What Manner of Man: Chapter 1 🦇

A secret, a handsome sailor, and a compromising dream.

8:26 And he saith unto them, Why are ye fearful, O ye of little faith? Then he arose, and rebuked the winds and the sea; and there was a great calm.
8:27 But the men marvelled, saying, What manner of man is this, that even the winds and the sea obey him!

- “The Gospel of Matthew.” King James Bible, trans. 1611.

“What manner of man is this, or what manner of creature is it in the semblance of man? I feel the dread of this horrible place overpowering me; I am in fear—in awful fear—and there is no escape for me; I am encompassed about with terrors that I dare not think of....”

- Stoker, Bram. Dracula. 1897.

JOURNAL ENTRY

Dated February 1, 1950.

I have always wanted to meet a demon. I don’t think that’s an exaggeration — among my earliest memories, when my sister and I were taken to the yearly Christmas pantomime, even as Vera expressed her admiration for the Good Fairy or Prince Charming, I had eyes only for the wicked Demon King.

Virtually since childhood, then, there has never been a time when I wasn’t deeply interested in evil and its agents upon the earth — the serpent, the Witch of Endor, the Beasts of Revelation. How I wish I could descend like Dante and Virgil into Hell and observe the devil and all his angels in their native place.

I see no conflict between this interest and my priestly calling. The two are in perfect accord. I believe that to combat sin necessitates the cultivation of a healthy fascination with it. Sanctity is not the mere absence of temptation. The greatest saints are, in a sense, the greatest sinners — for only in them is holiness well and truly earned.

Temptation is necessary; without temptation we have no struggle in which to strengthen our faith. Even Christ was tempted. If he had not been, we would have no salvation. My path to salvation, rocky and uphill though it has been, is lit all the brighter against the dark shadow of my youth, and the shameful mistake that I made.

That is why I carry my ring with me always; an ever-present reminder of what I nearly was and what I may yet become. Though concealed within my vestments, it serves as a visible symbol of the gilded dangers that lie in wait for me should I ever stray from that path.

Perhaps my keen awareness of a certain susceptibility within myself has something to do with this long-cherished secret fascination.

I say "secret" but I mainly keep it so out of deference to my poor Bishop (unimaginative and hide-bound man that he is — may the Lord forgive me for saying so) who would doubtless be alarmed if he heard me express myself in such terms.

My fellow seminarians used to scoff at me for troubling myself with such dusty old things as the Rite of Exorcism — “This is the twentieth century, after all. Such measures are rarely called for nowadays.” That may be so, but I have a passionate curiosity about all the strange old rituals. Furthermore, I have yet to learn that all the wonderful advances made by the alienists and modern medicine in recent years have penetrated to the root of all evil in the world. Those in the Church who dismiss such things as nothing but relics of a bygone age make a grave mistake. By closing our eyes to the dangers that beset us, we only render ourselves complete ingenues; laying our hearts open to the first devil that comes upon us. It is the sacred duty of every servant of God to arm himself against the powers of darkness. Without seeking knowledge of the Tempter, how can one hope to recognize him when the time comes?

That is why it would interest me greatly to meet with a demon — no mere pantomime Demon King, but a true servant of the evil one. It would provide me with much accurate and useful insight into that which I am called on to oppose, to stare it in the eye. I know — who should know better than I? — that God does not allow man to be tempted beyond his strength. It must be the case, therefore, that if I am sent in search of demons, then I am prepared to resist them.

I have more thoughts on this subject but — ah, well. The matter is between me and my Lord. 

The clock reminds me that I must cease this idle scribbling anyway. I’ve positively accepted the assignment that the Bishop has honoured me with so I must pack this journal presently and begin seeing to the preparations for my journey.

In fact my interest in such matters is, in a round-about way, the very thing that has set me apart from my peers and led to my being given this opportunity which I’ve just accepted. I have, I suppose, developed something of a reputation for delving deeper than most — into books and artifacts alike — and, as a result, I was known to be the only man in my diocese who was qualified. The mysterious island of Swallow’s Rest — I must admit that I do think it sounds terribly romantic.

JOURNAL ENTRY 

Dated February 7, 1950. 

My friend Silas has just departed, my hastily scrawled note to Vera in hand. It is, I fear, all she’s likely to get from me for some time. I only had time to beg her forgiveness for she made me promise to write her in full of my experiences here. I intend to keep my promise, however, and write her faithfully once per week, with full details of my experiences in this place. I shall just have to hold all the letters until the next opportunity I see of sending mail. (Won’t it be funny if she doesn’t hear from me for over a month and then seven letters arrive at once? How I wish I could see the look on her face.)

LETTER TO VERA ARDELIAN

Dated February 7, 1950.

Dearest Sister,

I already miss you terribly, though hardly a week has passed since I was a guest in your beautiful new home.

My journey here began in as tiresomely mundane a manner as could be wished, with the standard allotment of bother and inconvenience that comes with travel. After several delays I spent a sleepless night on a slow train that, beside myself, seemed to have a passenger list made up entirely of dogs and infants. (This was on top of no dinner, mind you!) 

It was nearly impossible to arrange my transportation ahead of time as I was quite unable to locate Swallow’s Rest on my map. (Indeed I am told it is hardly to be found on any.) All I had to go on was a hand-written address and instructions to engage the services of a man named Silas, who was to ferry me the distance to the island. I arrived at the address only to discover that the man in question was readying to depart at that very moment and I was forced to dash madly through a sleepy harbourfront at midday to catch him.

Silas proved to be a strapping, personable young man with sole command of a very handsome little sailing vessel. (I imagine he’s in great demand with the distaff population of the area.) A most capable seaman; I liked him at once for he hardly laughed at me at all when I tripped over some rigging in my haste. 

There’s something special about short sea voyages — they hold all the glamour of adventure with none of the anxiety. I love to stand on a wooden deck feeling the chill salt spray on my skin. Then, if I can situate myself somewhere dry, with a travel blanket and a hot drink to warm my bones, I’m the most contented man in the world. The whole experience always makes me feel a little thrill of connection to our seafaring past.

All the information I have been able to glean about my destination I learned by plying Silas with questions as we sailed. He was able to tell me little enough, but I shall write what I remember of the conversation here in as much detail as I can manage.

We enjoyed one another’s company despite Silas beginning by confessing at the outset that he wasn’t a religious man.

“If you’ll forgive my saying so, Father, it beats me why a young man like yourself would want to go into the Church. Put on the black and dog-collar for life, I mean,” he said, fixing me with a rather curious look. 

“What profession would you have me choose?” I asked him.

“I was just thinking you wouldn’t look out of place on the cover of one of these movie magazines.”

I laughed — an actor! To think he’d wish such a fate upon me. I declined to mention to him my one brush with the world of theatre: a harrowing stint as Rosalind in “As You Like It” back in my University days. I’m sure the information would have done him no good — I’ll probably live to regret reminding you of it, for that matter.

In illustration of his last remark, Silas had gestured to some bundles that lay at our feet. I discovered that he was carrying a plentiful supply of American movie magazines as well as short-fiction pulps, dime novels, and other such atrocious literature. He often sells them for a modest profit, he tells me, to people on the island. (As you know such things are a guilty pleasure of mine and he was very amused when I took a few off his hands at the end of the voyage.)

Silas apparently represents more or less the only means of communication between Swallow’s Rest and the outside world, it being his job to collect any outgoing mail from the island and deliver what few letters and parcels are ever addressed to those who live there. 

Even so, he tells me that he only makes this journey about once a fortnight or so — for, as he says, since the fishermen go themselves daily to the mainland with their day’s catch — when there’s anything urgent, they can carry it themselves. Sea-fishing is the island’s only industry, I gather, and I look forward to a good deal of fresh seafood during my stay.

“I can’t speak for loaves but you’ll have no lack of fishes if your host is in St Silvan’s Head,” Silas said to me, begging my pardon lest I scold him for blasphemy. I let my smile speak for itself.

I must admit, though, I was impressed. For just a moment, as I was watching the shore disappear slowly behind and realizing I didn’t know when I would see it next, a cloud passed over my heart. I’ve rarely heard of anywhere as isolated as this place seems to be, and I shrank at the idea of being cut off from civilization. 

Such feelings never last long, though, and in the next moment I felt myself again. The human mind is a thing of snares and pitfalls. It is by the will of God that I make this journey, and He will ensure I come to no harm. Furthermore I am obviously not in any danger, and playing tricks on myself will only make it harder to keep that clarity of heart and mind which alone will allow the Light in.

Wishing to take my mind off the matter, I asked Silas whether he took many priests with him on these round trips.

This earned a laugh. “Hardly! I can’t even remember the last time I brought someone out this way.”  

“Goodness. Isn’t it lonely for them — the people of this place?”

Silas shrugged. “They’re a strange lot, up in St Silvan’s Head — they keep to themselves.” He looked away from me as he spoke, his eyes locked on some point in the far distance. “They’ve all got these secretive smiles. Sometimes when I’m talking to them I get this feeling like they’re all in on some great joke that only they know about in the whole world.”

I followed the direction of his gaze but couldn’t see anything except sea and mist. “I read, once, that the physical isolation of a place creates a kind of internal isolation in the individuals who live there,” I offered, adding, “One does often meet with some pretty unique characters in out-of-the-way places like this.”

He laughed. “If that’s so, Father, then the inhabitants of Swallow’s Rest must be the most unique characters to be found anywhere,” he said, turning his face to me again, “But don’t you worry about them. It’s beautiful countryside — and pristine, too. No ramblers or picnickers to spoil the view like you get in most places nowadays. Getting there’s troublesome enough, I suppose, that even at the height of the tourist season hereabouts Swallow’s Rest is little liable to invasion.

“There’s only a fishing village and an old manor house, but it isn’t kept up nowadays and the grounds aren’t open to the public, so even lovers of strange architecture tend to stay clear of the place. Used to hear some funny stories about that house when I was a lad, but the current lord is a reclusive old scoundrel and I don’t expect you’ll run into him.”

This was all very intriguing and I would’ve liked to learn more. Alas — after my long journey and a sleepless night, I found myself dozing. I believe I had something of a nightmare, in fact. All that talk of mysterious houses and mad fishermen, perhaps.

When I awoke, Silas told me cheerfully that the seas had calmed and we were just about to arrive. There was a storm brewing as we approached the island, he says, but it seemed to almost part to make way for us. I take this to be an auspicious sign for our journey, that the Lord has pronounced his blessing on my mission here. 

The extreme isolation of this place is rather daunting, I admit, but I was prepared for this to be a trial. As Christ went into the desert, I too, in my small way, shall suffer my forty days and forty nights. It will soon be Lent, as you know, and a little challenge can only be good for my spiritual well-being. 

Although the people of Swallow’s Rest are, I gather, remarkably self-sufficient, when Silas comes once a fortnight to collect the mail from the St Silvan’s Head postbox, he also personally takes orders for goods that cannot be obtained locally. This is why, as we arrived, he handed me a parcel to deliver marked for a ‘Danielle.’

“Ah, yes,” he said, looking at it, “Give my regards to Danny.”

There is more to tell, but the light has just gone and this letter is already long enough. I will write again soon.

Yours in Christ,
Fr Victor Ardelian

JOURNAL ENTRY 

Undated; likely evening of February 7, 1950. 

It’s only a trifle, hardly worth mentioning, but a thought has been troubling me. A memory, rather, that I would desperately like to be rid of. It has lingered with me all through the evening and lingers with me still, as I lie in bed. 

The hour I spent dozing aboard the boat to Swallow’s Rest, I had a dream. It was no ordinary dream, so vivid and lifelike that I feel its presence almost as surely as I can hear the crash of the sea outside my window.

Oh, his burning eyes —The honeyed words whispered in my ear 

The way my body —  

I cannot bring myself to describe it, but I think of St Hilarion: “Many were his temptations, day and night the demons change and renew their snares. As he lay down how often did not nude women encircle him? When he was an hungered how often a plenteous board was spread before him?” It was not, for me, a woman. And the way I responded — I have prayed to St Aloysius for forgiveness and for chastity. 

I fear that, in my mission to this place, I may myself be at some risk from the forces of evil. I can only trust that my prayers were heard, and that my strength will hold. It is too late to turn back — if I prove too weak to withstand this trial, souls other than my own may be lost.

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