Black Ceremonies Read online

  He went on, “All of a sudden Ali went berserk. The queer buildings and repulsive statues had already put him ill at ease, but to be confronted with the living reality, and the realisation of what was expected of us – well, it must have been too much. He pulled out his meat cleaver, and with a crazed yell he started laying about with it.

  “I drew my cutlass and joined in, hacking and chopping, whilst young Jake swung his fists. It took them by surprise, by God! We were determined to fight our way out of there.”

  “You mean you attacked them without provocation?” I was astounded. “But that’s monstrous.”

  “Aye! Monstrous! Indeed they were, Father. Such things should not be. They fought back with tooth and claw. And I was near throttled when one of them wrapped his tentacle-arm around my throat.”

  “Whatever their appearance, they were still part of God’s creation,” I protested.

  “But they were heathen savages.”

  “They may have been ignorant of God, but surely they should have been given the opportunity of conversion. A good missionary could have brought them the word of the Lord.”

  But Crawford was not paying attention to me. In his mind, he was back on the island and reliving his experiences.

  “I grabbed their leader, and that gave them pause. I had my blade pressed against his scaly skin, and I told my hostage to call off his followers. He croaked out something that caused them to keep their distance. They held back a short while, but soon they came hopping and scrambling after us. I think they were not used to moving about on land, and they certainly found running difficult – so, even with the burden of a hostage, we were able to outpace them.

  “We made it to the canoes; Ali pushed one out to sea, whilst Jake holed the others. Jake then took charge of our prisoner, and I cut down the first of the islanders to reach us.

  “But I realised that, even though we had rendered the other craft useless, it did not matter. I was sure that the islanders would swim after us. We needed to delay them somehow.”

  Crawford held his head in his hands. “Poor Jake,” he moaned. “He gave up his life so that we might get away.”

  “How did it happen?” I asked.

  Crawford seemed reluctant to speak of it. “It pains me to remember, Father.”

  “Come now,” I chided, “if your companion bravely gave up his life, he at least deserves to have his noble act recounted.”

  I had expected to hear of the young sailor’s heroic sacrifice, but what the sailor said next left me stunned.

  “Well, it were a drastic act, but I did the only thing I could think of – I clobbered Jake and left him senseless on the beach, hoping that one of us would appease them.”

  It was a shocking revelation. One that caused me to swear, “Good God, man!” I was incredulous. “You left your friend at the mercy of enraged savages?”

  His next admission was to have me shaking my head in disbelief.

  “I would have left Ali behind, too, if I could have, but he was already in the canoe and had seen what I’d done to Jake. Besides, I needed him to row.”

  “Why, your actions make you more of a savage than these so-called Atlanteans. I pray to God that they showed your friend more mercy than you did!”

  Crawford sniffed. “Even if they didn’t kill him in revenge there and then, but kept him for their original purpose of mating with one of their women-kind, then I doubt he would have lived much longer.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It didn’t occur to me at the time – the mere thought of those female Atlanteans was bad enough. But I later realised why there were no men on Nia’s island.”

  “I don’t follow you, Mr Crawford. What do you mean?” I asked again.

  “Well I reckon them females bred like the praying mantis, and after mating they killed their mate.”

  I said a prayer for poor Jake Webster. Then the seaman continued his tale.

  “I could see some of them still meant to pursue us. But there must have been one of them Atlanteans that realised that this was an opportunity for it to seize power for ’imself. For there was a blast on a shell horn, that stopped those that had dived into the sea. A croaked command followed and they returned to the shore.

  “My prisoner was furious and began to struggle. Whilst on the shore the Atlanteans picked up poor Jake and returned to their city.

  “The canoe was rocking and I feared we would capsize. The priest-king had momentarily got the better of me, when Ali struck him with his meat cleaver.”

  “It was a lethal blow, no doubt.”

  “Oh aye, it were lethal all right. Ali had had plenty of experience of using his cleaver, he knew just where to chop; he didn’t need to kill the Atlantean.”

  “I do not condone the taking of another man’s life but in doing so he saved yours.” I had the unchristian thought that Crawford’s was not a life worth saving.

  “Well I was mad you can be sure – I had been on the verge of regaining the upper hand. And you see it was my intention to take my prisoner back to civilisation,” the sailor grumbled.

  “I don’t know why I’m surprised by your lack of gratitude, Mr Crawford.”

  “I could have earned a pretty penny displaying him in a freak show,” Crawford complained.

  “I couldn’t even keep the body – there being no way of preserving it. It corroded quicker than you’d believe possible, and boy what a smell.” Crawford’s expression was one of disgust.

  “You said yourself that the Lascar was unable to cope with the existence of this strange race. Did you really think the three of you could make such a journey together?”

  Crawford did not answer, so I tried another question. “How long were you at sea?”

  “Days, weeks, months, who knows? I lost track of how long we drifted.” Crawford sighed. “Alone, adrift, so long without food or water. Never once coming in sight of land, or a ship of any kind. I thought God had truly forsaken me. I was on the verge of giving up hope; I don’t know how much longer I could have survived. And then one day I spotted a ship. Never was I so relieved to see that ship. Rescue at last, thank God.”

  “Pardon my interruption, but what happened to your companion?” I asked.

  “Eh? What?”

  “You said you were alone. What happened to Ali?”

  “Oh, Ali, yeah, well, Ali.” Crawford paused, considering. “Well, I’ve told you this much, I might as well tell you the rest. You see Ali, he were in a sorry state.” Crawford shook his head. “A sorry state, no mistake, well, we both were, if truth be told. There was no way we was both gonna make it like. It was a long time before that ship turned up. And there was no point in us both dying, were there? He weren’t gonna make it, and there was no point in me dying of starvation now was there? And there was no way I was ever gonna eat fish ever again, not after what I’d seen on that island.”

  “What are you saying?” I gasped.

  Crawford’s sudden grin was maniacal. “You could say, Father, that for once in his life Ali served up a decent meal. Best food I ever got out of him.”

  I was aghast. “Mr Crawford, Are you saying what I think you are saying? I despair; you are a truly despicable man. It will take a great deal of thought to decide upon a suitable act of penance for you to perform.”

  My thoughts raced. I felt sickened by much of what the sailor had admitted to me. But how much truth was there to his wild story? Was he really admitting to murder and cannibalism?

  I thought there were inconsistencies to his tale, and I doubted that he had told me the whole truth. Indeed, I half suspected that I was the victim of an old sailor’s tall tale.

  No doubt he had seen some wild things on his travels. But was Crawford suffering from some sort of madness brought on by the distress of being ship wrecked? It was also evident that he had too strong a liking for rum. Did he suffer from drunken delusions?

  And yet he did have that curiously strange crown. How else could he have come by it, I wondered. Pira
cy perhaps.

  Crawford interrupted my thoughts. “You will let me spend the night here, won’t you, Father?”

  “Well—”

  “He fell to his knees again. “I beg of you, Father, give me shelter for the night.”

  I will admit my first instinct was to again direct him to seek a room at Kirowan’s inn. The wretch had admitted to countless dubious and sinful activities, and I was not sure of my own safety if I allowed him to stay.

  Perhaps Crawford sensed my feelings for he suddenly became hysterical. “Oh, Lord protect me! The sea wants it back! Verily it is true, here be sea monsters!” he raved.

  And then he howled a jumble of harsh guttural gibberish – of which I only recognised one word, the name of the ancient Philistine deity Dagon – before breaking down in tears. “Ah God, forgive this unworthy sinner,” he cried.

  I chided myself for my doubts. The Lord would protect me. God had obviously directed Patrick Crawford to my door; it was my Christian duty to give shelter to this repentant sinner.

  “Very well,” I relented, “I can provide you with a bed for the night.”

  I had expected this to please the old sailor, but he suddenly began to moan. “No, no, no.”

  “What is wrong?” I asked, confused by his response.

  “Please Father; let me spend the night here in your church. Let me spend the night in prayer,” he begged. “You did say no one could take me from Lord’s house. Let me spend the night here. That way it’ll be safer for the both of us.”

  I was about to ask what he meant by that, when he began to rave again. Most of it sounded like more of the harsh guttural gibberish that he had uttered before. The only part I could make out clearly: “Sanctuary, grant me sanctuary. The Lord have mercy upon me. All life came from the sea, and the sea shall give up its dead. But it will not give me up.” And that, I did not entirely understand, although some of it certainly sounded blasphemous.

  The poor wretch was obviously disturbed. And so I acquiesced, “Very well, Mr Crawford, you may remain in the church over night.” I would get Dr Hodgeson to take a look at him on the morrow.

  “Would you like me to stay with you?” I asked.

  Crawford smiled, calmer now that I had granted his request. “No, Father, no! The Lord shall protect me.”

  However, before I left I thought it wise to make sure the church silver and the communion wine was safely locked away. Then I said a final prayer and bid the old sailor, good night, telling him I would return early in the morning.

  Upon reaching the door, I looked back. Crawford had again removed the crown from his haversack. He appeared to be gloating over his treasure. He was muttering something – although I doubted whether it was a prayer.

  Crawford’s prediction of a storm proved correct. That night rain fell in sheets, and the wind howled. The howl of the wind sounded like shrieks of agony and cries of despair.

  It was truly terrible, and I shuddered to think how it would be to encounter such a tempest at sea.

  Little did I expect that I was soon to learn that there was more to Crawford’s story than I had imagined possible.

  True to my word, I returned to the church early the next morning.

  Inside, ah, you will think me mad. I opened the door, and water lapped out. Seawater, I can still smell the brine. It was not deep now, but it must have been, for everything in the room was awry and wet, and draped with seaweed. And amidst it all, sprawled before the altar was the sailor.

  Patrick Crawford was dead, an expression of utmost horror upon his face and seaweed wrapped around his neck; his lungs full of the salt water.

  Beside him lay his haversack and the tattered remnants of a yellow cloth, but the strange crown had gone.

  The sudden disappearance of Father Michael O’Donnell caused great shock and consternation among his congregation.

  The strange story revealed in the above document, may have some bearing on the matter.

  Written in his own hand, it was found in the priest’s house, and perhaps serves to illustrate the state of his mind prior to his disappearance.

  Although Donald Kirowan remembers a man fitting the description of Patrick Crawford drinking in his bar, the man never asked about lodging for the night.

  Certainly Father O’Donnell never contacted me about Patrick Crawford. And no trace of the sailor’s body has been found. Although, curiously the church did have a slight smell reminiscent of the sea, for a few days after Father O’Donnell’s disappearance.

  Two weeks later, Father Michael’s body was found, washed up on a beach some forty miles from his home.

  A pair of reliable witness testified that they had seen someone matching the priest’s description on the cliffs a few miles further up the coast.

  But whether Father O’Donnell fell from the cliffs by accident, or by the intervention of another’s hand, or – heaven forefend – by his own choice, is unlikely to ever be known.

  Dr Thomas Hodgeson, Physician.

  Death on the Line

  Hugh Clifford glanced at the station clock, and sighed loudly. He was one of six people waiting on the single platform of Barrow Ashton railway station for the eight thirty a.m. train into Mortbury. The clock now read eight fifty-five.

  The others standing on Platform 1 were a youth whose features were obscured by his hood and a cloud of cigarette smoke, a young woman with two small children – one of each sex. Clifford made a mental note to sit well away from those four. And a smartly dressed older man, who was cleaning his glasses. Clifford paced around in frustration, made a cursory examination of the timetable again – he knew it off by heart – then paced around some more. Again he sighed, although this time in relief, for he could hear in the distance the approaching train.

  After the train had come to a halt, the doors opened, and no one got off. The waiting commuters moved to board the train. The teenager barging past the others, jostling the elderly gentleman in the process.

  “Out of my way, granddad!”

  The man staggered, but recovered from the shove that Jason Marshman had given him.

  “Fuckin’ nonce!” Jason muttered, tossing his cigarette butt away.

  “Are you all right?” Clifford enquired.

  “What? Oh, yes. Thank you.” The man smiled.

  The smile quickly faded, and he glared at the yob’s back. “I’ve got your number, sonny,” he said softly.

  Politely, Clifford waited for the others to board the train before getting on himself.

  The reason for Clifford’s journey was simple. This was a shopping trip; normally he enjoyed such excursions, as he would usually spend his time browsing in book- and record shops. But this was a shopping spree he was not looking forward to. His purpose to buy a mobile phone. He was a self-styled Luddite, and up until now he had avoided owning one. But after considerable badgering from his friends, and some work acquaintances, he had acquiesced and finally agreed to purchase one. Although that was more to do with the fact that he was fed up of the constant pestering to get one, and the looks he would receive when it was revealed that he did not possess such a device, than any real desire to own one.

  He was meeting up with one of these friends – Jeremy Sheridan had at least had the decency to offer to help Clifford find the right phone.

  As the train set off, Clifford found a seat. He took out his book and began to read. After a few moments he was roused from his reading by the guard.

  Previous experience had taught him it was a waste of time enquiring why the train had been delayed, but he couldn’t resist commenting as he bought his ticket. “Running late again.”

  “That’s right, sir. Very observant of you.” The guard smiled insincerely. “Not to worry though, sir. We’ll be able to go faster on this next stretch and regain some time.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  Clifford had not long resumed reading when a phone rang.

  “Yeah, I’m on the train,” the recipient of the call – a fat, bearded man �
� said loudly. Clifford tried to shut out the noisy one-sided conversation that followed – the fat man often having to repeat himself.

  The yobbish youth had met up with a group of his friends; they were all drinking cans of lager and getting rather rowdy. Unable to concentrate on his reading, Clifford noticed that the man he had spoken to on the platform was also engaged in making a phone call.

  The elderly man finished his call, and consulted a notepad that evidently bore a list of telephone numbers. He crossed off the number he had dialled, and then rang the next one on his list. His call lasted long enough for him to say just four words. Then he repeated the process, over and over again.

  Despite himself, Clifford watched, strangely fascinated. The man was too far away to hear and unlike most mobile phone users on board trains, the softly spoken old man did not raise his voice. Clifford wondered briefly whether the old man was mentally unwell and was calling people just to say – I’m on the train. That was four words after all, and it seemed to be what every telephone caller on every train, he had the misfortune to overhear seemed to say at some point in their phone conversation. Sometimes more than once if the reception was poor.

  Somewhere on the one carriage train a small child began to wail, Clifford frowned unable to ascertain whether it were male or female. Not that it mattered; the sound was annoying whatever its source.

  The dapperly dressed old man checked his watch and smiled at Clifford. Embarrassed that the man had noticed his observation, Clifford quickly returned his gaze to his book.

  The old man appeared unconcerned that Clifford had been watching him, and for the rest of the journey continued making his calls whilst Clifford – who had abandoned any attempt to read due to the increasing noise that his fellow passengers were making – concentrated on the passing countryside.

  “Ah, Hugh! There you are.” Jeremy Sheridan greeted his friend with a roguish smile. “I was beginning to think you’d changed your mind.”

  “Sorry, Jeremy. Although, I don’t know as it should be me apologising. Bloody train was running late!”