The Two Confessions John Whitbourn (best books for students to read txt) 📖

the reverse. It struck a chord, being of the exact shade ink thatFather Omar used to mark the orphanage's schoolbooks. He examined closer.

Itproved to contain some minute writing, a mere couple of words to look at, butwhole volumes of meaning to Samuel Trevan. He recognised that crabbed femininescript. 'Acts, 18, 21' it said, in as small as space as possible.

Samuelhad to rush out and borrow a Bible because he'd flung his own into the Thames.

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'The Acts of the Apostles'. Chapter 18, verse 21:

'... but I will return again unto you, if God will.'

 

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cHAPTER 13

For a generation now, the powerhad been blessing them more frequently, visiting the world two or three times ayear. Occasionally it even spoke in a tongue they could understand and thenprophesied to them. At other times, losing control or in an act ofchastisement, gobbets of flame spat from the portal like an ejaculation. Manydevotees were grievously burned - but thought themselves fortunate to interceptthe god-seed.

Asthe process accelerated and the unknown climax drew near, so the sacrificeswere increased, to show proper gratitude and force the pace. Dozens of the lostand abducted went down into the unnatural light. Even one elderly member of theinner council volunteered to end one life and start the next in that way.Perhaps it was this great gift that so pleased the power.

Whateverthe reason, soon after the signs were manifested with especial vigour. Itseemed clear something spectacular was in train. Accordingly, the sisters andbrethren made extra effort to ensure the next gathering would be a fittingresponse.

Theytook a priest, stolen from sufficiently far away to shake off suspicion orpursuit. He was ferried down from his Cumbrian parish, blindfolded andbefuddled with drugs, from isolated farm to farm, and barn to barn, along thechain of believers.

Theappointed night came and he was roused and made sensible with counter-potions.A flurry of grey-shrouded guards conveyed him underground. Then, after thecustomary 'degradations' and 'educations', when his vows werebroken and his faith flayed - that is to say much later - he was offered to thepower.

Andyet he was not taken straight away, as had always been the case before, timeout of mind. Instead, he was held on the portal's lip and possessed. Itwas a signal honour both to him and those who gave him. The devotees shriekedwith joy.

Whetherit was still him or not they could not say, but the human resemblance remainedas he turned back to the throng and spoke with the power's voice.

‘Hecomes!’ said the thunderstorm tones, ravaging the inadequate-to-the-task humanvocal chords. ‘He comes! The promise is true!’

Andat that news, if there had been frenzy before, it was as nothing to the abandonshown after.

Atthe very end, some snippet of knowledge was drawn aloud from the dying mind. Orperhaps the priest's intellect, feeling itself devoured, rallied at the last.He or the power spoke again.

‘VerilyI say unto you,’ said the wavering puppet, quoting from scripture, ‘thisgeneration shall not pass away, till all be fulfilled!’

Thenhe was sucked away into the tunnel, to his unguessable fate.

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cHAPTER 14

‘Meea navidna cowzasawsneck.’

Samuelnodded sadly - and then employed his strong right arm to lift the man right outof his seat. He was carried thus across the bar-room and pinned by the throat againstthe wall. The rough arrival there knocked the breath out of him, with noprospect of re-supply.

‘Call me suspicious if you like,’ Trevan told him, ina cool tone out of keeping with his expression, ‘but I reckon you do cowsasome sawsneck. Let's try again. What is the time please?’

Weight was applied to his claw grip. The prisoner'sfeet scrabbled desperately for the floor two inches away.

Trevan's free hand drew the man's fob watch out of itswaistcoat pocket home. It was held before the owner's purpling face.

‘Ten - past – five.’

Those retching words were his last gasp. Mercifuloblivion was almost knocking at the door when Samuel let him go. He gulped inair like a landed fish, his neck bearing livid purple souvenirs of theincident. They looked fit to live a long life.

Trevanwrenched the watch from its fastening, bringing half the waistcoat with it. Hechecked the reported time with exaggerated care.

‘Goodnessme, so it is. My appointment is late. Morwenstow manners: as piss-poor as itswelcome!’

Thetimepiece was politely returned. Samuel resumed his seat by the inglenookfireside and sipped, without relish, at the cordial he'd bought three quartersof an hour back. If the atmosphere had been chilly when he first entered thealehouse, it was past glacial now: an ice-age ambience. The conversational buzzof the other middling sort of gentlemen in the saloon-parlour was as angry asthe marks left on their countryman. It was all in Cornish of course: every wordhad been since Samuel crossed the threshold - though he knew full well it wasall English up to then. He'd heard the dying away of comprehensible language atfirst sight of him.

Ordinarilythat wouldn't have worried Samuel: the less contact with humanity the betterwas his attitude nowadays. The reception here seemed a good metaphor for thewhole world's response to his being around. But this ‘meea navidna…’ thing:the 'I can't - or won't - speak English’ business, he'd heard itonce too often. There were even villages over the English side of the borderthat took that attitude and it had started to rankle. He'd mischanced to leavehis watch at what passed for 'home' and just wanted to know how long he'd beenkept waiting - and so the local got jostled a bit for his ignorance andrudeness. Serve him right.

Samuelhalf wanted the Cornish clientele to work themselves up to do something aboutit - he'd almost welcome some good honest open hostility - but knew they neverwould. It was only black looks and whispered curses as usual, even from theinjured party. So Samuel spat on the fire and made it sizzle - and the landlordtut. He stood on the very verge of having fun – but suspected fate wouldn'tpermit Samuel Trevan that.

Hewas right. The parlour door opened and more bad news strode in.

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Therewas a well-worn path for them to confer on, pilgrim defined, along the clifftoppasture. It led eventually to the Blessed Robert Hawker's driftwood hut. Acentury past, that rustic