What Manner of Man: Chapter 5 🦇
Eat and be eaten.
JOURNAL ENTRY
Undated.
May God preserve me from the terrible temptations that press around me and seal my heart forever against the suggestions of sinful pleasures. The dream that visited me on my first night in this place was the most terrible and vivid I have yet experienced —
Yesterday, over dinner, (as the night was wearing on and Lord Vane had yet to mention the matter himself) I raised the subject of that which brought me to Swallow’s Rest. He had changed out of his riding clothes and into a remarkable coat with a goldwork embroidery of oak leaves on black velvet. I felt quite shabby in comparison, although I had put on my dress cassock having suspected the garments I’d been wearing earlier of having a suggestion of stable about them after the ride from St Silvan’s Head to the Hall.
The dinner that he gave me, incidentally, was so sumptuous — broiled quail and chanterelles, Saint-Nectaire cheese with figs — that I quite forgot to observe that abstention that is appropriate to the Lenten season. (In future I must remember to be more on guard about such things and not allow myself to be seduced by worldly pleasure. I must seek to desire no more than what I must have by necessity; I know all too well that temptations of this kind are precisely the keys by which a demon could gain entrance to my soul.)
I broached the subject in a conversational lull after Lord Vane had finished describing to me the tale of how a very distant ancestor had been knighted — the origin of the family title — for bringing Christianity to Swallow’s Rest.
“I have been brought here, I understood, to assess a case of demonic possession?”
Lord Vane sat at attention. “Ah, yes, you must forgive me for not having brought up the business of your visit at once — to tell the truth I was enjoying your company so much that it quite slipped my mind.”
I acknowledged the compliment with a smile.
“With regard to your question — I’m surprised you have to ask, Father. Have you not just come from St Silvan’s Head? Surely you could not have failed to notice that there are demonic forces at work there among the villagers.”
I paused, an image of what I had seen as I’d been walking along the shore that day flashing through my mind. I looked down, suddenly unable to meet his gaze.
“The inhabitants of St Silvan’s Head have some er —” I hesitated, trying to rid my mind of the memory, “some eccentric practices and even beliefs, no doubt; but they are whole of body and mind. I met no one there who exhibited the signs of demonic possession.”
“Ah, but not only in the villagers themselves. Is it possible that you do not feel it — the deep, abiding evil in the place? I sense it everywhere; a poison that has infected the very rock and soil of Swallow’s Rest. The whole island seems to be saturated with it.”
Despite myself I was arrested, transfixed — this was not at all the answer I had expected.
“Even here,” he continued, “It seeps in through the casements and up through the floor until, by degrees, the whole house must succumb to the foul influence.” Then he paused, and with a sardonic smile said, “But then perhaps you don’t believe in such things. I am aware that it has become fashionable for men of the faith to pour scorn upon such notions and the ability of the powers of darkness to manifest physically among mankind.”
“Not at all, Lord Vane. You sought an exorcist, and you have found one. I know all too well what evils are present in this world, and just because I have not seen evidence of them in St Silvan’s Head does not mean the scales are over my eyes. There are demons on Swallow’s Rest, you are right. Give me time to do my work, and I will ensure your nights are restless no more.”
I now believe he spoke that night with the tongue of the demon and that all this was little more than blown smoke. And yet afterwards I heard his words still echoing through my head, all too plausible.
I am greatly troubled by this suspicion I have of him, yet I cannot rid myself of it. The feelings with which his presence inspires me are all the basis that I have; for he shows no outward sign of the demon. Yet they are so acute, their voices so loud that I can hardly turn a deaf ear to them. If I am right, then the demon must be all but fully ascendant within the man, so why does he show none of the usual signs? I must study both him and this place to discover the fountainhead of the evil that poisons it.
LETTER TO VERA ARDELIAN
Dated March 7, 1950.
The room Lord Vane has given me is marvellous — scarcely believable when one considers that I come to it directly from sleeping on a cot in a draughty boathouse. I have a window from which I can look out over clifftop onto the sea far below. I understand there are men who would give almost anything to have such a view. Perhaps I should feel fortunate that Lord Vane seems not to get many guests or I doubt he would squander such a desirable chamber on a mere humble priest like myself.
The north wall of the room is dominated by a quite extravagant antique tapestry of fantastic design which hangs from ceiling to floor. I would like to believe it to be the product of a devout hand, for the craftsmanship is exceedingly fine, but the subject matter leaves some room for doubt on that score.
It is almost as frightening as it is beautiful; like a picture by Heironymus Bosch or Pieter Bruegel the Elder.1 I can only describe it as a vast, primordial landscape populated by ambiguous figures — many seemingly neither human nor beast; men nor women — but creatures at various stages between. In one portion there is a group — unclad or scarcely-clad in animal-skins and crowns of leaves — engaged, amidst moss-covered trees and red bonfires, in various pursuits with he-goats and foliage-twined staffs. Above this, one can make out some fauns disporting themselves with satyrs on a hill covered with pillars of jutting stone. There are nymphs that carry lit torches and naked blades. Near the centre are some robed figures in a circle of standing stones with a prone youth on a sacrificial altar. Beyond them there is a dark, mossy forest populated by a great many fearsome serpents.
All in all, it is an impressive object, but I’m not sure it is contributing to the wholesomeness of my dreams.
Without wishing to trouble you with the details, I have at last learned something of the purported demon with which this place is afflicted. As I am not yet in a position to pronounce any judgement on the matter, I shall say no more about it.
At one time I had thought the case of possession might prove to be someone in Lord Vane’s household, but he seems to have none to speak of. Without any prompting from me, one evening, he explained his solitude thus:
“What need has a man like myself for servants? For what work and upkeep this old tomb requires, I occasionally get labourers from the mainland. Silas can obtain for me all that I require in that vein. Yes, my needs are few — save for companionship, now and then; a sparring partner to assure I keep in training — and those I can get from the village.” Something dark entered his expression then, a tinge of melancholy. “But even these I have had no taste for of late. I find that I shun society, and it is months since I took up the foil and gauntlet.”
At least he has yet to tire of having me as a guest. I have explained that it is necessary for me to spend some time in solitary prayer; preparing myself to perform the rites of exorcism by special acts of devotion. Lord Vane was very understanding about all this and said I might stay as long as I wished, that he was glad of the company and felt safer for my presence.
So I have spent the early hours of each day in prayer and contemplation of holy works. In the evenings I take my meal with Lord Vane — though he has curiously little appetite for so vigorous a man — and enjoy his stimulating conversation. I have had little opportunity as yet to explore Whithern Hall, so I must write again soon with fuller details of the house itself.
Yours in Christ,
Fr Victor Ardelian
JOURNAL ENTRY
Dated March 10, 1950.
Though many nights I have tried, I have never yet been able to bring myself to translate fully into words the vulgar obscenity of these evil dreams that plague me nightly — foul, unnatural visions that turn my thoughts to poison. That I have kept my sanity at all is a miracle.
Oh St Aloysius, help me to serve Jesus Christ in perfect chastity and preserve me from the disastrous consequences of sin — from blindness of the soul, and hardening of the heart. Tonight I feel I must describe this demoniac nightmare or else go mad. If I can only keep my hand from trembling —
It began as it ever does — it is Sunday and I am in the midst of celebrating Mass. I am drawn as if by some irresistible magnetism towards the man who sits, ever, in shadow — with his eyes that blaze like the very fires of Hell. So distracted am I in mind that I almost fear I shall forget the words of the Lord’s Prayer.
Then, without transition, I find myself in the act of celebrating the Eucharist. The man kneels before me to receive Holy Communion. As I raise the Host I am paralyzed by an unaccountable conviction that I have done something terribly wrong — that the process of transubstantiation has itself, somehow, been perverted. I feel, then, with dreadful certainty that what I hold in my hand is not the Body of Christ at all, but some part of myself.
I am aware that I am performing an evil act, then — but I am no longer master of my body. As his lips part to receive this unholy Host I see once more that white glint of teeth. I cannot break from his burning gaze, nor can I stay my hand.
Then, to my everlasting shame, the images come unbidden into my mind of another act altogether that might be performed in our respective positions — he, on his knees, at my feet. I hate these filthy thoughts which so debase the holy sacrament — there is nothing more sacred to my office as Christ’s priest than the celebration of the mystery of His Body and Blood — and yet I am powerless to prevent them. It is unutterable blasphemy — surely the product of some infernal power seeking entrance into my heart.
I tremble violently, causing my fingers to brush ever-so-slightly against his red, sensual lips as I place the Host on his tongue. I feel his breath hot on my fingertips. I — my body responds in — other ways. Then the scene changes once more and, for a moment, I find myself in the confessional.
What would have happened next I cannot say, for, at that moment — with a tremendous wrenching of the spirit — I awoke. Arouse in me, oh my Lord, a profound hatred of all sin. Strengthen me in my struggle against the temptations of the world, the flesh, and the devil. When temptation comes, let me stand unshaken. I must go and pray.
P.S. FROM 2024:
Hello! 👋 What you are reading is a draft version of What Manner of Man. The version of Chapter 5 in the final edition is very different from the one you have just read, with most of the conversation that happens here again rewritten and made much better. Lord Vane gets to tempt and tease Father Ardelian more during their first meal together, and the request he makes of Father Ardelian is no longer to investigate the village, but something entirely different.
(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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-St John
For an example, the painting Dulle Griet by Pieter Bruegel the Elder:
Lord Vane has NOT given up priests for Lent
I see Father Ardelian is having a good Mario day. Intrigued by the exorcism situation, feel like I don't know enough yet to tell if this is a surprisingly religious vampire or a trap.