The Whispering Swarm (45 page)

But I wasn't happy about it! I had spent years developing a personal morality influenced as much as anything by contemporary existentialists. When it came to thinking things through, Sartre and Camus were my models. My own mantra had gone ‘I was not, I am, I will not be'
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It had suited me to accept the fact that when we died, we died and that was that. To some it was a rather bleak way of seeing the world. To me it meant I lived knowing I only had one crack at existing. Obeying certain moral and emotional imperatives, I was determined to make the most of my one crack! That was the rock I'd given myself to stand on. But now there was a strong chance I possessed a soul and had misunderstood the fundamental nature of the world. I might be the subject of a higher power and if so it was probably my moral duty (or even a matter of survival) to determine what that power wanted from me and live accordingly. I was only a free agent in a limited sense. I felt I was being dragged back into the Middle Ages!

Admittedly, I also picked up the occasional work by a well-known sceptic. I hoped to discover an argument to shore up my failing atheism. The fact was, I was having to decide which modern thinker best suited me. The atheists, after all, hadn't experienced an authentic miracle. As an ex-rationalist Huxley had most to say to me. I had not yet found a Jesuit, as Helena joked. She was amused by my research. Whenever she walked along Victoria Street she half expected to see me strolling out of Westminster Cathedral arm in arm with some red-hatted cardinal. My own mum's profound thought on the matter that there ‘had to be something' didn't help me much. I'd talked to every believer I could find, but the truth was I didn't know too many. For a while I had corresponded with a nun in Pennsylvania. She had read
Behold the Man
and liked it. She had insisted that it was not anti-religious, which it wasn't intended to be. She then added that I was the most ‘spiritual' layman she knew. I didn't like to tell her my intention was to write about demagogues and how they were created by public desire. A number of people, mostly in Texas, didn't share Sister Marie-Louise's judgment. They offered to send me to meet my maker with help from Mr Smith and Mr Wesson.

There was no doubt about it, I had to get back to the Alsacia as soon as I could and try to talk to the abbot. Maybe the old man would answer any direct questions. I put this in a letter to Barry.

Barry wasn't sure.

‘You don't want to open a healing wound,' he wrote.

‘Is that what you think?' I asked.

He was clearly distracted by his mother's problems. ‘I've got a feeling it's just not a good idea now.'

I thought I understood. ‘I have to go back,' I said, ‘I'm having dreams. All kinds of crazy anxiety dreams. And the Swarm—?'

‘Please yourself,' wrote Barry. ‘I'm sorry I can't go with you.'

And so, after debating this for some time, and not that long after I had sworn never to return, I decided to go to the abbey, avoid the rest of the town, and ask questions for myself. It was stupid. I had never felt sicker.

The sharp air smelled so good as I left the flat that I almost abandoned my plan and went, instead, into the gardens to smoke a joint, sit on a bench and think it all through. But I had thought about it as much as I could. I liked to work out ideas through action and writing. I needed more information. I needed to get down to the Alsacia and confront Father Grammaticus. I know I should have told Helena, but I couldn't stand another argument. I thought it important to preserve the domestic harmony we had taken so long to achieve. I shouldn't have even considered visiting the abbot. I should have just strolled into the gardens and enjoy the season. But I didn't go into the square and sit on a bench and take pleasure in the autumn trees. I turned right and I headed for the 15 bus stop. I was still looking back and wondering about the square when the Routemaster turned up, shivering and purring. I collected myself and made a decision. I set foot on the platform and swung myself aboard the bus full of cool determination and a ridiculous sense of destiny.

I got off in Fleet Street at the Law Courts, still enjoying the mellow fruitfulness, if not the gathering mist no doubt coming off the river. I wasn't sure how I would feel, especially if they denied anything had happened, as I feared Moll would. But my intention wasn't to see Moll. I needed the abbot's advice.

The mist was at its thickest in Whitefriars Yard as I cut through into Carmelite Inn. That orderly square of railed Georgian buildings of uniform size and design held in the heavy fog which the yellow gaslight scarcely penetrated. I headed for where I knew the gate should be. For a moment I thought I heard my name being called. The Whispering Swarm grew suddenly agitated. I slowed. I thought I caught words. Screams. Warnings. Should I continue or go back? Then, at last, I found the entrance. The Swarm's voice had dwindled. Turning the old iron handle, I pushed the left-hand gate slowly open until, with a low note of protest, it gaped wide enough to admit me. As I slipped through I heard a voice I recognised. A low, delighted chuckle. Colonel Clitch, I was sure. Cursing myself for an idiot, I stepped backwards. I knew I should have gone home. Only now did I think clearly of the children and how they would feel if I died and never returned. I felt the flat of a sword on my back, restraining me. I saw a face leering out of the thickening fog and my heart sank. I thought I heard the Swarm falling away on a distant jeering note.

Corporal Love's cadaverous pale head was split by a great, yawning grin. His own basket-hilted cutlass was in his right hand, the point almost under my nose. His black broadcloth coat, like his linen, was stained with food and drink. He put out a strong, musty odour, like sweaty feet. Could this be a dead man raised from his coffin? Next hot, alcoholic breath bathed my face. I drew back in disgust, recognising Colonel Clitch, the other Cromwellian irregular, a leering grin on his gaunt features, his head surrounded by a halo of dirty red hair.

‘Good evening, officers,' I said rather feebly. ‘A cold night to be abroad…' Attempting to push the unyielding steel from my chest, I backed against the other sword. I think I gulped.

‘Oh, indeed it is, master,' said Colonel Clitch, his Welsh brogue soft and sharp at the same time. The steel caressed my spine. ‘Been out for a jaunt in the City, have we?'

‘Stealing from honest folks, are we?' came Love's unwelcome lilt.

‘I just got off the bus,' I said, ‘and am on my way home. As you can see, I am unarmed and have no goods on me, stolen or otherwise. I am going about my honest business. So if you will excuse me, gentlemen—'

‘Where did you hide the tools of your trade, you cunning rogue?' demanded Corporal Love.

‘And your ill-gotten gains?' added Colonel Clitch.

‘Oh, this is ridiculous!' I made to push past them. I was genuinely angry. My heart was thumping. The residents of the Alsacia might be mysteriously invulnerable to sword blades and pistol shots, but I knew I wasn't. Love's sword point was almost touching my upper lip and Clitch had slowly turned his own blade so that its edge now pressed into my back. I wondered if I could throw up on them before they stabbed me.

‘Off to keep an appointment with others of his devilish coven I've no doubt,' declared the Welsh Puritan with a sniff.

Then I risked being sliced by Clitch's sword and stepped back into it, making him move, as I'd hoped, rather than wound me. I was again at the opening of the big gate and took another step towards it. I almost stumbled and fell but in another second I stood on the far side in what I hoped was safety. But when I looked around all I could see was thicker fog and not a single light cutting through it. I was almost overcome by a sickening stench. I took two or three more backward steps. Suddenly flickering orange light cut through the fog. Clitch and Love, the latter holding a lantern, moved towards me.

I felt as if I were in Limbo, neither in my familiar world nor another. The cold cut into me. I saw silvery streaks shimmer and vanish in the fog. Roads? I remembered the two Cosmolabes. My pewter breath blended with the grey fog and made it thicker. I couldn't believe my bad luck. I had a sense of leaving solid earth behind me.

‘How now, my young Moabite,' gloated Clitch. ‘Do you fear justice? Could it be that you are guilty of all we suspect?'

‘I'm guilty of nothing save giving you two carrion eaters too much of my time!' I had nowhere to go yet somehow my circumstances made me more aggressive. I reflected that I had little to lose. I wondered what my chances were of getting free and again hiding myself in the fog. I was pretty sure I was in Whitefriars Yard and might just be able to get back to the bus stop.

‘Methinks we'll put you and your statements before a magistrate,' declared Clitch, laughing unpleasantly. The sound was echoed by Love's disgusting snigger. The two closed in. Love's bony fingers grasped my arm but I shook him off. He seized me again, intending to bind me, I think, but I resisted, careless of their weapons, and in struggling found my hand against the grip of a big pistol. Without thinking I tugged the firearm out of Love's belt and shoved the barrel into his ribs. He let me go in an instant, shouting a warning to his master.

I turned slowly to face him, cocking the pistol and holding it as steady as I could. The thing was huge, cumbersome and untrustworthy. They had both heard me pull back the hammer as I continued to retreat. ‘Stand where you are, both of you!' My only plan was to put plenty of darkness between us as quickly as possible. Then I tripped on an unexpected kerb and almost fell. The gun went off with a terrific noise. I had no idea where I was going but I still hoped I was somewhere I would eventually recognise. The mist had a strange heaviness to it. Breathing the icy stuff was difficult. Surely it wasn't hallucinogenic gas? The stench of gunpowder filled the air. I turned the weapon in my hand so that I could use it as a club if I got the opportunity.

Then I was distracted by a strong, sweet scent. I recognised it but could not place it. I glimpsed a cloaked outline slipping past me. Someone I also should have known. Not one of my attackers but someone shorter—a woman, maybe? Then she was gone. She had distracted me. I had not escaped my attackers.

I heard a sound behind me, lost my footing, tripped again and fell off balance. I hit my leg on what was probably an iron bollard and went down. Even as I scrambled back up, having lost the gun, and limped off on my bruised leg I heard another curse. Had my inadvertent shot hit one of them? It would be my bad luck if I had compounded my alleged crimes.

Then I heard a voice on my right. ‘Here, lad, to me.'

I recognised the speaker. Holding my arms outstretched, I walked very carefully towards the sound of his voice. He suddenly took shape on my left, a stocky, solid figure in a camelard and a wide-leaf hat with a fine burst of pheasant feathers in it. ‘Good evening to you, Master Moorcock.' I felt him press a heavy sword into my hand. ‘And how fareth thou this evening?'

From out of the fog, Captain St Claire offered me a thin, sardonic smile. ‘Take care, sir. A serpent creeps towards thee!'

As I whirled, the captain in turn accepted an attack from the left. Clitch, a heavy-breathing lummox of an oaf, thrust at him again, and meanwhile I engaged Love, marked out for me in the gloom by the excessive pallor of his skin.

I heard him gasp as my first lunge appeared to take him in the hat. When I withdrew my sword, I was off balance again. I cursed myself for my clumsiness. I had indeed spiked his headgear. As I shook my blade to free it, he appeared, crouching as if to spring, outlined against the fog. He jumped high, like a toad, his sword hissing past my face. My advantage and disadvantage when fighting these people was that everyone was so much shorter than I. I must have seemed a Porthos to their D'Artagnans! But Clitch was my first hopping opponent.

I think they mistook a tyro's unearned confidence for skill, for they engaged me cautiously—first Clitch, whom St Claire took over, and then I faced Love, whose second pistol was caught up in that red sash, as he bellowed his loyalty to Parliament. Failing to drag his barker free, the Welshman spat an insult. Still cursing, he turned and sloped off into the fog. Meanwhile, through the silver-streaked fog, I heard the sound of blades meeting and occasionally saw the outlines of St Claire and Clitch, both evidently seasoned and economical swordsmen, continuing their fight until Clitch appeared to flee. St Claire put his back towards me and discharged his pistol over the head of his escaping opponent.

Replacing the barker in his sash, he reached towards me and accepted his sword back, sheathing it on his right while his own sword was scabbarded on the left. Next, he removed his hat, inspected the lie of its feathers, brushed it a little and placed it back on his dark, shoulder-length hair.

He grinned suddenly. ‘Well, 'tis an happy coincident, young sir. 'Tis lucky for us your swordsmanship is good, if a little unseasoned.'

I could think of nothing to say to him. Again, the brown-eyed Northumbrian had saved my liberty, perhaps even my life. I reached out my hand and he shook it, still a little amused. ‘Well, sir, I guess ye'll want to be continuing on your way so I'll bid thee goodnight.'

‘I'm obliged to you, sir,' I said. Jackdaw that I am I heard myself imitating his speech patterns. I had a habit of doing that. My daughter Kitty was also able to pick up accents and speech rhythms. ‘I'm a little turned about. Could you give me an idea where the gates to Alsacia can be found?'

Laughing, St Claire, whose forehead was on a level with my shoulder, took my arm and stepped confidently into the fog.

‘Where are we now, Captain St Claire?' I asked. His answer surprised me.

‘What year is it? Why, it's the year of our Lord 1648, young sir, and Parliament is victorious.'

I was surprised by his answer, not so much by the date as the form of his reply. He had thought I meant which year, rather than which place! Hardly the mindset of a late Renaissance man.