The Levitating Village
Chapter Three - The Ecclesionauts
I was outside where the sun was beginning to set, marking the edges of the clouds in orange and purple; the sky also, like the sun, had taken a beating and was bruised.
No one was around. I headed to the Church, past granite blocks that were festooned with weather worn cracks, marked with moss that attempted to reclaim the land where the stone sat within its earth. The stones told three things; of birth, of death and of sympathy. I moved to the vestry door on the darker side of the churchyard. It moved. The door gave after a little shivery shoulder barge. I swung myself in and quickly closed the door. It was easy to think that everything in this Village dated from the elevation of it. I reminded myself that this was an old Village - a plague Village. The church looked at least a thousand years old, probably Norman built. The room beyond was covered with vestments, choir smocks, well thumbed Bibles and a well worn flagstone floor. It began to thunder and rain outside.
“Can I help you? I said, can I help you? I’m talking to you.” asked a seeking voice. The words were quite sharp and accusatory. I think my heart stopped. I employed the ostrich defence - if I didn't look at him, he never saw me. Stiff as a statue. Just keep thinking statue. My defence hadn’t worked, obviously. I turned around, like it was a surprise he was talking to me.
“Me? Oh. I’m, err -” I said timidly.
“You’re the man they’re looking for, aren’t you?” The tone changed to a more curious one. I turned round to face him.
He was dressed in traditional whole body black smock, with the obligatory dog collar as a relief. He was neither tall nor thin. He was, however, angry. His brow furrowed, and his thick curly hair quivered with suppressed rage. His bone structure was odd, though, a bit too angular for the face it was supplanted on. The voice was somewhere between an orator and a checkout girl. It sounded like it didn’t quite know where it fit, and occasionally slipped its gears.
I went on the defensive, “Depends.”
“What do you mean, depends? You either are or you aren’t.” he said.
“It depends on if you want to turn me in or not.”
“No, of course not. I know what its like to be persecuted.”
“Really?” now I was the curious one.
“Never mind. What’s your name?” he asked.
“Douglas Layton.”
He proffered his hand, “Dylan. Dylan Murray. So what brings you to my church? At this time of night?”
“I need a place to temporarily hide from the Policeman.”
“I need you to say it.”
I wasn’t sure exactly what he was getting at, but my hand automatically went to a genital guard position, “Pardon?”
“Say it! Then my hands are officially tied.” said Dylan.
“I’m open minded, Reverend, but -”
“Say the word.” said Dylan pointedly, “It rhymes with Manctuary.”
“Is that a word? Oh. Sorry. I get it. Please give me Sanctuary.”
Dylan Murray smiled and spread his arms in acceptance, “Of course, my child. We are all the same under the eyes of the Lord, despite our differences. Put these on. And do something with your face. It’s a dead giveaway. Use this. Make a wig or a moustache and beard out of it.”
#
There are times when pedantry is a dirty word, especially when you’re wanted for murder, on a floating Village in the middle of nowhere and desperate. The Reverend moved to a rickety thin wooden closet and took out some vestments. I took the clothes from him and removed my muddy jacket, pulling the smock over my head. It was a bit baggy, but then most clothes ended up that way on me. I looked in a small cracked mirror at my face. What did he mean, do something with my face? It was kind of stuck like that. I’d had this one all my life. I was pretty much sure there were no plastic surgeons around that would make house calls to a church at night and be discrete about it. Besides, it had taken nearly thirty years to get used to this one. I don’t think I had the inclination to break in a new one. The Reverend handed me an old scrubbing brush.
After a couple of minutes, I showed Dylan the limits of my stage makeup abilities. The Reverend looked me up and down and led me through the door into the church proper. I could smell that typical odour of perfumed flowers, burning candles and aftershave. It was probably something important and religiously worshipful in all churches, but any church I had ever been in I always smelled the over powerful aroma of horrible perfume and clotting aftershave. Dylan flattened down invisible creases while examining my handiwork, “Not perfect, but it’ll do. Come, follow me. I have to get ready for evening service. Do you play the Organ?”
I looked down, “I’m not sure what you mean. Ah, I get - okay, I played a little piano when I was younger?”
“Hmm, right. At least you’ll be out the way and not visible I suppose. Go up those steps. Get acclimatised to the instrument.” said Dylan, gesturing to the steps that led to the Church Organ. All I could think of at that moment was, ‘cue Chopsticks!’ Maybe if I hit them loud enough, no one would notice I couldn’t play. It worked in most churches I had been in. I sat at the large ornate church organ and made a loud chord. I looked approvingly at my hands and the keyboard before me, “White. Black. They all seem to be here.” I came back down the small stairs and joined Dylan on the front pew, gazing at the religious paraphernalia.
“You know this used to be a plague Village?” said Dylan conversationally, “They only discovered that fact when the Village lifted. I am beginning to think it was the will of God, you know, to put those souls to rest? I presume you heard the Village legend? Of the victim stalking the streets in search of those to infect? I don’t think it’s literally that, but since the Village lifted, people have changed. It was quiet here once. A tourist only visited as a way to get directions to a much more interesting place. And the trouble. The incident we don’t talk about. That would never have happened. God must have a plan, but as yet I can’t work out what it is.”
“I noticed a tangible taste in the air when I arrived.” I said, “Maybe it’s got something to do with that?”
“Yes, that strange feeling? We don’t notice it anymore.”
I decided to press further for information, “You know this murder I’ve been wrongly accused of? Did you know the victim? I’m trying to work out who set me up. I’m hitting brick walls everywhere.”
“I barely knew the man. Dennis Heath, I believe was his name. No one really knew him. As for who killed him? If we discount you, of course, I don’t know. I really have very little knowledge of this. You could try asking Rosemary Trafford at the Village shop? She sees everyone, knows everything, well nearly everything, about most of us in the Village, of the comings and goings. You know, a real gossip?”
“Oh okay. Um, one more thing? Has there been an old man wandering around?”
“No more than there usually is.” said Dylan through furrowed brow.
“I mean like an old confused man.” I pushed.
“Not that I know of. There is that odd man over by the east boundary, but he’s too young to be an old man. He sleeps in a tent. Well, I really need to get started on this service. Please, Doug, take your place in front of the keyboard up there. People are arriving.”
Dylan rose and prepared for the service. I moved to the relative anonymity of the Church Organ area. Cacophonous key punching was the best description of my talent. The three people in the congregation didn’t seem to notice. They sang the hymns to their own internal rhythm anyway. In a respite to the proceedings, I happened to notice Lana slipping into the church and hugging the edges. She spotted me, even behind my brilliant disguise, and gestured with her head for me to follow her. I shrugged and pointed to the Reverend. She nodded in understanding and sat at the back pew. I was beginning to think most of our conversations were conducted through some kind of head semaphore. Once the service was ended, I stood up, to go talk to Lana. The church doors opened again. PC Gary Seabrook slipped in. I dropped to my knees, eyes visible and shocked above the parapet. Lana noticed him too and darted to a dark space at the back of the church. I saw Lana moving in my direction. I took my chance and vaulted over the parapet the ten feet to the ground. Stupid idea. I think I twisted my ankle. I hobbled painfully to Lana’s advance. We met by an apse, and not for the last time. There was a stuffed monkey oddly nailed to the wall. A ladder that couldn’t have been used in decades rested against the same wall. It seemed to lead to the rafters above.
Dylan approached the Thin Blue Line, “Can I help you, Officer?”
“I swear he’s following me.” said Lana distractedly.
“Who, the monkey?” I pointed at our stuffed simian friend.
“No, you dolt. Gary. He’s always there just after I am.”
I decided this was the time to reveal my findings, “So, you want to know what I found out?”
“Yes, of course,” said Lana, “But you’re going to have to be brief.”
“Brief is my middle name. Well, actually it’s Uriah. Okay, sorry. I found plans that had been denied permission, for a housing estate. I also found financial documents saying that Village commerce has taken a sharp downturn since the tourists stopped visiting. I also found some insurance documents that -”
“Get on with it, Doug. What about my GrandFather?”
I continued, slightly pained by the demand, “Well, it’s not conclusive proof, but you know the Inventors Convention? Of course you do. Well, according to a newspaper clipping, nine inventors remained. I think your GrandFather was one of them. He’s not one of the ones in the Library, or you would know. So he must be somewhere else. Trouble is, I don’t know where yet.”
“So what does it mean?”
“It means,” I said, “That this Village is corrupt from the bottom to the top. And there’s evidence of it.”
“And where is this evidence?” asked Lana, with an expectant hand out.
“In the Library still. Don’t look at me like that. I had to get out sharpish. Look, we can get more. It’s just a case of -”
Then Gary spotted me. As he moved quickly toward me, it left me with no option. I began to climb the rickety ladder to the church roof. He was a lanky man in his mid-twenties and he seemed only inches away from being declared a giant. His uniform fitted, but like how it would for a person who could only choose either a uniform for a tall and overweight person or a thin short man. Gary couldn’t be described as overweight. Perhaps underweight. Perhaps paperweight. In fact one swift gust of wind could probably lift the boy into the air like a kite. The overall assembly wasn’t helped by the thick glasses perched on his thin nose.
He stood at the base of the ladder, where I was now twenty feet up and climbing. He called out for me to stop, that there was no way out. He was right, of course. But that wasn’t going to stop me. I continued to ascend. The higher I rose, the more dangerous the ancient ladder became. But I was almost there. What I did from here I had no idea. Improvisation seemed to have worked for me so far.
The ladder began to creak. Typical. It was going to break before I reached the thin walkway high up near the church roof, so I jumped. Stupid idea for two reasons. I was obviously still too far from the walkway and the jumping motion upset the ladder, which dropped from below me, clanging and smashing on the flag stones below. I saw Lana and the Reverend run outside. Gary just looked up at me with those dopey eyes. I was admittedly hanging on for dear life by the fingertips of my right hand, but that was nothing compared to the fact I hadn’t yet fallen to my death. That’s the type of thing that would have happened to the old me. I grasped up with my other hand and gained purchase. Using the tiny amount of arm and leg strength, aided and abetted by coursing adrenaline, I pulled myself up to the thin walkway. I had no option but to climb out to the roof and take my chances there. The original reason for doing this was starting to fade, replaced by a deeply hidden spirit of adventure that girded carefully in my loins. God bless those loins.
It was biting cold up here and the wind blew up my cassock like nobody’s business. I felt like I was doing a strange religious mockery of Monroe’s famous pose. I was concerned it was going to turn inside out and turn into a set of wings. I took it off, down to my sleeveless shirt, and threw it over my shoulder. It fluttered away like a black and white Dracula mid transformation, like billowing black smoke, crackling and fizzing into the cold wind and moonshine night. I would have been impressed if I hadn’t been perched dangerously on a church roof with no safety harness. I shuffled to the edge, taking not baby steps, but newborn infant steps. One slip and I would be dead. Dead or in great pain. Either way it wasn’t good. It was now that my twisted ankle made a decision and buckled. I lost my balance. Scrabbling, I grasped hold of a loose tile. It wouldn’t hold for long. I was half expecting PC Gary Seabrook to be waiting at the bottom to handcuff my broken and crushed body. My fingers were smooth, not rough as they should have been. I had no friction. It may be too late, but I wished now I had taken up playing the guitar. Or bricklaying.
“Doug! Are you alright?” called Lana bellow. It was a daft question given my current situation, but I understood the sentiment.
“As well as could be expected!” I sounded nervous even to myself.
Lana seemed lost for words, until she hit upon the sentence of the decade, “Try and land on something soft!”
I decided in my current situation, an argument about misplaced sentiment was inadvisable, “Where’s the Policeman?”
“The reverend is dealing with him! Don’t worry about that now! Just don’t die!”
In spite of myself and my predicament, the sarcastic gene fought through to the surface, “I wasn’t planning on it!”
But my grip was loosening. For seemingly the first time I caught sight of something akin to a figure watching curiously from a short distance away. Given my current location and my current predicament, my thoughts went to the good old Grim Reaper. But there was something of the watcher about it. It seemed like it watched but did very little. Perhaps the stress and anxiety of the last few hours had fevered my brain into anthropomorphising the concept of my fears into a malleable physical like form. But quite frankly, there were more important things at the moment than basic psychology, like my imminent demise. I tried desperately to get a better purchase on the loose slate, but it began to slide out of its placement. There wasn’t anything else I could do but hope. My grip went just as the slate came loose. Thankfully, I blacked out.
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