What Manner of Man: Chapter 25 🦇

The galleries seem straight / But curve furtively, forming secret circles / At the terminus of years;

I can’t believe it’s already October — that time when when all evil things of heaven and earth and, above all, vampire romance novelists hold revel! 😈 Feeling very wicked and excited, currently, about various new things I’m just beginning to share on Patreon. This week, patrons of Accomplice tier and above get to see a deleted moment from Chapter 23.

JOURNAL ENTRY (CONTINUED)

Undated.

This ring which I’ve carried so long; I feel almost as though I am seeing it for the first time. The symmetry of the twin spirals draws my gaze inexorably like the spiraling stone tracery of certain rose windows — like the wide, hypnotically-staring eyes of saints in early Christian art. This unfathomably ancient symbol which must harbour depths of significance that I can only guess at. Falling and rising spirals — mirror images — like the many dying and rising gods, of which Christ is one; like the perpetual ascent and descent of human souls into Heaven or Hell.

The ancient divinity that dwells in this place — what name could ever encompass it? It is terrible in the way that storms are terrible; deadly and sublime. It is all-desiring, boundless nature — to whom refusal is meaningless. It is the very land itself.

I’d thought myself safe from further ordeals in the realm of dreams — culminating, as they’d seemed to, with certain experiences at Whithern Hall. The foregoing scene seemed the final in the sequence. With the fading of the vision, knowledge of my present surroundings and my purpose in being there gradually returned. Silas waiting for me; the shadow which threatened the peace of St Silvan’s Head. I had come in search of answers to to the riddle of Alistair’s dreadful curse.

At my feet, where the winged god of my vision had stood, there lay — just-visible beneath moss and vine — a slab of broken rock like a fallen tombstone. The roots of a weeping ash crept over part of the surface and I would never have noticed it had I not been standing directly over the place. I knelt down and, driven by some impulse I do not pretend to understand, began to claw through the soft damp of the overgrowth. Much of it came away easily, tearing loose in clumps of earth, and, bit by bit, the carving beneath was revealed.

The style of the decoration was Roman — like the temple, of which it had evidently formed a part — but contained certain curious, unmistakably Celtic elements. I mistrusted my interpretation of all that I saw and longed to stay and study the place in greater detail. I have never read of any similar decoration being found on a Roman structure. The only thing which it even slightly resembled, in fact, was the ruin in which had been found my ring.

The surface was partly obscured by a tree root which couldn’t be removed and much was broken or missing. Enough remained, however, to construct a striking narrative. It was built, I interpreted, to commemorate a major event between the two peoples. The first image depicted a throned, masterly figure, sitting in rulership over the land. He bore the double spiral symbol in both hands and was crowned in a headdress that radiated lines like the rays of the sun. The second — the land invaded by an army with violent force, men and trees alike cut down. Finally, the figure from the first panel, uncrowned, offering the symbol to a representative of the invading nation, evidently the Romans.

It was the same symbol that I had seen carved into the front of the sacrificial altar of this temple. The very altar on which I had jested with Alistair that day — a lifetime ago, it seems now. Now that I had the presence of mind to see it, Swallow’s Rest seemed to teem dizzyingly with the double spiral. All along the sea-cliff — by the ancient stairs that led down to to place where Alistair docked his boat, I had observed them. That chamber below Whithern Hall — it was there, in the hypnotic gyre of the star-painted vault; in the winding branches of the stone-carved trees. A host of half-remembered spirals seemed to emerge from the shadows of memory. It was present even in the embroidery which emblazoned the mended shoulder of my cassock.

There was no doubt in my mind as to the connection with that which lay, at that very moment, against my breast. My ring — its shape so familiar that I rarely spared it a second thought. This memento which I have carried with me all my life; can it have been something beyond my guilt that has given it power over me?

I held the ring in my palm and examined it minutely, perhaps for the first time in years. The thin metal band, worked into the shape of twin spirals; surely it was from Swallow’s Rest. That I had found it in a Roman grave — the implications left me breathless.

I hardly dare to write — to articulate, even to myself — the fragile hope which has begun to bloom within me. What can it mean? Can it be mere coincidence if I bear — have borne, all along — the key at the centre of this ancient mystery?

All along I have felt that, in coming to this place, I was acting in accordance with divine plan. Perhaps I was merely mistaken as to the nature of divinity.

Oh, Alistair — surely I am beginning to understand the nature of the duty you spoke of that binds you to this place. In what distant age of Earth’s past were you born? What name did you bear in those far-off days? King? God? Perhaps you were even a contemporary of Christ himself.

I have no desire greater than to see you once more, to feel your hand in mine — to give you, if I can, even a moment’s relief from the horror that consumes you.

UNLABELLED NOTE

Severely torn; likely from where it has been pinned to a door.

EDITOR’S NOTE: Found inserted among unrelated journal pages.

Victor,

Gone to Whithern Hall — do not follow. If you attempt to prevent us, I will not answer for your safety. You know our purpose.

I am sorry,
Sylvia

This week I want to recommend the work of Margo Hendricks! An emeritus professor specializing in Shakespeare and premodern critical race studies, she now writes M/F historical romance novels and cozy mysteries under the pen-name Elysabeth Grace. I’m reading one right now and Shakespeare and Christopher Marlowe make personal appearances. Here on Substack she writes about race, romance, history, and academia with staggering breadth of knowledge.

Find her novels here and her Substack here.

-St John

Message from 2024: Hello! 👋 What you’re reading is a draft version of What Manner of Man. 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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