The Whispering Swarm by Michael Moorcock Page A

could speak, his brow cleared and he looked at me with an expression of genial welcome. Maybe he thought I was a volunteer? Turning the key again, he beckoned us back into the relative warmth of the priory church. Clearly this did not serve a large group of monks. We stood in some sort of vestibule. Directly ahead of us was a small nave from which emerged a very old monk, beaming benignly at me as if I were a long-lost nephew. ‘My dear boy! But you are early are you not? I was at my prayers and now I have an appointment with our—the treasure…’
    â€˜This is our Father Abbot,’ declared Friar Isidore at his pause. ‘Father Grammaticus is a little absentminded. Possibly we should…’ As he spoke we followed the abbot back into the building. Suddenly the chapel was alive with gorgeous colour! From modern-looking, strangely abstract stained glass windows poured the most extraordinary vibrant light, flooding across the deep-yellow stones of the small nave. Standing before this on a plinth of its own was a tall, slender-stemmed silver-chased vessel I took to be a chalice. The vessel caught the last of the light as it passed through the rich glass and spread in a shimmering pool, an unstable halo throughout the chapel. Suddenly in that wild, uncertain brilliance the gilded pewter and green-gold-red enamel resembled a moving fish straining upward to the surface. The abbot appeared to hesitate before making a gesture towards the cup. He then turned, apparently baffled, as if listening to a voice we could not hear. By the set of his head he might even be taking instruction. He turned, spreading his hands in apology. ‘I had hoped to invite you here for tea, but apparently—’
    â€˜We have had tea, thank you, Father Abbot, in those—in that—’
    â€˜ABC,’ I supplied. ‘In Ludgate Hill.’
    The abbot stared at me, his mouth forming the words I had just spoken. I felt I had stumped him somehow. I had no idea what to say next.
    â€˜Then you must come tomorrow. Around four?’ He looked behind us as if someone had brought him good news. ‘He saw our gate, did he?’
    Reflected light flared in his eyes. Then it was gone.
    â€˜Oh, he did.’ The friar beamed; but for me, mystified by this exchange, the chapel was suddenly gloomy again and where I had been vaguely aware of a sense of joy I now felt something close to depression. ‘I had best be getting home I suppose,’ I said.
    Friar Isidore answered in surprise. ‘The fog. Aren’t you unsure? Isn’t it dangerous? If the gate has moved you could become lost forever as others have. You’ll be walking back?’ His concern betrayed a certain innocence. ‘Can you find your way?’
    I was charmed by him. I laughed. ‘Easily. Thanks.’ We shook hands, his dry, delicate, almost-transparent skin rustling against mine. I’d felt nothing like it. So old, so soft, so thin I thought I might tear it!
    â€˜Meet me here at the bookshop by The Swan With Two Necks, at half past three,’ he said.
    For another instant the scene was framed in pearly pink light until the surrounding shadows merged and we found ourselves in the cloisters again, walking towards the outer gate. Then we stood in the little cobbled cul-de-sac with tall, leaning houses on both sides. The fog was deeper as we made our way back. From the warm windows of The Swan With Two Necks, that brick and daub half-timbered tavern on the opposite corner, came the stink of strong, bitter beer and the somewhat muted sound of voices lowered perhaps in conspiracy. Next door to the tavern stood the bookshop, still open, with shaded oil lamps flickering outside for customers to read by. A large tortoiseshell cat cleaned herself in the window. An old man with long white hair looked up from the book he was examining. On the other side was a spice merchant’s, its shutters already closed against the fog. I looked