What Manner of Man: Chapter 3.5 🦇

A vampire is never late, nor is he early; he arrives precisely when he means to.

Important reminder: After this, What Manner of Man is moving to Fridays! Hopefully this half-chapter will be enough to hold you over until the next full chapter, on Friday, March 3rd!

LETTER TO VERA ARDELIAN

Dated February 28, 1950. 

EDITOR’S NOTE: This letter is unsigned and, as you shall see, unfinished. It was not kept with the other letters to Vera — we found it folded and pressed within the pages of the journal. The paper was notably creased, as if it had been, at one time, crushed into a ball and discarded. The reader may infer from this what they wish.

Dearest Sister,

Some exciting news at last!

It happened at the end of a dark, windy day, with clouds that rolled and churned overhead in waves like the sea. Towards evening, the sun had at last begun to break through the parting clouds and a crimson sunset bled across the sky, turning the whole surface of the lake the color of red wine. Sylvia and I had gone out onto the front step of the cottage, determined to enjoy the last of the dying light. 

We were peeling potatoes; a skill which I have yet to master. I tried in vain to follow the fluid, rhythmic way she moved the knife back and forth, passing it effortlessly between the skin and flesh with slow, deliberate strokes.

As I finished with one potato, Sylvia handed me another from a wicker basket at her side. “It’s been a pleasure having you as a guest, Father. I’m not accustomed to having someone always around who helps with the kitchen work, reads my books aloud to me while I do the mending, keeps Turnip occupied,” she trailed off, not taking her eyes from her work. “Not to mention no one but you ever laughs when I make jokes about guys like William Stukeley and Montague Summers. I shall miss that.”

“Then you’ve already guessed my intentions.” By this time I knew better than to ask how she’d guessed, but it was true: for some days past I’d been making quiet, noncommittal preparations to leave.

Sylvia was looking more than usually wise and mysterious that evening. Turnip lay sphinx-like and serene between us and, looking from Sylvia to the cat, the resemblance between them was unmistakable. Sylvia has a distinctly feline way about her, in some moments. I’m quite convinced that she is never more keenly watchful than when she seems most languidly at-ease.

All the time I’d been her guest I felt sure she’d been studying me — though no one could have been more politely incurious. Perhaps, I thought, I’d be able to learn something from her for a change now that I was leaving. 

For various reasons that I needn’t bore you with, I’d begun having doubts about the entire business which had brought me here. Countless times I’ve made up my mind to have done with it for good. After all, I reasoned, they might have another priest sent if one was still wanted. Surely my time was not so valueless that I could be expected to wait indefinitely. That afternoon, I had taken the final step of speaking to one of the fishermen in the village, and he was prepared to convey me back to the mainland in the morning.

Yet even then I was torn. Could I abandon this assignment while any possibility remained of there being a soul here in need of help? What if harm was done that I might have prevented? Above all, I hated to leave with so many questions still unanswered.

I decided to settle at least one matter that had been troubling me since my arrival.

“When I first came here, you told me that you had no church ‘nowadays.’ What did you mean by that?”

She paused, seeming to consider the question. “I suppose I was thinking of the old ruined church that stands on the grounds of Whithern Hall.”

Whatever I had expected to hear, this wasn’t it. Incredulously I looked out across the lake that lay between us and the Hall. I could just make out the sprawling, ambiguous shape of it against the darkening sky. “But why would there have ever been a church so far from the inhabited part of the island?”

Sylvia took a moment to carefully gather an accumulation of potato peelings into an earthenware dish. “Oh, there was a village there, I believe. Long abandoned — I’m not sure whether anyone knows exactly why.” 

“How strange! A whole village, and nobody has any idea why they left?”

“You’ll find stranger incidents than that — many of which lack explanation — in the history of Swallow’s Rest.”

Now, Turnip is as docile and personable a cat as I’ve ever known, so it came as a complete surprise when (with no warning, and from no visible cause) he recoiled violently, lashing out at me. I drew back my hand with a cry and he leapt away, vanishing into the house. However I had no time to dwell on the event, as, next moment, my attention was drawn by the staccato drum of hooves, echoing too-loud against the beaten earth. 

Then, turning, I saw him.

Coming towards us along the wide, straight road that pierces through the heart of St Silvan’s Head: a tall rider mounted on a splendid, coal-black steed. He seemed almost to be preceded by a vanguard of darkness, looking as if he were driving the last rays of daylight before him, as, with his arrival, the sun disappeared behind the horizon. 

How can I describe him? Something about the sight made me shiver; my hair standing on end. With his proud, masterful bearing, unmistakably that of an accomplished horseman, it seemed to me the man had about him an aura of almost palpable evil. I felt, in that moment, exactly as if I was in the presence of some imminent, physical danger. He was magnificent.

EDITOR’S NOTE: Some lines following this have been blotted out so thoroughly as to be unrecoverable, after which the letter ends.

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