face.”
It was as if the conversation had stepped out over a void. The smile drained from Webster’s face until he looked as if he was about to be sick, the way Eadlin had looked for a moment at Ash Farm. He searched Fergus’s eyes, looking, Fergus guessed, for signs of falsehood. Finding none, he sat back in his own seat.
“Dear God, not you, too.”
In a moment Webster had switched from being almost boyish and affable to seeming old, as if he had shrunk inside his jacket. Fergus realised that Webster was probably the kind of man whose face was an open book, making it hard to hide his feelings. Whatever he was thinking became transparent, and at that moment he was frightened.
“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” Fergus swallowed, feeling nervous. He’d never seen a frightened priest before. When Webster spoke, his voice was quiet, deadpan, coming from somewhere hidden inside him.
“Did you hear about the Saxon warrior they dug up on the day of your crash? He had a tattoo of a stag on his forehead.”
Fergus stared at him while a fault-line opened in his mind. In front of him, everyday reality. Blackboard, menu. Black beams. A black priest’s shirt beneath a clerical collar. Inside his head, the kind of grating discord of the early days after the crash, a tumbling wrongness with no points of reference, filled with fragments of a reality he wished he’d never known. A tattooed tramp. A golden fan of bloodied hair. Please .
The first reaction is panic. The second is denial. Fergus moistened his lips with his tongue, swallowed again, and reached for his drink.
“The guy I saw was no ghost, if that’s what you mean.”
Webster’s face lifted, his expression hopeful.
“He was real. He moved.” Fergus closed his eyes, trying to shut out the image of dirty fingernails caressing Kate’s hair.
In the next room the choirmaster interrupted the singing again. Life continued as normal around them. “Cynthia, my dear,” came through the door, “you have a lovely voice but the sopranos don’t have the melody here. Give the poor altos their chance for stardom.”
“I need another drink.” Fergus pushed on his stick to heave himself upright. “Let me get you one, too.” His steadiness on his feet surprised him, but Webster saw the challenge of the stick and leapt to his feet to help.
“You said ‘not you too’,” Fergus prompted as they carried their drinks to the table.
“Are you a Christian, Fergus?”
“Only nominally. Carol service at Christmas, that sort of thing.”
“Like most of the population these days, sadly.” Webster stared into his beer, his manner now care-worn rather than frightened. “This parish will probably be my last job before I retire. I was never destined to rise very far in the church. I was always too, too…” He fumbled for a word. Mentally, Fergus offered a few. Honest? Transparent?
“… straightforward. Not enough of the ascetic in me, you see? The bright ones get Deaneries or Bishoprics, but I was offered Allingley, and I was content. A rural idyll where the Vicar can play cricket for the village eleven on Saturday, and lead his parishioners to the pub after morning service on Sunday. A reward, perhaps, for twenty years in the inner city slums. But there have been times in the last few months when this quaint little backwater has felt like the front line in a very old battle.”
Fergus let him gather his thoughts, surprised by the man’s candour.
“When that Saxon was discovered, you see, there was huge media attention, much more than anyone round here had been used to handling. A kind of collective hysteria took over the village. Oh, things started innocently enough, school outings to Sutton Hoo, that kind of thing, but then it got out of hand. At first it was only children leaping out of the bushes dressed as Saxons and frightening old ladies, but then it became more serious. There are rumours of unspeakable rituals in the woods, things I
It was as if the conversation had stepped out over a void. The smile drained from Webster’s face until he looked as if he was about to be sick, the way Eadlin had looked for a moment at Ash Farm. He searched Fergus’s eyes, looking, Fergus guessed, for signs of falsehood. Finding none, he sat back in his own seat.
“Dear God, not you, too.”
In a moment Webster had switched from being almost boyish and affable to seeming old, as if he had shrunk inside his jacket. Fergus realised that Webster was probably the kind of man whose face was an open book, making it hard to hide his feelings. Whatever he was thinking became transparent, and at that moment he was frightened.
“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” Fergus swallowed, feeling nervous. He’d never seen a frightened priest before. When Webster spoke, his voice was quiet, deadpan, coming from somewhere hidden inside him.
“Did you hear about the Saxon warrior they dug up on the day of your crash? He had a tattoo of a stag on his forehead.”
Fergus stared at him while a fault-line opened in his mind. In front of him, everyday reality. Blackboard, menu. Black beams. A black priest’s shirt beneath a clerical collar. Inside his head, the kind of grating discord of the early days after the crash, a tumbling wrongness with no points of reference, filled with fragments of a reality he wished he’d never known. A tattooed tramp. A golden fan of bloodied hair. Please .
The first reaction is panic. The second is denial. Fergus moistened his lips with his tongue, swallowed again, and reached for his drink.
“The guy I saw was no ghost, if that’s what you mean.”
Webster’s face lifted, his expression hopeful.
“He was real. He moved.” Fergus closed his eyes, trying to shut out the image of dirty fingernails caressing Kate’s hair.
In the next room the choirmaster interrupted the singing again. Life continued as normal around them. “Cynthia, my dear,” came through the door, “you have a lovely voice but the sopranos don’t have the melody here. Give the poor altos their chance for stardom.”
“I need another drink.” Fergus pushed on his stick to heave himself upright. “Let me get you one, too.” His steadiness on his feet surprised him, but Webster saw the challenge of the stick and leapt to his feet to help.
“You said ‘not you too’,” Fergus prompted as they carried their drinks to the table.
“Are you a Christian, Fergus?”
“Only nominally. Carol service at Christmas, that sort of thing.”
“Like most of the population these days, sadly.” Webster stared into his beer, his manner now care-worn rather than frightened. “This parish will probably be my last job before I retire. I was never destined to rise very far in the church. I was always too, too…” He fumbled for a word. Mentally, Fergus offered a few. Honest? Transparent?
“… straightforward. Not enough of the ascetic in me, you see? The bright ones get Deaneries or Bishoprics, but I was offered Allingley, and I was content. A rural idyll where the Vicar can play cricket for the village eleven on Saturday, and lead his parishioners to the pub after morning service on Sunday. A reward, perhaps, for twenty years in the inner city slums. But there have been times in the last few months when this quaint little backwater has felt like the front line in a very old battle.”
Fergus let him gather his thoughts, surprised by the man’s candour.
“When that Saxon was discovered, you see, there was huge media attention, much more than anyone round here had been used to handling. A kind of collective hysteria took over the village. Oh, things started innocently enough, school outings to Sutton Hoo, that kind of thing, but then it got out of hand. At first it was only children leaping out of the bushes dressed as Saxons and frightening old ladies, but then it became more serious. There are rumours of unspeakable rituals in the woods, things I
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