What Manner of Man: Chapter 16 🦇

Going on a Catholic punishment walk for my mental detriment.

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JOURNAL ENTRY

Undated.

Desperation at last drove me from the manor. My certainty as to Lord Vane’s nature gone; my prayers for guidance all unanswered — I thought, perhaps, there was one source I could still look to for help.

At first, when I determined to go to St Silvan’s Head, I considered seeking out that horse which I had ridden on the day Lord Vane had taken me to see the ruins of a Roman settlement. In the end, however, I elected to make the journey on foot. The physical toll of such a journey seemed a fit punishment for my body.

The way from Whithern Hall to the village proved more wild and formidable than even my memory had lead me to expect. It would be challenging to try alone, but I saw little alternative. It frightened me less than the prospect of continuing to be trapped here alone.

It was the first time since arriving that I’d gone so far from the manor on my own, and, without Lord Vane’s powerful presence, Swallow’s Rest seemed more strange and hostile than before. In the corners of my vision, the sunlit trees and shadowed undergrowth assumed almost human shapes which, when I turned to look, resolved into nothing. It was as if I were surrounded by the bitter souls of those whom I had damned by not carrying out my duty quickly and decisively; by allowing myself to be tempted. I felt their reproachful gaze upon me as I made my way down the rocky, overgrown path through the wooded landscape.

I’m sure it was nothing more than my own haunted thoughts pursuing me — and yet some doubt lingers. Even as the forest gave way and the bright sea spread out before me, I could not quite rid myself of the sensation. Whatever it was, it was not contained within the rustling shadows of the wood.

I thought I remembered the way but I must have taken an errant turn somewhere for, at length, I found myself approaching a bank of shingle and scrub — it was the rocky northern shore, not far from the place where I had alighted when I first arrived on Swallow’s Rest.

Then, from below me, a voice called out.

“Ho, Father!” It was Silas.

The sight of a familiar face, though our acquaintance had been so brief, was nearly enough to make break me. The sea was calm and he drifted a little ways from the shore, hailing me with friendly recognition. How long ago, it seemed, that little boat had conveyed me to this island. I had all but forgotten that a whole world lay beyond this shadowed place; that there was anything to which my heart belonged outside of Whithern Hall.

I had come near to the bottom of the cliff, and the descent from where I stood down to the water was passable enough that I was able to clamber down to him. Silas navigated in toward the shore as I stood catching my breath at the edge of the water.

“Glad to see you in such fine health, Father,” he called to me across the water, “You’re looking downright athletic.”

I managed, with effort, not to sound winded as I replied. “It seems one has to be around here. I can’t just catch the bus from the Hall to the village.”

He whistled. “Heading to St Silvan’s Head?

His tone made me wary. “What if I am?”

“Well, I’d take care, if I were you — that’s all.”

I stared at him, nonplussed.

“A couple of young men who took a clipper out alone are missing, I hear — presumed dead. The mood in the village is very black. When I was there, they were all lighting bonfires, and I found myself on the receiving end of some unfriendly looks. Heard them muttering something about yourself and Lord Vane, too, but I can’t tell you more because they put a lit on it as soon as I came near.”

His craft swayed gently back and forth on the rolling waves. The soft rush of the incoming tide filled me with the chilling sense of my total isolation; of how few paths were left to me. Even Danny and Sylvia were lost to me then — the villagers, evidently, held me responsible for these deaths. Perhaps they believe me a murderer.

“Then I must face it alone.” I hadn’t meant to say this aloud, and didn’t even register that I had done so until I saw a cloud of concern pass across Silas’ sunny expression.

“Is everything alright up there at the manor, Father? You sound like you’re in some distress.”

“It’s —” I began, then stopped myself. There was simply nothing I could say, not to this man, practically a stranger. If I admitted to having seen the blood on Lord Vane’s hands, I might bring the mob down on him. As for my other recent experiences — it would take a braver man than I to admit any of that.

“I’m afraid it’s — personal,” I said after a pause.

Perhaps he read something into my tone of voice, but, for whatever reason, this only seemed to increase his concern. “I’m not asking any questions, but if you’d like to cut your losses and run — I’m heading back to the mainland after this. If you’d like a ride, I can wait for you to gather your things.”

It would have been so easy to just leave — to be free of it, but somehow the prospect seemed utterly impossible to me. I shook my head. “I don’t think it’s come to that.”

As I expressed an intention to return to Whithern Hall, he offered to convey back to the manor.

“I can at least take you as far as the dock round the side of the cliff there, save you walking back all that way.”

He would take no refusal, and so I accepted.

Later, just as I was taking my leave, a smile of faint amusement dawned on his face as some idea occurred to him.

“Say — can I offer you some light reading for the road? Free of charge.” Reaching into some hidden storage space, he produced a specimen from his supply of pulp magazines, fresh from its cellophane wrapping.

He offered it to me face-up. The image on the cover was typically lurid — a strapping hero lying bound to an altar-stone, glistening with sweat as his muscles strain against his binds. Above him, the heathen priest stands with dagger raised over the man’s breast. “HEART-POUNDING PERIL!” the cover proclaimed.

I viewed this with dawning realization. Mortified, I turned and all-but fled from the man. I recognized, now, the feelings this inspired in me. I cannot have ever been a priest of much calibre, to have succumbed so easily to temptation.

So it seems that I cannot look to St Silvan’s Head for help. Can it be that Danny and Sylvia truly believe I’m involved in the deaths of those men? If so, I blame no one but myself. Through my own weakness, I have allowed myself to become entangled in this evil business. I do not deserve allies.

JOURNAL ENTRY

Dated June 9, 1950.

What kind of place is this, where the very rocks and trees seem set against me? What terrible rupture spreads misery like a poison through the soil? What manner of angel presides over my torment here, who watches me writhe without pity, far beyond the end of any trial where I could possibly have succeeded? Then perhaps I am abandoned here by all, even God, and there is no one left to hear me when I cry out. No one except Lord Vane.

Shout-out to readers who, like myself, are looking up at a blood-red moon right now through an apocalyptic haze of wildfire smoke. 💨 (That’s a good sign, right?)

-St John

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