The Second Sleep Page 7

  ‘Beg pardon, Father.’

  ‘What is it, child?’

  ‘My mother’d like communion, sir. ’Tis a while since her last and she feels the lack most keenly.’

  ‘Can she not come to church?’

  ‘She cannot leave her bed, sir. Been a widow these last ten year.’

  ‘Alas, I fear I have no wafers with me; nor wine …’

  Rose touched his arm again. She unbuttoned her vast brown coat, fished into an inside pocket and pulled out a small black cotton bag, tied with cord. She undid the neck and showed him the contents: communion wafers and a stoppered half-pint jar. He took it from her, surprised and somehow chastened. ‘Thank you, Rose. What is your name, child?’

  ‘Alice, Father.’

  ‘Very well, Alice – show us the way.’

  They followed the girl across the yard, and Fairfax braced himself to his vocation: to visit the fatherless and widows in their affliction, and to keep himself unspotted from the world … He could see now that the warren of hovels was more extensive than he had first realised. One yard led on to another, and another. The numerous threads of smoke rising beyond the thatched roofs suggested a settlement at least as large as the village itself. The thin walls were made almost entirely of cob – that mix of clay, straw and gravel, washed with lime, that provided shelter for such a large percentage of humanity. He passed a man with a knife whittling a stick, and felt a moment of unease at being in such a rough spot, until he remembered that he had nothing of which he could be robbed, save his prayer book and the old priest’s cassock.

  A mangy dog, its ribcage showing, was chained to a doorpost. It struggled up on to its hind legs, growling. The girl ignored it and went inside, and he plunged in after her with Rose behind him, ducking through a low doorway and into a dwelling exactly like the last, dark and filled with straw. A sow lay on her side suckling her young in front of a cold black hearth. A ladder led up to a second storey.

  ‘Does she lie up there?’

  ‘Aye, Father.’

  ‘What is your mother’s name, Alice?’

  ‘Matilda Shorcum, sir.’

  ‘Who looks after her?’

  ‘Me, sir.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘Aye, sir.’

  ‘She has no other family?’

  ‘My brothers has all been took by the army, sir, to fight the Northern Caliphate.’

  Fairfax nodded encouragingly. ‘Brave lads, I’m sure.’ That was a war that had gone on all his life – and for centuries beforehand, or so it was said – ever present but oddly distant, its occasional lulls punctuated by lurid reports of horrible atrocities that aroused a fervour of public outrage and set the whole thing off again. Mostly it involved dreary garrison duty in some isolated Yorkshire moorland outpost. But the regular punitive raids to keep the Islamist enclave in check always carried with them the risk of capture and beheading, which the government took care to publicise. ‘I’ll be sure to pray for them as well.’

  He tucked his prayer book under his arm and put his foot on the rickety first rung of the ladder. He hauled himself through a trapdoor and came up into a loft. Rose climbed up after him. The only light was provided by a filthy broken skylight. In the corner, beside a plain wooden table, was a cot on which lay the skeleton of a woman. Her hands and feet were bandaged. Around her head was fastened what looked to be a soiled napkin. Her eyes were unusually large and dark and glittering, full of intelligence. Rose kneeled beside her and stroked her face. He tried not to notice the smell.

  ‘Mrs Shorcum, I am Christopher Fairfax.’

  She turned her head slightly. ‘’Twere good of ye to come, Father.’

  ‘I would do no other. When did you last receive communion?’

  ‘A fortnight since.’ Her voice was very weak. He had to bend low to hear. ‘Just afore the parson were murdered.’

  He smiled at her, reassuring. ‘He was not murdered, Mrs Shorcum. His death was an evil chance, I promise you.’

  ‘No, sir, he were murdered by the devils in the woods. I did warn him, sir, never to walk up there. I told him!’ She was becoming agitated. ‘I saw ’em when I were a girl.’ She tried to rise.

  ‘Well, he is at peace now, whatever happened. Do not distress yourself.’

  Unsure exactly what was expected of him, he set out the wafers and wine on the table and opened his prayer book.

  ‘You are ready to receive the Lord?’ He found his place. ‘Shall we pray together?’ Almighty, ever-living God, Maker of mankind, who dost correct those whom thou dost love, and chastise every one whom thou dost receive: We beseech thee to have mercy upon this thy servant visited with thine hand, and to grant that she may take her sickness patiently, and recover her bodily health (if it be thy gracious will).

  She was too ill to swallow the wafer. He dipped his finger in the wine and moistened her cracked lips. When the ceremony was over, she rested her bandaged hand on his and closed her eyes.

  For the remainder of that morning they went from place to place, fulfilling the old priest’s duties, neglected in the week since his death, visiting the sick and the bereaved. Rose knew exactly where to take him, moving swiftly across the yards, down the narrow alleys, lifting the lines of washing to let him pass.

  The hours became a blur of squalid beds, wailing wall-eyed children, gloom, bad smells, mud and straw, dogs and cats and pigs and chickens wandering in and out. He administered the sacrament, heard whispered confessions, uttered words of comfort, accepted hospitality – water, tea, bread – whenever it was offered, not because he wanted it, God knew – he had to suppress a grimace each time he swallowed – but for fear of causing offence. Throughout he was conscious of Rose watching him, and he realised he was doing it as much for her approval as out of a sense of duty. He wanted her to see he was a serious man of God, and not some fanatical young zealot who would object to seeing her out unaccompanied, or an aloof theologian from the cathedral city who shrank from contact with the poor. It was absurd, but there it was: at that moment he preferred the good opinion of this simple country maid to that of his powerful, worldly bishop.

  Once the wafers were all used up and the wine jar was empty, they made their way back along the waterlogged lane into the village’s main street and across the bridge. This time she walked at his side rather than in front of him, which he took as a sign of favour, and as they reached the church, he said, ‘Thank you, Rose, for your help. I have felt closer to God this morning than I have for many a month.’ She did not react, so he talked on into the silence. ‘I also felt a kinship with Father Lacy – sensed something of his spirit in those poor places. He was a good priest, I can see that now – a truly holy man, despite what some in the village may say of him.’

  She glanced at him and pursed her lips as if she did not entirely agree. But surely that was his imagination.

  When they reached the parsonage, she indicated that rather than go in through the front door, they should make their way around to the side. A wooden gate in the grey stone wall led into the small stable yard. There was a vegetable garden, an orchard, a chicken coop, an earth closet – all the things he had been unable to make out the other night, all very neatly kept. In a small paddock beyond a fence of post and rail, a cow the colour of caramel grazed on the lush grass. The air had been washed clean by the rainfall. In the distance, the hills and woods were sharp in the sunlight.

  The stable’s door was divided in two. The upper part was open and May was looking out. Rose rubbed her own pale cheek against the grey muzzle, made a soothing noise – the first sound Fairfax had heard from her – and kneaded the horse’s ear. Then she opened the lower door. She went past the mare and returned carrying Fairfax’s saddle, leaned it against the wall and disappeared inside again.

  He gazed at the hills. Of course, she was right: he should leave at once and take advantage of this break in the weather to find a way out of the valley. Nevertheless, he felt disappointed that she should make it so obvious she was keen t
o see him gone. He heard the swish of straw being swept. After a while, when she had still not reappeared, he went into the stable. She had just finished clearing a space at the end of the stall. She set aside the broom, kneeled, and began working bricks free from the wall, arranging them in a stack beside her. Finally she reached into the cavity and pulled out, one by one, four bulky, flat rectangular objects wrapped in centuries-old black plastic sheeting.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The registers yield a secret

  ROSE WENT AHEAD of him, checking the way was clear, pausing to listen before opening the back door, the kitchen door and then at last the door into the study. The packages seemed as heavy as gravestones. He carried them clasped awkwardly to his chest and dropped them on to the desk with relief. Already he felt uncomfortable, as if he was being drawn into a conspiracy. Nevertheless, he was careful to close the door quietly and keep his voice low.

  ‘These are the church registers, I take it?’

  Her eyes were wide and fixed on his. She nodded.

  ‘Why were they taken to the stable? Was it you who hid them?’

  She shook her head vigorously.

  ‘The parson, then?’

  A reluctant nod.

  ‘With your help?’

  A shake.

  ‘But you saw him do it?’

  Nod.

  ‘Did he know you were watching him?’

  A slight narrowing of the eyes; a bite of the lip; a slow, somewhat guilty shake of the head.

  ‘So you saw him carry them from the church without him knowing? How long before he died was this?’

  She held up a finger.

  ‘A week before his death?’

  She stared at him without responding.

  ‘A day?’

  She nodded.

  ‘The day of his death?’

  Another nod.

  ‘But that is an ominous coincidence!’ He ran his hand through his hair and then tugged at his beard as he considered the implications. ‘Why would he have done such a thing?’ He rephrased the question. ‘Was something troubling him?’

  A shrug, another shake of her head.

  ‘Think carefully now, Rose.’ He wagged his finger at her. ‘The matter is important. Father Lacy did not seem discomfited about anything at all?’

  She creased her brow in concentration, then pressed the tips of her thumb and forefinger together and turned them clockwise. She had to repeat the mime a couple more times before he understood.

  ‘He changed the locks on the doors?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Did you notice any strangers in the village?’

  Again she held up a finger.

  ‘One? A man? When?’

  She pointed to the registers.

  ‘On the same day he hid the books?’

  A nod.

  Before he could ask any further questions, a volley of loud knocks resounded through the house. ‘Are you expecting visitors?’

  She shook her head. They glanced at the ceiling. Agnes was descending the stairs.

  ‘I suggest we say nothing of this matter to Mrs Budd – for the present, at least. It would only add to her cares.’

  She nodded emphatically.

  ‘Good, Rose. You did well to tell me.’

  He opened the door and ushered her out into the passage.

  Agnes, drying her hands on her apron, had reached the bottom of the stairs. She noticed them, and surprise flickered briefly in her face – followed closely, or so Fairfax thought, by a look of suspicion. But then came another burst of knocking, and she turned away to open the front door.

  John Hancock’s massive shoulders filled the frame. He removed his hat – a battered pie-shaped object with a parakeet’s bright green feather in its band – and bowed. ‘Good morning to ye, Agnes. Is the priest in?’ He drew himself up to his full height. ‘Ah, yes – I see him there!’ Without waiting for an invitation, he stepped over the threshold. He wore a heavy brown frock coat and an old pair of knee boots spattered with mud. In his right hand was a riding crop. ‘Good morning, Father! I heard ye had to turn back last night.’

  ‘I did, Captain Hancock. The lane was entirely blocked. I should have heeded your warning and set off sooner.’

  ‘Well, no matter now. I’ve good news for ye. My men have cleared the road, so ye can leave whenever thee wishes.’

  ‘That was swift work.’

  ‘I set a dozen of my strongest lads upon the task at first light. I can escort ye myself, if it pleases ye.’

  ‘Thank you, but there’s no need to burden yourself with me.’

  ‘It would be no burden. I’m returning that way in any case. Indeed, it would be my pleasure. If we made but a small diversion, I could show ye my mill.’

  ‘You are a mill owner? I had taken you to be an army man.’

  ‘In my youth I was, but these days I’m a weaver. Fifty men employed and the finest cloth in the county produced. Come and see it – I insist.’

  ‘A tempting offer, sir, but I have one or two matters to detain me here before I leave.’

  ‘One or two matters?’ Captain Hancock seemed to find the notion amusing. ‘And what matters might they be?’

  ‘Church business.’

  ‘Ah! Church business? Is that how it is?’ Hancock struck the top of his boot with his riding crop and twisted his head this way and that, as if he hoped to discover these obstacles to an immediate departure and flatten them. But Fairfax stood his ground, and finally the captain gave up. ‘Well then, I suppose I must allow ye to make your own way. But I’d not leave it so late this time – not if ye wishes to make Axford before curfew. The sheriffs are mighty strict there. Ladies. Fairfax.’ He touched the crop to his temple, nodded, jammed his hat back on his head and stamped off down the garden path.

  Fairfax watched him go. ‘He seems in a rush about something.’

  ‘John Hancock was born in a rush,’ pronounced Agnes, closing the door, ‘and he will die in a rush. Now then, child,’ she said, turning to Rose, ‘I know not where ye’ve been all morning, but there’s work needs doing – fetching back the dishes from the church ale-house and washing them all up, for a start. And ye’ll be wanting feeding, Father?’

  ‘That’s kind, Mrs Budd, but I fear I must take Captain Hancock’s advice and leave quite soon. Yet I should like to do just a little work in the study beforehand.’

  Seated alone at the desk, the door closed, he lifted the package that lay on top of the pile and examined it more closely. He saw now that the register had been put into a large black plastic sack, which had been folded around it several times to provide extra protection. This time he felt no hesitation as he unwrapped the volume and pulled it out. On the contrary, his curiosity thoroughly aroused, he was keen to discover more. It had a thick leather binding and a tarnished broken brass lock in the shape of a trefoil. At some point, many years before, it had been damaged by water, and as he opened it he inhaled the sharp fungal odour of the past – a compound of mildew, dust and what might have been a lingering trace of frankincense. The lines of ink had faded to a pale brown, scarcely darker than the yellowing parchment on which they were written. He lit a candle so that he could see them more clearly. The script itself was full of sharp angles and daggered down-strokes, hard to decipher. Here and there the letters were invisible. But he made it out roughly.

  Maius IV sepultus MDXCVII antequam nascantur morientium filius Francis Tunstall, Agricola, et uxor Jane

  VIII Iulii MDXCIX, et accepit Thomam Ann Shaxton Turberville de hac parochia

  Ianuarii Robynns Nicolaus IV baptizatus MDCIV Aliciam filiam Rogeri Halys, Agricola, et uxorem, Margaritam, natus December XXXI MDCIII

  Latin had been revived by the Church as another bulwark against scientism; consequently, its vocabulary and declensions had been beaten into him at the seminary, and once he had caught the hang of the abbreviated style, he found he could follow it well enough.

  Buried 4 May 1597 stillborn son of Francis Tunstall,
farmer, and his wife, Jane

  Married 8 July 1599 Thomas Turberville and Ann Shaxton of this parish

  Baptised 4 January 1604 Alice daughter of Nicholas Robynns, farmer, and his wife, Margaret, born 31 December 1603

  The dating was all done according to the calendar that had existed before the Apocalypse, which made it at least a thousand years old. Apart from a gap in the 1640s, the volume had been kept up continuously, by a score of different hands, until the beginning of the ancients’ nineteenth century.

  He set it aside and unwrapped the next. It was similar to the first, but without a lock, and written in an altogether sharper, clearer, blacker ink.

  Buried 4 October 1803 William George Perry, son of George, blacksmith of Addicott St George, and Caroline, aged 14, drowned, double fees

  He turned the heavy pages and the life of the parish materialised before him. The same surnames again and again. Baptised-married-buried. Baptised-married-buried. The staccato rhythm reminded him of the stick figures he used to flick into life when he was a child. It told one nothing of who they were, or what they thought or felt or looked like.

  As he read on, he realised how little he understood or had even bothered to think about the past. It was not a subject that was encouraged by either Church or state: on the contrary, an interest in what had gone on before the modern era was established, even if it did not touch on the heresy of science, was considered a step on the path to Hell. Besides, what was there to know? History was a patchwork of voids. The great university libraries and public archives had mostly rotted away or been used as fuel in the Dark Age. An entire generation’s correspondence and memories had vanished into this mysterious entity the antiquarians called ‘The Cloud’. The few records that remained were mostly to be found in the ordinary parish churches – buildings made of stone and intended to last, which had continued to stand even as the newer settlements around them crumbled into ruins. Lacy had been right in what he had said to Keefer: these were books of great antiquity and value.