Clone, page 14
A raucous swirl of seabirds greeted the Sir Compton Mackenzie as she hove to some three hundred yards off shore and lay wallowing in the windy swell while a longboat, pulled to the stirring rhythm of a lustily bellowed psalm, shot out from the little jetty at the foot of the beetling cliff. As it bobbed alongside, half a dozen rather dazed-looking repatriates were helped aboard the hovercraft and then Professor Poynter, Alvin, Norbert and Cheryl scrambled down to take their places. With a loud hosanna the tonsured coxswain gave the order to back oars. Tull for the Lord, my lads!’ and they were away, rising and swooshing over a foam-streaked sea the colour of dirty dishwater, back to the sanctuary of the jetty.
As they scrambled ashore they were welcomed by Brother Fred who blessed them perfunctorily before conducting them up a short flight of granite steps into a shallow, artificial cave which contained an antiquated though perfectly serviceable elevator. This then began winding them up rather grudgingly to the Abbey at the top of the cliff.
‘In the days of the first foundation they used to have to flog up three hundred and sixty-five steps,’ Brother Fred informed them. ’One for each day of the year. Some of our visitors still like to do it but we don’t encourage it since we lost a couple from suspected vertigo the summer before last. Still, the Lord doth provide. They made good bait for the lobster pots. How long are you here for?’
’Only a short stay,’ said Professor Poynter. ‘We’ve really come to see Brother Bruce.’
’Oh, him,’ said the monk and then tipped back his cowl and peered at Alvin. ‘You wouldn’t be his twin brother by any chance?’
‘Yes,’ said Alvin.
‘I thought as much. Bit surprised though. I mean to say anyone round here would lay you a penance to a couple of illuminated breviaries that our Brucie was a one and only. Manifold are the works of the Lord, eh?’
‘What does he do here?’ asked Alvin.
‘Goat herd,’ said Brother Fred. ‘We tried him on the fishing but he kept falling in the oggin and we had to spend half our time lugging him out and giving him the kiss of life. Same thing in the kitchens. Hadn’t been at it a week before he sliced off the end of his thumb with a cleaver. Willing lad, mind you. Nothing’s too much trouble for him. He’s safe enough with the goats. They like him and he likes them. Seem to understand one another, you might say.’
‘He sounds just right for Saint Clumbert’s,’ said Cheryl.
‘Well, yes and no,’ agreed the monk. ‘I mean, let’s face it, this isn’t what you’d call a real monastery. Not really real, if you take me. But Bruce now, he’s just about the one hundred percent genuine article. Why only last week I heard the Abbot say, “If we don’t watch out our Brother Bruce will be walking on the water one of these days.” He meant it too. Still, since you know him I daresay you’ll take my drift.’
‘Another dweller in the Realms of the Spirit,’ murmured Norbert.
‘You might say that,’ allowed Brother Fred. ‘Lost his memory or something,“hasn’t he? Not that it’s any of my business. He’s in a bit of a dream most of the time. Sees visions and what not.’
‘What sort of visions?’ enquired Professor Poynter.
’Oh, we don’t take much notice of them. The other day he was on about some angel or other. Couldn’t stop talking about it. Happy as a sandboy he was. Singing his head off while he milked his goats. Oh, he’s a great one for the visions is our Brucie,’
The lift shuddered to a halt. Brother Fred clattered open the safety gate and ushered them out. ‘We’ll get you booked in straight away,’ he said, ’then I’ll wheel you down to the habitary and see you’re kitted up. If you’ll just follow me…And if you won’t mind my saying so, the lowered eyes always gives a nice impression to the staff.’
An hour later, robed and sandalled, they were ushered into the presence of Abbot Fox. Norbert, who insisted on wearing his cowl, was having some difficulty in preventing it from slipping down over his eyes but, this apart, they made a suitably reverential quartet.
They discovered the Abbot kneeling in prayer before a small illuminated shrine. He did not look up as they entered. They waited in silence till he had concluded his devotions. Finally he crossed himself, climbed to his feet and turned to face them. ‘Welcome, in God’s name, to Saint Clumbert’s,’ he said, and then his eye alighted upon Alvin. He frowned. ‘Brother Bruce, you are neglecting your duties.’
’Oh, I’m not Bruce, M’Lord Abbot. I’m his brother,’
‘You presume to jest with me, Brother?’
‘It’s quite true, Abbot,’ said Professor Poynter. ’This is Alvin, Bruce’s twin,’
‘And who might you be, madam?’
Professor Poynter explained and introduced the others, including Cheryl who, for some obscure reason, had chosen the temporary alias ‘Blossom Chatsworth’.
The Abbot nodded. ‘Yes, of course, I remember, Professor. Sir Gordon Loveridge mentioned your name to me when he sent me Bruce. I was not aware that the lad had a twin. He has never spoken of him.’ He returned his attention to Alvin. ’The likeness is certainly extraordinary. I could not have told you apart. Does your brother know that you are here?’
‘I don’t think so, M’Lord.’
‘You are aware of his present employment?’
‘He’s a goatherd, isn’t he?’ said Alvin.
‘And an extremely good one, I’m pleased to say. The milk yield has increased by some 20% since your brother was given charge of the herd. He has established a truly remarkable rapport with his flock.’ He turned to Cheryl and treated her to a long, shrewd stare. ‘Your face also seems strangely familiar, Miss Chatsworth,’ he said. ‘I can’t imagine why.’
Cheryl who had already noted the large So-Vi screen in a corner of the study, smiled and shook her head.
The Abbot shrugged. ‘Well, as you will already have realized, here at Saint Clumbert’s we prefer not to do things by halves. Our patron saint should perhaps have been Konstantin Stanislavsky. He, you may recall, preached that “illusion” and “reality” are but two sides of the same coin. To the dreamer his dream is real. Or, to put it another way, reality is essentially subjective. Hence our insistence upon the offices and trappings of our Order.
’The monastic diet is simple but adequate and wherever possible we eschew the ersatz in favour of the genuine. Our cheese, incidentally, is something of a gourmet’s speciality. I recommend you to try it with a black bread. The cells, which at first glance may strike you as somewhat sparsely equipped, contain all the essentials, and you will find the pallets surprisingly comfortable.
‘Sexual activity is discouraged but not forbidden. For those who feel the urge very strongly we have instituted a number of pre-lapsarian indulgences of varying severity. A list of these is posted in each cell. They range from one day’s compulsory fast for masturbation to a public flogging of both parties for those wishing to copulate,’ The Abbot treated them to a wintry smile as he added: ‘You may or may not be relieved to hear that these strictures are relaxed between 20.00 hours and 24.00 hours on our feast days. During those four hours the facilities of our well-appointed stimulatory are available for such as care to make use of them,’
Cheryl grinned. ‘And when’s the next feast-day, Abbot? Just out of curiosity you understand.’
Abbot Fox twitched an ascetic nostril. ’Today, as it happens, Miss Chatsworth. This is the anniversary of The Venerable Cusp—an early Ionian mystic of somewhat dubious authenticity who gains a brief mention in the Lindisfarne Chapbook. I shall be preaching a short sermon on him at supper this evening.’
‘I look forward to hearing that,’ said Cheryl. ‘He should go down well with the cheese.’
Abbot Fox gave her a thoughtful stare but forebore to comment.
‘Would it be possible for us to visit Bruce now?’ enquired Professor Poynter.
‘If you can find him, certainly,’ replied the Abbot. ‘He will probably be out on the hills somewhere. Failing that the lad will undoubtedly be present at this evening’s feast. They are the one repast he never seems to forget.’
Professor Poynter expressed the thanks of them all and then they bowed and shuffled out of the austere presence.
‘I shouldn’t wonder if M’Lord Abbot handles the floggings himself,’ murmured Cheryl. ‘Wasn’t that a cat-o’-nine-tails he had over the fireplace?’
‘A flagellum, certainly,’ agreed Professor Poynter, with a trace of something akin to wistfulness in her voice. ‘I must say I hadn’t realized that Saint Clumbert’s would offer such interesting attractions.’
TWENTY-SEVEN
They did not succeed in running Brother Bruce to earth, nor was he present at the evening service in the chapel, though doubtless many of those who were, and who saw Alvin there, would have been prepared to swear on oath that he was Bruce. The last benediction having been given the congregation trooped out across the windswept courtyard and into the refectory where the long oak tables were waiting to receive them. A fire, fed with huge baulks of dried driftwood, crackled and sputtered and flicked out tongues of bright blue flame. Real candles flamed in the wrought iron sconces and mouthwatering cooking scents wuffed in from the adjacent kitchens.
Visitors and staff having taken their places behind the benches, a brief grace was spoken by the Abbot from the elevated lectern. He then lowered his hands as a signal for everyone to be seated, bowed his head for a moment in silent prayer and then, when the shuffling had subsided, raised his eyes and looked up and down the long hall. There were some seconds of absolute silence when even the fire refrained from crackling. The Abbot lifted his bony hands and gripped the edges of the lecturn. ‘Dearly beloved brethren,’ he said and his quiet, precise voice, relayed by a series of concealed speakers, could be heard clearly in every corner of the great hall. ’This evening we meet to pay homage to the shade of the Venerable Cusp, a man of whom little is known, and who, indeed, perhaps never existed at all except in the fertile imagination of the anonymous scribe who penned that extraordinary document we have come to know as the Lindisfarne Chapbook.
‘The facts (if we may call them that) which he retails about Cusp are certainly somewhat bizarre, for he informs us that this venerable soul was hatched from the egg of a puffin, raised in solitude upon a sea-girt rock, converted the seals by virtue of his golden tongue and still more golden example, and was carried by them to the shores of Hoy in order that he might prevail upon the heathen, who, at that time, were occupying these isles.
.‘The heathen for their part were reluctant to change their allegiance and remonstrated with the missionary, their remonstrance taking the somewhat extreme form of hacking him into four quarters with a broadsword. However, they had reckoned without the spiritual tenacity of their adversary who promptly reconstituted himself and continued to preach to them as though nothing had happened. The butchery was thereupon repeated, but so was the miraculous reformation, until, in the end, realizing the force of Christian argument, they desisted and were baptised upon the shore.
‘We are told little more of the Venerable Cusp other than that he lived to the ripe old age of one hundred and seventy three years and that in the course of the Lenten fasts he was frequently observed to float in the air. During the high winds of the vernal equinox it was sometimes necessary to anchor him to the ground by means of large stones placed upon the hem of his habit.’
The Abbot paused and seemed to fix each one of them with his cold grey eye. ‘Personally,’ he continued, ‘while remaining somewhat sceptical as to the strictly factual accuracy of our anonymous hagiographer, I do believe, most sincerely, that the Venerable Cusp ought to have existed, for he was manifestly the possessor of great faith, goodness and simplicity. In short, a truly holy man. Therefore I feel that we have a duty to his creator, as much as to the saint himself, to meditate in silence for a few minutes upon the holiness of the Venerable Cusp, to whose hallowed name I hereby dedicate this evening’s solemn feast.’ So saying, Abbot Fox bowed his head and proceeded to do just that.
Scarcely more than half a minute had passed in contemplative silence when a small lych door, which was standing ajar in the furthermost dark corner of the refectory, squeaked painfully open and Alvin’s brother crept deferentially into the hall. An expression of the most intense wonder illuminated his placid features and he slowly raised his hands in an attitude of profound, even yearning supplication. As he did so the flickering candlelight seemed to dim and to flow away down the hall towards him, where, from a shimmering refulgence, it congealed precipitately into a single radiant image of a stark naked Cheryl Langridge!
There was a smothered gasp from those mundane souls who, regrettably deficient in spiritual discipline, had interrupted their meditation to take covert note of Brother Bruce’s entry. The ripple of their astonishment travelled down the hall, gathering substance as others raised their eyes and beheld the incredible cause of the disturbance. When it reached Cheryl herself she too glanced round, behind her naked self floating suspended some four feet in the air, and let out a loud, startled yelp.
Her cry dropped like a stone into a pool. The image shattered into a thousand fragments, dissolved, and was gone. Only the wonderstruck clone was left, his hands still lifted in stunned adoration, seemingly oblivious of the sensation he had caused.
Hearing Cheryl’s outraged exclamation, Alvin, the Professor and Norbert had all glanced up—as indeed had Abbot Fox-just in time to catch a glimpse of the vision that had evoked it. Now the four friends regarded each other and slowly shook their heads in unison. “I’ll swear that was Bruce,’ whispered Alvin. 1 could feel him doing it,’
‘Are you sure you weren’t helping him?’ growled Cheryl.
Alvin blushed scarlet and lowered his eyes while the murmurs of wonder swelled into a buzz which grew steadily in volume until the Abbot tapped the lectern microphone with his fingernail and restored the hall to silence. ‘Brother Bruce,’ he enquired coldly. ‘Was that manifestation your doing?’
‘M-M-M’Lord Abbot?’ mumbled the petrified clone.
‘I repeat my question, Brother. Was that—that—’ the Abbot groped for the word he wanted, ‘—that succuba your creation?’ Brother Bruce blinked tearfully and scrubbed his scalp with his knuckles. ‘I—I don’t know, M’Lord Abbot.’
‘You don’t know?’ repeated the Abbot incredulously.
‘I—I haven’t seen her without her clothes on before, M’Lord.’ At this a few depraved souls risked a snigger and were immediately frozen into silence by the Abbot’s icy glare. ‘And just what do you think she was, Brother Bruce?’ he enquired silkily. ‘A holy spirit, M’Lord?’ was the clone’s timorous suggestion. ‘A holy spirit,’ echoed the Abbot flatly. ‘Miss Chatsworth, would you be so good as to stand up for a moment?’
Cheryl frowned, glanced round at the others, then rose hesitantly to her feet. At once a renewed murmur of astonishment broke out among those who had witnessed Brother Bruce’s vision.
‘A holy spirit, Brother Bruce?’ repeated the Abbot. ‘A holy spirit? Really?’
The clone’s face resembled a palimpsest in which mortification was scribbled over incredulity. ‘M’Lord,’ he groaned. ’Oh, M’Lord.’
His unaffected anguish pierced young Cheryl to the heart. She smiled and stretched out her hand to him in welcome. ‘So I’m to be your angel too, am I?’ she said. ‘Well, why not?’
The Abbot who had been secretly relishing the opportunity for a little further humiliation of the simple monk now found, unaccountably, that the appetite had left him. A faint smile flitted across his thin lips. He shrugged. ‘Let the feast begin!’
As the kitchen doors crashed open and a dozen tonsured chimps marched into the hall bearing huge steaming dishes, Cheryl left her place and moved to where Brother Bruce, completely overcome with emotion, had subsided on to his knees in an attitude of prayer. She reached out her hand and catching hold of one of his ears coaxed him gently to his feet. ‘Come on,’ she said, ‘we’ve been keeping a place for you.’
‘She speaks! She moves! She is/’ murmured the enraptured clone. ‘Jubilate Deo!’
Cheryl released his ear and transferred her grip to his arm. ‘What did you do just now?’ she whispered, leading him up the hall to where the others were waiting. ‘Do you know?’
‘I prayed to the Venerable Cusp,’ said Bruce.
’For me?’
Bruce nodded.
‘Holy hemlock!’ gurgled Cheryl. ‘You don’t suppose he was the one who undressed me?’
Bruce looked as though his face was on fire. ‘Yes,’ he whispered.
’The dirty old man!’
’Oh no,’’ cried the clone. ‘He only wished me to worship you unadorned, radiant in beauty as the rising sun!’
‘Well, I must say he could hardly have chosen a more public place for it,’ said Cheryl.
‘He meant only to be kind,’ said Bruce. ‘I know he did.’
Cheryl grinned. ‘Maybe it’s just as well it’s a feast day, Brother, or we could both have been in trouble.’ She released his arm and gestured towards the others. ‘Well, here we are. Do you know anyone?’
During their passage down the hall Bruce had had eyes only for Cheryl herself. Now he looked round. The first face he saw was Alvin’s. For a second he seemed simply stunned. Then his mouth dropped open and an expression of genuine agony twisted his features. He staggered up against the table, clasped his hands to his head and gave vent to a frightening high whinney of pain.
As he did so, Alvin too was overcome by a sudden excruciating migraine which seemed to drive up into his brain like a white hot iron spike. Just when it seemed that his skull must inevitably split and fall apart, the agony ceased as suddenly as it had begun. At the identical moment Bruce too lowered his hands, blinked, and looked about him. ‘Alvin?’ he murmured. ‘It is Alvin, isn’t it?’
