The Patron of Despair

The church sat atop its granite outcrop, chaperoning pedestrians across the bridge. Elliot paused halfway across to watch a sortie of ducks sail from the riverbank into midstream, pursued by a string of notes from a busker's violin. Within moments of arriving in this West Country market town, he'd felt as though he'd stepped into another world. The sound of passing traffic still escorted his steps, but the volume was far less intense. The itchy heat that had licked the back of his neck on the rumbling streets of London was now replaced by a soft breeze.

Ancient buildings of stone and wood arched forward at his passing, and a young woman in a green shop overall mingled amidst the throng. She held a tray out in offering.

"Try a free sample of our traditional oat cake sir—local delicacy."

Feeling obligated, he picked a small round piece from the tray, then paused.

"This bit's a little burnt, could I ..." but the girl had wheeled away, disappearing into the crowd. He grimaced but popped it into his mouth, then slipped into a side road that ascended toward the church.

Figures emerged from the shadow of the spire, blinking into the silvery afternoon. Elliott watched the last worshippers straggle away, then stepped into the building's cavernous interior. He walked slowly, his lone footsteps conspicuous. Stained glass scattered honeyed light onto the walls. From the nook behind a Knight's tomb, a shadow detached itself and drifted forward.

"Mr Elliott?" The man wore a long, flowing garb that denoted some kind of clerical rank. "You received my letter? You're here about Karyn?"

Elliott nodded.

"Father Ansell." The priest enfolded Elliott's hand in a warm grip and stepped back. "I'm sorry to go about things in such a clandestine manner, but I think you'll understand when I explain." The priest beckoned and walked towards an altar. "Can I offer my condolences? It's such a tragedy and a waste. My heart goes out to you."

"Thank you."

"Were you very close?"

"We were orphaned at a young age; we only had each other to rely on, so yes, very."

"And it's been how long now? A year?"

"Almost to the day." The grief waylaid him so effortlessly still. Elliott raised his eyes to the soaring roof as though seeking revelation. "Karyn was a beautiful, kind, talented woman. Her career was just beginning to take off. The reviews for the last book were glowing." He shook his head. "She had so much to live for. I can't believe..."

The priest reached out, placing a consoling hand on his shoulder. "I've been here for more years than I care to remember, and I'm sorry to say these things do occur with some frequency." His eyes were luminous in the soft light. For a moment, in his grief, Elliott became locked into them, longing to relinquish responsibility and guilt and put himself in his hands like a child.

"I think she was an unlikely candidate for suicide," Elliot said.

Suicide!

He flinched and felt the familiar outrage the word engendered. Was this why he had come? To find alternatives—to alleviate these feeling of betrayal and anger? He at least had to hear the man out. "You think there was more to this than meets the eye? Hence the letter."

"Yes!" Ansell sighed and turned away. He gestured towards a large sculpture pinned to the opposite wall.

Elliott gazed at it for some moments, an obviously modern addition, jagged and angular. It showed a figure, its limbs spread-eagled, the folds of its garment floating upwards as though in free fall, its eyes raised in transcendental ecstasy.

"Our very own Saint Cedwar," Ansell said with something close to reverence. "He gave his name to this place. The patron saint of the despairing."

"I'd never heard of him until I received your letter."

The man nodded. "One of the lesser known amongst the ranks of the exalted, but a fascinating story none the less. In his youth Cedwar was a feckless, rather materialistic young warrior of noble birth. He spent his time fighting, whoring, and drinking. A bit of a dark-age yob as it happens," Ansell smiled. "But at some point he became overwhelmed with the futility, the absence of meaning to his life, what we recognise today as clinical depression. He took himself to the top of this outcrop and threw himself off."

"He committed suicide." Elliott glanced sideways.

"He tried, but he survived without so much as a scratch. God's work, he claimed. Consequently Cedwar renounced all his worldly goods, converted to Christianity, and dedicated this, the first church."

So where was God when Karyn needed him? "Nice story," Elliot replied. "Do you believe it? I suppose you have to?"

"I believe there's an energy here—something holy—but there may be other, darker aspects which persist also." For a moment the man pursed his lips then continued. "There were pagan rites associated with this region. It could be some of the ancient legends became incorporated into the tale. Many Christian customs and story's have their roots in pagan lore."

Elliott detected some cryptic tone "What does all this have to do with Karyn?"

"Your sister took an interest in many different belief systems, so I read...including the occult."

Elliott frowned. "She had a fascination with spirituality and esoterica. She made her name writing about it."

The man bowed his head. "I'm sorry to have to frame it like this, but could she have been seeking...something to give meaning to her life? Could that have been the spur for her interest?"

"Karyn had everything going for her, why would she need more."

"Mr Elliott, it's often the most successful people. They've achieved all they dreamed of and find it's not enough. They go looking for something more, desperate for meaning, vulnerable to the first questionable guru that comes along."

Elliott gazed once more at the sculpture. He decided it was really quite ugly, the contours harsh and primitive amidst the sacred beauty. "Are you saying she was co-opted into some pagan cult?"

"I can only voice my suspicions. I've served this town and Church for many years. This is my home, but there are times when I'm aware of something covert that operates beneath the day to day normality."

"This is starting to sound crazy."

The priest continued to gaze at him. "Crazier than apparently-sane people throwing themselves from the top of this spire? Karyn wasn't the first by any means, and like her, few of the others had good reason to end their lives."

Elliott tried to think of an appropriate response. He'd been hoping for answers, not riddles.

"Would you like to see where it happened?" the priest murmured, and touched him again on the shoulder. "It might help."

Elliott shook his head, appalled by the idea. "I'm sorry...I just can't."

"It might help," he insisted. "Climb the spire with me."

Somehow strength from the priest's words seemed to flow into him. He felt fortified, almost eager to face this personal demon.

"Ok."

He followed as the priest turned and flitted into a recessed archway. Stone steps curved in an endless spiral, the walls narrowing as they went higher. Soon his breath came in short bursts and his knees ached, but he pressed on. He wondered how the older man managed so effortlessly.

A voice trailed back to him in the pitch like gloom. "Try not to be nervous. All will be well."

He concentrated on the hem of the Ansell's robe swishing on the steps before him. The cruciform shapes became twisted and distorted by the folds, appearing runic and angular like the sculpture below. He took another hitching breath and raised his head to gulp more air. The last of the light squeezed through a narrow window to play on carvings high atop the wall. Chaotic, grinning faces with tongues lolling from jagged mouths. Elliott recalled photos he'd seen on Inca pyramids, images of bloodthirsty gods.

"You'll see evidence of that everywhere in this place if you look closely," the priests offered, as though reading his mind. "As I said, the old deities and their icons are never far from the surface despite being banished. They lurk, biding their time, perhaps even clothing themselves in the Christian raiment, tricking the unwary into keeping the old traditions alive."

"Traditions?" Elliott's response was distracted, sluggish.

As if by magic, the curving steps opened onto a narrow doorway. The priest turned and smiled. "Human sacrifices; flung from this cliff at certain times of the year, an act to appease the gods, to accept a life in lieu and continue to allow the fallen sun to rise again." He stepped through the doorway.

Elliott followed, stumbling out onto the wooden walkway that circumvented the castellated walls. The huddled rooftops of the town seemed to tumble away towards the forest and heath-land beyond. A fiery sun plunged to earth in a bower of amber cloud.

The priest stood by the western rampart, looking out onto the church close. "Come here," he commanded, and Elliott obeyed.

He pointed down but his gaze drilled into Elliott's skull. "This is where she gave her life...your sister, Karyn."

Karyn... For long moments the name eddied and spun, unmoored and hard to grasp. "Sister..."

The priest touched him once more on the shoulder and glared with bloated eyes. "She came of her own free will and volition, as you did; she took and ate the burnt offering, as you did; she gave her blood and shattered bone to the ground below as a libation, as you will." He turned and peered over the edge. Elliott's gaze followed, and for a moment his mesmerised mind almost clawed its way back to full awareness.

Far, far below, in the dark well of the close, light from a legion of burning torches flickered and leapt, illuminating the towns-people that milled and swayed. Elliott raised his gaze a fraction to the streets fanning out beyond. Orange flame caught dancing, shadowy figures. They stared upwards, eyes glittering like the hungry damned.

The priest moved aside and beckoned towards the ramparts edge. The last molten slice of light drained into the earth. "Climb up onto the wall, Mr Elliott."

He stepped forward and up. The evening sky stretched itself into glittering wakefulness. From below, chanting voices rose in awe.

"Honour the gods," the priest urged. "Offer yourself."

A last alarmed cry echoed in Elliott's head. For a moment he stopped and frowned, trying to locate and interpret the insistent call, but an evening breeze fanned his face and ushered it away. The scent of spring, and spent days, and mystery beyond comprehension filled his mind.

"Now." The priest's whisper sheared away the last of his reason.

He smiled in understanding and stepped out into the night.

Back to: Vol 2, Issue 2