turned into the body and blood of Christ, was all just another way of ‘being different’?

To some extent, maybe. But perhaps there was one further explanation for this sudden desire to ‘play at priest’. That summer, after all, was the one in which Duncan Butterworth had been diagnosed with the cancer that would end his life less than twelve months later…

*

Berkeley had watched his father’s decline closely over the course of his final year. To those who did not know Duncan well, the change was slow, almost imperceptible. But his son thought of the horse chestnut tree that until the great summer had graced the entrance to the local park. For generations it had stood there, proud, aristocratic, yielding its seeds with patrician civility each autumn to grateful schoolchildren for their seasonal conker games. There it might stand forever. But a few months before Berkeley had overheard the exchanged contemplation of wiser heads, who had known that tree for seventy years, or more.

‘That ol’ ’orse chestnut’s ain’t looking so grand these days, Bert.’

‘Too right, Bill. Summat tells me there’ll ne’er be so many conkers for the bairns this autumn.’

And so it had proved. Maybe the drought was the final push; but one day in July - three days after learning of his father’s illness - Berkeley had visited the park, only to find the horse chestnut riven in two, split right down the middle. The canker of the stricken leviathan was plain to see: it was rotten to the core. The next morning, council workmen arrived to clear it away; by the end of the afternoon, only a stump less than a foot tall remained of a tree that had been beloved by countless children.

Throughout his illness, Duncan had carried on his mysterious work, continuing to visit the office of which he never spoke to Berkeley. Every effort was made to preserve the semblance of normality. But over time the hospital visits had become more frequent, and his father’s once vigorous frame began to look strangely fragile. His voice, always so thunderous, started to lose its customary resonance; his hair became like gossamer, then, almost overnight, seemed to disappear completely; only his grey-steel eyes remained as sharp as ever.

Then one afternoon in June, Maureen Butterworth arrived at Berkeley’s school early and unexpectedly. Duncan had collapsed, and had been rushed into hospital. Berkeley went with his mother straight to his father’s bedside. He had half expected to find him split open, like the horse chestnut tree; his insides exposed, and his rottenness clear for all to see. That wasn’t quite how it was. But from the deathly grey pallor on Duncan’s angular face, and the wan smile of acknowledgement that played across his thin pursed lips, Berkeley knew that the final, short phase of his father’s illness had begun.

*

Just nine more days had passed since then; and now Berkeley sat alone, next to his father’s bed. Maurean was waiting outside the hospital room, in the corridor, as per Duncan’s request; in his last few moments with his son, he wanted the two of them to be alone.

‘There’s something I want you to have,’ rasped Duncan Butterworth. He was propped up, as comfortable as might be expected, considering how close he was to death. The morphine driver had done its job smoothly and effectively, and had kept the worst of the pain at bay; but there was nothing more that could be done to delay the inevitable. Duncan’s hands, looking more gnarled than his son had ever remembered, were clasped together on his lap, resting upon a book. A Bible.

Duncan must have noticed his son’s look of perplexity. Even now, his eyesight was undimmed. He chuckled. ‘It’s never too late, they say. “Joy shall be in heaven over one sinneth that repenteth.” But I’m done now making my confession to God. Do you still “play at priest” in that shed of yours?’

Berkeley blushed. ‘Sometimes.’

‘That old workbench of mine has woodworm. You could do better than that for an altar.’ Duncan smiled, then started coughing violently. When the convulsion had passed, he lay there, exhausted, his eyes closed.

‘Dad?’ asked Berkely anxiously. ‘Would you like some water?’

Duncan shook his head. His voice, when it came, was weaker than before. ‘No. Too late for absolution with water - holy, or otherwise. Here.’ He pushed the Bible towards Berkeley. ‘Inside the cover. There’s a letter. For you. When I’m gone - read it - but only then. Promise me you’ll burn it, once you’ve read it. That you’ll tell no one of what it says. Promise me, Berkeley.’

‘But– ’

‘No buts. You’re my son, Berkeley. It’s the last thing I ask of you, as a father. Promise me!’ He lay back, gasping. The effort of speaking had almost overwhelmed him.

Berkeley nodded his assent, anxious not to distress his father. ‘Yes, Dad. I promise.’ He gently laid his hands upon Duncan’s, and with a sigh, the dying man released his grip upon the Bible.

A minute passed in silence. Berkeley looked at the bedside clock, watching the second hand ticking off the last moments before nine o’clock.

21:00.

The light was beginning to fade beneath the leaden grey sky. Not the cheeriest day, this Midsummer’s Day. What a day on which to breathe your last.

The cawing of magpies could be heard from outside. The monastic plainsong of magpies, thought Berkeley. He peered out of the window, and counted the black and white birds, strutting across the neatly manicured lawn below. Seven magpies, searching for fat worms. What did the old rhyme say about that?

Duncan opened his eyes once more, and Berkeley immediately forgot about the magpies. ‘There is one more word I need to hear from you. From a Father to his son.’

Berkeley frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘I know you know the words, even though you were never baptised, or raised, as a Catholic. I need to hear them from you. Your absolution. I’m sorry, Berkeley, for not being what I should have been - to you - for so long. But now I need to hear those words.’

‘But I’m not a priest.’

‘We’re all play-actors. In more ways than one. I’m no Catholic. It might be too late for me, anyway; after a lifetime in service to the Enemy. I don’t know anymore. But it’s not too late for you - to choose a different path. Just say the words, Father Butterworth.’

Berkeley met his father’s unflinching gaze. His voice might be the merest shadow of what it had once been - but his iron stare was undiminished. Berkeley raised his right hand; and his voice trembling as he did so, he pronounced the words of absolution, making as he did so the sign of the cross.

‘Ego te absolvo.’

He leaned over and kissed his father on the forehead.

‘Thank you.’ Duncan looked at his son one last time, and smiled. Then he closed his eyes, and murmured. ‘You’d better send your mother in. I’ve some valedictory words for her too. Just her. Goodbye, my son.’

Berkeley stared at his father, feeling the long suppressed tears finally welling up within. He gripped the Bible tightly, and choked out: ‘Bye, Dad.’ He turned away, and practically ran for the door.

Part Two: Draco Movens

VIII: September 12th

‘God bless them, poor souls,’ murmured the Rural Dean of Templeton. ‘I don’t suppose they have any firm idea as to the death toll yet?’

Georgios Anagnosides shook his head. ‘No, I’ve heard the figure of 5,000 bandied around, but it’s really a very rough estimate. Given the sheer number and variety of the businesses and offices housed within the World Trade Centre - more than seventy nationalities, I gather - it’s possible we may never know the exact figure.’

‘I must admit, I’d never heard of this “Al-Qaeda” until yesterday,’ said Canon Harris reflectively. ‘Or Osama bin Laden. Foreign affairs was never my strong suit.’

‘I’m afraid I knew a fair bit about them,’ observed Georgios. ‘In my curacy, I was on very good terms with our local iman. He was very much aware of bin Laden, and regarded him as a highly dangerous individual, whom the West ignored at their peril. The bombing of the US embassies in Dar es Salaam and Nairobi three years ago first brought Al-Qaeda to America’s attention. Two hundred lives were lost then, following much the same modus operandi as they employed yesterday - almost simultaneous attacks on multiple targets. Clearly, the danger bin Laden posed wasn’t taken seriously enough. Well, that’s changed now. “A day of infamy”–that’s how Roosevelt described Pearl Harbour. It’s almost sixty years later: and here we are again.’

‘You know, we had dared to think that this new millennium would be different. What happened to all the talk of a “peace dividend”, with the collapse of Communism, the Fall of the Berlin Wall, and the West victorious; even, it was said, the “end of history”?’

The younger man smiled, and said: ‘Francis Fukuyama, who coined that phrase a decade ago, may well live to regret it. I rather prefer the Chinese saying: “Better to be a dog in times of tranquillity than a human in times of chaos.” My fear is that the relative tranquillity of the last ten years is over now.’

‘Well, I fervently hope that as far as Templeton with Morrington with Llanfihangel Gilfach are concerned, the reverse is true, and the times of chaos have now passed. I must confess to being relieved now we’ve finally met. You’re not quite what I was expecting. Don’t take this the wrong way, my boy - but I’m glad my worst fears don’t appear to have been realised. More tea?’

‘No, thank you. I’m delighted to have confounded your expectations, Vernon; and I hope I won’t give you cause to re-evaluate them again. So what do you think the greatest challenge will be for me, as the newly-arrived incumbent, in these three parishes?’

‘The countryside is going through a terrible time of it right now, Georgios. This Foot and Mouth disease: I’ve never witnessed anything like it. It’s been far worse than the 1967 outbreak. Rural footpaths closed for months, millions of cattle slaughtered, livelihoods ruined. The crisis seems to be easing, at last, but you’ll still get your fair share of suicidal farmers to deal with, I’m sure. And then, of course, there’s the particular challenge of ministering to a parish that is still grieving the loss of a beloved priest.’ The Rural Dean put down his teacup, and folded his hands together, as if in an attitude of prayer, and rested his lips on them in contemplation. After a few moments, he lowered them, and said simply: ‘Know thy enemy, Georgios - that’s the simplest advice I can give, and a reminder of the greatest challenge you will face. I’m afraid you will find a veritable spider’s web of intrigue in the Templeton group. Remember, many of the individuals you’ll be dealing with belong to families that have been around in these parts for generations. We may just have passed into the 21st century - but you’re going to be ministering in a part of the world that barely feels as if it’s left the Victorian Age behind.’

‘Yes, Benedict said much the same when I saw him on Monday.’

‘Ah, you’ve already met your curate, then. What did you make of him?’

There was something about the way that Canon Harris posed that question that put Georgios on his guard. He’s clearly fishing, a bit too obviously: a fairly anodyne response is required, I think. ‘Pleasant enough. Liturgically, he’s clearly “higher up the candle” than myself: but theologically, I think we’re close enough. I’ll certainly appreciate his support. There are two Lay Readers within the ministry team I gather, yes?’

Vernon Harris nodded. ‘Jack Copeland - who I’m sure you’ll get along with - and Harry Barrington-Smythe.’ He paused. ‘You will undoubtedly find him more tricky.’

‘I’ve spoken to him on the telephone. Long enough to realise he’ll be difficult.’

‘Hmm. Well, both of the Readers are based in Morrington, though available for deployment across the group. Which is more than we can say for Fr Benedict.’

‘Oh?’

‘I’m afraid quite a number of the parishioners of Morrington and Gilfach objected to the Bishop giving a licence to Benedict Wishart, when the new parish grouping was formed last year. On account of his living arrangements. St Matthew’s especially has become a bit of an evangelical hot-bed over the past decade, thanks to that idiot Huw Davies-Jones. The chief instigator of the trouble, you probably won’t be surprised to hear, was Barrington-Smythe. He threatened to resign as a Reader, and his wife as People’s Warden. The Bishop was adamant he wasn’t going to licence Fr Benedict to only part of the group - it was all or nothing. Eventually, Edgar Dyson came up with a compromise: a kind of self-denying ordinance on Benedict’s part. He’s licenced de jure to the whole group, but he only ministers de facto at Templeton. All this despite the fact, of course, that he lives in Morrington. It’s a peculiar arrangement, but it seems to work. Edgar was good like that. Pragmatic.’ Harris sighed deeply. ‘I will never understand what possessed him to take his own life. I’ve lost a reliable colleague; and a good friend.’

‘I know I’ll certainly have some big shoes to fill. After all, he was in the parish quite a bit longer than any of his predecessors in living memory - including our Bishop. I must say,’ said Georgios, carefully, ‘I was surprised to see the name Mervyn Mortlake on the Roll of Vicars. Given he never mentioned it to me at my interview.’

If Georgios was looking for a veiled reaction from the Rural Dean, he received none. ‘That is surprising. Perhaps it slipped his mind - no, that’s nonsense. Nothing much slips Bishop Mervyn’s mind. I’ve no idea as to why he would have neglected to mention that little detail. Still, he most certainly has other things to contemplate at present.’

‘So the Sacred Synod is going ahead on Friday?’ queried Georgios.

‘Hmm, I did wonder if they might postpone it. But no: full steam ahead. And the Diocesan Conference will proceed as planned on Saturday, too. You don’t need to attend, Georgios, in case you were wondering - make the most of not yet belonging to the Diocese, officially speaking!’ The Rural Dean chuckled. ‘I think it could be a contentious gathering. I’ve heard rumours that the Bishop is going to use his presidential address to unveil a Diocesan Review. Structures, deployments, maybe even church closures - that kind of thing. The Archdeacon has denied it most vehemently: which almost certainly means it’s true.’

‘Church closures? Will that affect us in the Deanery?’

‘Given the glacial speed at which the Church of Wales moves, I doubt it. Quite a few of the smaller churches in the Deanery really are overdue for closure, mind. Llanfihangel Gilfach, with you, for example. As you’ll soon discover, a congregation of four people and a sheepdog isn’t particularly inspiring.’

‘Ah, but isn't that one of the famed Llanfihangel churches,’ countered Georgios, ‘that must be kept open at all costs?’

‘You mean the Darkwoode legend?’ Vernon Harris frowned. ‘Who’s been filling your head with that nonsense? Bernard Meeks? He loves to spin yarns, that old rascal. Oh - that reminds me - do please be aware there’s ill-feeling between Delilah Meeks, Bernard’s wife, and Belinda Buxton, the People’s Warden in Templeton. She’s a formidable woman, Belinda. Be very careful to keep on the right side of her, as best you can. She’s not very happy with me, I’m afraid, right now. Blames me, I think, for the fact your induction service will be held in Morrington, not Templeton. But that’s entirely down to the Bishop - nothing to do with me.’

There was a knock on the door, and Mrs Mary Harris - short, mousy and demure - appeared in the doorway.

‘I’m so sorry to interrupt,’ she began, ‘but I do think we need to be getting ready for the Farmers’ Club Dinner, darling.’

‘Oh, goodness me, is that the time?’ exclaimed Harris. He jumped up, agitated. ‘I’m most dreadfully sorry, Georgios - but I think we’re going to have to cut short our discussion. Is there anything else you need to know urgently?’

The reason my predecessor killed himself, thought Georgios. There’s some real, dark mystery underlying that, I’m certain of it; and that’s what I really want - no, need - to discover.

‘Nothing comes to mind,’ he lied. ‘I’ll call you if I think of anything. I hope the Conference goes well on Saturday - do let me know if the Bishop decides to make all three of my churches redundant!’ Despite Julie Johnson’s warning, Georgios had found himself warming to the slightly crusty but nevertheless well-meaning Rural Dean.

Harris chuckled. ‘Will do, my boy.’

Georgios turned to Mrs Harris, still hovering anxiously in the doorway of Vernon’s study. ‘Thank you for your hospitality, Mrs Harris. I hope you have a pleasant evening at the Farmers’ Club Dinner.’ He shook her hand.

‘Well, we’re just pleased there’s a Dinner at all, after this terrible year,’ she replied sadly. ‘The Foot and Mouth epidemic has been absolutely devastating. Those poor farmers! Still, there have only been a few outbreaks reported this month so far - and none at all in Wales. Let us hope it’s almost over.’

‘Yes, indeed,’ said Georgios gravely. He picked up his diary, and held out his hand to the Rural Dean of Templeton. ‘See you next week - Monday, didn’t we say? - to discuss the induction service. With the Archdeacon.’

‘Yes. All the best with the rest of the unpacking. It’s good to have you in our midst, my boy. Very good indeed.’

IX: September 13th (St Cyprian, Bishop, Doctor & Martyr)

Not for the first time, Councillor Donald Motte wondered if he had made a serious mistake in joining the Temple and Morrington Town Council. Yet he still optimistically believed that he had stood for election in 1999 out of an earnest desire to improve the lot and well-being of the people of Templeton. He had no tribal loyalty to a political party, and had stood as an Independent candidate - a true independent, not like most of his fellow councillors, who pusillanimously hid behind that banner of convenience rather than present themselves with honesty as the Conservatives they really were.

Motte looked around the room at the faces about him: the rogues, the chancers and the time-wasters sat there alongside the vainglorious, the self-important and the power-hungry. There were a few whom he believed to be genuinely motivated by a desire for public service - ones who had not become as jaded as he had, in a surprisingly short stretch of time. But only a few.

The current Mayor of Templeton, sat at the head of the long polished council table, was Cllr Keith Lewis. Lewis was a wily, ambitious politician; a smooth operator who was now serving his fourth stint as Mayor. He was a relative newcomer to Templeton, having moved to the town from South Wales some twenty years or so ago. A former County Councillor, he had narrowly lost that contest two years ago to one of his local rivals, Raymond Liddle. Lewis stood out from the other councillors in a number of ways. Firstly, he was a member of the Liberal Democratic Party. Liberalism wasn’t quite as strong in this part of mid-Wales as it had been half a century ago, but it still had a greater local following than the Labour Party. Secondly, Lewis was a faithful member of All Saints, Templeton, where his daughter Antonia also sang in the choir. Thirdly, he was married to a beautiful Spanish lady named Gabriela. Her exotic, dusky features were particularly notable in a remote Welsh town that was not renowned for ethnic diversity. Lastly, he was a proud Welsh language speaker: again, rather unusual for an Anglo-Welsh border settlement. All in all, Keith Lewis offered a marked contrast to his fellow councillors; and consequently was viewed with great suspicion by most of them. Motte didn’t trust him one little bit.

Immediately to Lewis’ left sat the Deputy Mayor, Cllr Terry Uckbridge. Uckbridge was one of the few unqualified ‘good guys’ on the Council, in Donald Motte’s book. Like Motte himself, he was Templeton ‘born and bred’, and his great love for the town and its people was without question. Self-effacing, with a self-deprecating sense of humour, he was a quiet but attentive man. He was also a lifelong member of the Labour Party. Strangely, whilst the local membership of the party, never great, had waned over the past two decades - failing to revive even during these recent years of good fortune for the national party, with Blair’s landslide victories in 1997 and now just a few months ago - Uckbridge’s personal popularity had seemed to flourish. He was now the third-longest serving member of the Council, but all attempts to persuade him to stand as Mayor had been in vain; he would simply shake his head, and say: ‘No, that’s not for me.’ Rather like one time Labour leader Hugh Gaitskell - often lauded as ‘one of the best Prime Ministers we never had’ - there were many in Templeton who pondered, wistfully, how things might be different with a man of such clear integrity and humanity as their Mayor. His trenchant atheism also meant that his one significant opponent on the Council was the current Mayor. Their uneasy personal relationship made for a somewhat difficult professional one.

Next to Uckbridge sat Cllr Grant Halliday, the local Funeral Director. A morose man who rarely smiled, he was certainly perfectly suited to his chosen vocation. It was a fairly open secret that he was a member of the local Masonic Lodge; less well-known was the fact that he was the Lodge’s current Master. His son Elliott was one of the boys who had found the unfortunate Sarah Dyson last Halloween besides her deceased husband in Templeton churchyard. By all accounts the boy had been badly shaken by the experience: surprisingly so, thought Motte, given the nature of his father’s profession. Still, not necessarily the case of ‘like father, like son.’

The next two seats around the table were vacant. One of them belonged to Wilfrid Sowerby, a local farmer who was barely literate, barely intelligible on the rare occasions he spoke in council meetings, and, in truth, barely ever present through the autumn months. Chances are he’ll reappear come the November meeting, once harvest-tide was finally past. Not that we’ll notice the difference. The other belonged to Cllr Byron Prothero, the town’s dentist, who was currently laid up in Templeton Hospital with a fractured pelvis, and who had already tendered his apologies. It was a great shame. Other than Terry Uckbridge, Prothero was the only one of his fellows that Motte really rated. He had only once served as Mayor - ‘never again’ was his repeated mantra. Not words one will ever hear, in that context, from the next man around the table…

This next seat was occupied by the oldest and longest-serving member of the Town Council, Cllr Joseph Jeffries, commonly known as ‘J J’ - or, less kindly, as ‘J J Magoo’, on account of his chronic shortsightedness. Cllr Jeffries had been a member of Temple and Morrington Council since its formation in 1974, and before that had been a member of its predecessor body, the Templeton Urban District Council, for twelve further years. He had served as Mayor on seven separate occasions - more than any other Councillor except his old political rival, and Templeton’s first Mayor, Kai Morgan. Kai had been Mayor a record eight times, and had died just six weeks before the end of his final year of office, back in 1994. Jeffries was determined to serve one last year as Mayor - a complete year, unlike his old opponent - all so he could claim, with some justification, to have been ‘Templeton’s longest-serving Mayor’. Nothing would please him more than to be elected Mayor one final time next spring, as he celebrated his 40th anniversary since his first election to the former Templeton Urban District Council in 1962. Unfortunately for Jeffries, he had made many enemies on the Council over the years, all of whom were determined to thwart his most fervent desire. There were plenty in the wider community who were tired of the curmudgeonly 85-year-old fossil too, and who were equally convinced that seven years of ‘Mayor Magoo’ was more than enough.

If Jefferies represented the very worst of ‘old’ Templeton, then Motte feared the naked ambition of the woman who was in the seat to his left: the Council’s newest member, Cllr Mrs Valerie Faraday. ‘Faraday from Far Away’, as she was nicknamed, had stirred up considerable controversy in the eighteen months since she had arrived as Templeton Hotel’s latest owner. The Hotel hadn’t been a going concern since the Seventies, really: but the misfortunes of one owner after another did not give Valerie Faraday any cause for concern. As she was fond of saying to any who would listen to her, she wasn’t going to be daunted by the pygmies who had preceded her: she was going to shake up this sleepy town, and its complacent Council - just you wait and see! The moment a casual vacancy had appeared back in May, she had sensed her opportunity. This was only her fourth full council meeting, and one would think that ensuring the Hotel weathered the storm after a calamitous tourist season, thanks to Foot and Mouth, would be her greatest priority. Nevertheless, it was already clear that she was eyeing the big prize. Forget J J’s fanciful pipe-dreams: come next year, it was perfectly apparent that she was the one who intended to be chairing this Council ‘of woeful inadequacy’ (her words) as Templeton’s first ever female Mayor.

Unless, of course, the individual sitting to her left had any say in the matter. Cllr Martin Bracket, like Keith Lewis, had served four times previously as Mayor, and was second only to Joseph Jeffries in terms of year given to the Council in service. For all that, he wasn’t particularly interested in chasing the records of J J or Kai Morgan - but next year was different. 2002 would be the year of Her Majesty The Queen’s Golden Jubilee. Bracket dearly wanted to be the Mayor during that special year. He had been chairing the Council’s special Jubilee Committee for the past twelve months, and as far as he was concerned, there was no other Councillor more eminently qualified to become Mayor against the backdrop of what promised to be a year of tremendous excitement and celebration. As well - he hoped - the opportunity to meet Her Majesty herself.

The next round the table, County Cllr Raymond Liddle, was an unusual individual. Motte half-admired him for his willingness to nail his colours firmly to the mast: for Liddle was a true-blue Tory, unabashed and unrepentant. And as mad as a box of frogs. In an already crowded field, he too had declared an interest in standing for the Mayorship next year - only to have his arch-rival Keith Lewis declare that it was ‘inappropriate’ for someone to be both Mayor and County Councillor at the same time. ‘You managed to do it once yourself, didn’t you?’ Liddle had retorted.

‘Ah yes,’ Lewis had replied, sadly. ‘That is why I know it to be an ill-advised venture. I know from experience it’s all too much. I would strongly oppose anyone else attempting to do the same.’

The next seat was taken by Motte himself. Then, on his left, sat Cllr Tom Giddings. With Sowerly and Pothero, Giddings was one of three Councillors from the Morrington Ward. Giddings’ father had been the leader of the old Morrington Rural District Council, which had been united with Templeton as part of the local government reorganisation of 1974. Old Zechariah Giddings had fought tooth and nail against the changes. Better to be a big fish in a small pond, son, he would often say. Motte knew that Tom held his father in contempt. ‘I made up my mind, a long time ago, that my father was wrong,’ he had told Motte on several occasions. ‘Better still to be a big fish in a big pond.’ Tom Giddings was now the largest landowner in the district, owned the petrol station in Morrington and was a three-times former Mayor. He, like Grant Halliday, was a member of the Templeton Masonic Lodge. He was clearly ambitious, yet in a far less transparent way than the likes of Faraday, Lewis or Liddle. Motte had been in the same year at Templeton High School as Tom Giddings, and knew him better than anyone else on the Council. He had once regarded him, in their youth, as a good friend. But now Motte sensed that he was the most dangerous man around that table; and, potentially, the most ruthless.

Eleven men, good and true (well, ten men and one woman, on the rare occasions they were all present). The twelfth seat, the one on the Mayor’s right hand, was occupied by the youngest person in the room: the Town Clerk, Mandy Whitaker. She was in her late twenties, and had only been clerking the Council for the past twelve months: but despite her youth, she had proved herself competent. Clearly capable of dealing with older men, thought Donald Motte approvingly.

The public gallery had just three people present that night. As usual, there was Mrs Hilary Fossington, one of those strange creatures who took a peculiar and far from benign interest in every planning application that the Council would consider. Then there was Ernie Hutton, taking notes as usual on proceedings for the Llanmadoc Wells Courier. A former Town councillor himself (until he had some big bust-up with Kai Morgan during his final year as Mayor), now Hutton was ‘poacher-turned-gamekeeper’, political reporter rather than politician. Hutton’s editor must despair of him, so detailed and abstruse are his reports, mused Motte. I can only assume Hutton is paid by the word, and has secretly amassed a considerable fortune, which he has left in his will to the Owl Preservation Society.

The final ‘visitor’ was a surprising one. Donald Motte couldn’t recall ever having seen the Rural Dean of Templeton at a Council meeting before. It was especially odd, given that Templeton wasn’t one of his parishes. No, wait - isn’t he in charge, technically, until the new priest, Ed Dyson’s replacement, is installed or confirmed, or whatever-it-is Anglicans call it? Still doesn’t explain what he’s doing here…

The Town Mayor raised his gavel and brought it down twice, with a resounding thud. Immediately, the room fell silent - well, almost silent. Jeffries was muttering away to himself, no doubt in his increasingly distracted mind reliving some historic battle of wits with the old enemy Kai Morgan. Lewis gave him a sharp stare, and looked as if he was about to say something withering, but then evidently thought better of it. Instead he cleared his throat self-importantly, before continuing:

‘Before we begin tonight’s meeting, I thought that given the appalling events in New York and Washington two days ago, we should observe a minute’s silence. We are the democratically-elected representatives of the people of Templeton and Morrington, and it’s only right we should take a moment to reflect on the terrible threat to democracy the world over that these atrocities represent. As you know, All Saints Church in Templeton - your pardon, Cllr Giddings, St Matthew’s Church in Morrington, and St Michael’s Gilfach too - those three churches are about to welcome the new Archbishop of Wales, to lead an induction service for their new Vicar.’ (Ah, thought Motte, that’s it. Vicars get induced.) ‘Canon Vernon Harris, however, has cared for the parishes very ably over the past almost twelve months, and provided considerable guidance, I must say, to our whole community - a community that was deeply shocked by the manner of the former Vicar’s death, and has additionally struggled, as all in our countryside have struggled, with the scourge of disease this year. I have invited him to be with us tonight, both as a courtesy, but also at a time of global uncertainty, asking to lead us in the act of silence, and then to end with a short prayer.’

There was surprised murmuring from several councillors; then Cllr Faraday raised her hand, and said: ‘Point of order, Mr Mayor: if I may speak, this is most irregular. The standing orders for a Council meeting are quite clear…’

‘And do not apply, Councillor,’ replied Lewis testily. ‘As the Town Council meeting has not, as yet, commenced.’

‘Hear, hear,’ said Cllr Bracket, glaring at Valarie Faraday as he did so. ‘These are extraordinary times, and I for one think the Mayor has acted quite appropriately.’

Canon Harris stood up and raised his hand, and the room fell silent. He noted Ernie Hutton, scribbling away furiously in the corner, and smiled: Doubtless the editor of the Courier will receive a particularly vivid account of this month’s Temple and Morrington Council Meeting.

‘My friends, members of Council,’ he began courteously, ‘I really wouldn’t want my presence here in any way to be a distraction, or a cause for dissension. I’m sure we all agree there is far too much of that in the world as it is. If any Councillor truly feels that the Mayor has acted inappropriately, then I will, of course, withdraw. My presence here is merely a community gesture, nothing more. In no way am I expecting the Council to take a religious stance. Isn’t that so, Keith–um, Cllr Lewis?’

You’re a cunning one, thought Motte. You’d make a good politician.

‘Quite so,’ replied the Mayor - feeling as if, somehow, the Rural Dean’s comments had slightly upstaged him. ‘Does anyone have an objection?’

Silence. Cllr Faraday sat very still, her lips pursed in disapproval, but said nothing. Cllr Uckbridge suppressed a smile, covering his mouth discreetly with his hand. Ernie Hutton stopped writing for a moment and lowered his notepad. The only noise was a sudden sharp whine from Cllr Jefferies’ hearing aid. ‘Confounded thing,’ he muttered, as he took it out and started fiddling with it.

‘Very well,’ said Lewis. He nodded at the Rural Dean. ‘Over to you Canon Harris.’

‘Thank you.’ The priest clasped his hands together, in a gesture of prayer. ‘Shall we all stand?’

X: September 14th (Holy Cross Day)

NOT SO SACRED SYNOD CONFIRMS NEW ARCHBISHOP

There was consternation and controversy today at the meeting of the Sacred Synod of the Church of Wales in the parish church of Llanmadoc Wells, mid-Wales. Ever since the disestablishment of the Church of Wales by William Gladstone in 1873, this modest-sized church - the nearest to the geographical centre-point of the Principality - has been where the House of Bishops of the Church of Wales has met whenever required to confirm the appointment of a new Archbishop.

The election itself takes place some weeks before, at a meeting of the Electoral Conclave, a representative body of lay people, clergy and bishops who take counsel together in closed session. The deliberations of the Conclave are conducted under oaths of strict secrecy, with no publicly-announced candidates for the archiepiscopacy (though from time to time rumours about the ‘runners and riders’ at a particular Conclave meeting may leak). Certainly this was the case at this year’s Electoral Conclave, which met in July following the tragic death of the last Archbishop, the Most Revd Geraint Morgan, in a car accident. It is rumoured that the eventual appointee of the Conclave, Bishop Mervyn Mortlake, the Bishop of Pengwen, was a ‘compromise candidate’ between representatives of the evangelical and traditionalist wings of the Church, Bishop Rhydian Howells, the Bishop of Llandewi, and Bishop Connor Jennings, the Bishop of Casnewydd.

Under the Constitution of the Church of Wales, the Sacred Synod serves merely to confirm the result of the Electoral Conclave, and has no power in and of itself to change the result. However, today’s meeting of the Synod was remarkable for two reasons. The first was the absence of the Right Revd Bryson Maxwell-Lewis, the Bishop of Abertawe, who is known to be suffering from cancer (Bishop Maxwell-Lewis’ retirement comes into effect at the end of September, leaving a second vacancy in the House of Bishops, additional to the late Archbishop Gerraint’s episcopal see of Segontium). The second reason was the extraordinary decision of Bishop Howells to denounce the outcome of the Electoral Conclave. In his address before the astonished Synod, Bishop Howells made veiled references to undue influence being placed on some of the electors, and suggested that the appointment of Bishop Mortlake had been ‘preordained by a poisonous cabal within the highest echelons of the Church of Wales.’ Bishop Howells then left the Church, refusing to make any further comment to the gathered media representatives. The confirmation of the Electoral Conclave’s decision was made in the customary manner, and the Most Revd Mervyn Mortlake was declared Archbishop of Wales, the 13th prelate to hold that office since disestablishment in 1873.

Shortly thereafter, the Secretary-General of the Church of Wales, Sir Donald Brodie, issued the following brief statement:

‘The Bishops of Caerdydd, Casnewydd and Wrecsam unequivocally today affirmed the decision of the Electoral Conclave of the Church of Wales, announced on July 25th of this year, the Feast of St James the Apostle, that the Right Revd Mervyn Mortlake, Bishop of Pengwen, should serve as the next Archbishop of Wales. I have spoken by telephone just a few minutes ago to the Bishop of Abertawe, who was prevented by ill-health from being at today’s Synod in person, and he has confirmed his support for the decision of the Conclave. We send him our thoughts and prayers at this challenging time for him. On behalf of the Church of Wales, as its Secretary-General, I must condemn the behaviour of Bishop Rhydian Howells in the strongest possible terms. Once the enthronement of the Archbishop has taken place, the House of Bishops will consider whether a Disciplinary Tribunal should be summoned to investigate Bishop Howells’ actions today. Archbishop Mortlake has a busy weekend, with a pre-arranged meeting of the Pengwen Diocesan Conference tomorrow, and a full schedule of services the Sunday thereafter. Consequently, he will not be giving any interviews at this time.’

It has been speculated that Bishop Howells comments today were motivated by disappointment at the outcome of the Conclave, given the reports that he himself was a strong contender for the post of Archbishop himself. We have been unable to contact him for any further comment. Thus ends an extraordinary day in the history of the Church of Wales.

BBC WALES NEWS - SPECIAL REPORT

***

Archbishop Mervyn Mortlake did not look like a man revelling in success. His clerical shirt was unbuttoned, and his pectoral cross had been tossed carelessly upon his desk. His face was almost as purple as his shirt, and his eyebrows stood out fiercely, as if possessing a pugnacious life of their own. There was no subtlety in the tone of his voice as he spoke into the telephone; only undisguised contempt and unbridled menace.

‘Let me make myself abundantly clear, Rhydian. Tomorrow morning, by ten o’clock at the latest, you will issue the statement - word for word - that was emailed to you earlier this evening. That statement contains a full retraction and apology for your despicable comments in Llanmadoc Wells today. It also contains your admission that you have struggled with various mental health issues, alcoholism and family problems, all of which have caused you considerable stress. It contains a declaration of your willingness to take an immediate and indefinite leave of absence from your Diocesan duties, while you seek medical help and counselling for your various afflictions. The administrative duties, at least, will be exercised in your absence by Archdeacon Denise. She will, of course, thereby offer an exemplary example of why women in senior positions of leadership should be applauded, not denigrated - a fitting testimony to my late predecessor’s views on women bishops, in preparation for our meeting of the Provincial Synod in November. We might as well try and salvage something useful from this shitshow. In return for your cooperation, I will see to it that the House of Bishops drops the threat of a Disciplinary Tribunal. So - is all that agreed?’

Mervyn paused for a moment, listening to the pleading voice from the other end. After just a few seconds, he cut the hapless Rhydian Howells short.

‘Clearly, I need to explain all this more succinctly. You will do as you’re fucking well told - I don’t care if your wife objects to the reference to ‘family problems’ - because if you don’t release that statement, exactly as written, you will soon have some pretty damned enormous family problems to contend with. The kind that I would expect to follow on, directly in consequence of certain photographs appearing in the gutter press. Photographs showing you in a variety of compromising positions with - what was her name? - ah, yes. Miss Mandy Whitaker. I commend your athleticism. Not at all bad for a man in his late fifties. But I don’t think dear Angela is likely to see it like that, is she? Dear me, no. Nor your Diocese. Nor your precious Welsh Evangelical Alliance. So think it over, Rhydian. Very carefully indeed. Oh - blessings of this Holy Cross Day to you.’

Mervyn slammed the phone down. ‘What a grade-A arsehole,’ he growled. ‘Holy Cross Day - You’ve ended up crucifying yourself today, you twat. How appropriate!’ Still - as he had intimated to his fellow-bishop - maybe some things could be retrieved from this bloody awful day.

He drained his wine glass, and almost poured himself another, but then restrained himself. He needed to remain sober whilst he reread his presidential address for tomorrow’s conference. There might be some alterations he needed to make in the light of today’s events. He’d already made several changes in the past couple of days as a result of the earth-shattering events in America that week. He rubbed his eyes and sighed. Was it all worth it?

Nonsense. This was destiny: destiny and revenge. Both writ large more than thirty years ago as a direct result of what had happened whilst he had been Vicar of Templeton.

This business with Rhydian was a minor irritation, no more. Like a fart in a wind, it would soon pass.

He looked down at his script, and read the page before him carefully once more.

The Church has traditionally seen itself as a guiding light in times of darkness, and a strong, steadying anchor when people feel themselves assailed by the storms of life. And yet - is it really true that people turn to us in times of need, in the way they once did?

This spring and summer our British countryside has faced one of the greatest calamities it has faced in decades. Foot and Mouth disease has devastated our farms, and has led to the closing down of much of our countryside, and the slaughter of millions of livestock. Yet did we see, in our country parishes, a swelling in our congregations? Did our farmers turn to God in prayer en masse? They required all those visiting them to bathe their boots in specially treated troughs of water placed at the entrance to their farms; but did they themselves feel compelled to turn to God, to ask him to wash away their sins? ‘Cleanse me with hyssop, and I will be clean; wash me, and I will be whiter than snow.’ Thus says the psalmist. But did we witness those words in action, across our Diocese, in this time of crisis for our countryside? No, we did not. And - judging by the conversations I had with my brother bishops across Wales, and across the border in England - neither did they. Now that the pestilence has almost passed, one would imagine that all those who live and work in the countryside would turn to God with thankful hearts. Well, we wait to see - with baited breath - whether or not our harvest services in the next few weeks will be better supported this year, or not.

From the countryside, to the city. The terrible events we have witnessed in Manhattan this past week - they have shaken us to the very core of our being. How does one respond to unreasoning hate? In many places, of course, people have turned to the Church. They have come to light candles, to bring flowers, to fill books of condolence, to offer prayers. All very moving, I’m sure. But how long before these impulses have passed? How long before the customary rhythm of life returns? Will the tumultuous events in the United States this past week bring people back to the Church in any lasting, meaningful way? Be honest with yourselves, my friends. You all know that the answer is: No.

The challenges we face in the Church today will not be resolved by some unlooked for revival, in consequence of some calamity, like the Foot and Mouth crisis, or this event that already people are referring to simply as ‘9/11’. We have to be pragmatic. We need to wisely steward our resources. We cannot overextend ourselves on an ill-thought-out mission today that yields little result, when we need to be mindful of the need for us to facilitate the ‘missio Dei’ tomorrow. We cannot exhaust our resources now. And that will involve a realistic rationalisation of both our clerical deployment, and our historic plant - our church buildings.

That is why we need this Comprehensive Review that I have announced. Chaired by Archdeacon Graeham, it will leave no stone unturned. It will report back to me on October 18th - the Feast of St Luke the Evangelist - in a little less than five weeks time. Why the urgency, you ask? Because urgency is required. Like the watchman in Ezekiel, we cannot be complacent. Will some churches close? Yes. Will others be renewed? Undoubtedly so. Will we emerge from this Review leaner? Without a doubt. But stronger, too.

I hope that my brother bishops will follow my example in ordering similar reviews within their Dioceses…

Mervyn paused. He knew, already, what Rhydian would do. He had no choice. This was the point where a new paragraph would be needed, to reflect the extraordinary events at the Sacred Synod, and the statement from the Bishop of Llandewi that would follow tomorrow morning. Mervyn picked up his fountain pen, and wrote at the bottom of the page:

In particular, I am delighted that Archdeacon Denise has already agreed to implement a much-needed Review in the Diocese of Llandewi where, I regret to say, Bishop Rhydian has been very slow indeed to institute necessary reforms during his episcopacy. Of course, it goes without saying that we wish Bishop Rhydian well during his leave of absence, which he announced earlier today, and we hope he receives all the help he needs whilst he recuperates.

Mervyn put down his pen, and smiled.

There. That will leave them in no doubt whatsoever who is in charge. The only person left with sufficient respect across the Church of Wales, and with the moral stature to stand in my way, is Bryson. But his retirement is imminent; and, in any case, he’s not long for this world now. Fuck you, Rhydian Howells - you’ve well and truly shot your bolt. And when I’m quite ready - then and only then - you and Miss Mandy will still get your fifteen minutes of fame. Alas - I think the fallout from that will last for rather longer. Shame.

XI: September 15th

Georgios had spent the morning reading through the large file that Belinda Buxton had deposited on his doorstep the previous day. It contained the past five years worth of minutes of meetings of Templeton Parochial Church Council, together with statements of account, and other miscellaneous reports. It was all very depressing stuff. Even from a cursory reading it was clear that the PCC was faction-riven and quarrelsome. Edgar Dyson had clearly had his work cut getting them to agree on anything. The amalgamation of the parish with Morrington and Llanfihangel Gilfach had been especially bitterly opposed, it would seem. As for the parish’s finances: they were dire. The Diocesan Assessment had not been met during four of the five past years: the arrears had doubled in the last twelve months alone.

Georgios sighed. Brooding about the challenges facing him would achieve nothing. He looked out of the window. It was a bright sunny day, and the distant hills looked inviting. A walk would lift his spirits, and he knew that the public footpaths, closed for much of the year due to Foot and Mouth, were open once more. At least he had completed his unpacking, more or less. There was one box he hadn’t opened yet. It contained a miscellany of items associated with Caroline; books, photographs, a few letters, and a painting of him that she had presented on his last birthday. He had been deeply moved at the time: she wasn’t a bad amateur artist. But right now, he couldn’t bear to think about it, or any of the other objects within the box. He would put it into the attic, later. But first: that walk…

***

With the help of an OS map, Georgios had found the quickest route to the footpath that ran alongside the local remains of Offa’s Dyke. Although not as well-preserved as some of the sections of the Dyke to the north and south, the stretch near Templeton was impressive enough. He had been walking for about an hour when he came to a viewpoint that offered a spectacular prospect of the town below, nestled between three hills in the valley of the river Lud. Situated on one of the two high points of the town - the other occupied by the sparse remains of the 12th century Norman motte and bailey castle - the church of All Saints stood out, tall and proud compared to all around it. Its Decorated Gothic style - only minimally altered by the Victorians, thankfully - made it a jewel of the county. Even the great architectural historian Pevsner was impressed by it (even if he was a little sniffy about the Douglas frescoes).

There was a helpfully placed bench at the viewpoint, and Georgios sat down, pulling a Thermos flask of coffee from his rucksack. As he took in the panorama, he quite forgot the quiet despair of the morning.

‘It’s a breathtaking s-sight, isn't it?’

Georgios turned his head, and looked towards where the voice had come from. A dumpy man, wrapped up with a heavy overcoat, mittens and a long scarf wound several times around his neck, was standing about twenty feet away, on the rise. It wasn’t an especially cold day, and the man looked ridiculously overdressed.

‘Yes, it is,’ said the priest. ‘It makes me really appreciate that this will be a spectacular part of the world in which to live.’

The other man ambled down the slope towards him, grinning as he came. ‘Too right. Though behind the b-beauty, there’s plenty of devilry afoot. Like Christian divined in Pilgrim’s Progress: Then I saw that there was a way to hell, even from the gates of heaven. You’re newly arrived here, then?’ He held out his hand. ‘The name’s Bennett. Alexander B-Bennett.’

How unfortunate to have a stammer that prevents you from saying your own name without difficulty, thought Georgios. He shook the newcomer’s hand. ‘My name is Georgios Anagnosides.’

Bennett’s eyes widened with recognition. ‘The new m-minister at Templeton Church? Praise God!’

‘That’s right. And for Morrington and Llanfihangel Gilfach too.’

‘I’m the pastor at Overhill Baptist Chapel. It’s just a small place, Overhill - halfway between Templeton and Cwmpentre.’

Ah, a pastor: that explains the Bunyan quote. Georgios had noticed the chapel as he had driven through Overhill the previous Sunday on his way to St David’s. He nodded.

‘Yes, I passed that way recently. It’s good to meet you.’

‘We need a m-man of faith and courage, at All Saints, let me tell you. How I’ve prayed for it,’ said the pastor fervently. ‘Fifteen years I’ve laboured here, amongst the godless. This is where the Darkwoode lies, close by: here in the hills of the Marches. And you and I b-both know that the high places were where the false gods were worshipped in Biblical days. By the likes of the apostate King Ahaz. And he sacrificed and burnt incense in the high places, and on the hills, and under every green tree: 2 Kings chapter 16, verse 4.’

Georgios smiled politely, but said nothing.

‘These are the Last Days, d-don’t you agree?’ persisted Pastor Bennett. ‘The events this week in America confirm it.’

Georgios shook his head. He didn’t really want to offend the pastor or get into an argument, but–

‘No,’ he said quietly but firmly. ‘I don’t believe that at all. I’m sorry, Pastor Bennett, but I have to disagree with you most decidedly on that matter.’

‘But the Book of Revelation says–’

‘Many things that had been misunderstood, misinterpreted and misapplied,’ interrupted Georgios: ‘Indeed, so much so that I sometimes think it would have been better if it had never been accepted in the canon of Scripture in the first place. Which it very nearly wasn’t.’

Alexander Bennett looked shocked. After a moment’s silence, he said: ‘I see my faith is being s-sorely tested once again. Get behind me, Satan!’ With a curt nod, he turned his back on the priest and hurried away at surprising speed. In a trice he had disappeared from view.

The sky had darkened, and there was a rumble of thunder from afar.

Doubtless, he would think that a sign, thought Georgios ruefully. Poor deluded fool: but I really should have handled that better. Blast, this coat isn’t very waterproof. I wonder if I can make it back home before I get drenched?

He didn’t.

XII: September 16th (Battle of Britain Sunday)

Keith Lewis adjusted his Mayoral chain of office in the mirror, and called out to his wife: ‘Qué hora es?’

A few moments later, she appeared in the mirror behind him. Resting her head on his shoulder, she placed her arms around his waist, and said: ‘Quarter past ten, darling. Has Harrisons not mended your watch yet?’

He frowned. ‘No. They say they’ve hard difficulty getting the parts. It is an antique piece, admitted. Perhaps I should have taken it into Llanmadoc, but honestly, I’ve had no time this past week! Clive has assured me that he’ll have parts in on–’

‘Let me guess. On Monday?’

Lewis groaned, and rolled his eyes. It was a local joke that whenever Clive Harrison, who ran the town’s ironmongers and general supplies store, had difficulty getting hold of something, his standard response would be: I’ll have it in for you next Monday.

‘You really should have a spare watch,’ chided Gabriela. ‘Would you like to borrow mine?’

‘No, no, thank you,’ Lewis replied, as he combed his hair. ‘It would look a bit too gaudy on my wrist.’

‘Gaudy? What is “gaudy”?’

‘Hmm.’ Even after thirty-three years of living in Britain, Gabriela’s English still had some surprising gaps. ‘Showy, flamboyant, too bright and sparkly.’

‘Llamativo. Bah.’ She turned him round, and kissed him on the forehead. ‘You are so grosero. Remind me again why I married you.’

Before he could reply, their daughter Antonia appeared in the doorway. The Church Choir would have to manage without her morning. Instead, she was wearing her Band uniform, and holding her trumpet case. ‘Shouldn’t you have left by now, dad?’ she said.

And shouldn’t you have moved out of home by now? thought Lewis. He looked at Antonia crossly, but decided to ignore her comment. ‘Your jacket looks a bit creased,’ he noted. ‘Do you want a lift? It’ll be heavy carrying that trumpet all the way to the Hall.’

She shook her head. ‘No, it’s fine. I’ll make my own way there.’ She opened the front door, then turned back, looked down at her father, and said: ‘Never mind my jacket. Your fly’s undone. Bye, mum.’

***

Harry Barrington-Smythe stood impatiently by the war memorial, opposite the Templeton Hotel, as the various parties milled around. This was the first time he’d been asked to lead the Battle of Britain Service, and he didn’t want to make any mistakes. He himself had only been called up in 1946, after the main conflicts in Europe and East Asia had ended, but he was still nevertheless a proud bearer of the General Service Medal awarded for his service in Palestine. He had pinned it very carefully to his Lay Reader’s preaching scarf earlier that morning. Now he was watching the young (and, to his mind, insufficiently well-disciplined) Air Cadets lining up, next to the members of the local branch of the Royal Air Force Association. As he did so, he remembered the telephone conversation he had had with the Rural Dean three weeks before…

‘I’m trying to finalise the rota for September, Harry. As usual, there have been a few difficulties. The main one is with regard to All Saints, on September 16th. It’s Battle of Britain Sunday, and I gather they make a big thing of it in Templeton: almost as much as Remembrance Sunday. They have a local RAFA branch, apparently; then there’s the Air Cadets; the British Legion turns out too, as does the Town Silver Band, the Town Council, the Town Cryer: the whole works. Anyway, I can’t take the service myself - I have commitments in my own parishes that day. Meanwhile, Jack Copeland is already down to lead both the Morrington and Gilfach services. Would you be free?’

‘What about Reverend Wishart?’ said Barrington-Smythe tartly.

‘I’m afraid Fr Benedict refuses to conduct any service with - as he calls it - “militaristic overstones.”’ Barrington-Smythe could practically feel Canon Harris squirming with embarrassment at the other end of the phone.

Of course, Barrington-Smythe had said: Yes. Anything that made him look cooperative and amenable - unlike that abomination Wishart - had to be a good thing.

But now, he was almost having second thoughts. Timing was everything with services like this: and Barrington-Smythe hated lack of organisation and unpunctuality at the best of times. He glanced at his watch again. It was fifteen minutes to eleven, the time the service was meant to start: all so as to enable the two minutes silence to be observed precisely at eleven o’clock, before the ensembled parade marched up the High Street to the Clock Tower, then down Church Street and on to All Saints for the principal service. Major Matlock, his own chest positively gleaming with medals, was now tapping his own watch impatiently, and glaring at him, as if it was his fault that they were running late. Why, the sheer nerve of it. What was the hold-up?

Flight lieutenant Dewi Wyn Hopkins (Retired) was Templeton’s Marshal of the Parade for both Battle of Britain Sunday and Remembrance Sunday. He’d only taken on responsibility for organising the Acts of Commemoration and the Parades themselves two years previously. His predecessor had organised proceedings for twenty-five years, and consequently Dewi still felt a little unsure of himself. He had liked Vicar Ed, and his relaxed yet measured manner in leading worship; but the scowling curmudgeon who was the Church’s representative at today’s proceedings was another kettle of fish altogether. He hurried over to Barrington-Smythe.

‘Sorry, sir, I think we’re ready. The Town Silver Band were still waiting for a few members to make their way down from the Hall - including the bugler who is going to play the Last Post and Reveille. But everybody’s here now.’

‘About time.’

We won’t invite you back to the RAFA Club for drinks after the service, thought Dewi darkly.

***

‘Samuel Wentworth,’ called his mother from downstairs, ‘it’s almost eleven o’clock. Are you actually getting up today - or have you forgotten what day it is?’

Sam groaned, and turned over. Of course I haven’t forgotten, he thought. But if a guy can't lie in on his birthday, when can he?

‘Okay, mum,’ he yelled. ‘I’ll be down in a minute.’

***

Heather Wentworth shook her head in exasperation. She turned away from the bottom of the stairs, and headed back into the kitchen, where Simon Howley was finishing a cup of tea. ‘Sorry, Simon,’ she said. ‘I thought he’d be up by now - he was always up early on his birthday in past years, anxious to find out what presents he’d had.’ She looked at the crudely wrapped parcel that Simon had brought around. ‘You really don’t have a clue about wrapping things up properly, do you?’

Simon shrugged his shoulders. ‘You try packaging up a skateboard, and making it look like it’s not a skateboard. Anyway, let Sam have his lie in. He’s almost a teenager, after all. Mornings will be a thing of the past for the next few years, at least at weekends. At least they were for my sons.’ And now they’re grown up, and far far away.

‘If you say so. I never did understand boys. No brothers, my father in the grave by the time I was three, and then Sam’s father walking out before he was even one. And now he’s twelve - what hope do I have?’

‘Don’t be maudlin, lass. You have me now, after all.’

‘I know, Simon. You’ve been really good to us, truly you have. Oh, but look at the time. You’ll be late for church.’

He shook his head. ‘I’m not going this morning. It’s a later start today, but I still couldn’t get a band together. Belinda will be spitting feathers.’

Heather said: ‘But isn’t it Battle of Britain Sunday?’

‘Aye: the third Sunday of September, the Sunday on or after September 15th, marking the climax of the Battle of Britain in 1940. It was a big celebration last year, for the sixtieth anniversary. My father was one of The Few, you know. He abandoned the family farm, told my grandfather that fighting Hitler was more important. What’s the point of farming if the Nazis invade? he said. Grandad practically disowned him. He only came back after the war ended because his brother had drowned in a slurry pit accident. The younger son, the prodigal returned: only this time, no fatted calf was slaughtered for his homecoming, given that his elder brother had just died. He was the most reluctant farmer, my father.’

‘Not as reluctant as you, at least according to your brother Matt,’ laughed Heather. ‘But why aren’t you going today? The Air Force - for you father, then you - it’s been the best part of both your lives.’

Simon took her in his arms, and kissed her. ‘No, this is the best part of my life. After Felicity cleared out, taking the boys with her - I never thought I’d find happiness again. But if you want to know the real reason I’m not in All Saint’s this morning - or at the war memorial - well, I can’t face the thought of looking at all those young faces today. All those Air Cadets. Not after what happened in America on Tuesday.’

She hugged him closely, and realised to both her surprise and distress that he was trembling. ‘I know, darling,’ she said, ‘I know. You’re thinking - aren’t you - whether some of them are going to be serving in the Air Force in just a few years. Going into battle, goodness knows where.’

‘Aye,’ he said. ‘Flying sorties and combat missions somewhere in the Middle East. Who knows how this is going to play out? You heard what Bush said after the attacks: that America would make “No distinction between those who planned these acts and those who harbour them.” He’ll be gunning for the Taliban in Afghanistan, unless they hand over bin Laden: which they won’t. And what does that mean? Blood, and more blood, I should think. War without end. But that’s nothing new. And where America leads - we shall follow. Do you know how many years since 1914 there have been without the British armed forces fighting somewhere on the planet?’

‘You’ve told me that before. None.’

He nodded. ‘Not one damned year of peace, in almost a hundred years. I lost too many comrades - sailors, soldiers, airmen - in the Falklands. And for what? So that Maggie Thatcher could win two more elections, close down the pits, sell off half the country to asset strippers.’

‘England, that was wont to conquer others, hath made a shameful conquest of itself,’ Heather said bitterly. ‘That’s how Will Shakespeare put it, four hundred years ago.’

‘Spoken just like an English teacher,’ said Simon.

‘I am an English teacher.’ She glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. ‘Look - it’s eleven o’clock.’ As she spoke, in the distance the town’s clock tower began chiming the hour.

Simon released her, and stood ramrod still. The silence was observed by him as respectfully in the Wentworth kitchen as it was by the assembled multitude gathered before the memorial in the centre of town. Only when the two minutes had passed did he look at her, and smile. ‘I will go up to the RAFA Club later, mind, for a drink: drink a toast to my Pa, and all those other magnificent men in their flying machines. Do you want to come?’

She shook her head. ‘No, best not. Not on Sam’s birthday. Oh, talking of which–’

‘Hi mum, hi Simon,’ came a sleepy voice from the doorway. ‘Isn’t someone meant to be bringing the birthday boy breakfast in bed this morning?’

***

Sam’s sort-of cousin, Gordon Howley, had been up for hours, ploughing in Clary Field. The winter wheat would need to be sowed soon. His father was busy checking over the gimmers and ewes in advance of Thurday’s inspection by the men from the Ministry. He wouldn’t have time to join Gordon today.

Gordon’s bright green Massey-Fergusson came to the rise at the top end of the field, near where Gospel Oak had once stood - until it had fallen during the Great Storm of 1987. Gordon lent forward and turned off the ignition, and with a judder the tractor came to a halt. It was a glorious sight, looking down across the fields of Withy Farm. From this vantage point, it was possible to see them all. Angelica Field, Five Shilling Wood, The Rough, Long Itching, Upper Tansy, Lower Tansy, Pease Close, Foxhole, Seven Pines. He remembered when his father had brought him up here, when he was just seven years old, and pointed them all out to him, naming each and every one of them, that wonderful litany of names. It had been a glorious summer’s day, he recalled, and the sun was setting, casting a regal glow across the fields as it did so. Matt Howley had placed his broad arms across his young son’s shoulders, and with great solemnity had ended his speech by saying:

‘All this will be yours one day, son. This will be my legacy to you. The greatest gift a man could bequeath to his offspring. Treasure it, Gordon. Treasure it well. And one day, you’ll stand on this spot with your son. And you’ll speak to him, much as I’ve spoken to you today. Just as my grandfather once stood here and spoke these words to me. Remember the words. Remember what it is to be a Howley, and to be a son of the soil here, in Morrington, working God’s good earth.’

Many times over the ten years since then, Gordon had come to this spot, and recollected his father’s words that day, with satisfaction and with pride. Only a few months ago, he had brought Cindy Giddings up here. The hay bails had been cut; and leaning up against one of them, with her sprawled at his feet, he had reached down and kissed her, and asked her if she would marry him.

‘We’re too young for all that, Gordie Howley,’ she had replied.

He had blushed, he remembered. ‘I don’t mean yet, Cindy. I’m off to agricultural college in a year’s time, hopefully. But we can still get engaged, can’t we? Or don’t you think your dad will approve?’

She giggled at that. ‘It’s your father who’s more likely to disapprove. You, a Howley - marrying the daughter of Tom Giddings. They’re not exactly friends, are they?’

‘It would treble the size of my family’s estate, though, wouldn’t it? Eventually, I mean.’

‘Is that why you want me?’ she chided. She pulled him down, protesting. ‘My father’s lands? And there was me thinking you were more interested in the contents of my knickers. Tell you what - ask me again, on my birthday.’

‘That’s not till next February!’

‘All good things come to those who wait,’ she teased. ‘That was true about my knickers too, after all, wasn’t it?’ And with that she had reached over, and started to unbutton his shirt…

All that seems so long ago. The happiest of interludes. But I didn’t know then what I know now.

Hadn’t the Father of Lies once stood on the pinnacle of a great mountain and shown Jesus all the kingdoms of the earth, and offered them to him - in exchange for his fealty?

Gordon looked across Clary Field, and for a moment it felt as if his heart had stopped.

There it is - again.

Pecking away, at twenty yards distance, at some delicacy that had come to the surface of the soil (having been churned up by the plough that his Massey-Fergusson had been trailing) was a solitary magpie.

‘One for sorrow,’ muttered Gordon, despairingly. He looked around, anxiously seeking for any sign of the magpie’s companion. There was none.

Not so many months ago, Gordon Howley would have scoffed at such rank country superstition. But for the seventh day running, that was what Gordon had seen. One magpie - no more, no less. Every morning since Monday. Since the day after he had made the fateful decision that now, he feared, would cost him his life.

His life: but, he prayed not–

He crossed himself fervently, and repeatedly…

His soul.

XIII: September 17th

The knock on the door came whilst Georgios was deeply engrossed with the third movement of Rachmaninov’s Second Piano concerto. He jumped up, lifted the stylus-arm from the vinyl LP record, and shouted: ‘Hang on!’

A few moments later, he opened the front door, breathless. Canon Vernon Harris smiled at him quizzically, but said nothing.

‘Rachmaninov,’ said Georgios, as if that was the only explanation required. ‘I’m sorry, I was somewhat carried away for a moment. Were you knocking long? The bell doesn’t work.’

The Rural Dean shook his head. ‘No, only twice. Don’t worry, it’s quite alright, my boy. May I come in?’

Georgios bit his lip, embarrassed. ‘Of course. Shall we go to my study? The Archdeacon hasn’t arrived yet.’ He ushered his visitor into the hallway. ‘Can I take your overcoat? Oh dear - I see it’s been raining.’

‘Only a little,’ reassured Canon Harris. ‘But yes, thank you.’ He passed his coat over to Georgios. ‘I’m afraid Archdeacon Graeham won’t be joining us.’

‘Oh, that’s unfortunate. Do take a seat.’

‘Thank you. And yes: it is. But I think he’s busy firefighting. The Archbishop didn’t exactly get the warmest of receptions to his Diocesan Review proposals on Saturday.’

‘Ah. Rather like turkeys baulking at the idea of voting for Christmas, I imagine. Can I offer you some coffee?’

‘Thank you, perhaps a little later. But I’d like to chat about the induction service for a bit first, if I may. I understand from Belinda Buxton that you’re not expecting many personal guests?’

‘That’s correct. To be honest, there aren’t many from Exeter I’d like to invite; and Leicester is a fair distance away. A couple of old friends from Oxford and Cambridge days are coming, but that’s pretty much it.’

‘None of your family?’

Georgios shook his head. ‘My grandmother isn’t in the best of health, and my father and I aren’t particularly close any more. There’s no one else - apart from some relatives in Cephalonia, that is.’

The Rural Dean frowned. ‘Well, we’re going to be looking a bit light as far as ministers are concerned too. We’ve invited the local Catholic priest, Fr Liam O’Higgins, and the Methodist minister, Revd Nathaniel Gyde, to attend and offer “fraternal greetings” as part of the service. I’m not sure if either will be in evidence. We haven’t bothered with the minister of Overhill, Pastor Bennett. He’s a bit of a nutcase to be honest.’

Georgios nodded his head. There seemed little point in relaying the story of his encounter with Pastor Bennett on Saturday.

‘Then there’s the Deanery Clergy,’ continued Canon Harris. ‘They have all been invited, and should make it a priority to be present; but I’m afraid you won’t get PG there.’

‘PG?’

’Oh, apologies. You haven’t met him yet, of course. Revd Fr Peter Geoffrey Auldcourt: ‘PG’ as he’s generally known. He’s been the Rector of the Caer-yr-adfa group for twenty-two years now, the longest serving cleric of the Deanery. He’s vehemently opposed to female priests, and he’s refused to attend any Deanery events since Julie Johnson’s appointment to Cwmpentre. Very much ‘old school’, is PG. Widowed not long after arriving in the Deanery; there were no children. He’s highly eccentric: a vegan, an anti-hunt campaigner, and a poet. 68 years old, and absolutely determined not to retire until he’s 70. He’d carry on past that point if the Church of Wales allowed it, which of course it doesn’t. I think he’s somewhat homophobic too. At least, I get the impression he doesn’t approve of Fr Wishart.’

‘He probably wouldn’t approve of me either, theologically.’

‘Very true,’ sighed Harris. ‘He’s our only fluent Welsh speaker in the Deanery Chapter. A lot of his poetry is written in Welsh. Think of him as being like RS Thomas - but with even more attitude - and you won’t be far wrong.’

‘I prefer the other poetic Thomas - Dylan - myself,’ countered Georgios. ‘Who else is in the Deanery?’

‘Well, myself. And you’ve met Fr Wishart already. The only other cleric is PG Auldcourt’s bête noire, the Revd Julie Johnson–’

‘Whom I’ve also met.’

‘Oh, really?’ Harris raised an eyebrow and smiled, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. ‘Our clerical firebrand. Smokes cigars, swears like a navvy, is more left-wing than Tony Benn. A single parent too - I don’t believe she was ever married.’ The hint of disapproval in his voice was unmistakable, and Georgios had to restrain himself from rising to the clear bait. I see your game, Vernon: and I can’t say I care for it.

But instead Georgios said: ‘What about Lay Readers in the Deanery?’

Well, there are only two - both of them in the Templeton group. We’ve already spoken about them briefly. Jack Copeland and Harry Barrington-Smythe. You’ll need to ask one or other of them to act as Archbishop’s Chaplain for the service. Of course, whichever one you don’t ask is likely to be somewhat upset - but it can’t be helped.’

‘The Archbishop’s Chaplain? Can’t that be a cleric, rather than a Reader?’

Harris grunted, and folded his arms. ‘Well, it could be - but I wouldn’t advise you to ask Benedict Wishart. That really would put the cat amongst the pigeons with the Barrington-Smythes and their allies.’

Georgios looked at the Rural Dean squarely face to face, and said coolly. ‘That’s not what I had in mind, Vernon. I’d like Julie Johnson to act as Chaplain to the Archbishop at my induction service.’

Vernon Harris stopped smiling. His eyes narrowed, and there was a definite glint of menace behind his spectacles. For a long moment he paused, as if carefully considering how to respond. ‘Well,’ he said eventually, ‘it is your choice, my boy; and there’s nothing that forbids it, strictly speaking. But I’m not at all convinced it’s a good idea.’

‘Why not? You’ve as much as said that Auldcourt is likely to boycott the induction in any case. And if I’m going to offend one Lay Reader, I might as well give them equal cause for offence.’

‘I see. Very well, I’ll let Belinda Buxton know.’

‘I’m sorry, but what concern is it to Belinda? Granted, she’s Peoples Warden at All Saints - but isn’t St Matthew’s hosting the induction? Shouldn’t you be liaising, primarily, with the Churchwardens there?’

Georgios' sudden assertiveness had clearly taken the Rural Dean by surprise. Nevertheless, he slowly nodded his head. ‘You are quite correct. I’ll make sure all parties are informed, and due weight will naturally be given to St Matthew’s as the host church. Perhaps we should have that coffee now, before we look at the order of service in detail.’

‘Of course,’ said Georgios, standing up. But Canon Harris hadn’t quite finished.

‘The late Romanticism of Rachmaninov gives its own pleasures, of course; but personally I prefer the heavier cut and thrust of Wagner myself. His operas are so full of vivid storytelling, of lust and betrayal, of love gone awry, of madness and hubris, aren’t they? Yet for all that, it’s a great pity when real life comes to resemble a Wagnerian opera.’ He smiled, but there was no mirth hidden behind eyes this time. ‘Best avoided, I think. Milk, no sugar.’

XIV: September 18th

Matt Howley looked up, and saw his wife hovering in the doorway of his office. Oh Christ, he thought. I told her I’d only be another half hour.

‘Sorry, love, I know I promised to come and watch that James Bond film on the television; but I just have to get this paperwork in order before the inspectors arrive on Thursday. These new regulations that they’ve introduced across the board, for all livestock, since the Foot and Mouth outbreak - it’s been a nightmare.’

Susan crossed the room and evicted their black cat, Mintie, from her favourite armchair. She lowered herself into it, as Matt continued his complaint. ‘You know, it’s at times like this I really wish Simon was still here on the farm. It’s far too much for one man to handle.’

‘One man?’ said Susan. ‘What about Gordon?’

‘He’s still a boy. And anyways, we’re going to lose him for a while next year if he goes off to agricultural college.’

‘Actually, Matt, it’s Gordon I want to talk to you about.’ She sat forward in her armchair, and clasped her hands nervously together. ‘I’m worried about him. Really worried.’

‘Sue, we’ve gone through this before - it’s just a phase. Life’s full of worries when you’re his age.’

‘Matt, stop it! You know there’s more going on with him than the usual teenage angst. He’s not eating properly, he hides away in his room when he’s not out doing his farm chores, he won’t talk to us properly–’

‘You’ve just described any teenage boy - not just our son.’

She shook her head vigorously. ‘Does a normal teenage son put up crosses in his bedroom, and does he stick photographs and paintings of Jesus, Mary and the saints that he’s cut out of books and magazines onto the walls? Does he lug the great big Family Bible upstairs? Does he get all jittery and jumpy in the evening, and refuse to go to bed without a light on - despite having never been bothered by the dark since he was an infant? Does any of that sound like normal behaviour to you?’

‘No,’ said Matt quietly. ‘I guess not.’

‘I think you should ring the new Vicar, and ask him to call round, urgently.’

Matt was astonished by her suggestion. ‘I can’t do that! The Rural Dean has drummed it into all the churchwardens that we are to leave Revd Anagnosides well alone until after the induction. He’s not our Vicar yet. Canon Harris has already had words with a number of people that he knows have bothered him - like Belinda Buxton and Harry Barrington-Smythe.’ He hesitated, then said: ‘All the churchwardens are supposed to be meeting with Canon Harris on Thursday evening down at St Matthew’s, for one final run through. Belinda will try to dominate proceedings, as usual. But I could always have a quiet word with him after we’ve finished our business.’

‘No, I don’t like that man, and neither does Gordon. You know our son will never confide in him. It’s got to be the new priest.’

What makes you so sure Gordon will talk to him? thought Matt. ‘Then we’ll have to wait until at least the weekend - more likely next week.’

‘I’m afraid, Matt.’ She looked down at her feet. ‘I’m afraid that if we don’t act quickly - we might lose him. That he might - do something.’

‘Don’t be stupid, woman. My son would never…’ his voice trailed off, as he contemplated the implication of her words.

‘If you don’t telephone Georgios Anagnosides tonight, then I will.’

He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen her looking so determined. ‘Okay,’ he assented. ‘I’ll call him. I’ll see if he can come tomorrow morning.’

‘But tonight–’

‘No,’ he shook his head firmly. ‘It’s already dark. Meeting him can wait until the morning - if he’s free, and willing to meet, which he may not be. But I’ll ring him. Will that satisfy you?’

She jumped up from her armchair, and embraced him. ‘Yes, darling. But please do press upon him how urgent it is. And that I’m not just some neurotic mother.’

‘I will,’ he promised. ‘And then after I’ve phoned him, give me just another fifteen minutes. I’ll need to check over this final spreadsheet. Then - I’ll come through and we’ll watch some television together.’

‘The Bond movie has almost finished.’

‘Doesn’t matter. We’ve seen it before. To Morrington With Love, wasn’t it?’ It was a feeble joke, he knew - but at least it brought a smile to her face.

‘I’ll make us some cocoa. Shaken, not stirred. But first, I’ll just pop upstairs to check on him. I do love you, Matthew Howley.’

‘And I you, honeybun. It’ll all be okay - just you wait and see.’

XIV: September 19th

‘Thank you for coming around, Vicar. Ooh - I suppose I shouldn’t call you that yet.’

Georgios smiled at the anxious woman sitting opposite him in the large farmhouse kitchen. Her Rubenesque features were not unattractive; but she would look better, he thought, with her flaming red tresses hanging loose rather than being tied back as they were. She reminded him of Caroline, just a little.

‘Please, just call me Georgios. It’s quite alright.’

She carried on, almost as if she hadn’t heard him. ‘And I know we shouldn’t have called you over, just yet - it’s not the done thing, we do understand - but we just had to speak to someone. I’ve been so worried this past week.’

‘But you say your son’s not quite been himself for a few months?’

She shook her head. ‘No. Not since we found out he’d been seeing Tom Giddings’ daughter. I think that must have been July, when he told us. He’d been seeing her secretly for about six months before that, it seems. Anyway, there was the most terrible row between Gordon and Matt when we found out. There’s been bad blood between the Giddings and the Howley families, going back generations.’

Ah, from the balconies of Verona to the fields of Morrington: some stories don’t change, do they? ‘Maybe that’s why he’s been depressed. If he was close to his father, and now that relationship’s been damaged because of his choice of girlfriend…’

‘No, it’s much more serious than that. You’re right of course - he and Matt have always been close. But Cindy Giddings–’ (There was real feeling in the way she enunciated the name). She paused, and looked down at her hands, clasped together on the battered oak kitchen table. Georgios could see they were trembling slightly.

‘His girlfriend.’

She looked up at the priest. ‘She was more than his girlfriend, Georgios. I think she was his mentor. She had a hold over him. I think she was introducing him to...’ she gulped. ‘To dark stuff. The kind of things we don’t like to speak of in this part of the world. Because it’s not just a silly superstition. It’s real.’

Georgios thought for a moment. This was unexpected: and yet, somehow, he didn’t feel surprised. ‘What signs have you seen that make you suspect that there’s an unwholesome spiritual dimension to all this?’

‘Gordon’s been reading a lot the past couple of months. Unusually so, because he’s never been a particularly studious boy. The kind of books he’s been borrowing from Templeton Library: they’re all about witchcraft, supernatural stuff. Alistair Crowley, Dennis Wheatley, even some American author, Stephen - somebody or other.’

‘Stephen King. What else?’

‘The last week or so it’s definitely become more disturbing. He’s been putting up crosses in his bedroom. Refusing to turn out the light at night. And last night, when I went up to see him, just before bedtime, he asked me…’ Her voice trembled, and she dabbed at her eye with a handkerchief. Then she looked intently at Georgios. ‘He asked me if I thought he was a bad person and if I thought he was going to go to hell.’ She turned away, and started sobbing uncontrollably.

The latch of the kitchen door was lifted, and the heavy door swung open. In the doorway stood the tall imposing figure of Matt Howley. Shit, thought Georgios. Talk about timing.

‘Vicar,’ he rumbled. ‘What have you said to her?’ He strode over to the table and put a comforting arm upon his wife’s shoulders. ‘There, there, my love,’ he said softly.

She shook her head, wiping the tears from her cheeks. ‘It’s not Georgios–Revd Anagnosides’–fault. He’s been very kind. Where’s Gordon?’

‘He went out early this morning - up to Clary Field, he said.’

‘But he only finished ploughing that the other day. Why would he have gone back there?’ She started trembling. ‘Go and fetch him, Matt. Go now!’

***

Gordon had left the engine of the tractor running, fascinated as he watched the magpies gathering. This time, he was relieved to see that there was more than the single solitary bird that had apparently been haunting him over the previous nine mornings. He counted them, and as he did so, he chanted the old familiar rhyme to himself:

One for sorrow,

Two for joy,

Three for a girl,

Four for a boy…

He remembered, he’d counted four magpies straight after the first time he had made love to Cindy. That had been a shock, and he had blurted out:

‘Fuck. What if the condom’s split?’

She’d giggled at that. ‘It’s okay, Casanova. I’m on the pill. Double insurance. There’ll be no boy - or girl - for you to worry your pretty head about yet.’

But there were more than four today. He continued counting.

Five for silver,

Six for gold.

He’d never ever seen more than six at one time before. He gulped.

Seven for a secret never to be told.

I’ll never tell. Never! How could I tell what I know? Who would ever believe me?

As he watched, his heart thumping, an eighth bird alighted next to the others.

Eight for heaven.

Please God, he moaned. Please, no more.

The inevitable.

Nine for hell.

Gordon leapt up into the cab of the tractor, and swung at the wheel. He needed to get away, right now. He grinded at the gears, and with a reproachful cry of protest, the Massy Furgusson - that dependable vehicle that his dad had bought for him on his fourteenth birthday - began to turn to the left. Out of the corner of his right eye, he saw the flock of magpies had taken to the wing and were flying directly at him. Some intuition made him count them - quickly - again.

Ten for the Devil, his own self.

They were going to hit. He took his hands off the wheel, instinctively throwing them up to protect his face. His eyes. From the beating wings, sharp beaks and vicious claws; and the mocking chac-chac-chac. The tractor hit the tree stump: the last remains of the old Gospel Oak that had once stood proud at the apex of the field. It teetered for a moment, unbalanced, and then came crashing down on its side. The last piercing scream of the boy, and the last protesting whine of the tractor, cut out together.

The magpies flew off. All was silent on the pinnacle of Withy Farm.

Prologue

It was Timmy Weston’s turn to knock on the door. He didn’t want to: but Sam insisted. When your best friend is three inches taller, twenty pounds heavier and dressed in a pirate costume that includes a sword that looks suspiciously realistic, it’s best not to argue. And Timmy didn’t want to appear churlish. After all, this might well be the last time he and his three friends went trick-or-treating. They were in Year 6: Sam had already turned eleven, and Elliot and Timmy weren’t far behind. By this time next year, they would be in Templeton High School: and, in all likelihood, dismissing these Halloween japes as beneath them. Why dress up as zombies, vampires, cut-throats and mummies when you could sit at home, play D&D, stuff yourself with as much pizza, coke and popcorn as you liked, and top it off by watching some violent slasher-horror than you’d persuaded your older brother to get for you from the DVD bargain basement bin at Dicky Jenkins, the town’s one and only supermarket? Well, that was the hope, though only Peter Pugh had a brother old enough to pull this stunt: and, unfortunately, Sean Pugh was currently rather more interested in pursuing girls that acceding to the artful demands, however carefully presented, of his younger brother and his nerdy friends.

But for now, it was cold, foggy and damp, and the four friends were standing at the bottom of the drive of Templeton Vicarage.

In the old black-and-white films, with their rather quaint takes on ‘horror’ that Timmy had actually seen, vicarages occasionally featured, alongside Gothic cathedrals in their gargoyled splendour, mist-enshrouded churchyards watched over by gravely-hooting owls, and draughty country churches filled with the sight of guttering candles and the sound of forbidding organ-tones. Set against all those tropes of ecclesiastical terror, Templeton Vicarage was disappointing, to say the least. An architect with a penchant for neoClassicism would perhaps have dismissed it as a hideous monstrosity: but to Timmy there was nothing the least bit monstrous about it - if only! He wouldn’t even have called it ugly. It was just boring. A fair bit bigger, admittedly, than the pokey council estate house he shared with his mother and two sisters: but otherwise, remarkably similar. He decided to make one last attempt to get out of knocking at this particular residence.

‘I was the one who banged on Vicar Ed’s door last year,’ complained Timmy. ‘Why does it have to be me again?’

‘Cos it’s your turn,’ said Sam. ‘This is the eighth one we’ve done tonight. The rest of us have knocked on two doors each: you’ve only done one. Don’t matter if you knocked it last year. It’s your turn now. Besides,’ he smirked, ‘You like Vicar Ed, don’t you? You’re one of his choir boys, ain’t you?’ He started laughing, and Elliot and Peter joined in.

Timmy’s face flushed, and started to resemble the large pumpkin glowing on the Vicarage doorstep. Quite an accomplishment, considering the skin lightening cream he’d applied to his face to make his vampire costume look more convincing.

‘Piss off!’

He was the only one of the four boys to attend church. He’d actually been thinking about quitting the choir for some time. Nothing to do with anything untoward on the part of Vicar Ed, as Sam was hinting at. He was okay: even if he tried a bit too hard to ‘get with it’ (as he would say). Far too many ‘embarrassing Dad jokes’: not that Timmy had much idea of what a non-embarrassing Dad, or any kind of father, would actually be like. The only really creepy guy in church was Ernie Hutton. There was definitely something odd about him, and the way he sat in the choir stalls, wearing his creased, perpetually-lopsided surplice, with a dreamy, faraway expression on his face throughout the service. He used to wander around the town late at night: owl-watching, he would say. Peeping-Ernie, more like. No: the reason Timmy wanted to leave was the fact that choir-practice was held on a Thursday, at 5 o’clock. This suited the choirmaster and organist, Mr Meeks, perfectly. It did not suit Timmy. Not now that a new series of Byker Grove was back on television, every Tuesday and Thursday, at precisely that time. It was intolerable.

‘So - you going to do it, shithead? Or what?’ asked Elliot. He tried to look threatening, but without much success. That was Elliot Halliday all over: always talking tough, swearing liberally, trying to show himself as capable and as devil-may-care as Sam Wentworth - yet somehow, always failing. Take his zombie costume, for instance. He had tried to make it as gruesome in appearance as possible: ripped shirt and jeans, fake blood aplenty, carefully-applied makeup suggestive of scarring and rotting flesh. Yet he’d spent most of their evening out thus far complaining about his broken-down trainers, that he’d deliberately wrecked for the occasion, only to find them ridiculously impractical to wear, especially in the rain. That was Elliot in a nutshell.

It was nowhere near as absurd as Peter’s. Poor Peter’s choices were always very poor. Last year he had decided to dress up as a ghost: but he had put the eye-holes in the wrong place, meaning that the back of him was insufficiently covered up, whilst his feet kept tripping up over the dangling front side of the sheet. It never seemed to occur to him to make a new pair of eye-holes. This year’s selection had been worse still. He’d wound himself meticulously in reams and reams of toilet paper, carefully tied together around his ankles, abdomen and forearms. Three minutes of contact with even the light on-off mizzly rain that evening had been sufficient to reduce his costume to an unwearable mulch. He’d discarded it in stages, until only a single sodden sash was left around his waist. It wasn’t just that he was the youngest of them, by a good six months. No, there was something not quite there about Peter. God knows how he was going to survive High School.

‘Course I am,’ scowled Timmy. ‘Just saying - that’s all. Right. Here goes.’ He marched straight up to the door. The beckoning pumpkin gave assurance to Halloween callers that they would be welcome. That wasn’t the case everywhere, of course. Many of the older folk in Templeton would complain bitterly about these ‘unwanted American customs’ creeping in. The kind of women who would never kit out their younger children in new clothes if ready-made hand-me-downs were available from older siblings. And the same kind of men who objected to buying their wives a Valentines card. Or flowers for the mantelpiece, come to that. Mean-spirited, penny-pinching. There were plenty of that sort in Templeton.

Some of the very worst were the religious types, of course. Especially with Halloween. ‘Revelling in the works of the Devil, that is!’ they would cry. Vicar Ed would have none of it.

‘There’s no point getting worked up about kids-play,’ he had said in a sermon earlier that year about Beltane, and the revelries of the May. ‘Leaping at every shadow - that’s superstitious nonsense in itself. Templeton is not Summerisle, and we have no fear of Wicker Men here - only foolish minds, and limited imaginations.’

Timmy had asked Sam afterwards what a Wicker Man was. ‘A cool horror film,’ was his reply.

Regardless of the disapproval of his parishioners, on every Halloween Vicar Ed would be waiting behind the front door, with a bucket full of sweets. Sometimes his wife Sarah would be there too, chiding him about the perils of rotting teeth, and gorged stomachs. ‘One handful is quite enough!’ she would say sternly, whilst her husband would chuckle, shaking his head, looking for all the world like a misplaced Santa: dressed from head to toe in black (not scarlet) with a bushy beard that was tinged with only the slightest hint of white.

‘Nonsense, woman,’ he would bellow. ‘There’s plenty more where they came from.’ And then he would start asking the children after the health of their parents, and what their brothers or sisters were up to, and did they have anything else planned for the half-term holiday, and had Great-aunt Mabel had her hip operation yet. Whoever rang the doorbell would get the fiercest interrogation, of course: that was the real reason why Timmy had wanted to avoid the embarrassment of being in pole position for the over-enthusiastic cleric. And always he would end by saying: ‘All Saint’s Day, tomorrow. Our patronal festival. There’s a service in the evening. Hope to see you there. Happy Halloween!’ This was always celebrated with extra ceremony. Timmy knew this because last week’s choir practice had been especially long. Mr Meeks had been trying out a new, and rather difficult anthem, with results that could not, in all charity, be described as anything other than ‘mixed’. Timmy was dreading the next day. At least his friends would not be there to witness another disastrous patronal festival - the third since Timmy had joined the choir.

Curious. There was no answer at the front door. Timmy reached up and rang the doorbell again. Still, nothing.

‘Why don’t they answer?’ asked Peter.

‘Perhaps they’re hiding,’ said Elliot. ‘Pretending they’re not at home.’

‘Then why are all the lights on?’ reasoned Timmy. ‘Anyway, Vicar Ed wouldn’t do that. He likes Halloween - even if most of the Church people don’t.’

Elliot shrugged his shoulders. ‘Whatever. Fuck it. They’re not answering, so it’s got to be a trick.’ He turned to their leader. ‘You got the eggs and flour, Sam?’ He pointed at the backpack flung over the eldest boy’s shoulder.

‘No,’ declared Sam firmly. ‘Timmy’s right. This ain’t like the Vicar. And even if he’s out, what about his wife? Anyway, their car’s still here. Look!’

Without warning, a piercing scream filled the air. The boys froze momentarily in alarm, then looked at one another in turn, wide-eyed. Sam’s right hand instinctively went to the hilt of his sword, and half drew it from its sheath.

‘What the f–?’ cried Elliot; but before he could finish, a second scream rang out, even louder than the first. It was clear now where the shrieks were coming from. Across the road, from the Vicarage, was All Saint’s Church. But even against the backdrop of the now steadily-increasing patter of raindrops, the boys could tell that those harrowing sounds had come not from the Church, from the graveyard that surrounded it.

‘Come on!’ shouted Sam. ‘We gotta help whoever’s in trouble.’ Without even looking to see if the others were following, he charged across the road, drawing his cutlass as he did so. Impetuous, foolhardy, yes - but utterly fearless too - that was Sam Wentworth. That was why he was Timmy’s best friend. Why he - he gulped as the thought entered his head, unbidden - why he loved him. Though Sam would laugh at him, and call him a poofter if he had ever said as much, in so many words. Where Sam led, Timmy would always follow. He hurried across the road, trying to catch up to the older boy. Elliot followed just behind, cursing as he did so, limping along in his ill-considered footwear. Bringing up the rear, only following out of fear of being left alone, came Peter.

By the time Timmy caught up with Sam, he was standing by the notice board advertising the next day’s patronal festival service. The boy had sheathed his sword - for despite appearances, it really was just a bit of plastic, and of little practical use in an emergency. Instead he had fished a torch out of his backpack, and was shining it first down the church path, then across to the right where the garden of remembrance filled with cremated remains lay: then finally to the left, scanning the oldest part of the graveyard, filled with leaning lichen-encrusted graves with barely-decipherable lettering, overgrown with weeds, and tangled thickets of ivy, brambles, and unkempt shrubbery. Also scattered around this part of the graveyard were a number of gnarled old trees: elders and oaks, rowans and hawthorns, an enormous and venerable yew tree. And then there was the great horse chestnut tree, which only a few weeks ago Timmy and his friends had been foraging beneath, searching for the best conkers for their schoolyard contests.

Under the spreading chestnut tree

I sold you and you sold me

There lie they, and here lie we

Under the spreading chestnut tree

It wasn’t anything that might have been lying in the decaying litter of autumn leaves beneath the chestnut tree that was held now in the shaky spotlight of Sam Wentworth’s torch: nor was it the figure of the sobbing woman standing nearby. The boys stood and looked, in disbelief, at the nightmarish sight before them. This was no video nasty, though Timmy. This was real.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the last bit of Peter’s mummy outfit finally come adrift, and fall to the ground. He fancied - though he was probably imagining it - that he could hear the soft sound of the trickle of urine as poor Peter Pugh pissed his pants. He could certainly hear the voice of Elliot whispering, under his breath: ‘No, fuck - no, fuck - no…’ repeating that same pointless phrase, over and over again. And then Timothy Weston felt the strong, strangely father-like - or what he imagined a father would feel like - grip of his wisest of friends: resting his right arm across his shoulder, reassuringly, whilst with his outstretched left arm, now no longer trembling, he held his torch steady. The focus of its light remained firmly fixed upon that which was hanging by a thick rope from one of the outspread arms of that chestnut tree.

There, suspended from one of the thickest and firmest boughs, no doubt specially selected for this task, was the lifeless body of the Revd Edgar Dyson, Vicar of Templeton with Morrington with Llanfihangel Gilfach.

Part One: Draco Dormiens

I: May 8th (Julian of Norwich)

The towering horse chestnut trees on either side of the approach to Selsey Tower (the grandly-named home for nearly a century to successive bishops of the mid-Wales Diocese of Pengwen) were only just beginning to come into flower, Father Georgios Anagnosides observed, as he sauntered down the driveway towards where his conspicuous canary yellow Citroen 2CV was parked. Their flowering was running perhaps two weeks behind their counterparts in Exeter. It was a chilly afternoon in the second week of May, and the young priest could barely feel the enfeebled rays of the subdued sun on his face.

Standing by the driver’s door of his car, he looked back towards the unprepossessing red brick mansion that doubled as bishop’s residence and diocesan office: and smiling with about as much conviction as he could muster, he waved at the balding middle-aged figure in purple cassock and cincture standing on the doorstep. The man who had just offered him a lifeline, and a living, on the Anglo-Welsh border. He watched as Bishop Mervyn Mortlake turned around, and re-entered the building. Only once his prune-faced inquisitor had finally disappeared from sight, did Georgios draw the packet of cigarettes from the inside pocket of his jacket. He’d been trying to give them up for the past two years: but today was not a day on which he was likely to make any headway with that ambition. Already, he was beginning to wonder if he had made the right decision.

***

‘Anagnosides. That’s rather a curious surname, if I might say so. Greek, I presume?’

‘Yes, Bishop. My grandparents came over to Britain, when my father was in his teens, during the Greek Civil War, back in 1947. We still have family in Cephalonia.’

Bishop Mervyn nodded sagely. ‘I see. Anagnosis as in “agnostic”? An ironic name for a priest.’

Georgios smiled. ‘Not quite. Anagnosis actually means “recognition” or “reading”, with particular reference to a public reading of scripture, in a church or synagogue. It can also carry the sense of “knowing again” or “owning.” To read something, again and again, is to know something more deeply, to own it, to allow it to become part of you. Rather like the Lectio Divina method of studying scripture, meditating and praying. The very opposite of agnosticism, in point of fact.’

‘Well - my grasp of Greek is a little rusty,’ replied the bishop, frowning. ‘But you should know, I suppose, given your ancestry.’ Georgios suspected that the man interviewing him was not someone who liked to be contradicted.

‘So,’ continued the bishop, glancing down at the file lying open across his desk, ‘a First in history from St Ignatius College Oxford, then a doctorate. The offer of a fellowship follows, the start of what might have been a glittering academic career. But instead you turn it down, and elect to train for the priesthood, exchanging Oxford for Cambridge. Always a poor move, in my opinion, swapping the elder for the younger institution. I stayed in Oxford, and trained at St Simeon’s House. Why the change in direction? Not the universities - I mean the change in vocation.’

‘The death of my mother in a traffic accident had a lot to do with it.’

‘Ah, you found God in the midst of your grief?’

Georgios shook his head, conscious he was contradicting the prickly bishop for a second time. ‘No - I lost my faith. But I decided to give God a second chance. I went to Westcott House to study theology in the full expectation of having my doubts confirmed. If God could demonstrate his existence to me, to my satisfaction, then I’d resolve to serve him. If not - we’d go our separate ways. God won.’

Bishop Mervyn snorted. ‘Extraordinary. I’m surprised, with that attitude, any Warden of Ordinands would have supported your application. If you’d been in my Diocese - frankly, I certainly wouldn’t have accepted you for training.’

Silence. The bishop looked across his desk sternly, as if expecting - daring - Georgios to respond. But the young priest remained still, and met the bishop’s gaze impassively. Georgios sensed that the future course of the interview - and its ultimate outcome - was now hanging by a thread. He also knew that there must be no third contradiction of the bishop for the duration of their time together. But nevertheless, he stayed calm.

A full minute passed, with the steely-eyed bishop regarding him severely, fingering his pectoral cross all the while. Then, the purple-clad prelate lowered his gaze, seemingly returning to regard the documents laid before him. Georgios thought he saw the ghost of a smile fleeting across his face, before the lugubrious mask reformed.

‘Hmm. An excellent report from Unwin Hall, Cambridge, and an even more glowing one from your training incumbent. A challenging parish, that one, in Leicester. I served in the Diocese of Leicester myself, once upon a time, you know. Very multicultural. Lots of Poles, Irish - and, of course, Asians in abundance now, thanks to Idi Amin. Somalis too, over the last decade. Thirty percent of the city’s now non-White. Twice that percentage, actually, in the parish where you were placed. Well you’ll find Templeton very different, I’m afraid. But perhaps a country ministry will provide a welcome opportunity for you. It’ll be better than your past year’s experience, for certain. I understand you’ve not been enjoying your time as a university chaplain, yes?’

‘Correct, Bishop. Regrettably, I don’t think I’ve turned out to be suitable for my current appointment.’

‘That’s an understatement. I believe you’ve been asked to leave at the end of this academic year. Not - I’ve been assured - because of any scandals. You wouldn’t be sitting in front of me now if that had been the case. No, there’s simply been an acknowledgment all round that you’re something of a square peg in a round hole there.’

‘Precisely.’ And if you could see how appalling the attitudes are of these entitled upper-middle-class students that still make up far too large a percentage of the intake at Exeter, with their faux ‘Cool Britannia’ affectations, you’d feel like a square peg too. In some ways, it’s even worse there than it was in Oxford and Cambridge. What did the Church have to say, at the dawn of the new Millennium, to such as these? Far better for it to be engaged in radical social action in the challenging and changing suburbs of a city such as Leicester. At least I felt purposeful as a curate in Leicester. Would I feel the same way about mid-Wales, I wonder?

Georgios had allowed himself to become distracted. What was the bishop saying now?

‘Well, fortunately for you, we’re almost as desperate to find someone for the Templeton group as you are to find somewhere else to go after your minor debacle in Devonshire. The parishes have been vacant for over six months now, and my attempts to find someone from within the Diocese to take them on have been utterly unsuccessful. We’ve advertised twice in the Church Times. You are the only interested applicant, it seems. You’ve read the parish group profile, I take it? You’re fully aware of the nature of the previous Vicar’s untimely death?’

Georgios nodded. ‘Yes, I am.’

‘Good. They’ve had a torrid time of it lately. Morrington and Llanfihangel Gilfach were a separate incumbency until April last year. The Revd Huw Davies-Jones had been their Rector since 1990. A most unsuitable appointment, made by my predecessor, I’m afraid. He was one of those dreadful evangelicals, without the least bit of proper priestly formation. He trained at Alderdale Theological College - so what do you expect? Not a clue about Gregorian chant - but give him a guitar - hmm... Unfortunately, he didn’t stick to his guitar. He had an affair with his daughter’s piano teacher. Resigned his living in August 1999. He’s a taxi driver somewhere in the West Midlands now, I hear. I couldn’t find a replacement for him, so after consulting with the Senior Staff I suspended the parishes, then amalgamated them with Templeton next door. Edgar Dyson had been there since 1987. Well-liked, solid pastoral work, nothing too extreme in terms of churchmanship. He was a safe pair of hands.’ The bishop sighed. ‘Emphasis, alas, on the was.’

‘I’ve read the news reports following the inquest,’ said Georgios. ‘There seems little doubt, then, that he took his own life?’

‘No doubt whatsoever. As clear a case of suicide as you could ask for. What remains completely unclear is why he did it. There were no indications of anxiety or depression beforehand. Professionally, he was doing a good job with the new parish grouping. His personal life was untroubled. His poor wife was the one who found his body - alongside some young boys, I gather. Poor things.’ The bishop paused, reflective for a moment. Then, shaking his head, he continued. ‘Anyway, it’s been a major headache for me. This Foot and Mouth business has made it even worse, of course.’

Georgios nodded. The one thing that had made him hesitant about responding to the advertisement in the Church Times was the knowledge that since February the UK had been going through its biggest farming crisis in a generation. Was this really the best time to be seeking a country living?

‘Have there been any local outbreaks in the Templeton district?’

Bishop Mervyn shook his head. ‘No, the nearest was twenty miles away, so none of the local farmers have had to slaughter their herds and flocks. But they have still suffered because of the ban on animal movement, and the closure of the livestock markets. And then there’s been the impact upon tourism. It’s been a trying time for us all: and Templeton’s lack of a parish priest throughout this period has been most unfortunate. The Rural Dean has tried his best to keep the show on the road - you’ll meet him, of course, soon enough, should you accept the appointment. Then there’s the curate - Benedict Wishart - I take it you’d have no problem working alongside someone who’s - err - in a relationship?’

Should you accept the appointment…

Trying to conceal his excitement at this tacit admission that the post was practically his, Georgios asked: ‘Relationship, Bishop? Could you clarify that for me, please?’

‘Hmm.’ Bishop Mervyn Mortlake pursed his lips, and placed his hands together, as if in an attitude of prayer. ‘Fr Wishart is a homosexual. He has entered into a personal relationship with another man. They live together in the Old Rectory in Morrington. Not the one that Davies-Jones was living in - that’s been sold off by the Parsonage Board now. No - they’re living in the old Victorian Rectory. Rather fine, as I recall. Anyway, Fr Wishart assures me that he is celibate. Unlike in England - where they’re tying themselves in all sorts of knots - here in Wales the bishops have a little more discretion about appointments in these circumstances. Anyway, he’s only an unpaid curate - not a stipendiary incumbent - so one can afford to be a little more accommodating. It’s up to you what use you make of him of course, but you’ll probably be grateful for the extra help.’

‘Are the parishes aware of his circumstances? And if so, are they accepting?’

‘Well, there’s been some difficulty,’ said the bishop, evasively. ‘But nothing you shouldn’t be able to handle. Any problems, speak to the Rural Dean or, if absolutely necessary, the Archdeacon.’

And not you, you mean, thought Georgios. Typical.

‘Which reminds me,’ continued the bishop. ‘You appear to be an unmarried man. Is there anyone - significant - in your life, at present?’

Only the bloody Church could get away with such an unsubtle prurient line of questioning these days. He’s not really interested in whether or not I’m married. He just wants to know if I’m gay.

Sadly, my fiancée and I split up last month,’ responded Georgios. ‘She wasn’t sure, in the end, that she could see herself married to a clergyman.’ A bit more complicated than that - but it was true, up to a point. ‘We both agreed that it was for the best. So no - I’m single.’ The priest had sensed the strong sense of relief emanating from Bishop Mervyn the moment he had said the word fiancée.

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said the bishop, insincerely. He glanced at his watch. ‘Well, I have another meeting shortly. When can you start?’

‘So you’re offering me the position?’ asked Georgios, cautiously.

‘Of course!’ declared the Bishop of Pengwen imperiously. ‘Should have thought that was obvious. Do you accept?’

***

Naturally, he’d said yes. He’d had several unsuccessful interviews elsewhere. This was as good an offer as he was likely to get. It brought him nearer to home, and his beloved grandmother: sprightly though she was for her age, Georgios was acutely aware that at 92 she was in the final autumnal years of her life. The mid-Wales countryside was gloriously beautiful, and he wouldn’t miss Exeter itself one bit. As for Caroline - it would be good to put a bit of distance between them. He’d miss her, Annabelle too: but life was too short for regrets. Time to move on.

Georgios took a final drag of his cigarette, and almost threw it out of the window: but given he was still within the grounds of Selsey Tower, thought better of it. Instead, he stubbed it out beneath his left foot, and turned the key in the ignition with his right hand. Momentarily he considered whether he should travel back to Exeter via Templeton, but then dismissed the idea. He’d already paid a brief visit to the place that morning (making sure his coat was buttoned up to hide his clerical collar), but calling in for a second time on the same day was asking for trouble: he knew he had to keep his appointment strictly under wraps for a few weeks yet. Besides, it would mean adding perhaps three-quarters of an hour to an already three hours long journey, and he had tickets to a Monteverdi concert that evening that he didn’t want to miss.

Tickets, he thought. Only one will be needed, now that Caroline is no longer a central part of my life. Ah well. Perhaps I should trust in the words of Mother Julian of Norwich, given that it’s her feast-day today: All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.

Let’s go home.

***

Bishop Mervyn Mortlake stood at the window of his study, once again fingering his pectoral cross contemplatively, as he watched the yellow 2CV drive off. As soon as it had driven out of the gates, he walked across the room to a side table, upon which there was a whiskey decanter and a telephone. He lifted the jewelled silver cross on its silver chain over his head, and put it down on the table. He poured himself a large glass of whisky, then picked up the telephone receiver from its cradle, and dialled a number, muttering something under his breath as he did so. A few seconds later, a voice from the other end answered:

‘Hello?’

‘It’s Bishop Mervyn here. Your new Vicar has just left my office. I had to make a show of it - as if he really was being interviewed - I didn’t want to make it look too obvious. But he’s just what we need. He’s inexperienced, knows nothing about our ways. He won’t get in the way, like Dyson did.’ He took a sip from his whisky, then chuckled. ‘So spread the word: I’m sure you’ll all find the appointment most satisfactory. Oh - one other matter. The medical report on Bishop Bryson: it’s just as we expected. He’s having more tests, treatments, and so forth. But I think we can start planning the next phase. Draco praevalebit.’

II: June 11th (St Barnabas the Apostle)

At sixty-seven years old, the Right Revd Bryson Maxwell-Lewis, Bishop of Abertawe, was the oldest bishop currently serving within the Church of Wales. None of his fellow bishops, he believed, had any awareness as yet of just how seriously ill he was: but following his most recent consultation with the specialist who was treating his bone cancer, he himself knew that the prognosis was grave.

‘Nine months, most likely, Bishop,’ he had been told, ‘twelve, thirteen months or so at the most. I’m sorry, there’s little more we can do.’

Bishop Bryson looked at himself in the mirror, and frowned. His facial features had grown increasingly cadaverous of late, and the collar of his clerical shirts were loose and ill-fitting. It really was a wonder none of his colleagues had noticed the decline in his appearance. Then again, perhaps they had noticed, but were too polite to enquire.

Well, even if that’s the case - it’s time I spoke to the Archbishop. Give him a bit of warning. And I owe it to Edith, to make sure we have a bit of a retirement, however short.

There was a knock at the door. Bishop Bryson turned, and saw that his personal secretary was standing in the doorway of his study. She was as white as a sheet.

‘Yes, Sybil, what is it?’

‘It’s about Archbishop Geraint. Bishop, there’s been the most dreadful news.’

***

Twenty minutes later, the Bishop of Abertawe was still struggling with a difficult and entirely unanticipated telephone conversation with the Secretary-General, the chief administrative officer of the Church of Wales.

‘Donald, I know you don’t like it - I can assure you I like it even less - but the medical facts of the matter are incontrovertible. My doctors give me no more than a year. I may be the ‘senior bishop’ now, but I won’t let my name go forward to the Electoral Conclave.’

There was a long pause before the Secretary-General replied. Eventually, Sir Donald Brodie, his Scottish Lowland burr still discernible despite forty years living in Wales, said: ‘I fully understand, Bryson. It’s all incredibly unfortunate, and I do sympathise, with both you and Edith. The timing really is dreadful, with the debate about women bishops facing us at the next meeting of the Provincial Synod, come November. If you won’t take on the mantle of caretaker Archbishop for two or three years - if you’re certain your health is that precarious–’

‘Terminal, Donald. Much more than merely precarious.’

‘I’m sorry. I don’t mean to sound tactless. But neither did we expect to lose Geraint like this. He’d probably have given us another five, maybe six more years, of service. Instead of which - if you won’t stand, it means a terrible tussle between the evangelical and the catholic wings - with Rhydian and Ambrose fighting it out. It could be very unpleasant.’

‘There is another possibility…’ mused Bishop Bryson.

‘You don’t mean Mervyn, surely?’ gasped Sir Donald. ‘He’s not exactly the most popular figure, is he?’

‘Precisely. Equally detested by both sides. The perfect compromise candidate, if the Conclave is split down the middle - which it will be. And Mervyn’s almost as old as me - he turns sixty-six in October, doesn’t he? Four years at most before he has to retire.’ Not that I will live to see it. ‘He can’t do too much damage in that time. And it’ll give one of the younger, more conciliatory bishops enough time to build their base, and establish their credentials - it doesn’t matter at this stage whether it’s Christopher or Tomos, does it? Either of them would do a better job at keeping the Church united than Rhydian or Ambrose. But it’s a bit too soon for the Young Turks, agreed?’

‘Agreed. It’s a shame we can’t pull the women bishops’ debate, though.’

‘We can’t. It was a cause dear to our late Archbishop’s heart. I’m still very unsure which way it will go, but we can’t bury it, just because we now have to bury its most ardent advocate.’

‘Yes, well thank you for your time, Bryson. It’s a great pity you didn’t become Archbishop five years ago, at the last election. You’ll go down as one of the best Archbishops we never had.’

‘Pish. That’s nonsense, and well you know it. Geraint Morgan has been the kindest, most inspirational leader we’ve had in half a century. The loss we face is quite profound. To lose him today, on the Feast of St Barnabas the Apostle, whose name means “Son of Encouragement,” is a cruel irony.’ There was real emotion in the bishop’s usual calm and authoritative voice.

‘Och, I know you’ve lost one of your closest friends. Listen, I must go. I have to check the official press release. And then start to make arrangements for the Electoral Conclave. I just hope you’re right about Mervyn Mortlake. Bye, Bishop.’ There was a click, and the line went dead.

So do I, thought Bryson Maxwell-Lewis. Good God, so do I.

III: September 2nd (12th Sunday after Trinity)

‘You’ll regret it, you know, Georgie - mark my words.’ Annabelle Hadley pursed her lips, and frowned. ‘I had to look it up, you know. Templeton. I’d never heard of it. Talk about a pimple on the arse-end of nowhere!’

Georgios smiled. Annabelle had been one of the few friends he’d made during his unfortunate spell as a university chaplain. He’d miss her.

‘Oh, it’s not that remote, Annabelle. Population: 4,000, with both a primary and secondary school, a cottage hospital and a public library, three banks, a cattle market (temporarily closed thanks to Foot and Mouth), a train station and a hotel, seven pubs, two post offices, a petrol station and a supermarket. And there’ll be three churches to look after. Plenty enough to keep me occupied, I should think.’

‘Pooh. You’ll be bored stiff within a fortnight. I know you’re Welsh - “We’ll keep a welcome in the hillside,” and all that blather - but, even so, are you quite certain this is what you want?’

Georgios ran his forefinger clockwise around the rim of his coffee mug, three times, before looking up at Annabelle. He knew - behind the bombast - she was worried about him, and that like a dog worrying away at a bone she wasn’t likely to let up. At least, not until she had received an answer that satisfied her.

‘You know I can’t stay in Exeter. The university has made that quite clear. And, with all that’s happened with Caroline–’

‘The little bitch.’ Annabelle paused. ‘Sorry, but she is.’

Georgios smiled ruefully. ‘That’s not a very nice way to talk about your younger sister.’ You were the one who introduced me to her, after all. ‘Anyway,’ (he continued, before Annabelle could respond) ‘the remoteness is what I need right now. I need time, and space, to think - and to decide whether or not I’m really meant to be a priest. Hopefully, Templeton can give me all that. And it’s not really Wales, Annabelle. It’s right on the border - and the folk there are neither one thing nor another.’

‘Inbred, most likely,’ snorted Annabelle. She turned her head, and gazed out of her kitchen window, though the streaks of rain running down the windowpane obscured the view of the unremarkable suburban cul de sac where she lived. Georgios fancied there was a glistening in her eye. She rubbed away at it angrily, and sniffed. There was a long pause.

All that might have been - if it had been Annabelle and I, and not Caroline. Life’s bitter regrets: perhaps time will wash them away. Like tears in the rain. For all our sakes, it’s best that I go.

‘When do you leave?’ asked Annabelle suddenly.

The removal firm arrives the day after tomorrow. Three days to pack, move, unpack. I’ll be firmly ensconced in Templeton Vicarage by the end of the week. The induction isn’t for another two weeks after that. September 21st. The feast of St Matthew the Apostle.’

‘My patron saint, isn’t he?’ laughed Annabelle. ‘Wasn’t he a tax collector?’

‘Yes. Patron saint of accountants, bankers and, of course, tax collectors, like you.’

‘Ex-tax collector, remember. I don’t work for the Inland Revenue anymore.’

‘Once a taxman, always a taxman,’ teased Georgios.

‘I thought,’ responded Annabelle, ‘that’s what they say about priests. You shouldn’t doubt yourself, Georgie. I know you’re struggling with it right now - but you are a good priest. There’s no question about it. If going to Templeton is what you need, to make you realise that - then so be it.’

Georgios said: ‘It is. Bishop Mervyn may be a dry old stick, but he’s given me the chance for a fresh start. It’s the right move.’

‘Bishop Mervyn? I thought he was Archbishop now?’

‘No, not yet. The Electoral Conclave has appointed him, certainly, but it needs to be confirmed by the Sacred Synod in Llanmadoc Wells on the 14th. Though that’s very much a rubber stamping exercise. And then there’s the enthronement - sometime next month, I think.’ It’s so tragic, thought Georgios, Archbishop Geraint dying in that horrible car crash.

‘Didn’t his predecessor die in some road accident?’ asked Annabelle, as if reading his mind.

‘Yes. He was reputed to be a somewhat reckless driver, I understand. Quite a few speeding tickets, too, over the years. A real shock: he was much loved throughout the Church of Wales. I only ever met him twice - but he was a gentle, kindly old soul, even if he was a bit of a terror behind the wheel. Requiescat in pace.’ The young priest crossed himself.

‘Et surgat in gloria,’ responded Annabelle. She looked at Georgios’ surprised face, and giggled. ‘You’ve forgotten, haven’t you? About our Catholic upbringing? Not that Caroline likes to talk about it. But I’m sure I’ve mentioned it before.’

‘Yes. Once or twice.’ Georgios glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. ‘I really should make a move. It’s getting late, and I need to be up early tomorrow. My contract was terminated last Friday, at the end of the month: but I need to go into the university to tie up some final lose ends.’

‘You could stay the night,’ said Annabelle. Her face was flushed. ‘If you wanted to.’

Didn’t see that coming. Damn and blast it. What the hell do I say now?

‘I thought,’ said Georgios slowly, ‘that you believed me to be a good priest. I think we both know that wouldn’t be a great idea.’

‘No. I guess not. I–I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.’ Then louder, ‘God, I really shouldn’t have said that!’

‘It’s okay,’ he reassured her, ‘Please - it’s okay. I understand - truly. But…’ he stopped. Putting his coffee mug firmly down on the kitchen table, he pushed back his chair, and stood up. ‘I really should go. Thanks for the coffee. Thanks - for everything.’ He wanted to kiss her. Instead, he offered her his hand.

She couldn’t look at him. She took his hand, and shook it, limply. ‘Goodbye, Georgios.’ She never called him that. ‘Forgive me…’ she shuddered. ‘Forgive me being so stupid. Bad girl. How many Hail Marys will that earn me when I next go to confession?’

He smiled: ‘Ego te absolvo, Annabelle. I’ll be in touch. Think of me - on St Matthew’s Day.’

She said nothing further. He slipped on his coat, turned away and stepped out into the rain.

IV: September 7th

The driver of the removal van tooted his horn, and Georgios smiled and waved goodbye. Then he closed the front door of Templeton Vicarage, shut his eyes momentarily and breathed an enormous sigh of relief. Well, it’s taken all afternoon to get everything unloaded: but, at last, I’m in.

He turned, and walked from the hallway into the study. A large mahogany desk beneath the study window, and two gun grey filing cabinets on either side, took up most of the wall opposite the doorway. Empty shelves lined the two walls running parallel to the desk: in the middle of the room, twenty boxes or more were neatly stacked. The process of transferring the contents of those boxes to the study’s shelves would take him a couple of days. Why do clergy always seem to have so many books? The thought was deeply depressing to him. And then there was the rest of the house…where to begin?

The kitchen: that’s where. The kettle had been the last item to be packed away in Exeter, and first to be unpacked here. A cup of Earl Grey would be just the thing - provided he could quickly locate which box contained the contents of his pantry.

Next to where the kettle was already plugged in, he knew there was a large lemon drizzle cake, with a note next to it saying: Welcome to Templeton. He had found it there this morning when he and the removal men had arrived. He hadn’t had time to consider it in the hours since: but now, he thought to himself, it would go down well with a cup of tea. Of course, as well as the Earl Grey, he’d also need to find the cups and saucers, and the side plates too.

There was a sharp rat-tat-tat at the front door. Georgios frowned: couldn’t he have even a few moments of peace? He crossed the hallway and opened the door.

Facing him was a stout ruddy-cheeked individual in his seventies with a weather-beaten face and an untidy thatch of straw-coloured hair. He was wearing, over a creased linen shirt, a disreputable-looking gilet that had clearly seen better days. His threadbare green corduroys and scuffed mud-splattered Doc Martens were further testament to this gentleman’s casual attitude with regard to his physical appearance. But there was a twinkle in his visitor’s striking pale-blue eyes that Georgios found compelling.

‘Begging your pardon, but you’re our new Vicar, Fr Georgios’ - he made it sound more like ‘gorgeous’, but never mind - ‘aren’t you?’

‘Yes, I am, Mr–?’

‘Meeks. Bernard Meeks. Choirmaster and principal organist at All Saints Church. Sorry to bang on the door, but the bell hasn’t been working for a while, you see. Not since your predecessor - well, I have told the churchwardens, but they’re being very tardy about it.’ He paused, and took in a deep breath. ‘Very pleased to meet you, Vicar.’

Georgios offered his hand. ‘Please, call me Georgios.’

Mr Meeks clasped Georgios’ outstretched hand in both of his boney, deep-veined hands, and shook vigorously, chuckling as he did so. ‘No, no, I can’t call you that. Vicar Anag–Anag–you know, Vicar will do just fine. Now - I know the induction service isn’t for another two weeks - and you’ll want time to settle in - but I imagine it’s as much as you can do to find the kettle, right now, isn’t it?’

‘Well–’ began the young priest.

‘I knew it, I knew it,’ said Mr Meeks, beaming. ‘I said as much to Mrs Meeks. “He’ll be wanting a cup of tea,” I said to her. We only live round the corner. Why don’t you come along? I saw the van driving off five minutes ago. Rest easy after all that travelling, and upheaval - unpacking can wait. And then after a cuppa, perhaps I can show you round the church, yes?’

Georgios laughed. ‘You’re very persuasive, Mr Meeks.’

‘Call me Bernard. Right-o - just follow me.’ He turned and strode away, clearly expecting that Georgios would follow immediately behind.

Which he dutifully did.

***

An hour and a half later, feeling somewhat fortified after several cups of strong tea and a plateful of Welsh cakes and slices of bara brith in the Meeks’ kitchen, Georgios found himself walking with the choirmaster along the churchyard path of All Saints Church. Together they passed a noticeboard upon which, in spite of the fading light, Georgios was able to read the name of the unfortunate Revd Dr Edgar Dyson, still listed as Vicar of Tempeton. Mr Meeks noticed Georgios’ gaze, and shook his head, tut-tutting as he did so.

‘Terrible business. Poor Vicar Dyson. You know it was four boys who found him, hanging from that horse chestnut, o’er there?’ Meeks raised a hand, and pointed towards a forlorn-looking tree fifteen yards or so away.

‘Yes. Though I thought it was his wife who found him?’

‘Well, yes,’ Meeks rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘I suppose it was Mrs Dyson, bless her, who found him first. But it’s those boys - who came along straight after - well, what a thing for them to see! Timmy Weston was one of them - he sings in the choir. Sang, I should say. We haven’t seen him in church since that day. Beautiful treble voice.’ Meeks paused again, then said: ‘They should have updated that noticeboard by now. We’ve known for several months of your appointment. I did tell the churchwardens: but they don’t listen to me, alas.’ He shook his head, then fished a large, ornate iron key from his pocket. ‘This will be yours, soon enough, come the induction: but for the moment, it’s in my keeping. There are only three copies. Mrs Meeks and I have another one; she’s our sacristan, as well as me being choirmaster, you see. The People’s Warden, Mrs Buxton, has the third.’

‘The Vicar’s Warden doesn’t have a copy, then?’ asked Georgios.

Meeks snorted. ‘Claude Kennard? He doesn’t come to church that often. Typical farmer. Lives ten miles out of town. No point in him having a key. He’d only lose it, anyway.’ He slipped the key into the lock, turned it and pushed at the heavy oak door.

‘Right then, Vicar. Let me show you around.’

Over the next half an hour, Georgios followed the older man around the church building, listening to him politely as he regaled him with various vignettes about past Vicars of Templeton, pointed out the more significant of the many marble monuments mounted on the austere granite walls and told him something of the history of the church’s foundation by the Knights Templar in the early 13th century.

‘That’s how Templeton got its name, you see,’ said Meeks. ‘For a time, this was the site of one of the most important Templar Houses in the Welsh Marches. Until the Order was dissolved. The church remained, though, as a parish church. There’s a lot of queer stories about the Templars - but I guess you know that already.’

Georgios nodded. ‘Yes. Mostly nonsense, of course. Hidden treasures, heretical beliefs, even diabolical religious rites. The last Grand Master, Jacques de Molay, was burnt at the stake by Philip IV of France, in 1314. Naturally, it was all politically motivated.’ He stopped before a set of three elaborately inscribed boards, halfway down the nave on the north-facing wall of the church. ‘What are these?’

‘Ah,’ said Bernard Meeks. ‘I thought you’d spot those. They’re the Roll of Vicars of Templeton. Your illustrious predecessors. We don’t know precisely how old the church is, of course. There was an archaeological survey in the 1920s which suggests that there was a small settlement here way back in the 8th century - an Anglo-Saxon outpost along Offa’s Dyke, perhaps: but we know very little about it, really. Not even its original name. Surprisingly, there’s no mention of the place in the Doomsday Book: the first solid written reference we have to Templeton dates from 1226, with the arrival of the Templars. And all the Templar records were later lost - probably deliberately destroyed. So the first parish priest we know of, after the Templar period, is a certain Thomas de Bullingdon, from 1328. But then, after him, we have a gap.’

Georgios nodded. ‘The Black Death. It arrived in England and Wales in the summer of 1348, the most fatal pandemic in human history. In some places whole villages were wiped out, fields went untilled, monasteries were laid waste, parish records were abandoned wholesale. The death toll amongst priests was probably even higher than the general population at large - and that was high enough.’ He peered at the list on the wall. ‘Richard Greene, 1427. That is quite a gap. But from then on, an almost uninterrupted record, it would seem - though with the usual disruption during the time of the Cromwellian Commonwealth. Then we have William Wilkes, 1662. And on into the 18th century…’ Georgios had reached the end of names on the first board. He looked across to the second board. ‘Hmm… longer incumbencies now: and signs of nepotism too. The dissolute Anglican church of the Georgian age. Edmund Tusker 1732. John Escott 1767, Vicar for 53 years, followed by Richard Escott 1820. His grandson, perhaps?’

‘Yes. And he was Vicar for almost as long as his grandfather, see: 48 years, until 1868. They had staying power, back then!’

‘Hmm. It’s interesting you say that,’ said Georgios, looking now at the final board in the series. ‘During the twentieth century, there’s a marked decline in the length of each incumbency. The average tenure seems to be five, maybe six years. Sometimes less.’

Odd that. I know Vicars tend to move on more frequently in modern times: they retire, too, rather than carrying on till they drop. But even so, my more recent predecessors really didn’t seem to hang around for long. I wonder why?

‘Until Vicar Dyson, God rest his soul,’ Meeks noted. ‘Eleven years: the longest-serving Vicar of Templeton of the twentieth century. Still just a blink in time compared to the long stretches of the Escotts, mind…’

Georgios was no longer listening to the choirmaster. He had noticed something quite unexpected about the Roll of Vicars.

‘Bernard, I didn’t realise Bishop Mervyn was a former Vicar of Templeton himself. Here: 1964 to 1966, it would seem. Mervyn Mortlake.’ Whyever didn’t he tell me?

‘But of course,’ said Mr Meeks, surprised. ‘The shortest tenure of the twentieth century. But there was nothing scandalous about his departure, though it was occasioned by a painful personal tragedy.’

‘Oh?’

‘His wife Lydia died in childbirth. Both she and the baby. Quite distressing. Vicar Mortlake was beside himself. It was his first living, after a spell as a curate - oh, dear me, where was it? - somewhere from off, across the border. The then Bishop of Pengwyn, Bishop Bannerman-Jones, felt it best for him to make a fresh start somewhere else. So off he went.’ Meeks looked at Georgios curiously. ‘I’m surprised Bishop Mortlake never spoke of it to you. When he interviewed you.’

‘No, he didn’t. I suppose it was a long time ago, and he was only here for a short time.’

‘Yes, indeed. Many of the current congregation wouldn’t remember him. It was well over thirty years ago, after all. But the older folk still speak of him, from time to time, and his beautiful wife. He never remarried. I have to say, though, we’re all rather delighted he’s become Archbishop. Delighted and proud.’

Archbishop-designate, still, as I keep reminding people... Georgios didn’t know why, but this unexpected discovery left him feeling very uneasy. Something’s not right. Why would the Bishop neglect to tell him something so obvious? Because it was something he felt to be unimportant, perhaps? Whatever the reason - it seems a startling omission.

‘You look a little tired, Vicar,’ said Bernard Meeks. He pinched the end of his nose thoughtfully. ‘I’d really like to show you the chancel and sanctuary - the frescoes by John Douglas really are superb. And then there’s the pipe organ - a very fine instrument indeed. But perhaps another time?’

‘Yes, Bernard,’ said Georgios, distracted. ‘Another time.’

***

The red light was flashing on Georgios Anagnosides’ newly installed answer machine as he returned to the gathering gloom within his new home. He groped for the unfamiliar hall light switch, they pressed PLAY on the answer machine and listened to the recording.

‘YOU HAVE FOUR NEW MESSAGES…’

FOUR? Good grief… He fumbled within the top drawer of the bureau upon which the telephone was perched, and found a pencil and pad of paper, just as the messages began to be relayed.

First, a warm, if slightly imperious-sounding female voice: ‘Good afternoon, Vicar. Belinda Buxton here. I do so hope you enjoyed the cake that I left for you in the kitchen. On behalf of the parishes, I do hope you’ll settle into your new home soon. We hope your stay with us will be a long, and happy one. Doubtless you’ll want to meet up with myself and Claude, the Vicar’s Warden at All Saints, sometime in the coming few days? Anyway, I’ll call again soon. Once again, welcome.’

After a beep, came the second message, delivered in a refined, somewhat fruity voice: ‘Good evening, Fr Anagosides: this is Fr Benedict Wishart. I’m sure Bishop Mervyn will have mentioned me to you. I just wanted to welcome you, and to invite you to the Old Rectory in Morrington. I know you’ll be very busy - but, perhaps, sometime in the next week, you could find the time to pop over for coffee? Would Monday be a possibility? I’m very much looking forward to working with you. My telephone number is 763538. Many thanks.’

The third message, after the next beep, was short and rather perfunctory: ‘It’s Harry Barrington-Smythe here: one of your Lay Readers. Could you give me a call, at your convenience? Thank you. Oh - my telephone number is 763597.’

Another beep, and then the final message. This time, the voice was very well known to him. ‘Hello, darling. Hope you’re settling in. I just wanted…’ a pause, then: ‘I just wanted to wish you all the best. Annabelle says hi too. Speak soon.’ It was silly, but it was almost as if he could smell her perfume, the moment he heard her voice. Would he ever be able to move on from her rejection?

Yes. I have to. Now, which of those telephone calls sounded most pressing?

He picked up the telephone, and pressed a series of numbers on the keypad. After a few moments, a voice on the other end of the line greeted him.

‘Hello?’

Georgios paused, then began speaking.

***

Harry Barrington-Smythe replaced the receiver to its cradle, and growled. It was worse than he had feared. He grabbed his walking stick and hobbled from the gloomy hallway into the comforting warmth of the parlour. He stood in the doorway for a moment, and looked across at his wife, sitting in front of a roaring log fire. Even though it was only September, both were increasingly feeling the chill of autumn. Winter characteristically came early in this part of Wales. ‘I can see we’re going to have problems with this new Vicar,’ he said ominously.

His wife Emelia looked at him sympathetically over her half moon spectacles, and laid her knitting to one side. ‘Oh dear, Harry. Is it really that bad?’

He nodded, and lowered himself into the armchair opposite, wincing involuntarily as he did so. His arthritis was progressively worsening, and, not for the first time, he wondered whether or not they should look at having a stair-lift installed. Unfortunately, the narrow, uneven steps of their Tudor cottage would present something of a challenge. He knew that trying to modernise their 16th century home to properly accommodate the needs of its current ageing inhabitants would be a miserable and expensive task.

‘Yes, my dear. I explained to him that we needed to speak to him urgently about that–’ he sniffed, ‘that creature living in the Old Rectory. He fobbed me off, I’m afraid to say. Something about being happy to meet with us after his induction, but that any pastoral matters should properly be addressed to the Rural Dean until then. I told him straight, that as a Lay Reader in the parish, that simply wasn’t good enough. I didn’t get the impression, frankly, that he intends to give us a sympathetic hearing even after his induction. Very cool, he seemed. Classic liberal aloofness. No wonder the Anglican Church is in such a dreadful state. Wouldn’t expect anything different from someone with such a foreign sounding name. What kind of dago-name is Anagnosides, eh? Well: he’ll soon find out just how determined the Barrington-Smythes are when our dander is up!’

‘Now, Harry, try not to get so excited. You know what the doctor said. You’re quite right to be indignant: the impudence of these clergymen! They’re all quite as bad as one another. That last man, Dr Dyson, was no better.’

‘Well, I can’t say I’m altogether displeased about what happened to him,’ ruminated Barrington-Smythe, stroking his white whiskers thoughtfully. ‘“He who sows the wind reaps the whirlwind.”’

‘Hosea chapter 8, verse 7,’ replied Emelia, taking up her knitting again. ‘Though his poor wife Sarah: that’s another matter. She spoke to the Women’s Guild once.’

‘Humph. That’s all in the past. But this new fella, Anagnosides: he’s the one that concerns us now. And if he won’t listen to us - well, we’ll just have to show him that the Barrington-Smythes are not alone and that they are not without influence…’

V: September 9th (13th Sunday after Trinity)

The full panoply of bells in the belltower of All Saints Templeton were not being rung that morning: once again, Simon Howley had failed to secure enough members of the band of ringers for a full peal before the Sunday service.

Belinda Buxton was standing in the porch doorway as he approached, looking stern. ‘I do hope, Simon, you’ve let it be known to the band that they really must turn out for the induction service. It just isn’t good enough, you know. What about the following Sunday? We really must make a good impression on our new Vicar!’

Simon shrugged. Many members of Templeton were easily intimidated by the redoubtable Mrs Buxton: but not him. He had encountered far worse in the South Atlantic during the Falklands War than Belinda Buxton.

‘We’ll see. I can’t work miracles. Are you even sure the induction will be here?’

‘What do you mean? Of course it will be held at All Saints. Oh, good morning, Alistair.’ Belinda smiled at the new arrival, a tall slender man in his early forties, but Simon noted, with some small amusement, that the dangerous glint in her eyes was undimmed. ‘No Marjorie this morning? Will poor Laura have to sing soprano alone, once more?’

‘I’m afraid so,’ replied the new arrival. ‘She’s laid low by one of her migraines again. Needless to say, if the new Vicar revokes the ridiculous ban this church has on young girls becoming choristers, then our choir will become far more robust.’

‘You know very well that Mr Meeks won’t hear of it, Alistair. I do hope you’re not planning to burden Dr Anagnosides by bringing up all that nonsense at his first PCC meeting.’

‘As you exercise considerable control of the agenda as PCC Secretary, that would be difficult,’ countered Alistair stiffly. ‘One thing, though: don’t call him “Doctor” - he doesn’t like it. I don’t think he’s particularly proud of his brief stint in academia. And he was singularly unsuccessful as a university chaplain. That’s what my sources tell me.’ He smiled triumphantly. There! That took the wind out of Madam’s sails for a moment. Simon Howley chuckled behind him.

For a moment, Belinda Buxton struggled to think of a suitable retort. Then her eyes alighted upon another member approaching, and she decided that the best response was simply to ignore the irritating Alistair Gillespie, and move on. ‘Ah, Major Matlock. Chilly morning, isn’t it? Dillie really has done a splendid job with the altar flowers this week…’

***

Young Justin Matlock slipped quietly in through the side door into the choir vestry, hoping that no one would notice his late arrival. The adults were busy chatting amongst themselves, slipping surplices over their heads, or in the case of Laura Jenkins, fussily attending to her hair before the long mirror that was propped up precariously against the back wall. But it was Laura’s elder son Ainsley who ensured Justin’s tardiness didn’t go unnoticed.

‘Late again, Matlock?’ he said, in a fair imitation of Bernard Meeks’ rustic tones. ‘Not good enough, boy.’

‘Piss off,’ hissed Justin, turning red, as several faces turned towards him. Ainsley Jenkins might be head boy chorister: but given that the treble section had seemingly shrunk to just three boys - Justin, Ainsley and his younger brother Trevor - over the past nine months, it wasn’t that impressive a position any longer.

‘Now, now,’ said Violet Hardcastle, who despite her ninety-three years had incredibly sharp hearing. ‘I heard that. You’re not too old to have your mouth washed out with carbolic soap, Justin Matlock. If the Major and Dillie could hear you now, dear me.’ She shook her head sadly. Justin wasn’t sure what carbolic soap was, but it certainly didn’t sound pleasant. Laura Jenkins turned around from the mirror, and gave Justin a venomous look.

At that point, the lad was spared any further humiliation as Bernard Meeks bustled into the vestry. In his starched, neatly-ironed surplice, precisely-fitted cassock and polished black shoes, Georgios would hardly have identified him, had he been there, with the dishevelled figure who had shown him around All Saints two days previously…

‘You all have your anthem books ready?’ said the choir-master peevishly. ‘Remember, we need to make a good impression now for the Rural Dean, as this will be his last Sunday with us.’

‘What’s he like, Mr Meeks?’ asked Maria Kennard, at twenty-six the youngest adult member of the choir - indeed, the youngest adult to regularly attend church at All Saints.

‘The Rural Dean?’ Meeks looked puzzled. ‘You know what Canon Harris is like, surely…’ He paused. ‘Oh, you mean the new Vicar?’

Maria giggled. ‘Of course, Mr Meeks. Is he as good-looking as the photograph of him that was in the Courier?’

‘The Llanmadoc Wells Courier is a serious newspaper, not a pin-up magazine for your immature fantasies, Maria Kennard,’ said Ernie Hutton huffily, gripping the ornate processional cross even more tightly as he did so. It was a heavy affair, poorly balanced, and Ernie was the only choir member who could carry it with confidence. As Templeton’s resident correspondent for the Courier, he was also known to be very defensive when it came to the reputation of his beloved newspaper. Its journalistic integrity was something he highly-prized - more so than most of its readers.

Walter Hardcastle, Violet’s younger brother, and principal bass voice, nodded his agreement; but Antonia Lewis, two years older than Maria, and her greatest confidant, came to her friend’s aid. ‘Maria’s just teasing. Go on Mr Meeks, we know you’ve met him. What’s he like?’

‘Well,’ said Meeks, ‘He seems to be a very personable young man. I think he has the makings of an excellent Vicar. He certainly seemed to enjoy Mrs Meek’s bara brith when he called.’

Belinda Buxton had a face like thunder as she entered the vestry at that unfortunate moment. Mrs Meek’s bara brith, indeed! What about my lemon drizzle cake? Their soon-to-be inducted parish priest had thanked her on Friday evening for her kindness: but which cake had he tucked into first? How typical of Delilah Meeks to try to get his feet under her kitchen table before anyone else. Without a word, Belinda grabbed her choir robes, and the chatter in the vestry ceased. Everyone there was well-versed in the People’s Warden’s darker moods. At such times, there was great wisdom in silence.

Mr Meeks said: ‘Well, I’d better go and start playing.’ He turned to leave, and as he did so, Canon Vernon Harris, Rural Dean of the Templeton Deanery, and Vicar of the Llanfair-y-Dolwen group of parishes, entered the room. He was already vested in readiness for divine worship. Canon Harris immediately sensed the tense atmosphere around him.

Just wait till they hear what I have to report about the induction, he thought. Ah well. Soon this whole nest of vipers will be Anagnosides’ responsibility. And may God have mercy on his soul…

‘Good morning, choir,’ he said briskly. ‘Shall we say the vestry prayer?’

***

Four miles to the south-east of Templeton, on the other side of Penley Hill, lay the village of Morrington. The parish church of St Matthew’s was a fraction of the size of All Saints, but it was not without charm, having been restored in the 19th century by one of the most notable of the Gothic Revival architects, William Butterfield.

Unlike the tower of All Saints, with its eight heavy iron-cast bells, St Matthew’s had just two. But even as Belinda Buxton was castigating Simon Howley for the shortcomings of the Templeton band of ringers, Benjamin Griffiths - ‘Old Benji’ as most villagers knew him - was ringing the bells of St Matthew with an astonishing degree of vigour, considering that at ninety-six he was the second-oldest resident within the village. Benjamin Griffiths still lived in the cottage where he had been born - in the year when Einstein had published his famous equation E=mc2, the HMS Dreadnought was laid down and the Wright brothers attained the first aeroplane flight lasting more than half an hour in only their third aeroplane. Old Benji was born into the world at a time when ironclads and aeroplanes were being built that would point the way to a world of vast change, in terms of speed and power, industrial might and scientific endeavour. But, for him, the ‘old ways’ had never really changed. Electricity remained a new-fangled invention that he could happily get along without, if need be; and the ‘infernal’ combustion engine he continued to view with great suspicion. He was determined that he would die in the home where he had lived his entire life.

In the meantime, his life continued to be regulated by his thrice-weekly visits to the Blue Boar, every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday night, and his dutiful ringing of the church bells, every Sunday morning. It was said that Fr Benedict up in the Old Rectory had an ancient and valuable grandfather clock to help him keep the time: but the common folk of Morrington had venerable Old Benji to help them mark the passage of the days and years.

Apart from the resolute bellringer, only five others had arrived for worship at St Matthews that morning. Only a little less than average, in these irreligious times, thought Jack Copeland, glumly. He glanced at his watch. The importance of punctuality was something that he appreciated in his day-job, as Deputy Headteacher at Templeton High School. It was only natural that he should feel the same way about the Sunday services he regularly led as a Lay Reader, a holder of the Bishop’s licence to preach within the parishes of Templeton, Morrington and Llanfihangel Gilfach. He glanced around the church, quietly noting those who had dutiful turned out for Morning Prayer. There were no strange faces in the congregation today. There very rarely were.

Standing at the back, pointlessly making a play of handing out the hymn books and service sheet, was the Vicar’s Warden and PCC Treasurer, Matt Howley. Like his counterparts in Templeton and Gilfach, Matt was a farmer. Is that some kind of divine right of farmers in this part of the world, that they become churchwardens? pondered Copeland. Matt, at least, was dutiful, if somewhat ineffective. His wife Susan was playing the organ - badly, as usual. It was a pity, especially as Dr Neville Turner, who had moved into the village only eighteen months ago, had offered, more than once, to play. Copeland had visited him at home several times, and on one occasion Dr Turner had played on the baby grand piano that dominated his living room. He was certainly very accomplished. The pain he must feel, sitting there half-way back, listening to every duff note from Susan Howsley’s ponderous playing, must be excruciating. But no, Susan Howley would have none of it, when it was suggested to her that perhaps she might like the occasional Sunday off. In this she was fully supported by her husband, naturally; but also by Gwendoline Hockridge, a gossipy and rather garrulous church member, who always sat at the back of the church near the front. This Sunday, as on many Sundays, she was joined by her spinster sister-in-law Rosaline, the postmistress at Cwmpentre Post Office.

There was no sign of Dr Turner’s wife Agnes today, which was unusual. She normally accompanied him, and her melodious voice was a considerable asset to the congregational singing, especially when the attendance was thin. Also absent were the Chessingtons, but Copeland knew that poor Jasper’s health was failing. The burden of it all was beginning to tell on his devoted wife Dorabella; he had bumped into her on the village green only yesterday, and she was decidedly lacking in her customary air of positivity and enthusiasm.

The only other missing regulars were the Barrington-Smythes, but this, at least, was more predictable. Harry Barrington-Smythe would be leading the service that afternoon at Gilfach, and Emelia would dutifully accompany him - this despite the fact that as People’s Warden at Morrington she should really have been at St Matthew’s. But for some months now, Jack Copeland had been aware that the Barrington-Smythes seemed to be avoiding any service that he happened to be leading. Copeland’s theological views were poles apart from those of his fellow Lay Reader, and he couldn’t pretend he particularly liked Harry’s preaching style either. BS by name - BS in nature, as he’d once described it, perhaps too indiscreetly, to a Lay Reader in another part of the Diocese. Things do have a habit of getting back: perhaps that’s why our relationship is so frosty these days. But no - there were more than enough reasons for the growing gulf between the two of them. Two interregnums - or should that be interregna? - in as many years, with the death of Edgar Dyson following so soon after the disgrace of Huw Davies-Jones. More had been required of the parishes’ Lay Readers in these testing times: and Copeland sensed that Barrington-Smythe had enjoyed the extra responsibility perhaps a bit too much. The arrival of an evangelical bedfellow in Neville Turner - refined, articulate and likeable though he might be in many ways - had complicated matters further. And as for Father Benedict…

Copeland looked at his watch again. Time to begin. On cue, Old Benji stopped ringing the bell, and shuffled down the aisle towards his seat, in the very front pew.

‘Good morning, and welcome to our Sunday worship,’ Copeland began. ‘I understand our new Vicar has moved into Templeton Vicarage, and we look forward to meeting him in due course. However, the Rural Dean has asked me to remind you that Father Georgios does not take up his duties until after his induction, so please do refrain from bothering him for a little while longer. But on the subject of the induction - I have some good news. As you know, when the late Dr Dyson became Vicar of the new parish grouping, the induction service was held at All Saints. However, in the interest of balance, the Bishop has decided that this time the induction will be held here - doubly fitting, seeing that it will take place in twelve days time of the feast of St Matthew, our patron saint. I do hope that the decision meets with your blessing.’

Smiles from the Howleys, a nod of approval from Dr Turner, stony silence from Old Benji - anything more demonstrative would have been most unusual - but from the very back of the church, there resounded an acerbic rejoinder from Gwendoline Hockbridge (ostensibly addressed to her neighbour Rosaline, but in reality fully intended for all to hear):

‘Well I just hope that lot in Templeton don’t expect us to foot the bill for all the refreshments ourselves.’

***

Georgios had decided that he should worship at another church in the Deanery this Sunday: it wouldn’t have been appropriate for him to turn up at either All Saints or St Matthew’s. He’d looked at a map - carefully noting the positions of all the other parishes of the Deanery - and decided that St David’s Cwmpentre, due north of Templeton, would be ideal. Mr Meeks had helpfully dropped a copy of the Deanery Magazine, listing all the services across the Deanery, through his letterbox the day before. The service time at St David’s was civilised - half-past ten - and it would certainly be good to get away from the interminable slog of unpacking.

On arrival, he discovered that the service, a celebration of Holy Communion, was to be led by one of his soon-to-be clergy colleagues, the Revd Julie Johnson. She was a plumpish woman in her early thirties: a younger version of Dawn French’s Vicar of Dibley, at least to look at, thought Georgios. But there was nothing particularly Dibley-esque about the way she led the service. She had a resonant, commanding voice - perhaps a little husky - and there was a clarity and intelligence in the way she delivered her sermon that was impressive. The congregation wasn’t large - perhaps a dozen or so - but they were attentive. Georgios sensed that there was real respect and engagement between priest and people within this church: all too rare, in his experience.

He’d worn his clerical collar, and could tell from the whispered comments from several pews that he’d been ‘spotted’. The priest herself gave no sign, throughout the service, that there was anything out of the ordinary about his presence in their midst. But at the end, as he made his way to the porch doorway where she stood greeting people, he could see her smiling as he approached.

‘Well, I think I can guess who you are,’ she said. ‘Reverend - Father - how should I address you?’

‘However you wish,’ he replied. ‘But Georgios will be just fine, really.’

She shook his outstretched hand. ‘Then Georgios it will be. I’m Julie. But I suppose you know that already. Welcome to the Templeton Deanery. Have you met the Rural Dean yet?’ She pulled a face.

‘That bad, is it?’ he laughed.

‘Worse. Just don’t tell him I said so. It’s just good to have someone here who has lowered the average age of the clergy of Deanery by about - oh - twenty years, I should think.’

‘I’m not quite that young.’

‘You look about eighteen. Did you get some special dispensation to take holy orders so young?’

He laughed again. ‘Hardly. But thanks for the compliment. I’m thirty-one.’

‘Phew, there was me thinking I was going to be accused of cradle snatching–what did you think of the sermon?’ The sudden change of subject threw him for a moment.

‘I–well–’

‘Pretty crap, really. I was all over the place today. The “cost of discipleship,” says Luke - It’s all pretty meaningless, really, when one considers what real suffering and martyrdom involves. “Cheap grace,” as Bonhoeffer said. He knew exactly what he was talking about, of course.’

‘Yes, he did. But what you said about the parable of the king with the small army versus the king with the large one - how that’s utterly redundant now - that Jesus’ analogy, essentially, is wrong, in the post-Hiroshima age - that was quite powerful stuff.’

Julie shrugged. ‘Well, it’s true. Ten thousand men, or twenty thousand - it’s all pretty irrelevant when all you really need is one bomb. Just light the blue touch paper and retire. I’m not a paid-up member of the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament for nothing, you know.’

‘Yes,’ he pointed to the CND badge pinned to her stole. ‘I’m not sure the Bishop would approve of you wearing that.’

‘Tough shit. Going to report me?’

He shook his head vigorously. ‘Of course not. Are you always so–’

‘Feisty? Yes. And yes - I always interrupt. Except when I don’t. What are you doing for lunch?’

‘Well, nothing. But I wouldn’t want to impose upon you.’

‘You wouldn’t be. Oh, wait.’ Julie’s face fell. ‘No can do. I promised to take Charlie to the zoo in Leadington Spa.’ She saw his quizzical look. ‘Charlie’s my son. Nine years old, and I love him to bits, but very demanding at times. And he hates changes to plans. But you must come again: I’ll call you, okay? It’s the same number in the clergy directory, I guess - as Edgar had.’

Despite himself, he felt disappointed. He hadn’t realised she had a son. Was there a husband too? Why did the thought of that displease him, somehow? ‘Yes it is the same number. And of course we should have lunch: another time. If your family doesn't mind. You can tell me all the stuff Canon Harris won’t.’

She seemed to be reading his thoughts. ‘My son is my family: and he won’t mind.’ She held out her hand. ‘Something makes me think you’ll have as much to tell me, as me you. It’s been good to meet you, Georgios. Till the next time.’

***

Midday approached. The churchyard of Llanfihangel Gilfach was eerily silent. There had been no Christian act of worship there in the morning. As the church with the smallest congregation within the group, it had to make do with an afternoon service at three o’clock each Sunday.

The doors of the lychgate creaked open, and figures slowly made their way towards the ancient yew tree that stood in the heart of the churchyard. The first service of the day was about to take place.

It would not be conducted with any rituals that Harry Barrington-Smythe would wish to incorporate into his offering of Evening Prayer.

VI: September 10th (William Salesbury & William Morgan, Translators)

Border folk are strange creatures, you know, Father. But perhaps you’ve already worked that out for yourself.’

Father Georgios Anagnosides smiled politely, but said nothing. He still wasn’t quite sure about his new curate, Father Benedict. Something, he sensed, was veiled behind the other’s genial, jocund exterior. He glanced around the sumptuously-decorated parlour, with its tasteful William Morris-style wallpaper, Pre-Raphaelite prints on the walls, plush armchairs and colourful rugs, Queen Anne drop leaf table with intricately-carved legs, and the gentle ticking of what - surely! - wasn’t a Thomas Tompion longcase clock.

‘Pardon me, but is that a Thomas–?’

Benedict followed the gaze of the younger priest, and chucked. ‘I’m afraid so,’ he said. ‘I have a Tompion for a grandfather. It once belonged to Sarah Churchill, the Duchess of Marlborough. Well, allegedly. Insuring it is something of a nightmare, and it doesn’t even keep particularly good time: but it’s almost three hundred years old, so I suppose it can be forgiven. I’m impressed - you have a good eye for antiques.’

‘Not especially - but my father was a watchmaker.’ Georgios thought about the furnishing in his own 1970s-build vicarage and grimaced. His priest-colleague was clearly someone of substantial private means. Perhaps that explained why he had resigned his inner-city living ten years previously, whilst still in his mid-forties, and retired to the countryside, keeping his hand in by covering parochial vacancies along the Anglo-Welsh border. Thanks to the loquacious Mr Meeks he’d already heard other rumours about Father Benedict Wishart: but he didn’t want to dwell on that…

‘So your partner - what was his name - Oliver? He’s not at home at the moment?’

‘No, he generally comes home every second or third weekend. It’s a busy life, working at the Bar. Another two, maybe three years, then he’ll retire. Sadly, he won’t be around for your induction service on Friday week either. He knows the Chancellor of the Diocese quite well: they were in Chambers together, once upon a time. He’s an atheist, bless him. He always says I’m more than devout enough for the two of us. But you must come round for dinner next time he’s here.’ The elegant, smartly-dressed priest paused, then said:

‘Do you have any particular views on the supernatural, Father?’

There had been a distinct change in his tone of voice, and - Georgios noted - a slight tremble in his hand, as he lowered his teacup, and leaned forward, with the gravest of looks upon his suddenly-furrowed brow.

‘Please, call me Georgios. That’s a rather surprising question to ask of a fellow priest - but I assume you’re not looking for some conventional theological answer, Benedict. What exactly were you thinking of?’

Benedict drew a red silk handkerchief from the lapel pocket of his jacket, and wiped his forehead. In just a matter of seconds his visage had utterly changed, and his flushed face was glistening with sweat. The aura of comfortable condescending affability that had surrounded him since opening the door to his visitor half an hour before had vanished.

‘Well, if we are to be friends, as well as colleagues, then you must call me Benny. I hope we shall be friends - and that we can trust each other.’

‘Of course, Benny. What’s troubling you?’

‘As I said earlier, people who live on the border are the strangest of people. In the ten years we’ve been here, I’ve found them to be tight-lipped, and inclined to keep their own counsel. The warring may have ceased six hundred years ago now, but people in these parts are still disinclined to take sides. Neither Welsh, nor English. Perpetually suspicious of those who come “from off”. You understand what I’m saying?’

‘I think so.’

‘These are lands where much blood has been spilt; places of the hinterland, where there’s been so much violence and anger. It seeps into the very ground. The hills and the valleys have long memories of the treacheries and cruelties of the past. They don’t rest easily. As for the people: they cling to the old ways. There were other gods, other forces at work, here on the Marches, back in the days of old. Before the missionaries and the monks came, proclaiming the One God, here they worshipped the many. And - if the truth be told - there are plenty who still do.’

‘There’s nothing new or surprising about that. Folk religious beliefs have rubbed shoulders with the more dogmatic assertions of orthodoxy for a long time.’

Benedict shook his head vigorously. ‘No, Father - Georgios. I mean more than folk religion. This isn’t just a case of popular syncretism, or quaint traditions, handed down from yesteryear. I’m talking about something much older, and much darker. Something that is implacably hostile to the Faith. Something that is deeply diabolical - right to its very core. They worshipped many gods - but the chieftain of their pantheon was always the same. He goes by many names. Do you know the legend of Darkwoode?’

‘Darkwoode–?’

‘Silly of me, I know - after all, you only arrived in our midst three days ago. But perhaps you’ve noticed the predominant dedication of the churches in this locality?’

‘Well, there seem to be quite a few dedicated to St Michael. Is that what you mean?’

‘Yes. And on the Welsh side of the border - and even here and there on the English side - you’ll see that quite a few of the villages are named “Llanfihangel” - the llan (or place) of angels. As in St Michael and All Angels. Curious, don’t you think, all these churches dedicated to the dragon-slayer? Here on the Welsh border, of all places.’

Georgios grinned. ‘He’s not the only dragon-slayer. My own namesake, of course, was slaying reptilian leviathans long before the English adopted him as their patron saint, ousting poor old St Edward the Confessor for someone more suitably martial.’

‘Then perhaps you’re coming amongst us, here and now, is a sign. You’re young - thirty-one, yes? But perhaps you have the vigour and the courage that I lack. I’m tired, and I’ve witnessed too much. Believe me, Georgios, you will be tested if you stay here - and you will need all your wits about you. The servants of the Darkwoode are not to be trifled with.’

‘I’m sorry, Benny, you still haven’t explained. What is the Darkwoode?’

‘Oh, you won’t find it marked on an OS map. But it’s real enough. The ancient woodlands along the Marches have mostly gone now - just a few copses, a handful of spinneys, here and there, remain. You know those puzzles - what do they call them - dot-to-dot puzzles, yes?’ Georgios nodded. ‘Well, join up the churches dedicated to St Michael, just like a dot-to-dot…’

Benedict moved his forefinger through the air, forming a circle as he did so. ‘You’ll find that they enclose the forests of old. They’re markers for the boundaries - the borders of the Darkwoode. The place where the last dragon was driven, it’s said. Waiting for the End of Time. As long as the churches remain, the dragon remains trapped. They stand as shields - as wards - against Evil Incarnate. But if ’ere disaster befalls even one of the churches - the dragon will escape through the gap.’ The older priest sat back, and sighed.

‘That is the legend of the Darkwoode.’

VII: September 11th (St Deiniol, Bishop)

The scenes unfolding on the television screen before him were truly shocking: yet he sat, sipping a gin and tonic, unperturbed. As he watched, the 110-story tower entered its final death throes The cameras that were trained upon it captured the moment as each floor imploded, one after another, and the whole structure collapsed downward, like a concertina, in a great shower of ash, the grey-white pall hiding from the sight of the onlookers the shattering of metal, the pulverisation of concrete and gypsum, the atomisation of flesh, bone and blood. The roar of the collapse - like that of its twin tower twenty-nine minutes earlier - must have been deafening to the onlookers who were watching just a few blocks of the devastation.

Mervyn Mortlake, Archbishop-designate of the Church of Wales, looked across to the mantelpiece clock. The time was 3.28pm. What would that be in New York? 10.28am, yes? A glorious moment. The blue skies over the city had been so clear that morning: but Mervyn rejoiced in the devastating grey shroud that was now darkening the bright firmament over downtown Manhattan.

‘Dies irae, dies illa, solvet saeclum in favilla: teste David cum Sibylla,’ he murmured.

From the other side of the drawing room, came the reply, ‘“Day of wrath and doom impending! David’s word with Sibyl’s blending, heaven and earth in ashes ending!”’

Mervyn smiled, turned towards his companion, and raised his glass. ‘It’s precisely the sign we were looking for. The End Times draw nigh. Our course is set, my friend. Draco suscitabit.’

To Be Continued...