Fludd: A Novel

“The plagues of Egypt,” said Sister Cyril. “It is novel.”

“But edifying,” said Polycarp.

“It is an undertaking,” said Fludd, respectfully.

“We have done the plague of frogs,” Polycarp said. “And the murrain, and the grievous swarm of flies.”

Sister Ignatius Loyola coughed a long hacking cough, then spoke for the first time: “Now we are up to boils.”

Perpetua took him to the convent door. It was quite dark now, and he knew that Father Angwin would be anxious. Perpetua touched his sleeve. “Remember, Father,” she said, in a hoarse whisper, “any help I can give you, you’ve only to ask. Any information … you understand? I want His Grace to know I’m loyal.”

“I understand,” Fludd said. He wondered what exactly was the origin of the bad blood between the nun and Father Angwin; but he had already realized, from what he had seen earlier that day, that the quarrels of this community were ancient and impenetrable. He wanted to get away, out of her presence; a powerful aversion welled up in him, and he pulled his sleeve away. Purpit did not notice. She stood framed in the lighted doorway as he trudged up the hill towards the church.

The bishop’s a fair man, he thought; as he put one muddy foot in front of the other. The bishop’s a just man, is he? Well, perhaps so. Perhaps he may be. Perhaps fairness abounds. When people complain of their lot, their sneering enemies gloat and tell them, to make them afraid, “Life’s not fair.” But then again, taking the long view, and barring flood, fire, brain damage, the usual run of bad luck, people do get what they want in life. There is a hidden principle of equity in operation. The frightening thing is that life is fair; but what we need, as someone has already observed, is not justice but mercy.

FIVE

The arrival of Father Fludd in the parish was marked by a general increase in holiness. If he thought his parish tour had gone unremarked, he was mistaken; on the next Sunday, and in subsequent weeks, the lukewarm, the reclusive, and the apostate trod in each other’s footsteps on the carriage-drive. He preached a good vigorous sermon, stuffed with well-chosen texts; Father Angwin had thought it on the whole dangerous to disabuse his flock of the notion that the Bible was a Protestant book, and had tended to leave his quotes unattributed.

That first Sunday, Fludd noted the Men’s Fellowship, occupying the north aisle; a dapper man in plaid trews was the first of them to step up and take Holy Communion, and the rest followed. Their jaws were held stiff as they turned from the altar rail, God’s living body cloven to their hard palates. Bestowing the host, Fludd saw the features of the communicants reflected in the polished plate the altar boy held beneath each chin; he saw the shiver of the distorted metal faces.

Only the nuns preceded the Men’s Fellowship, Purpiture marching stoutly from her front pew, the rest rising to follow, peeling off from the kneeler like black adhesive strips: Cyril, Ignatius, Polycarp, in alphabetical order to save dispute. The round-faced girl-nun brought up the rear; one or two sisters were absent, he noticed, probably down with some digestive ailment.

A hymn then, “O Bread of Heaven”: off-key, a low rumbling hymn, like bad weather coming up. Ita, Missa est: Go, the Mass is ended. Deo gratias. Another hymn: “Soul of My Saviour,” a parish favourite. High-pitched, this time, a keening wail, the sopranos of Fetherhoughton having their way with it; only the shrillest can hit the top notes, and the wisest do not try. Soul of my Saviour, Sanctify my breast … And midway through that first torturing verse, he saw from the corner of his eye how Mother Perpetua leant forward, across the embonpoint of Sister Anthony, and dug the young nun in the ribs.

If she had been carrying an umbrella, she would have used that, but the point of her finger was hardly less efficacious. A startled moan broke from Sister Philomena, and presently it was evident that she was singing. Deep in thy wounds, Lord, Hide and shelter me … “Poor Sister Philomena,” Agnes Dempsey muttered. “It’s like a dog being taken poorly.” The young woman blushed as she sang, and cast down her eyes.

When the hymn was over, the congregation rose as one man, and seemed to shake themselves, and passed weightily down the aisles and out into the weak autumn sun, en route to their fast-breaking Sunday dinners; the camphor smell of their Sunday clothes mingled with the incense, and Fludd found himself sneezing uncontrollably, wiping his streaming eyes. There was mud on the carriage-drive, and winter in the air.

Soon the children had new games, of imitating priests. In their back-yards they went knocking from door to door, slow-footed and doleful, pretending that they carried the viaticum. The householders, informed that they were near death, made their displeasure felt; but the children, having recovered from the blows, re-formed their lines, and began to visit the coalhouses, tapping on each door to solicit last confessions, and to offer the grace of God to the Nutty Slack within.

Even the people of Netherhoughton came to church, and sat glowering at the back; their little heathen children played in the aisles with their ouija boards.

On the Monday, in the afternoon, Fludd was kneeling in church, praying for Father Angwin. He might have been on the altar, for that was his privilege; but he would rather kneel in the first bench, where the nuns had been on Sunday, and watch from that short distance the sanctuary lamp, winking redly at him like an alcoholic uncle.

He wanted peace of mind for Father Angwin; he thought of the hymn “Soul of My Saviour,” of how the ignorant parish mangled the words and sense. He thought of the women of Fetherhoughton, slack chins quivering above their buttoned-up coat fronts: Guard and defend me/From the formaligh … Oh, foe malign, he had breathed, his back to them, his thin hands passing over the sacred vessels; from the foe malign. He had glanced down, sideways, and noticed the altar boys’ big black lace-up shoes sticking from beneath their cassocks, and their wrinkly grey wool socks. In destrier moments, make me only thine … What are they talking about? What do they think they are singing? He pictured the formaligh, a small greasy type of devil with sharp teeth, which lurked on dark nights in the church porch. Of all the small devils, Fludd thought, ignorance is chief of the horde; their misapprehension had embodied it, given it flesh.

Now—Monday, kneeling here alone—he could hear the rain coming down, as hard as on the night he arrived; drumming unseen behind the stained glass, splashing and gurgling from the downspouts, falling alike on the just and the unjust. He closed his eyes, would have closed his ears to shut out the sound, to sink himself into that trance-like state where he would hear, if God were willing, some small recommendation; some recommendation as to how he should proceed, as to what, having found this place, he ought to do next:

Images flitted through his mind: the nine-runged ladder, the railwayman’s kerchief that snapped on its fence pole in the moorland wind, the black arm of Mother Perpetua uplifted in the twilight; and Agnes Dempsey, standing inside the front door mute like a dog, waiting for his return. One by one the pictures chased each other, and he held