What Manner of Man: Chapter 2 🦇

An improper proposal and a queer kind of Valentine.

LETTER TO VERA ARDELIAN

Dated February 11, 1950. 

Dearest Sister,

Shall I tell you what puzzles me most about all this? 

I have been brought a great distance to this remote island at the urgent request of this man, Vane, in order to address what he believes to be a case of demonic possession. My mysterious host has gone to great lengths, in fact, to obtain the services of a priest who is qualified to perform the exorcism ritual.

This cannot have been easy — there must have been a great deal of tedious documentation and other correspondence exchanged before his request was granted (although, for whatever reason, none of it has ever made it into my hands.) The Church does not undertake such things lightly. Long gone are the days of the bell, book, and candle.

Even so, I am not without reservations about this assignment. One must be careful not to be too credulous about these things — cases of demonic possession are rare and more often than not turn out to be either mistaken or deliberate frauds. 

I have been called upon to perform an exorcism once before this, (being one of the few men in my diocese with knowledge of such things.) I ended, on that occasion, by convincing my superiors that what that poor soul needed was a doctor, not a priest. This was difficult in itself, for the case had attracted some media attention and I encountered much resistance.

To tell you the truth, I was rather surprised when my bishop offered me this second assignment, as he expressed much frustration with the way I conducted the affair at the time — however I am straying from my point.

All I mean to do is emphasize that it was all the more surprising when I arrived on Swallow’s Rest and found no one had come to meet me. Not a soul was to be seen anywhere, in fact.

Silas expressed as much himself as he set me ashore.

“Now, what kind of person goes out of their way to import a priest and then doesn’t bother to show up and sign for the delivery?”

I hadn’t been so skeptical that I’d neglected to bring all that would be required to perform an exorcism should this demon prove authentic and Silas chided me as he helped me off the boat with my things — not neglecting the package which I was to deliver to someone who answered to the name of “Danny.”

Silas watched me struggle to heft the first of my bags onto the dock with a wry smile. “I’ve known girls who travel lighter than you do, Father. What’ve you got in there, gold bars?” Then he lifted the bag containing a heavy crucifix and several old books — the ones which I obtained some years ago from a man in Whitby — up to me as easily as if it were full of feather pillows.

He even offered to stay for a time in case I decided to leave again, in light of my host’s non-appearance, but I waved him off with a smile. 

I can hardly describe my feelings as I stepped off the dock, the chill blowing in off the sea whipping the skirts of my cassock around my legs. (A particularly strong gust threatened to pluck my cappello from atop my head!) 

I don’t know what Swallow’s Rest is like in high summer, but in the winter it possesses a sort of austere beauty, remote and distant as the spires of Chartres Cathedral. I felt almost like I was entering another world as I stood there between the black sea and the gorse-clad hills. To my right, the land rose slowly into a cliff-face that disappeared around a curve in the landscape. 

The fishing village lay just ahead and I began threading my way along the road that climbed up to it from the sea. It looked like an exceedingly lonely place to me — pale and frostbitten in the cold, February mist.

My thoughts on the subject were interrupted at this point as I found myself being shouted at.

“You there, in the black dress!” came a voice, “Is that for me?”

Turning, I saw a woman styled somewhat in the manner of the more Bohemian young ladies one sees nowadays. With short-cropped hair under a flat cap, she was wearing the canvas trousers and Aran jumper of a sailor. (Such things are quite the fashion, I believe.) I inferred at once that this was the “Danny” to whom the package I held was addressed. 

In any case she’d relieved me of it before I had a chance to inquire, turning it over to examine the label with a crow of triumph. “Yes, this is it!”

I should have been annoyed at being treated in this abrupt manner but her enthusiasm, then and later, proved infectious.

“You’re new,” she remarked, beginning to cut the string from the paper wrapping with a pocket knife. “Is that lazy bastard Silas taking on employees now?” Her eyes narrowed then widened as she seemed for the first time to take in my appearance. “No, don’t tell me, you’re some kind of holy man, aren’t you? How am I to address you, then?”

“Father Ardelian?” I suggested, bewildered.

But her attention had already returned to the package. “Ah yes,” she said, surveying the contents with satisfaction, “Sylvia will love this.” Then, looking up for a moment, exclaimed, “Hey, you’d better go catch him! Looks as if he’s about to leave without you.”

I turned to see the boat setting sail once more and waved goodbye to Silas.

“Yes, not to worry — that’s as planned. He came to deliver me and the package, you see.” I gestured at my luggage.

She gave me a searching look. “Really? What on earth for?” I could tell she disapproved. “Perhaps you’ve made some kind of mistake.”

“I don’t think so. I’ve been invited here by a man named Alistair Vane.”

She raised an eyebrow sharply at this. “Not mistaken, then, but a fool.”

I laughed, unperturbed. “So you know him, then. Might I ask the way to…?”

“Lord Vane doesn’t live in St Silvan’s,” she scoffed. “Whithern Hall — Lord Vane’s manor, that’s to say — is a ways off. I can point you in the right direction but you’d do much better to go call after Silas before it’s too late. Have him ship you right back to wherever you came from.” 

“Oh, is it Lord Vane? He neglected to mention a title.” I did my best to remain outwardly cheerful as I remembered with flagging confidence that Silas had said something about a manor and a reclusive lord.

“I wonder what else he neglected to mention to you.” The wind was picking up and clouds were beginning to do ominous things overhead. Danny held a hand up as if testing for rain and said, “Well, you’d better come along with me for now.”

Danny is a deal taller than I am, (though, to tell the truth, most people are) and she paid no heed whatsoever to my weak protests as she lifted my heavy bags and began towards the village with them. There seemed to be nothing for me to do but follow.

“Sylvia will want to feed you, I expect. She’s always picking up strays. Not a word to her about this, by the way,” she said, indicating the package she had tucked under one arm. “It’s a surprise.”

The home she led me to was rough and old-fashioned, but no less charming for that. It lay on the far outskirts of the village and beyond it was a vast, dark lake, against which the white-washed walls made a striking contrast. I was rather satisfied by the oddly anachronistic look of the place, in fact; as if it had been thrown ashore from an eddy in the sea of time.

“Whithern Hall is that way,” said Danny, indicating a point lost somewhere in the darkness and mist above the far shore of the lake. The leaden clouds hung low over the water’s troubled surface, veiling the land beyond. “When there’s a clear sky, you can see it from here — but only just.”

I shivered a little at the prospect of making my way into that deep, forbidding gloom. The cottage, by comparison, seemed positively to glow with warmth and comfort. I gladly followed Danny to the door.

Inside, a woman sat reading beside a wood-burning stove. A contented cinnamon tabby lay curled in her lap.

She and the tabby both looked up in surprise as we entered unannounced. “Danny! What’s this? You’ve never been one to bring home strange men — oh!” She, at least, seemed to register the significance of my clerical collar at once. “Good evening, Father.”

She was both older and smaller than Danny, almost pixie-like, with a paradoxical quality of robust frailty to her. I felt as if I were being studied. 

“This is Father Ardelian, Sylvia,” said Danny, “He’s a guest of Lord Vane’s.”

“Is he now? And yet it isn’t Lord Vane’s doorstep he’s standing on. The standard of hospitality at Whithern Hall must have declined lately.” Saying this, she set her book aside and gently divested herself of the sleepy cat. 

I knelt down to offer my hand to the cat which came over and began inspecting me with friendly curiosity.

“What a handsome fellow,” I said. “What’s your name?”

“That’s Turnip,” Sylvia smiled. “Since he likes you, you may stay for supper.”

“Oh, but I really mustn’t impose —”

“It’s getting dark,” Sylvia interrupted, “You won’t want to make the journey now, and I’ve made far too much stew for just the two of us. We’ll keep an eye out; if Lord Vane comes to collect you, he’ll have to pass right by our front door.”

“I don’t know what can have happened,” I said, wringing my hands. I had begun to grow fretful by this point. “I’m sure I was expected to arrive today.”

“Best thing that could’ve happened to you. Who’d ever want to stay with that old bat?”

Sylvia waved a dismissive hand in Danny’s direction. “Pay no attention to her, Father. However since it seems that something has occurred to delay your host, I’m certain that he’d prefer you be kept fed and dry until he arrives.”

I began to protest once more and was again cut off.

“No, it’s no use. I won’t hear of you stirring a step outside this house until you’ve had a bite to eat.”

I sighed, defeated. In hardly any time at all, I found myself seated beside the chimney-corner with Turnip on my lap. I couldn’t help but feel fortunate, even if I had become rather waylaid. There must have been some mix-up with the dates, I was sure of it. Perhaps a letter had gone astray. Whatever the case, I was sure I should find that Lord Vane wasn’t to blame for it all. It’s only that it left me in something of a difficult position.

It was true, of course, that I actually knew nothing at all about Lord Vane, except that he must be a devout man. I know all too well that devotion to the faith is not the only measure by which a man’s heart may be judged, but I hoped that he was not the man Danny implied he was. I was growing more grateful for a roof over my head by the minute as it grew black outside and icy rain began to rattle against the windows.

The house was like something out of a painting by Gainsborough, gable-roofed and wood-framed. Bundles of dry, fragrant herbs — mint, sage, tarragon and thyme — hung, bound with twine, from wooden beams overhead. Sylvia was busily occupied over a cast-iron pot in a nook of the room that served as kitchen and dining area. Danny stood nearby and they exchanged a few hushed words when, no doubt, they thought I wouldn’t notice. The stone arch of the large, open fireplace reminded me of the arched windows of some very old, stone church. In the corner was a small but ornately carved statue of a horned figure. 

Soon Sylvia was ladling out stew to Danny and me from a pot suspended above the hearth by a large, wrought-iron handle. 

“So how is it that you came to be invited to Swallow’s Rest, Father?” Sylvia asked.

The question was put in a way that reminded me strikingly of the habitual tones of those clergy who are used to coaxing deep, and soul-rending truths from the lips of parishioners. I’m not sure why that image came to me, then, but I have often thought of it since.

I thought it wisest not to reveal my true errand to her, in any case.

“I’m not certain,” I replied, “It’s a matter of grave spiritual importance, but I was told I would learn more from — Lord Vane, was it?”

“Oh, Lord Vane, yes,” Danny’s reply was emphatic and not without sarcasm. “You’d better remember that. Stuck-up son of a bitch. What could he possibly need to fetch you all this way for, anyhow? It’s not as if he’s hard up for —”

“Danny!” exclaimed Sylvia, “Have you forgotten the man’s a priest?” She turned to me, smiling apologetically. “Sorry about her, Father. I lived abroad for a time, so I’ve met my share of Catholics, but Danny’s never been off Swallow’s Rest before.”

I just nodded, not in the least understanding what this implied. 

“Alright, but he ought to be warned about that man!” Danny insisted. 

Sylvia sighed wearily, but seemed disinclined to argue the point.

“Things have gotten strange up at Whithern Hall these last few months,” Danny began, turning to me. “We never saw eye to eye with Lord Vane exactly, he was always a bit of a recluse, but we’d see him now and again. He’s proud of his swordsmanship — real keen on fencing. Used to have me up a couple times a month to practice against,” she nodded towards where a foil lay propped in the corner of the room. “Even that’s stopped, now. I don’t think anyone’s seen him since the summer. I shudder to think what he’s been getting up to, locked away in there. Now, all of a sudden, he’s inviting strangers up to the Hall? I don’t like it.”

I could hear the sincerity in her voice, but I could not allow myself to pass judgement on this man I had yet to meet. If he was calling for an exorcist, after all, either he had a serious problem at home, or a very good reason to avoid the village.

“Thank you,” I said, “I appreciate your concern and I will bear it in mind.”

The evening dragged on with no further sign of my prospective host.

“Why don’t you spend the night here, Father?” Sylvia offered, “It’s a small house, I know, but I think we could make you reasonably comfortable in here by the fire.”

I balked at this, “Oh, no. I couldn’t possibly — with only you two ladies in the house? It wouldn’t be proper.” 

Danny crossed her arms. “Well we can’t exactly have you sleeping on the front lawn on a night like this. Pretty sure Lord Vane wouldn’t like it if we let his guest freeze before he arrives to pick him up.”

“I understand there not being any inn or hotel in a place of this size, but I might at least go beg a night’s shelter of the priest of the local church.”

“Swallow’s Rest has no church nowadays, I’m afraid,” Sylvia said.

I was briefly at a loss for words as I took in this information — could there truly be no church of any kind in this whole village? Were they not Christians?

Meanwhile they continued discussing what they ought to do with me in light of my scruples.

“There’s always the boathouse, I suppose.” Danny gestured towards the the lake side of the house.

“But it’ll be freezing!”

“We can give him that old gas heater,” Danny suggested.

Sylvia frowned. “I don’t —”

“The boathouse will do fine,” I said firmly.

Camping out in the boathouse, in fact, proved to be far less of an ordeal than I feared it might be. It was clean and dry with four solidly-built walls that kept out the wind. I relished the chance to embrace a day or two of purifying asceticism.

I share the space with some boats, of course — a couple of light rowing boats for going on the lake in summer, now stored away under canvas — but, as I have no particular ill-will towards rowing boats, this isn’t an issue.

Sylvia and I erected the simple folding cot while Danny got the gas heater set up and working. Finally, Sylvia gifted me with a whole pile of quilts and woolen blankets, heaping the cot with them. Then the two of them bade me a good night, and I was mercifully alone. 

I hadn’t realized how eager I’d become for solitude until I was curled up in my makeshift bed, reading one of my pulps by the light of the old-fashioned lantern that Danny thoughtfully provided. It’s a silly, indulgent habit, I know, but I had begun a story earlier that day and couldn’t resist finding out what happened to the bold Etruscan nobleman-turned-slave after he was recaptured and thrown bare into the gladiatorial arena. 

How long this letter is! I shall try not to go on so when next I write.

Yours in Christ,
Fr Victor Ardelian

JOURNAL ENTRY 

Dated February 14, 1950. 

The affection that exists between the two ladies in whose boathouse I am currently a guest is beautiful to behold. It is St Valentine’s Day and Danny has at last given Sylvia the gift which was in the package I brought ashore with me. So I am free from my promise of secrecy, (although in truth I could hardly tell what the rather ornate garment of lace and silk was, aside from seeming rather expensive.)

The two of them are so demonstrative in their fondness for one another that I’d be inclined to believe them sisters, were it not for the difference in their respective appearances.

It would seem that the popular tradition of giving love tokens on this day is widely practiced among the people of St Silvan’s Head, for I witnessed more than a few such exchanges as I went about the village.

The history of that tradition and its association with the feast of St Valentine is long and shrouded in mystery. In seeking its origins, one finds that there have been not less than three saints of that name. The most famous of these St Valentines was condemned for helping Christians escape Roman jails. On the night before his head was parted from his body, he is said to have healed the daughter of his jailer of her blindness and deafness. A tragic love story between the two has sometimes been appended after the fact, but this is almost certainly a fabrication. Another St Valentine is said to have been martyred for the crime of performing Christian marriages, but I rather doubt this connection also. 

None of this, I need hardly say, sufficiently accounts for the manner in which this day is now celebrated.

It’s my belief that it all comes down to the simple fact that the feast of St Valentine falls on the same day as the far more ancient, pre-Christian festival of Lupercalia. The title of St Valentines Day seems to me a mere veil of Christianity overlying some infinitely stranger and more pagan festival.

EDITOR’S NOTE: Several sentences have been effaced at this point in the text, only one of which was partly legible. It reads, as far as I have been able to ascertain, something like: “There are times when I feel that a similar description might almost as equally be applied to —”

Tonight, after I turned out my lantern, the moonlight filled the room with an unnatural brightness. I could not sleep for the light, (and for fear of yet another of these persistent, unbearable dreams.) In my restlessness, I found myself gazing out the window. The whole island was laid out before me in silver and shadow. In the distance, on the far side of the lake from St Silvan’s Head, I could just see an obscure structure perched atop the highest point of the land. I can still see it now from where I sit. Though I can make out no details, it fills my mind’s eye — perched at the edge of that cliff with a sheer drop into the tempestuous sea below — and I cannot help but shiver. How long has that house hung there through the endless, howling seasons? How cold it must be out there.

Is this the place to which I am bound? Could that shadowed thing really be Lord Vane’s home? For the first time I feel afraid.

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