‘YOU cannot speak to St Swithun,’ declared the Bishop, looking worried.
‘Nonsense,’ said Aunt Butters, rummaging energetically in her handbag. ‘He is certainly reclusive, but we’ve spoken a few times before and I don’t think he will deny us aid.’
‘He … he should not be speaking to you at all,’ sputtered the Bishop. ‘As the cathedral’s Guardian, he may speak only to the Bishops of Winchester.’
“The cathedral’s what?” I squeaked, making the Bishop jump. He had clearly forgotten I was in the room, and had blurted out yet another secret that I was pretty sure he did not want me to know.
He wasn’t alone. I definitely didn’t want to know any of this. But for Aunty B I’d have caught the next train back to London.
‘Very well then, Woody,’ said Aunty B, ‘you go and talk to Swithun then!’
‘I cannot.’ Bishop Stiles dropped into a chair. ‘The Phantral Decree forbids it. I may not discuss the workings of that realm with any of its inhabitants.’ He groaned. ‘I’m not even meant to discuss it with you, Amelia, even if you are my oldest friend. Never mind your niece.’ He put his head in his hands.
‘Exactly.’ Aunty B gathered up her things. ‘Which is why you should stay here and I will go and talk with dear Swithun. Come along Cassie.’ She marched towards the door.
I only hesitated for a moment. Just long enough to think: Chronicles? St Swithun? Guardian? And what’s a Phantral Decree? before I pushed aside every one of the thousand questions hammering at my brain and meekly followed Aunt Butters.
I just hoped she knew what she was doing.
TEN minutes later we were in the cathedral, hurrying down the nave. There were plenty of tourists about and I wondered how Aunt Butters was planning to talk to a ghost without drawing their attention.
A moment later I had my answer.
She pushed open the door of the vestry and ushered me inside. ‘Now,’ said Aunty B, closing the door behind us. ‘Let’s see if this will work.’ She pulled a rolled-up scarf from her handbag and laid it on the table. ‘I’m not sure if Swithun will manifest himself to us – he’s not too fond of people – but I think this will encourage him.’ She drew a long narrow stick from the end of the scarf and gave it a twitch.
‘That’s not… a wand, is it, Aunty B?’
She nodded. ‘Rowan-tree and holly with a tip of yew. Very powerful. I hope I will not need it.’ She glanced about her. ‘Swithun, are you here?’
I held my breath. All I’d ever known about St Swithun was some ancient legend about rain in summer. Now, I had a vision of him as a terrifying ghoul with a scythe and a nasty temper; the idea was nerve-wracking.
Aunt Butters had no such qualms. ‘Swithun?’
Nothing.
She raised her wand and muttered some words I could not make out. Something stirred in the air around me, I heard a strange rattling sound and then a faint voice said,
‘Greetings, mistress.’
I looked up – and took two hasty steps backwards.
Coming through the wall was a skull precariously balanced on an outstretched skeletal hand. As it emerged I saw that the hand was attached to a bony arm which was in turn attached to a headless white skeleton wearing a monk’s habit so threadbare it was practically transparent. The skull had a ring of stubbly white hair around it and within its hollow sockets two lashless milky eyes looked out at us. I saw a flicker of gladness at the sight of Aunty B before the skull turned to me and alarm filled the rheumy orbs.
I gazed at the apparition in stunned silence, not sure whether I was more boggled by the sight of the ghost or by the realisation that this decrepit skeleton was the cathedral’s ‘Guardian’ we’d come to see, and not the fearful ghoul of my imagination.
Aunty B got straight to the point. ‘Hello, Swithun dear. We’ve come to ask you about the curse.’
The skull started, then shook so vigorously from side to side that I heard its teeth rattle. ‘Ye must not speak of such things,’ quavered St Swithun when his head had stopped shaking. ‘I would not offend ye, Mistress Amelia, but I cannot help ye.’
‘You would not refuse me, Swithun?’ pleaded Aunty B. ‘The situation is desperate and we need your counsel. You are the cathedral’s Guardian – you cannot wish to see it destroyed, but I fear that is what will happen if we do not find a way to free the ghosts who continue to be trapped here.’
‘I vow ’tis not my judgement, Mistress,’ squeaked St Swithun. ‘If ’twere my choice, I should not refuse thee, but a Power greater than thee or me commands my silence.’ He trembled. ‘’Tis so great a Power that I fear all the world will come to harm – mayhap to hell and ruin – should I speak of that which ye wish to hear.’
‘But Swithun dear, if the Phantral Gate is blocked––’
‘I may not speak of such things! Ye must know that I am bound by the Ancient Lore and the Phantral Decree.’
‘But I am not bound by such things,’ protested Aunt Butters. ‘Why, I do not even know what they are.’
I shot her a surprised glance. Was she playing dumb, or did she really not know about them? I wasn’t sure if I should be comforted or terrified by the thought.
‘It is not for the living to converse with the spirits of the dead,’ recited St Swithun. ‘That is the first rule. For the dead shall liveth in memory alone.’
‘All right,’ agreed Aunty B. ‘Though you are obviously an exception. But we have no wish to converse with the dead, just free them.’ She waved a hand around the room. ‘You must see that they are trapped, Swithun. I only want to help them. Just give me a hint.’
The skull twitched nervously and glanced fearfully from side to side as though looking for someone. ‘The Phantral Force hath been invoked,’ he whispered. ‘The gate is blocked. The power in the Realm doth grow. Too much power. Thus the waters in the crypt riseth up.’ He quivered. ‘I may say no more.’
‘But who has invoked the Phantral Force?’ demanded Aunty B. ‘Is it a curse? How can I break the spell? You must tell me what to do.’
But Swithun was not listening. ‘I must not answer, lest I risk calamity! Fire, flood, destruction. If he were to summon them hither—’ He broke off, his eye sockets full of fear.
‘Who is he, and who might he summon?’ I could hear the desperation in Aunty B’s voice.
But Swithun’s skeleton was already backing away through the wall with his skull following.
‘Don’t go, Swithun!’ cried Aunty B. ‘You must at least tell me if it is a curse we’re dealing with here.’ She clasped her hands in plea. ‘You are my friend. If you will not help me, who will?’
St Swithun hesitated, the skull opened and closed its mouth; he visibly wavered.
Throwing all my disbelief to the wind, I said hurriedly, ‘You don’t have to tell us anything about this… ghostly plane of yours. Aunty B just needs to know if it’s a… a curse that’s causing all the problems.’
The skull gazed at me in silence.
‘You don’t even have to speak, your saintliness,’ I entreated. ‘You can just nod.’
There was a pause.
‘Is it a curse, Swithun dear?’ Aunty B looked anxiously up at the ancient skull.
The skull’s teeth clacked together. It nodded, then shot through the wall after its skeleton.