What Manner of Man: Chapter 27 🦇

Moreover, the walls of my castle are broken; the shadows are many —

Darling reader — is the spooky season treating you well? Got all your bats in a row? With less than two weeks until Halloween, now would be a perfect moment to interest yourself in the Patreon as I’m in the act of preparing some treats (and tricks?) just for patrons. 🎃

JOURNAL ENTRY

Undated.

I begin to feel it my duty to leave a complete account of this affair — I suppose it is in case I do not survive what is to come.

I was in a wild state of mind as the sea carried Silas and myself towards Whithern Hall. Twilight was setting in, carrying with it a chill like the first breath of autumn. My mind ran wild with imagining what terrible scene we might find upon arrival —

I might find Alistair already dead, his corpse mutilated — or kneeling; the executioner’s blade in the act of descending on his bowed neck. These were among the least terrible possibilities that ran through my mind. The terrible ways that death can be meted out present themselves all too readily to the Bible-trained mind.

The scene that met our eyes was one of total confusion. What we found fell shot, at least, of my grimmest expectations. Ascending to the head of that long stairway which leads up from the quay, we were swept into the midst of chaotic activity. All around me, men and women alike — well-furnished by the necessities of labouring aboard ships or in fields — bore wood axes, spades, anything. Many had brought tools whose purpose was the slaughtering of livestock.

The grounds, as far as could be seen in the deepening gloom, were alight with the red glow of small bonfires. Smaller points of firelight passed in and out of the trees beyond like will-o’-the-wisps. Those who were not searching the grounds were within, scouring the halls, overturning and breaking up moveable furniture, all the while adding to the scaffold of kindling they’d begun to erect about the Hall.

They tore hangings from the walls and brought heavy doors crashing down from their hinges. Some were even breaking up pieces of the crumbling outer walls, reducing large stone blocks to rubble in their search for hiding places, hidden passages. Others were occupied collecting tinder and piling it up around the manor, evidently preparing to do as their ancestors had done to the cathedral which had once stood in this place.

I failed to notice when Silas and I became separated, stepping into the midst of the fray. Loud, percussive sounds echoes around the courtyard formed by the cathedral facade. I was shoved aside by someone and, as I tried to regain my footing, I felt for the first time that I was in great danger. The single-minded intensity of the villagers was such that I could easily suffer a lethal fall or be trampled and they wouldn’t give me so much as a glance.

I managed to find a reprieve in an alcove near the entrance to the manor and tried to catch my breath, which came in great rushing gasps. I did not see Silas, and hoped that he had found a safe bay of his own. Part of the outer wall of the southern wing had collapsed, a huge dark gaping wound, bleeding out a plume of dust.

I had not grown to love the fabric of Whithern Hall; yet seeing it roughly broken up in this way made me experience an acute heart-pang of sympathy. I only hoped that Alistair — poor creature — was somewhere safe. I shuddered, unable to see how this night could end otherwise than in terrible bloodshed.

Then my attention was caught by a familiar shadow thrown against a wall by firelight. Yes, there — standing by the gaping double doors was Sylvia. She looked imposing in an unfamiliar, rather ceremonial-looking robe; her graying hair was wild. Her expression was tense but authoritative as she surveyed the scene with narrowed eyes.

At the sight of her, a surge of hope rose in my breast. I could reason with Sylvia, and the rest would follow her. But there was no responsive light in the eyes that turned to meet me. Oh, what a fool I had been to expect otherwise. Perhaps, then, I might have run from her — turned and disappeared into the shifting mass of searchers — but I hesitated, and she decided for me. She pulled me into the crowded main hall almost before I had completed the thought.

“It would have been better if you hadn’t come, Victor.” Her low voice sent a chill down my spine. Its softness had the quality of distant thunder.

“Have you found any trace of him?” I asked.

She shook her head in response. “No, not so much as a whisper. We saw his horses wandering upon a hillside between here and the village, and feared Lord Vane had fled. His sail boat, however, is wrecked down on the shore, so he can only be here. Many are still searching the grounds and forest nearby, but it is generally felt he is hiding in some secret passage or priest hole within the manor walls. Danny is leading a party within. She’s determined to find him.”

“I’m sure that everyone here is in terrible danger, Sylvia. When I saw him last, he nearly killed me.”

Sylvia looked very grave. “You’re right, of course. If they don’t find Lord Vane, they’ll burn the Hall — though there are many who doubt he can be killed by fire alone. I fear they may only provoke his wrath.” She paused, her expression hard and unreadable. “I didn’t want any of this, but since you’ve come I’ll offer again. I am prepared to attempt the completion of the ritual which Lord Vane began — which, in ending your life, may defer his murderous affliction for another century. It is a terrible thing to ask of you, but it would save my people, which must be my priority. They depend upon me.”

I could see that she was right; that this was headed surely for disaster. It was strange, though — I was not afraid of submitting to the knife. It seemed, then, eminently reasonable to me — only correct, in fact — that I should die for Alistair. It was comforting to think that, if I was wrong; if I failed to save Alistair by other means, Sylvia would set things to rights.

“I have something I want to try,” I said, “I don’t know if it will work, but if all goes well we might be able to end this peacefully. If not, meet me at the base of the cathedral spire and I’ll willingly lay my life down to stop this.”

Sylvia looked as if she were about to speak when, from within, a cry went up — then another, and another. A general commotion drew our attention to the door of the conservatory, which stood open, spilling red light into the dark hall beyond.

“They’re human!” I heard a voice say. Through the crowd of bodies within, I caught just a sight of a smooth, white skull as it was raised out of the earth. Evidently one or more human skeletons has been unearthed from beneath the flagstones. They stood, I noticed, at the foot of the ash.

The bones might be anywhere between a hundred and a thousand years old. I had no doubt as to their identity; the remains of my predecessors. But I could not afford to linger or dwell on this; not with Alistair waiting. While Sylvia was fully occupied with the discovery, I slipped away into the dark corridors of the manor. All that mattered was finding Alistair before Danny or the other villagers, and there was no doubt in my mind as to where I must go.

I have nothing to recommend this week, but if you crave a link to click — might I recommend: ✨ me ✨?

I’m aware of the presence of at least one or two among you who do not, as yet, follow me on Tumblr. You’re missing out on some really top-quality nonsense, if so — like this WMOM-related post from Wednesday about Priest (2011).

-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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