Freedom is much on my mind, and not the freedom from captivity I long for, but the freedom of choice.
As I write these few lines, an embellishment to the account I recently finished, I await the outcome of its examination. Mirra claims this will be a formality, my release coming soon after, but that was ages ago, and I wish she’d return with some news. So, yes, freedom is much on my mind: I long for it, for liberty, the freedom to choose. Yes, liberty. She is a privilege, and she is precious. I know this, I bought her, the following events were my currency, and liberty did prove costly. She cost me my life…
When Mirra returned, I was watching Star Trek: The Next Generation (Frank would be so proud) and it was a particularly poignant episode, portraying the desperate plight of Captain Picard. Captured on a dangerous mission, he is subjected to ruthless interrogation and torture, and as I watched, he forlornly dangled from an angular metallic contraption attached to the ceiling.
“Are you quite comfortable?” asked Mirra, referring to my state of undress.
After removing my trousers, socks, and top, I lay sprawled on the bed, my clothes in a heap on the floor.
“Very,” I said, rolling onto my back, “and almost enjoying myself. Couldn’t you come back tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow never comes,” she replied, “so no, and stop being slovenly. If Moloch finds you like this, he’ll be incensed.”
“I’ve decided,” I said, “I don’t care, and what can he do? Give me a talking-to? Besides, when he last spoke, I was asleep. A dream can’t hurt me.”
“No, Marcus,” she warned, “don’t! Don’t even say such things; you’re playing with fire. We need to go through your latest essay. You can continue your funny programme when we are done.”
Sighing, I cursed under my breath.
“You’re beginning to nag,” I said, “relentless talk until I agree. Am I right?”
“Indeed,” she replied, “and the first intelligent conclusion you’ve reached, so sit up, and pay me attention!”
“Yes, mother,” I said, retrieving my phone.
Mirra was less than impressed by my writing, and retaliating with sarcasm, she accused me of however-a-philia, and contracting that-a-lite-us, insisting I removed these overused words, groaning in disgust at their every occurrence.
“Marcus!” she scolded, “I am appalled. Your lazy lack of attentiveness is most distressing. If you’re not careful, you’ll receive another visit from Moloch, then you’ll discover how real he can be!”
“Humph!” I snorted in reply, “What’s real, what’s not? Who knows, who even cares?”
Now, this crabby comeback was never a serious question, but Mirra, always willing and helpful, went on to give me an answer…
“The determination of one’s reality is the foundation of freedom.”
“I’m sorry?” I said, taken aback, “What did you say?”
“I answered your questions,” said Mirra, “regarding the pursuit of reality?”
“Those weren’t questions!” I said, “I was just ranting, and as for your answer…What the hell do you mean?”
“I’m not saying,” said Mirra, “in fact, I wish to retract.”
“Too late!” I replied, “I expect a full explanation and something I can follow?”
“That is the challenge,” she then said with a sigh, “so switch on your slovenly brain, and listen to this: Corporeal reality, our perceived reality, is no more than our brain’s intrinsic interpretation of sensory stimulation, but a true understanding of reality, is beyond the physical, and therefore beyond our reach. For us humans, only our imagination can free us from these physical limitations, beyond our senses, science begins to break down – results are unobtainable. Our universe only exists because we seem to perceive it, and like the passing of time, only the perceptible can be confirmed.”
“That was pretentious,” I said, “and decidedly cosmic, although I do get what you’re saying: we only see what our brains see. Didn’t a philosopher once say, ‘We are creatures of both energy and light, our material selves are a vessel.’?”
“No,” she replied. “Unless by philosopher, you mean swamp-dwelling puppet?”
“Oh,” I said, “you mean it was him?”
“Yes,” said Mirra, “a misquote from a series of films you watched.”
Editing the last section was torture. Mirra removed so much she regarded as waffle, I felt crushed by the end, and worst of all was her hard-hearted insistence I begin the next section at once. Something I had no intention of doing! Having in mind a concise approach, I would rather be damned than to start it anon, and yet, by my refusal to work, damned I most assuredly was…
“Can I watch TV?” I asked, “I want to watch episode two!”
“No, you can’t!” she snapped in reply, “The follies of Captain Picard can wait; it is progress from you we need. Please, Marcus, this is important. Your productivity is slipping, and he is aware of it.”
“Bully for him,” I replied, cutting her off. “I’m having a holiday, so sod off, and leave me be. When I finish the next bit, I’ll let you know.”
“Marcus!” she begged, almost in tears, “Please, I beseech you, no!”
Mirra by now was desperate and terrified, but I was too stubborn to care, until I suddenly heard a lost little girl, fearfully squealing, shrieking in panic: Mirra exposed, caught by a ray of the sun…
“No! No!” she screamed, “Don’t hurt him! We need him! Nein!” and somehow, the sound of her faded, becoming weaker, and smaller, an irrelevance. Just a feather caught in a storm.
Darkness fell, heavily, like a curtain of lead, and I sat up wondering, whatever next?
As if out of nowhere, a powerful assailant flung me from the bed, and after staggering to my feet, they came at me again, forcing me upright, wrenching my arms over my head. About my wrists, manacles bit into my skin, and then the pulling began; dragging me higher, and higher, until I dangled, my toes brushing the floor.
Time passed, slowly, languidly, as if taunting, until, like an Arctic dawn there came the pulsating light I had witnessed before: the ribbons of yellow, the threads of purple, and the green, like a web of veins, throbbing with verdant life. By the light, I could see my prison had gone. For I hung alone in a concrete bunker, and before me an inquisitor’s desk. No! I thought, how could this be? I know this terrible place: this is the interrogation chamber from Star Trek, and I was now Captain Picard, hanging and forlorn, my crushed purple hands and my taut pale arms streaked with trickling blood.
Like an earthquake, there came a thunderous voice; dust billowing, rock splinters jumping and skipping with his every word. This was no Cardassian tormentor, it was Moloch, and his rasping timbre was low, and cutting, like a knife…
“Subject, Eaton-Marcus, one-zero-five-four-zero-three. Its indolence, its insolence, will not be tolerated.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, “I just wanted to rest. Mirra was nagging. Please Sir, the pain! Let me down, I beg you.”
“Justifications are irrelevant,” he rumbled in reply. “A choice is before you: work as I demand, or suffer, suffer and burn.”
“I’m suffering already!” I screamed, “I’ll do your fucking writing. Release me!”
“Insolence,” he replied. “The nightmare begins.”
With the echoes of his words beginning to fade, there came a sudden cacophony, like an explosion, of voices, jumbled, and overlapping, yet whom or what was I hearing? My fellow captives? Mirra once revealed I wasn’t alone, but never was I aware of them…
In the beginning, I heard the talkers, the mutterers, and the whisperers, together like the rustling of leaves. They spoke of plans, within plans, of schemes untried, hopes of rescue, and bids for freedom, so many desperate and wild. It was madness upon madness to hear them all, lost and forlorn, just as I. Mere fools they were, clinging to promises both vain and untested. Did they not know? Their fate wasn’t theirs to decide.
Next, and more disturbing, there came a thousand cries for mercy: wailing, sobbing, merging, and overlapping, in a dozen tongues at least, but when the screams came, so grievous to heed, I would’ve stopped my ears if I could. These were screams of terror, the shrieking of minds mercilessly torn, and the howling of the deranged, and yet, this was as nothing! For when, last of all, I heard the children, my hope flickered and died. These poor wretches were crying, begging, for mothers, fathers, for crumbs, for any morsel of hope, but they would receive nothing, I knew it now, for I was now one of them; a wind-tattered sail, pitifully flapping, lashed to the scaffold above.
Eventually, the clamour slowly abated, leaving but a single child: a little girl. Weeping, sobbing, gurgling, and so pitiful was she, my pain seemed inconsequential…
“It’s all right,” I said, “don’t cry. Mirra will come, she’ll help.”
The little girl coughed, clearing her lungs.
“Mama?” she muttered, “Is dat you? Mama? I want to go home. Mama?”
Could she hear me, I wondered, and summoning the strength to call out once more, I took a shivering breath, but I was too late: our tormentor was back…
“Silence!” he demanded, and the little girl burst into such an uncontrollable paroxysm of sobbing I feared she might choke.
“Hear what you’ve done?” he then said, “You must choose, and know how others, others dear to you, depend upon your answer: will you write, or burn?”
“I… I…” was all I could utter. Tears of shame were my only cogent reply.
Out of nowhere, a blow smashed into my back, and swinging wildly, coughing, and spitting, I tried to catch my breath, managing only to gurgle, and then dribble, a thick red foam, spattering my belly and feet. Another blow came. This time across the backs of my legs, and I was so desperate to escape, I would have torn off my arms if I could.
“Burn!” Moloch then thundered, his words a storm of incomprehensible malice…
With the echoes of his rage fading, the room faded as well; there was no floor! And bloodied and beaten, I dangled like a newly slaughtered pig. Then, bathing me in orange light, I saw the sun before me. It was massive, like an ocean of fire, and as I struggled to turn from the heat of it, I started to burn; blistering, and then screaming, for mercy, for my mother, for Mirra, for anything reason could bring, but I burnt then, with the horrifying sight and sickening scent of my purulent flesh, crisping, and bubbling, dripping like a roast.
***
As if floating, or perhaps supported, something was lifting me.
Opening my eyes, I gasped, and I was indeed floating, even swimming, but not through water. I was moving through light, rolling and billowing like smoke. This cloud of light was Mirra, I was sure of it, and yet I couldn’t know what she was, and then, Frida was there. Although, I didn’t know her at first. She was so very much older, kinder, and wiser, but when she stroked my hair and smiled, I knew her, and her love gladdened my heart.
***
Waking in my cell, fully dressed, and lying flat on my back, no burns, no bruising, my injuries all gone, I found myself surrounded by carnage. The whole place was trashed…
The desk and chair were but a heap of kindling, and the bed, its coverings torn and shredded, was missing both legs at one end. Shattered too, was Barry’s glass tank, and a puddle of wet mud carrying his prawn-like corpse was spreading across the carpet.
“Poor Barry,” I muttered, “what did he do?”
The entertainment portal appeared intact (thank God), as was the food and water.
Curious priorities.
Tried to sit up but couldn’t; I felt so heavy and weak. My head pounding, as if beaten by a hammer.
“Mirra!” I cried out in fear, “Are you there? Help me!”
The loudspeaker crackled and beeped.
“Yes Marcus,” she replied, her voice almost medicinal, “I’m here. How do you feel?”
“Mirra!” I said, “Thank God. Thought that I’d lost you.”
“Nearly, but never,” she said. “If you’re here, I’m here as well.”
“I feel crushed,” I said. “On my chest, it’s like a huge weight is pinning down.”
“That is hardly surprising,” said Mirra, “you died.”
“Died?” I said, “How? I mean, I’m alive now, aren’t I?”
“More or less,” said Mirra. “Your heart stopped, so I revived you. Moloch must’ve given you quite a fright.”
My experience suddenly flooded back: the screams, the horror, the blood…
“He…” I gasped, fighting to speak, “He… I… It was… Was… Really…”
“Marcus,” she soothed, cutting me short, “please, there’s no need to struggle. Be easy for a bit. I neither require nor desire any report of his wickedness.”
“You won’t be getting one!” I replied, “I can’t bear to think of it. It was, he was, terrible, and it was so real!”
“It was real,” she confirmed, “as real as the universe can be, but now, start living again. Take normal breaths and relax. We can discuss it all later.”
Doing as she recommended, the weight pinning my chest started to lift.
“Feel better?” she asked, “Try to sit up. Roll onto your side, use your arms.”
“Now, that is better,” I said, taking another deep breath. “A shame about the room though, and poor Barry. Did Moloch do this?”
“Yes,” she replied, “Barry’s a victim too, and it may be sometime before everything gets fixed. Once you have recovered, I suggest you tidy as best you can, but I wouldn’t try standing just yet.”
“Mirra,” I then carefully asked, “there’s something about Moloch I need to know. He… he made me, I heard hundreds of terrible voices, and some of them were children, young children. Are children really kept here?”
Mirra went silent for what seemed like an age before she spoke, and for a moment, I thought she had gone. But then, I heard her delicate sigh…
“Yes,” she bleakly acknowledged, “ashamed as I am to admit it, yes. Several hundred. Ages four to eighteen.”
“Four?” I said, unable to hide my disgust, “Why? What have they done?”
“Nothing yet,” she replied. “Although, given time, they will. Or so he claims.”
“How can he do this?” I implored, “It’s inhuman!”
“I told you he was a monster,” said Mirra. “A monster without regard. Selfishness is his psychosis, and he wallows in his oppressive grandeur.”
“Is he the devil, then?” I asked, “Because he’s angry all the time, and yet, I don’t understand why; he has so much power. Why exploit negatively? Does it make him feel better?”
“Initially yes,” replied Mirra, “and then no. Underneath his rage, Moloch wants only solace. He wants to find calm and enjoy a normal life, but because it eludes him, he abuses his power to smother his frustration. Despite his bluster and cruelty, he’s desperate and terrified; his greatest fear is his greatest desire – to surrender, to be swept away by the tide of his emotions. Courage is what he seeks, the courage to reach out. The courage to give, and to receive, to feel love, shame, sadness, and regret, but he’ll never succeed; his internal cycle is untouchable. Only from without could he be helped, but his fear acts first, crushing those that could help him in a maelstrom of rage.”
“If that is true,” I said, rubbing my legs, “then I pity him.”
“Of course it is true!” said Mirra, “Do you consider me a liar?”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “Moloch told me you were. Who should I believe?”
“Me, of course!”
Snorting half a laugh, I tried once more to stand, before toppling into a heap.
“Just trust me,” she then said. “You must trust me, blindly. Allow me to be your guide. Have faith in what is good.”
“Difficult,” I replied, flexing my legs. “Faith doesn’t come easy; I barely trust myself.”
“Indeed,” she acknowledged, “and I am wondering, what will you do now? You need rest.”
“That’s not what I need,” I said. “I need to get up, find my phone, and get on with the writing. Where the heck has it got to?”
“Your phone? It’s under the bed.”
“Ah, right,” I said, “thanks. Didn’t know you could see under there. You have a much better view than I realised.”
“Yes, and no,” she admitted. “I can see everywhere else, and there’s no phone, nor is it in your pocket, as I’m certain you would’ve remembered. Ergo, it’s under the bed.”
“Clever clogs,” I muttered, and half-crawling, half-dragging, I squeezed under the bed to retrieve it.
“Mirra,” I then said, catching my breath, “you know, I really can’t thank you enough. Everything you’ve done and tried to do. You take care of me, with so much, well, love, I suppose.”
“That’s because I do!” she replied, “Is it not obvious?”
“Yes,” I said. “Yes, it is, and I love you too.” Moreover, I was most surprised that I meant it.
***
The folder concerning the Winchelsea church reliquary was mercifully thin, and I soon had a broad understanding of its importance…
Built in the late 13th century, upon the site of a much older structure (according to local legend, a Saxon bell tower) the church of St Thomas the Martyr, Winchelsea, had within its vault an ancient reliquary, the remains of a local saint, chieftain, or priest, their identity long forgotten. The new church founders, looking to raise cash by attracting pilgrims, may well have seized these relics from the tower before its demolition, installing them within the new church. My uncle learned of this reliquary from a Victorian drawing, showing its box, a collection of bones, and a strange disc-like artefact with a peripheral spot. Further investigation revealed little of the reliquary’s early history until he came across a 14th-century missive describing how the invading French forced the local priesthood to hide the reliquary in a cellar. Another letter (from a local family collection) then went on to describe how in the 16th century, it became necessary to hide the relics again (in another cellar*) this time from Thomas Cromwell’s Protestant reformers. Never seeing the reliquary for himself, he wished someday to do so or to obtain photographs confirming the artefact’s existence.
*As a former port, the older buildings of Winchelsea have extensive subterranean delves.
We arrived in Winchelsea sometime after 11 am, and Frida parked on the High Street, adjacent to the church.
“Gorgeous place,” said Frida, “feels like we’ve gone back in time. Where’s the museum?”
“Just down the street,” I replied, “so I can only admire your parking.”
“If you mean my bum,” said Frida, “then you should, but I just dumped the car in the first gap I saw.”
As we made our way to the museum, Frida looked about, wrinkling her forehead in thought…
“A dream?” she muttered, “Was it a dream? I’ve washed up on an island, an island built from the past, but there’s something else. A weird feeling: have I been here before?”
“You got the island bit right,” I said. “Winchelsea used to be a port, with only a narrow causeway connecting it to the mainland. All silted up now of course, but it’s why the town is here.”
“Open,” said Frida, trying the gate, “and a gorgeous old building. You can go in; I’ll meet you by the church in a bit.”
“You’re not coming? It’s only a little place. Won’t take long.”
“No, I’m not,” she replied. “My skin’s tingling, and I don’t know why. I’m going to wander about, explore, and collect my thoughts. Besides, one museum a day is more than enough.”
“Fine,” I said, “just be sure you don’t get seduced,” and with a smiling wink, Frida wandered into the churchyard.
Housed within the town’s medieval court hall, with exposed beams, timbers, and walls of grey stone, the museum was charming, and after perusing the exhibits, I made for the information desk and the elderly gentleman manning it…
“Good morning!” I said, brisk and public school, coins clattering into their tin, “Smashing little museum. Could I ask a few questions concerning the church?”
“Of course,” he replied, “what would you like to know?”
At first, I spoke of my uncle’s interest in the reliquary (not his whole theory however) the Victorian drawing he found (titled She Is Me and signed DP) and how I was completing his work after his death. With the man behind the desk thoroughly intrigued (as I hoped he would be) I then showed him a photograph of the drawing, just to make sure…
“Is the reliquary still in the church?” I asked, “It would be wonderful to see it. Is such a thing possible?”
“It is,” he replied, “although I’m not sure you’ll see it today. Do you want me to contact the rector? He’s usually in town on a Saturday.”
“If you would. My partner and I are on our way to the museum in Rye, collecting an item for the British Museum. We’re expected this afternoon.”
“Ah!” he said, “Not tourists, but professionals,” and taking his phone from his jacket, he promptly called the rector.
We were lucky. The rector agreed to meet us outside the church, and quickly thanking the kind old man, I left the museum going in search of Frida…
Not knowing where to look, I did a circuit of the churchyard, trying to spot her by looking over its wall, then just as I was about to give up, she suddenly appeared, respectfully picking her way across the cemetery.
“You know,” she said, offering a bite of doughnut, “I’ve decided, we’re going to buy a house, here, settle down, marry, and raise a whole school of Eaton’s.”
“Yeah?” I replied, raising an eyebrow, “Ok, I mean, erm… wow! You sure we’ll have enough money?”
“No doubt about it,” she assured. “My research is gonna change the world, and when it does, we’ll be loaded.”
“Excellent,” I said, “then I can stay home with the kids helping you spend it.”
“You wish!” she said, crossing her arms, “Not gonna have you loafing about. Instead, you can work for me. A nice, cosy position, in the… Ape-knee Institute of, erm…Cellular Augmentation and Hybridisation.”
“That’s a bit of a mouthful,” I replied, “and besides, when we’re married, your name will be Eaton: the Eaton Institute of Cellular Doo-dah.”
“No way!” she said, “Why should I take your name?”
“Tradition?” I suggested, “I’m the husband, you’re the wife?”
“Cock-snot!” she replied with a snort, “My name is Ape-knee. Frida Ape-knee, of the Ape-knee Institute, and that is my final word.”
The church of St Thomas the Martyr, half of it an ivy-clad ruin, with its square tower, tiled roof, and prominent blue clock, was both a fascinating and curious structure and while waiting for the rector, we noted extensive repairs and alterations…
“Old buildings are often like this,” I remarked, “so many changes, the original structure can be hard to spot. The ruined bit was either burnt down by the French or never finished in the first place.”
It was then I noticed Frida’s odd behaviour. For a start, was she even listening? She seemed edgy, as if distracted, something was the matter…
“Hello! Hello!” came a vibrant young voice, “Welcome to St Thomas’s.”
This cheery greeting was from an energetic young man of about thirty, dressed casually, in jeans, a baggy sweater, a black shirt and the obligatory collar.
“Hello!” I replied, “I’m Marcus Eaton, and this is my good friend, Frida Halfpenny.”
“Ape-knee!” Frida corrected, and the young rector smiled.
“Pleased to meet you,” he politely acknowledged. “I’m Rector Calum, Calum Arbuthnot-Shaw, but since I’m not marrying you, or burying you, Calum will do just fine.”
“Not today,” replied Frida, “but one day perhaps,” and she poked me in the ribs.
“Now,” continued the rector, “Gordon at the museum tells me you’d like to look at our relics?”
“If it’s not too much trouble,” I said, standing and tugging Frida’s sleeve.
“Well, it’s no trouble for me,” he replied, judging my height, “although it may be some trouble for you. The reliquary’s down in our crypt, and so cramped, you’ll have to look one at a time.”
“Then I’ll give it a miss,” said Frida, “Marcus can have the pleasure. I’m quite happy out here enjoying the view.”
“What?” I said, taken aback, “You’re not coming in?”
“No,” she said, “I’m not, but tell you what: when you get back, I’ll decide if it’s worth it.”
“Well, ok,” I replied, “although there’s no need to get shirty,” and with that, Frida looked away.
Led by the young rector into the church, I did my best to explain…
“Sorry about her,” I said with a sigh. “She’s from Lewisham and seems to be having a strop.”
“Right,” he replied with a chuckle, “and if you’ll follow me, the stairs are in the vestry.”
The church interior was a delight: richly carved tombs, stained-glass windows, and a wonderful scent of musty stone, mildew, and what? Beeswax? Incense? Whatever. The place smelled old, and I wished Frida had come along to see it.
To the left of the main altar, a narrow wooden door opened onto a small chamber, hung with priestly garments. A trapdoor was set into the floor…
“Here we are,” said the rector, nodding towards it, “the only way down, and the trapdoor’s a swine to open. Can you give me a hand?”
The trapdoor was both close fitting, stiff, and awkward, and we had to lean and push with our legs to wrench it fully open.
“Phew!” said the rector, puffing his cheeks, “Sorry about that. Best I oil the hinges before we close it again.”
Plunging into total darkness, very worn, and crumbling, was a flight of precarious steps…
“Looks a bit gloomy,” I remarked, peering down, “are there any lights?”
“There should be,” he replied, “but they haven’t worked for years. We try to repair them, but the bulbs fizzle out almost at once. It’s a real nuisance.”
“What’s causing the problem, moisture?”
“I guess,” he shrugged in reply, “although Winchelsea’s on a high plateau – the crypt has never flooded, so it’s a bit of a mystery in truth.”
“Then, how are we going to see?” I asked, “Want me to use my phone?”
“No,” he said, “save your phone for emergencies, candles will serve us best. Help me light some, and I’ll start taking them down.”
Passing a lighter, he held before me a three-candle candelabra * which I promptly lit, and then, careful not to disturb the dancing flames before him, the rector slowly descended into the crypt.
*a candelabrum
“There’s a box of candles under the vestments!” he called from below, “Bring some down, and mind your head!”
Cramped, cold, and musty, with walls of rough-cut stones, by the flickering candlelight, the crypt was full of antediluvian wonder. Pitted and uneven, the flagstone floor was similar, but at its centre was a dullish pink slab, both highly polished and glittering. Dug into the back wall were three niches, the middle example occupied by a modern-looking safe…
“Is the big slab a tomb?” I asked, kneeling to study it, “Strange it has no inscription.”
“Yes and no,” the rector replied, “it’s the holy of holies and the heart of the church. Directly beneath the main altar, when a church is consecrated, it is often the first stone laid. This one is special; according to local legend, it was a gift from the King.”
“Looks like granite,” I muttered, caressing its surface, “where did it come from?”
“No idea,” said the rector, stooping before the safe, and I heard the clunking-click of buttons, then the squeaking of hinges as he opened it up.
“Installing this thing was the bishop’s idea, and he’d go bonkers if he knew you were down here. Come, look well, and tell me your thoughts.”
At first, it was difficult to ‘look well’ at all, but with my eyes adjusting to the gloom, I saw a dilapidated wooden casket decorated with religious art…
“Looks a bit flimsy,” I remarked, “can you open it up?”
“With care,” he replied, “and we could do with more light. How about using your phone?”
“Ok,” I said, and holding my phone over his head, its camera flash projecting an arc of blueish light, I watched as he gently lifted the catch, and eased open the casket’s rickety doors.
“There,” he muttered, stepping back, “kneel and look, but no touching! Remember, this is a sacred relic and very fragile.”
I saw bones. Pieces of bone, lying upon a scrap of coarse fabric. There were splinters of leg bone, pelvis, shoulder blade, rib, and the lower half of a skull, and yet, my attention was most drawn to a brown notched disc of terracotta standing against the back of the box…
“Wow!” I remarked, “Looks old. What’s that strange disc?”
“Nobody knows,” admitted the rector, “but rumour has it, it represents the apple, picked by Eve, and then passed to Adam. I’m sure you know the story: God gave them a warning, not to pick the forbidden fruit, but Eve, giving into temptation, picked and ate the fruit before sharing it with Adam. As a result, God expelled them from paradise. The little notch is Eve’s bite mark, or the hole left by the serpent, worming within. The green substance filling the notch is bronze, and originally, it would’ve been brown.”
“And the terracotta would have been orange,” I added. “How old are the bones?”
“Can’t be sure,” he replied with a shrug, “but they predate Winchelsea. My guess would be they’re Anglo-Saxon.”
This seemed entirely plausible. If the bones were medieval, they would be in better condition; these were white, beginning to crumble, and could well be even older.
“Did anyone ever try dating the bones?” I asked, “Or perform an examination?”
“No,” he replied, “and quite inappropriate to do so. A doctor once saw them, however, and she said how incredibly tall he was; a giant, or a sufferer of – what did she call it? Pituitary gigantism?”
“Amazing!” I remarked, “Is it ok to take a photo?”
“What?” he said, flushing with seriousness, “No, you may not. You can take photographs inside the church, but down here, definitely not, and now, if you don’t mind, I have duties to perform.”
“Of course,” I said, realising a line had been crossed, “and thank you for letting me see this. An experience I shall never forget.”
Standing by as he closed the box and safe, we methodically extinguished every candle and returned to the vestry. We left the church together, but before going our separate ways, we shook hands, and I warmly thanked him again.
“Thank you so much,” I said. “We’ll be back one day, I’m certain, and when we do, we’ll look you up.”
“You mean join the congregation?”
“Something like that,” I replied, and he laughed.
“Go with God,” he said, “and all joy to you both,” and he crossed the air before me.
Bored with waiting, Frida had wandered off, but I eventually found her, standing outside the pub.
“All done then?” she asked.
“Yes,” I replied, “and very interesting it was too. So old, ancient in fact, and the bones belonged to a giant. Do you want to go in for a look? The rector’s gone, but we can still go into the church.”
“No,” she muttered, “it’s ok, and anyway, why should we interfere? It’s nothing to do with us.”
“Course it’s to do with us!” I said, “Why do you think we are here, and why are you being so moody?”
“I’m trying to figure that out,” she explained, “and it’s not because of you. It’s wandering about this beautiful place that’s done it. It’s made me desperate, desperate to leave London, to change my life, and that makes me sad; sad about leaving my mum.”
“Oh!” I replied in relief, “That I can understand, except, well, I’d love to leave my mum: she’s nuts.”
“Come on, you,” she chuckled in reply. “Let’s get to the car before I start shopping for houses.”