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

holy man would sit within to observe the storms andwrite opium-fuelled sonnets with swan-feather quills. Charles III, 'CheerfulCharlie' himself, had sought Hawker out, seeking theological approval forhis 'regal-polygamy' initiative; only to receive a dusty answer for his painsand the long trek west.

Hawkersurvived the encounter and successor hermits followed in post to this day, butSamuel had no mind to consult anyone but the old body hobbling beside him. Farbelow, the tide whispered ebbing adieu, laying bare the black, twisted, rockstrata that comprised Morwenstow beach.

‘Rightthen, Father Jago: thanks for coming: better late than never.’

Theelderly priest looked sidelong at his companion, and in so doing almoststumbled.

‘Damn!What? Oh, we are tartar-ish, aren't we?’ It was a comment rather than areproach. ‘I can see you're a Trevan alright.’

Itbecame Samuel's turn to crack a wry smile.

‘Well,that's my first question settled. I hope the others are as easily solved.’

‘Probably.It's a short - though none too sweet - tale. Look, do you mind slowing down a portion?I can't walk so fast as when I first met your clan.’

Samuelactually stopped and let the old man catch his breath. The blustery wind offthe sea ordered their hair aloft, though the priest could only contributeremnant white rats-tails to the dance.

‘Fairenough,’ said Trevan. ‘We both know you set the speed tonight: in walking andeverything else.’

Thepriest's face hardened.

‘Wellthen, Samuel, I'd better hasten to tell all so you can stop resenting my'advantage'. Save us, boy, you've got such sharp edges on you you'll end upcutting yourself! Calm down.’

‘Iam calm.’

‘No,you're not. You don't fool me. A happy man doesn't antagonise an alehouse ofstrangers. Nor refuse to meet a priest in Church....’

‘Itstems from courtesy. I've outgrown your certainties; I didn't want to enterwhat you call a house of God when I know it’s all a load-....’

Trevanfaltered, even his courage failing him and realising he’d gone too far.

FatherJago kindly let it go and continued.

‘...and thus insult his calling; and impose a journey on him, and then chide himfor being late. No: even if I'd not yet seen the fire in your eyes I'd stillhave known you for what you are.’

Thetrap was thus set for Trevan to ask 'which is what...?’ It was easilystepped round. He'd had a gut-full of people anxious after his spiritualwelfare.

‘Sorcerersdetect what mere mortals can't.’ Samuel nodded towards the band of silver starsstitched round one arm of the priest's cassock. ‘Though I don't recognise theschool....’

‘Liverpool.’

‘Ididn't know there was a-....’

FatherJago jumped in, self-deprecating, to save time.

‘It'snot renowned. My talent is marginal and periodic. The demi-academy therespecialised in my type.’

Samuelgave him a sideways ‘oh-I-see’ look.

‘Whichexplains how a wizard-priest comes to be buried alive in this hole. I'll admitI did puzzle about that.’

Deservedor not, Morwenstow had an evil reputation. Samuel recalled old Walter theLondon Watchman had spoken of it: had suffered through it.

Fromtime out of mind ships had come to grief on this hazardous coast, and apeculiarity of the tides usually deposited the victims on Morwenstow beach,where sharp rocks and birds finished what sea and fish had started. Althougheveryone, even anonymous body parts, was supposed to get a decent Christianburial, sometimes the numbers or trouble or expense were too much, and thenthey were just put under the sand. Therefore, people shunned the beach even onthe sunniest of days. Not only that, but the inhabitants were accused of assistingNeptune's grosser moods, luring ships in with lights and then murdering thosewho made it ashore. It was always said suspiciously few mariners survived ashipwreck off Morwenstow.

FatherJago overlooked the gibe and implications. Magicians were used to unsolicitedhostility from normal humanity.

‘I'dno need of sorcery to read you straight off, young man. All priests acquire theskill, talent or no.’

‘Whateveryou say, Father.’

‘Oh,is that so?’ They set off again, at a more stately pace. ‘Right then, masterTrevan, what I say is go back home and leave the past in peace. It wouldbe better, trust me.’

Samuelshook his head, a sharp, jerky action, killing off further argument.

‘Whateveryou say: except 'leave well alone' or 'trust me'. And another thing:I have no home.’

‘Nowelcome in Welcombe, eh?’

‘Theplace is misnamed. A rabid dog would have got a warmer greeting. My so-calledfamily are fearful of me.’

Thepriest compressed his lips, an expression of some or other disapproval.

‘Thatis a... shame, Mr Trevan.’

Realsympathy or not, Samuel didn't need it.

‘Don'twaste your concern. It's nothing personal. They're two generations out of churlclass and worried I might be after my property rights. Land's everything tothem; even cack land like here. My Church problems are just something they'veseized on. Believe me, I don't covet their little fields, but you try tellingthem that.’

‘So,what precisely do you want?’

‘Iwant what they won't tell me, even after I kicked a door down. Not even after Iput them out of pocket. 'Cost half a guinea to fix 'er it will’, boohoo. What is it that's worth money for them to keep dark? Trouble is,you see, Father, I find myself at a bit of a loose end in life at the moment. Whichmakes me minded to trace my story back to its beginning even as I ponder itsend. Good enough?’

‘Didthe family put you on to me?’

‘Nope.I never beg for favours twice. One refusal serves for all time. Henceforth Iwouldn't ask them to piss on me if I was afire - please excuse thepeasant-speak. No, it was my own discovery, and simply made. You were theincumbent at Welcombe round about when I appeared. Mother Church never losestrack of its shepherds. I enquired and there you were, just up the coast,albeit in another country. What a happy chance!’

‘Anothercountry no longer, Trevan: Kernow is Cornwall now.’

Jagohad turned abruptly vehement on this point, and Samuel had to signal his lackof objection. Presumably, the priest endured daily trials as a foreigner in arestive land. To Trevan's eyes 'Kernow', as was, seemed to have blithelyignored its absorption into United England in the 20's. The gory ‘Sack ofTruro’, the marriage of the last of the Ducal line to an English King, wereinconvenient facts that had trickled away into the sands of passing time. WhenSamuel walked the half mile from Welcombe, Devon, England, into Cornwall,Cornish militiamen in the Ducal livery had demanded what