What Manner of Man: Chapter 21 🦇

The first and last time Father Ardelian ever went into a hole.

Hello again darlings! Welcome back — I can’t thank you enough for your patience and support during What Manner of Man’s hiatus. Bless you all for still being here.

• For the benefit of those whose recollection of events just prior to this may have dimmed somewhat: last Friday’s recap briefly touching on a few recent developments.

• To my beloved patrons: You are the whipped cream atop my lemon meringue, the sugar cube for my absinthe, the arsenic in my tea.

• In spirit I am weaving an ever-expanding, infinitely rich tapestry of gratitude dedicated to each one of you.

LETTER TO VERA ARDELIAN

Undated.

Dearest Sister,

How much time has elapsed since I last took up my pen to write those words? I hardly know anymore. In my innermost heart, I think I have known for some time past — even as I wrote them, that my letters could never reach you. At last I could no longer keep up the pretense, and so I ceased to write. But now —

Oh, Vera. You’ve always understood me — at times, perhaps better than I have understood myself. I have never known anyone to whom I could confide as fully. I feel as if the heavens have come crashing down all around me, and I stand amid flame and waste. Soon nothing much will matter with me any longer, and I must unburden my soul.

I am guilty of that sin which is condemned as abomination by divine law. Your dear brother is a homosexual.

Would this confession come as a terrible shock to you? I should wish to believe so, but I suspect not. I am like an inadequate sea wall which has been crumbling away for years. Long before I ever spoke of entering the priesthood, I recall the way you smiled and said nothing when it was suggested that I should someday marry some neighbor or female friend. I understand all that this entails; a fearful, criminal existence. Too well do I know how the ever-present threat of blackmail looms over some like the sword of Damocles, but I can deny my nature no longer. I must prepare myself to accept the incoming tide.

In light of this, I see no way that I can continue any longer in my role as a servant of the Church. You were never more than tolerably well-disposed toward my choice of vocation, in any case. Furthermore, in light of recent experiences — of the total failure of the exorcism which was my purpose in coming here — I find that I simply no longer believe.

Even now, I think I should not dare to write this if I believed it would ever truly reach your eyes.

I believe that, on the last occasion that I wrote, I spoke of my old school friend, Monty; of the golden summer days we spent together. It’s Monty who has seemed to lurk beneath the surface of all my thoughts of late. He and I never spoke aloud of that which was in our hearts, but I feel sure that he knew how I cared for him. He was rather a vain, foolish boy, but — oh, I was passionately devoted to him.

I doubt whether much that I could say would come as a complete surprise to you — and, frankly, I can admit to anything I like, however shocking. (After all; who is likely to ever care to read such a thing as my unsent letters?) I loved Monty with all the mad, unreasoning devotion of youthful attachment.

Strange, the ways that suppressed desires will find expression. Passions such as ours must have some outlet, I suppose. We used to read descriptions of strange, pagan rites and recreate them; making our little orchard into a sacred grove. Monty would generally assume the role of priest; I, the sacrifice. I must have died a hundred times amid the apple blossoms. Now — having seen first-hand the terrifying result of such a ritual, truly performed, I shudder to think what we were courting so lightly.

To him, it was only an interesting game; to me, it meant far more. I was drawn to all such paganism and devilry, even then. In my fascination, I was also acquiring a good deal of practical knowledge of the archaeology of the area. We both fancied ourselves great adventurers; antiquarians. So clever. Can you guess where this is going? Please forgive me for never confiding in you. I have never spoken of that terrible day to anyone — neither to our parents, nor to the authorities.

By the slow piecing together of hints and suggestions gleaned from a medley of sources, both common and obscure — Monty and I formed a theory that there might be a site of archaeological significance near a certain abandoned mine that was yet unknown to modern scholarship. Little could be guessed as to its nature, save that it seemed to have served some ceremonial purpose and was still in use during the period of the Roman occupation.

Monty’s enthusiasm for the prospect was more tempered than mine. The holidays were almost over, and he protested the idea of spending the remainder in fruitless exertion. He agreed that some structure must once have been in the place, but he was doubtful that evidence of it might still remain; anything ancient that may have been buried there had probably been destroyed beyond recognition by mining operations.

By that time, however, I would not be dissuaded. I was going to find out, I told him, and he could come or not as he pleased.

God help me — though he laughed and called me absurd, Monty did care for me, or I’m sure he’d never have accompanied me that day. I can see with painful clarity, now, how the two of us were never speaking the same language — how his overtures to me and mine to him were like coded messages, translated through so many barriers of self-loathing, youth, and fear, that they were rendered incomprehensible to one another.

I had brought things with which to dig — only for myself, knowing how Monty would turn pale at the thought of soil beneath his fingernails. As it turned out, the miners had left very little work for us to do at all. A little distance beyond the mine entrance, we struck a place where unusual stones emerged from the earthen wall.

It was I who uncovered the entrance. If the idea of a mere lad not only discovering an ancient stone chamber, overlooked for centuries, but actually gaining entrance to it seems too absurd, you must try to imagine how it felt for me. Earth and rubble fell away under my trowel until between us yawned a great, dark hole, with rocks like teeth protruding inward on all sides.

I became uneasy at the prospect of actually entering the place. “We’re liable to fall and break our necks,” I hesitated. But Monty preceded me, and my burning curiosity soon won out.

I wish I’d had the expertise to accurately record and describe what I found within. In all the years that have passed, I have found few words — there was some resemblance to a neolithic passage tomb, but one which bore clear signs of Roman presence. I had read much about the Roman temples called Mithraeum; underground chambers used for initiation rituals; caves transformed into images of the universe. That is what the painted ceiling evoked to me — a strange, hidden universe; a secret left buried and undisturbed through unguessed centuries. I seem to recall that the walls were carved with curious, spiraling designs.

Even now I can form no theories about the grave.

From the far end of the chamber — which was actually quite small, though it looms large in my memory — Monty cried out. I went to him and saw the ancient human remains.

A body — even one that must be a thousand years old — is a shocking sight. I became filled with the overwhelming sense that I was trespassing, and nearly turned and fled — but, once again, I conquered my instincts. It seemed all too wonderful and fascinating to resist. A ring that circled one skeletal finger caught my eye; lamplight gleaming dully off the metal roughly worked into the shape of a double spiral.

“But that doesn’t make sense,” I said aloud. “Looks more like Celtic design than Roman. How does it come to be on the finger of this fellow — bearing all these signs of Roman burial?”

Then, at that moment, a low, indeterminate sound frightened us half out of our skins and we hastily scrambled away and out through the aperture by which we’d entered the chamber. I felt a pang of regret at leaving the place, for all that I knew it was the only thing to do. The mine was unguarded, but I felt certain we’d both be in terrible trouble if we were discovered there. Near the entrance of the mine, we paused to listen. The sound did not reoccur, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

When I turned to Monty, he seemed anxious. Next moment, however, he had concealed his nervousness beneath a conspiratorial grin. He had an affected air of smug nonchalance. Then, taking me by the hand, he slipped the ancient ring onto my finger.

I feel terribly ashamed of this, now, but the act inspired sheer panic-terror in me. I thrust Monty away, snapping some admonishment at him as I did so. I believe I said something about taking this seriously, and it not being a game. I was appalled that he had snatched the ring from the skeleton, but far more by the feelings which had inspired him to play at putting it on my finger.

Monty turned from me, angry and hurt. I can imagine how he must have felt. Calling me a coward, he said he was going back to search the skeletal remains for more artifacts. He started back towards the dark maw of the chamber.

I wonder whether the memory of that moment will ever cease to haunt me — the last that I saw him alive.

P.S. FROM 2024:

Hello! 👋 What you’re reading is a draft version of What Manner of Man. This and the chapter following it go very slightly differently, and, more importantly, they have been combined and MOVED to a secret, special new location!

(You can get the complete, edited and expanded novel DRM-free on Itch.io or at the retailer of your choice.)

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