What Manner of Man: Chapter 30 🦇

'The man hath penance done, / And penance more will do.'

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JOURNAL ENTRY (CONTINUED)

Undated.

Though Alistair spoke them with joy, I couldn’t bear the words.

“You impossible creature; why this well of grief?” he asked. “What is there to mourn? To think that I will pass from this life; that all the agony will pass with me? A thousand times before you were ever born, I had wished for death.” He laid a hand on my cheek, smiling as if this thought would comfort me.

“Don’t say that, please —” I embraced him again, shutting my eyes against the words.

He took me in his arms, still laughing. The intensity of his emotion, however — that lightness, that delight — proved too great. In his weakened, crumbling state, any strong emotion might become too much for him to bear. In the midst of this jubilant embrace, his firm grip on himself must have relaxed somewhat.

As he held me, laughing, he showed a mouth full of wickedly sharp teeth and his eyes flashed with the warning-light of some nocturnal predator. When he folded me in his arms again, it was with a strength that was frightening. Then — lips parted, all humanity gone from his features — he descended on me with those awful fangs.

Just as my mouth was opening to cry for him to stop, however, he froze with the suddenness of one turned to stone. Then, all at once, he collapsed in on himself, recoiling from me with a groan.

“Forgive me. I can’t, you see — I can’t,” drawing his legs up, as he spoke, into a posture of abject misery. “Better you had never returned at all — that you’d left me to rot for all eternity in this tomb — than see me like this.” I hardly recognized the voice so wracked with agony.

He seemed in danger of withdrawing completely, and instinct told me I mustn’t allow him to go beyond my reach.

I reached for him. “Hush — don’t leave me now, Alistair. There’s still so much to do; I need you.”

He gazed at me dimly, blinking, as if I were a ghost; as if only half-believing in the reality of me. I could see him hesitating, searching for the means to articulate his thoughts. Some moments passed before he spoke again.

“How is it that you’ve come back to me like this, Father?”

“Call me Victor, please.”

He took me in with eyes now clear and assessing. “Yes, I can see you’ve changed. How strange that I didn’t know from the moment you entered the room. You no longer believe.”

“It’s true,” I said, “I have shed that garment.”

“Tell me — what brought this about?”

“It was the exorcism ritual. I think I’d lost my faith forever by the end of that night; standing upon that bleak cliff while the sky was falling and failing each successive test. Seeing that all the symbols of my faith amounted to nothing more than a gnat before Leviathan, how could I continue to believe?”

“Even that, assuredly, would not have been enough to dissuade a great many men.”

“Then perhaps I lack something in my nature. No — no, it isn’t that. I have felt the touch of some wild divinity here, though I do not understand it. I felt it at the ruins. I feel it in you, also. And —” I hesitated, confronting the truth of the words for the first time as I spoke. “I think I may have felt it, in some manner, long before coming to this place. I believe the touch of it has been upon my heart since before I entered the seminary, even. It frightens me, I am in awe of it. Oh, Alistair, I’m beginning to understand so much more, and yet I still know far too little. I have so many questions. Why me? Why — priests?”

Alistair smiled wanly. “Come, then. First let’s move to where we can sit more comfortably, and then I’ll tell you anything you wish to know. This floor is very hard and my bones ache.”

Carefully we moved to arrange ourselves on what remained of the bed. The mattress and frame were mercifully in-tact, though they lay in the midst of ruin. He positioned himself at arm’s-length from me; meticulous, now, in his respect. I yearned to touch him again, but didn’t dare.

Alistair looked infinitely weary; his posture expressive of age in a way that I can compare only to the appearance of certain very ancient trees. He wore his face like a mask.

“I will explain because you deserve to know what I am and what I’ve done,” then, hesitating, “and — because I long for you to know me. A selfish, unworthy desire. I do not pretend to deserve your sympathy.”

He settled himself, his posture tense with concentration as he found his next words. “Swallow’s Rest is a false name for the deity which resides in this place. A truer name is that which is signified by that talisman you bear — the device of rising and falling wheels.” Almost unconsciously I raised my hand to touch the ring.

Glancing at me, he noted the gesture, then went on. “For our purposes, however, the title of Swallow’s Rest will serve. The mysteries that govern this world cannot be tamed with human names and faces. The attempt only renders them more incomprehensible to us. I knew a great many secret and powerful words, once, long ago, but those memories died with my body. You see, I was — I am — high priest of this island.”

“A priest!” This affected me strongly, though I cannot say precisely why.

Alistair nodded, choosing his words carefully. “I wish you to understand what I was to my people, those countless ages ago — steward of our laws and religion, our histories. Priest, warrior, philosopher. There is no modern title — no true equivalent to which I can compare myself — that fully conveys all that my office involved. I am nothing now to anyone, and my people, whom I served dutifully, have been dust for centuries.

“It was my first, most solemn duty to intercede on behalf of my people with the divine. I performed our rituals and tended the sacred grove. I was a keeper of vast, secret knowledge, and I held great power.

“I sought the apprenticeship of a wise and powerful elder when I was very young and devoted my life to those mysteries which must never be written — most of which, now, have passed from my memory and out of existence.

“By the time of my body’s death, I had gained a high and respected position among the leaders of my sect. It fell to me to interpret signs and assuage the deity when we felt the sting of its wrath.”

I felt dizzy from contemplating all that I’d just been told. Was this the discovery toward which I had long groped blindly? Something about it felt wrong.

I thought of all he must have done; the rituals he must have been called upon to perform. “I imagine it must have been frightening, to be in that position — to face it all alone.”

“At times,” he continued, slowly, as if speaking from a great distance, “Though I was well prepared by my training. I was not the first. When I was born, the island which is now Swallow’s Rest had already been a holy site of great importance for a span of time beyond the reach of record or memory. People came from all across the known world to leave offerings and receive blessings. It was all a vast, living temple, in which we lived in service of our god, and I was always needed. We tended to it so that it would tend to us. The tale of my people is written in the shape of Swallow’s Rest itself. I was proud of it, and my role in its maintaining.

“A version of the faith still survives, I believe; practiced by the people of St Silvan’s Head.

“The woman called Sylvia, who you know — I am aware that she serves, in her community, a role distantly akin to mine.” Without pausing for me to catch my breath, he went on —

“It was Sylvia who did this, was it not?” Extending a hand, as he spoke, Alistair touched the crimson embroidery across the breast of my cassock. “I recognize the design — a charm of protection, very old. She’s made it well.”

I felt this very poignantly — I had never, before this, felt completely assured that Sylvia truly wished me well. Her Sphynx-like demeanor was impenetrable to me.

“The violent act that made a need for it, of course, was my handiwork.” He grimaced and withdrew his hand.

What passed over his face then was grief near to pain. I could picture him in my mind’s eye; the magnificent leader celebrated in the temple monument. He hardly seemed real; a figure so ancient he nearly amounted to myth. Yet, next to me, was a man of flesh and blood — albeit one half vanished.

Alistair’s next words were spoken as if dragged from him by force. “There had been two seasons of blight and hardship, among the worst in my memory. Every customary and extraordinary step was taken, every ritual performed. All manner of offerings given. Finally atonement sacrifices were made — even to the wicker man — but Swallow’s Rest would not give up its bounty. I do not know why, nor do I think I am capable of knowing why.

“When the Romans came, they deemed those of my tribe — as leaders in our communities — a particular threat to their authority, and set about destroying us. Swallow’s Rest was spared, for a time, because of its remoteness. Finally, after two seasons of ill fortune, it was our turn.

“The Roman invaders arrived before the spring. We armed ourselves, we fought the Roman legionnaires to the last of our strength, but we stood on the edge of starvation. My people would not submit to conquest. The bloodshed I have witnessed — but, no. It would be cruel to describe it. I love you too much to taint your ears with that pain. Sometimes, I wished they had simply slaughtered us, but when all seemed lost the Romans began to offer us food, the support of the Empire’s supply chains to sustain us though any difficulty, in exchange for complete surrender.”

“Then you gave them what they demanded, handing over this ring, to stop the death,” I spoke so quietly I wasn’t sure I’d be heard.

A chill had entered Alistair’s tone. “I betrayed my people, yes. My reward was betrayal by my new masters. They took control of the land. The revolts that followed were worse than the conquest. We proved ourselves untamable, and so they treated us with brutality. As for myself, I was stripped of my powers, humiliated me, and was executed in hopes it would break our spirit.”

“But Swallow’s Rest brought you back.”

“Yes, it brought me back. The Romans saw the ring merely as a symbol conveying status and religious authority, but it is far more than that. A sacred item of almost mythical importance — to give it away was a material severing of the bond between us and Swallow’s Rest. Until now, I believed it had been destroyed.

“So that divinity which dwells in Swallow’s Rest would not let me die as I justly deserved. I tried — oh, how desperately I tried — but death would not take me. Then, within a year, I began to know the madness of beasts.”

“Why worship a god that would take such a tithe of pain?”

“Why indeed, Father?” Which answer I richly deserved. “The god I served was never one of love. It was only of Nature, which does not abide by human standards of justice. I was Swallow’s Rest’s steward, and in its way it loved me. Few were allowed to touch it as I did, and I sold it for nothing! Would you not be angry if that was done to you? Would you not want revenge?”

“What else could you have done?” I protested, “The people of Swallow’s Rest were dying!”

“I am a monstrous traitor! You must see that. I compounded my crime, again and again. Soon I became in flesh what I was already in spirit. I killed indiscriminately, I slaughtered guilty and innocent alike, and I took joy in it. It was only by chance that I discovered a method to suppress the madness — when I took a Roman centurion. I remember the taste of him still, the sweetness of his flesh. I did not kill him swiftly like the others, I played with him. I recreated the rituals he had silenced in my people, because I was depraved, because I was without restraint. To my surprise, it earned me not further punishment but a reprieve from the madness. Still could not die; so I lived like an animal, hiding in sea-caves and among the trees.

“To my horror, the madness returned. Yet it worked again, play-acting our most sacred rituals in this unhallowed manner. The Romans, harrowed by attacks from a monstrous creature they did not understand, eventually fled. Then I had to find ways of procuring them, because only those to whom I had given the ring would work. Humiliation compounded humiliation. I built honeyed traps to entice more of them to return. Wars were fought, nations fell. I continued for centuries, outliving even the Roman Empire. Many became servants of the new crucified god, whose cult prospered. In time, I sought my prey exclusively among the clergy of the Roman Catholic Church. It was I myself who brought Christianity to this island. Do you despise me yet?”

“How can I condemn you?” I asked softly.

He raised his chin, challenging me. “Priests proved the most effective. I think it’s their ritual that does it; every week performing their sacrificial ritual where they eat their god’s flesh and drink his blood. This house — and the cathedral that stood here before it — is a heathen temple built upon the desecrated ground where the Romans destroyed our most sacred grove. Then, while I desecrated it, the rites the Christians practiced here proved to not be so different from our own, though soon it became clear they did not know it. In the end, when it came to it, they generally loved martyrdom; going happily to meet their crucified god in paradise. I have no such expectation.”

In light of the latest news from Tumblr, I feel obliged to mention I do have profiles on Bluesky, Twitter, Cohost (brand new!), and even a Facebook group.

As an observant reader you may notice that I do not use these profiles terribly often (never been very good at keeping up with more than 2 or so social media accounts at a time 😪). I commit to you here and now, however, that if several of you go follow me any of these places, I will commence posting forthwith.

-St John

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