WMOM: Chapter 6 🦇 (+ART!)
A sea-change — into something rich and strange.
Scroll to the end to see the first official ✨ fan post of the week ✨!
Last week I showed off this official portrait of Father Ardelian — this week we’ve been playing dress-up with him. Which is your favorite?
I’m very excited about getting to share the edited version of this chapter on Patreon, because it contains the first of the entirely new scenes! 🥰 The updated version of chapter 6 ended up containing so much new material that it had to be split into three. This week, an extended version of the first scene where Lord Vane and Father Ardelian share a drink after dinner, and Father Ardelian discovers something sinister about Whithern Hall.
This chapter is dedicated to my darling and adorable patrons callmecayce, Funkdracula, and Eli the taker of naps!
JOURNAL ENTRY
Dated March 11, 1950.
It is not surprising that modern electric lights have yet to be installed in Whithern Hall, but I cannot help feeling that the lurid tapestry which adorns the wall of my chamber is not improved by being lit red with low, flickering candle-light. I’m sure that the sight of it last thing each night is not enhancing the quality of my dreams.
My host’s habits are irregular to say the least. Although he shuns human society, he cares deeply for animals and all growing things. Often I meet him coming from the stables after dusk, and I believe he spends a good deal of time caring for plants in the conservatory (I find fresh lilies in my room almost daily.) I have not yet, however, had the courage to take a peek into that chamber to verify my belief. Something about his attitude towards the place is too private to be intruded upon.
He rises quite late — rarely do I meet him before late afternoon or early evening. This is not a terribly uncommon habit among men of leisure, and I do not regret the fact; I find I shrink from the thought of any encounter with him while the visions of the night before are still fresh in my mind. Even now, I half expect to awake some morning to find Lord Vane standing by the head of my bed, looking down the proud arch of his nose at me. (In addition to this, my mornings are fully occupied with much-needed prayer and study.)
Many days I won’t see Lord Vane at all until the hour when we dine together, (despite the richness of his food, he seems to eat without pleasure.) From that time, however, we keep company long into the night. He keeps me awake until the small hours, never seeming to tire of telling me wild stories or of filling my glass with rare vintages. Tonight was no exception.
At one point, during a lull in the conversation, I noticed Lord Vane leaning back in his chair, regarding with a strange smile. His eyes flitted over me assessingly.
“It is long since I had any company I enjoyed so much. Usually, when I have guests, it’s a matter of pure obligation and, if I may be honest with you, when I got in touch with the Church I was expecting them to send someone old, stuffy, and miserable. Not someone so young, so full of life, so — ah, but I should not insult you by tempting you to vanity.”
“It’s only a venial sin.” Somehow he had provoked a good humour in me. “Thank you, Lord Vane.”
“Excellent,” he said, sitting back in his chair. He gave me another curious look, as if he were trying to work something out. “Would you like a cigar? Or some port?”
When I agreed I expected us to share a glass, but Lord Vane poured mine and neglected to serve himself. Politeness kept me from inquiring about it, and soon this was forgotten as he launched into a harrowing story about a time he was nearly marooned on an island halfway between Swallow’s Rest and the mainland.
He is the sort of man who, if let loose upon a London cocktail party, would have the entire room eating out of his hand in minutes. He possessed a sort of natural charisma that set him in a category previously only occupied for me by faces in movies and voices on the radio. It is a worldly power, but one I have often found myself admiring from afar. (Does the demon in him know and play upon this weakness of mine, or does Lord Vane simply possess such qualities?)
I could instantly picture him atop the prow of a trim little vessel, white scarf whipping in the breeze; or in the midst of a terrible storm, valiantly struggling to lash a rope to a wayward sail or some such thing, defiant in the face of death and the elements. It was a vision drawn directly from the adventure novels I loved as a boy. I can hardly believe such a creature actually exists in this world — but then, perhaps I shouldn’t.
Daily I expect him to ask what progress I am making and when I shall be ready, but he seems content to let me stay on here indefinitely. Could it be that he is waiting for something?
JOURNAL ENTRY
Dated March 14, 1950.
It is vital that I do not let down my guard in this place. It has not been easy — I feel drawn to Lord Vane in a way I have seldom, if ever, felt for any man before. Slowly, I believe, I am coming to understand why.
It is becoming apparent to me that there is not one Lord Vane with whom I share this house but two. One, the man, is sensitive and attentive. I believe him to possess a soul of unusual nobility and grace. How often he shines through in flashes of melancholy — in those moments when a strange mood of mingled sorrow and longing overtakes him.
I seem to recognize him, occasionally, attempting to shield me from the demon that dwells within him. He need not fear for my sake, of course. I am no sacrificial Andromeda chained to the rocks, a helpless prey to the ravaging sea monster of Poseidon. All my religious training — every moment of my spiritual journey has led me to this, preparing me to face him.
The other Lord Vane is a foul serpent bent on seducing me to evil, and, of the two, he is by far the most often in the ascendant position. This Lord Vane, I believe, is the very demon I have come here to destroy. He strews my path with minor temptations: drink, rich food, flattering words. I welcome this — I feel strengthened by it, not worn down.
Is this not at last the opportunity I have sought after all my life? The very Demon King himself, standing before me? This business is too grave to make light of by comparison to the Christmas pantomime, of course, but then to the characters who only come alive within it, the pantomime is the whole of the world. Perhaps through the lofty eyes of God, that is how my life appears.
In the pantomime, the triumphant power of good always wins out, which is what leaves room to watch the demon without fear — and so too am I confident that God is on my side.
Which isn’t to say I should expect no resistance or challenge. No, I expect this to be a trial of my very soul. The demon is a worthy opponent, and one whom I must defeat by cunning alone; for I cannot hope to match him in strength.
I am alone with him, and he is both taller and more athletic than I am. Certainly I could never force him to undergo an exorcism against his will, and so I will need to discover a way by which I can maneuver myself into a position where he will willingly submit.
For now I must bide my time and study him all I can. Whithern Hall is a blessing, for I am certain ancient whispers still reverberate between these walls. With patience I may yet find answers here.
JOURNAL ENTRY
Dated March 15, 1950.
I have no way of knowing exactly what the demon’s plans are for me, but, so long as I live in this house, he and I are locked in a something game of cat and mouse. We talk for hours each night, trying each other’s defences.
He is, I confess, the most stimulating conversational partner I can remember ever sitting across. Every evening I find myself in engrossing discussions of philosophy, history, and literature. His knowledge is profound — I can find few subjects on which his knowledge does not exceed my own. How he has found the time to read so widely I shall never know, for I am always learning of new occupations with which he fills his days — this evening he mentioned sailing to me for the first time.
“You sail?” I asked.
“Sailing, fencing, riding — sporting pastimes seem all I can do to keep my mind my own.”
Was this remark an acknowledgement of his divided mind? But already he was moving on — dismissing the thought with a flick of his wrist, all charm.
“Oh, but it is only the finest thing in the world — to sail, to feel the salt spray against your skin and taste the freshness of the air. That’s where life is; not here, among all this dust and ruin.”
I set my empty glass aside, sitting forward in my seat. “Do you care so little for Whithern Hall? You spoke so lovingly of it before.”
The darkness that settled on him then was not that of any supernatural evil, but of the black, sleepless hours of the mind. Poor man; I recognized it all too well.
“Whithern Hall is very old and very beautiful, but do not be mistaken, it is a tomb. There has been no laughter here for generations. I am the last of my line, and at times I hope that someday the damned thing takes me into the sea with it.” He glanced, then, at my collar. “Forgive me, Father. I was only — ah, it’s no use.”
“Please, tell me,” I said, and was surprised to find my compassion was genuine.
His eyes met mine and fell away just as quickly. “It’s merely that I have certain ties that bind me to Swallow’s Rest — a duty to the place, if you will. For all that I sail, I can never truly leave. I am like a falcon tethered to his perch.”
“But surely, Lord Vane, if these ties are so binding, then your presence here must be very important. Are there not others who rely on you to fulfill this duty; who you help?”
He sighed and leaned back in his chair, eyes closing. “Would that it were a duty of that nature. I’ve laboured so long, Father, and for what? There is nothing but death around us now. The whole island stinks of it.”
He was speaking too obliquely for me to follow, but I was rapt. How much of this was Lord Vane the man — what remains of him? I longed to reach out, to lay a comforting hand upon him, but thought better of it. “Won’t you allow me to help you, Lord Vane? That’s what I’m here for, after all.”
“Is it, Father?” A note of tremulous vulnerability had entered his voice. This seemed to recall him to himself and he cleared his throat, shifting into a pose of suave nonchalance. “Well, you’ll help me one way or another, Father — of that I am certain. I have every confidence that you’ll find a way to rid this place of the demonic influence that suffocates it.”
“I will do everything for you that is within my power, Lord Vane — I swear.”
He smiled bitterly. “And I’m sure you are a man of your word.”
His response may have been insincere, but I had meant it. I know all too well to never trust my perceptions around the trickery of demons, but, whatever I had glimpsed in him, it had pierced me to the heart. I am determined to help him, whatever the cost.
JOURNAL ENTRY
Dated March 17, 1950.
A very queer encounter with Lord Vane just now; one I struggle entirely to account for.
Today, for the first time, my explorations led me down that endless-seeming stairway, carved directly out of the rock, that leads all the way to what was once the private harbour of Whithern Hall.
Lord Vane’s ancestors saw fit to build the Hall at the edge of a precipitous sea-cliff. To one side of the cliff, in a recess of the shoreline, there is a cove containing a slim crescent of of hidden beach. Here, to my amazement, I discovered the ruins of a magnificent port large enough to accommodate several ships.
Perhaps it once supplied the derelict town that lies just beyond the grounds of Whithern Hall, but the place seems more designed to welcome foreign dignitaries and titled guests arriving at the Hall by sea. Part of the quay is a crumbling stone structure once lined with decorative carvings and statues, now broken and worn smooth in many places by storm and season. Here and there, protruding from the sand, are the heads and arms of fallen statues, jeweled with barnacles and gilded with sea lichen.
I have no doubt it was, at one time, a grand, impressive entrance to the manor, but the columns that mark the landings which zig-zag down the cliff-face have long since fallen, and the steps themselves are so weatherworn by the onrush of years that at times I felt quite nervous as I made the descent. It’s a place, I’m sure, that has seen continuous use for longer than recorded history, for, along the way, I noted some far older carvings in the bare rock; overlapping spirals of the kind that mark Newgrange.
Alongside all this faded grandeur, there had been built a more modest, wooden dock with sufficient berths for Lord Vane’s personal use — though his craft was, at that time, conspicuously absent.
I spent a peaceful half-hour or so thus; with only the crashing of the waves and the distant calls of seabirds, gulls and turnstones, to accompany my explorations.
Later on, as I was looking out to sea, something caught my attention. A single point of shadow appeared on the cloudless horizon which, by degrees, grew until its outline became unmistakably that of a small sailboat. For one absurd moment I thought it might be Danny, having seen me as she was out fishing. Despite knowing that Lord Vane’s boat was out, I so rarely see him during the day that it came as something of a shock when, suddenly, I recognized him standing aboard the small vessel as it came sailing into the sheltered bay.
What a sight he was, though — hair swept back by the wind and spray as he maneuvered the craft through the buffeting waves. He didn’t seem to notice me as he came to anchor and I hesitated to reveal myself, for, even at a short distance, I could perceive that some unknown mood was upon him, quite different from any that I’d seen before. His movements were subdued, somehow; lacking some vital energy that, until it was absent, I hadn’t realized I’d thought of as a defining part of the man.
He stood like that awhile on the dock, gazing out across the water. I began to feel uncomfortable as I watched him, as if I were seeing something private; some closely-guarded secret aspect of the man. I couldn’t easily slip away, though — not with all those stairs — and I decided that the only possible course of action was to make my presence known.
I gave a polite cough and took a step closer, but he hardly reacted at all — aside from a glance and a nod. “I was wondering when you might find your way down here. What do you think, Father?”
I looked around us at the cove, like a fragment of another world. “It hardly seems real.”
“Yes, it’s a wonderful escape from that mouldering tomb of a house. There are days when this is the only part of the Hall or grounds where I feel truly at home. Down here I find it easier to remember that life still exists somewhere, even if I cannot be part of it.”
“Perhaps you rate life out there too highly, Lord Vane.”
Lord Vane was quiet for some time afterwards. When he spoke again, it was in a voice I had never heard before. “If you could only save your life by committing some great evil, Father, what would you do?”
I was so taken aback by this that I was only able to reach for a rote answer. “Well, if the act were a mortal sin, then it would be better to imperil my body than my soul.”
“What if this act would also save the lives countless others, Father? What would you do then?”
I had no answer to this, and he left me soon after.
All that remains of this once-palatial structure will soon be gone, the freeze and thaw of the coastal winters splintering the very foundations; transforming this mighty edifice into a collection sea-polished relics. There was something grand here, once, and now it is no more.
I feel for him: this strange man who is radiant with life amid all this darkness and decay. What will become of that which remains, I wonder, once the demon is banished?
✧ FAN POST OF THE WEEK ✧
Not much of a contest, I must admit, in the first week of this feature! The extremely magnificent sallys-fanart on Tumblr has been trying to put my illustrator out of a job and has created, at time of writing, 6 lovely pieces of art for What Manner of Man.
I decided before I began not to include more than 2 posts per e-mail, but please do show some love to these other equally wonderful pieces: WMOM coffee shop AU, moonlit cathedral ruins, Lord Vane as a 1950s housewife, and some classic vampire stuff 💜
Reminder: each week, I’ll be taking a look at what’s been posted in the #WHAT MANNER OF MAN tag on Tumblr, and choosing one or two to feature (with permission) in the next e-mail.
I love Father Ardelian in his little cape
Uh oh, don't get cocky, Father. You know pride comes before a fall.