“Wake up, wake up, our noble son, there’s beer to sup now the play’s done.
“Arise, Saint George, with magic black, so this young fool escapes the rack.”
Popule staggered to his feet, reeling about the stage so that his audience leaned away, laughing and clutching their ale glasses tight. The Fool, the Doctor and the Saint joined hands and bowed as one. Thom began to circulate the pub, holding out his black velvet purse by its twin sticks and requesting mummers’ alms. Meanwhile, Ailen stepped forward and bowed. Sweeping out his feathered arms again, he delivered the final verse.
“It’s story’s end, night’s drawn in and we must bid farewell,
“To saints and fools and wyrd worms beneath our mummers’ spell.
“If we have cheered your autumn eve, please spare a coin or two; And so we take our final bows and bid goodnight to you.”
Ailen Savage knew it took a special breed of man to want to assist a Spirit Catcher. He had been born to it, his great-grandfather having originated the role. In the year 1754, as a young man fascinated by elemental folklore, Tam Savage had found a way to divine a restless spirit and capture it via a multi-metalled steam pipe. At a time when religion was in decline and science us providing the answer to many of life’s mysteries, Tam Savage had chosen to work alongside the local vicar as a Spirit Catcher. Perfecting his skills and instruments, he had passed the knowledge down to Ailen’s father, who in turn had passed it on to Ailen. Some argued it was a brutal business to hand on to a child. Ailen himself considered it no more dangerous than a life spent in Birmingham’s factories or down Leicestershire’s coal mines or taking a chisel to the worn-out heights of Lichfield’s cathedral.
Less obvious were the reasons why the others joined him.
“I can see the science in your method,” said the young canon, Nicholas. He hugged himself against the cool air, or the awesome sight of the cathedral veiled in early morning mist, Ailen wasn’t sure which. “That pipe contraption of yours . . . It has a heathen design but the science is no doubt godly.” Nicholas lowered his voice. “You are a man of breeding. Why take up with a mummers’ band?” He pointed ahead to the three men and the boy, dressed in costume and paint even at that hour.
“I’ll set you straight, Canon, because you aren’t a man to see past his own faith or social standing. Once, mind, and then no more will be said on it. Those men might be carved from God’s arse-end, but they are still of his flesh. There’s living and undead aplenty outside your great and glorious cathedral, and Willy, Thom, Naw and Pop have helped me separate the two more times than I care to remember. Take Willy there.” Ailen nodded at the man wearing the donkey’s ears. “He’s a product of Lancashire and Cajun blood. Look past the paint and you’ll see his features lean towards the exotic. Turns out Willy’s mother couldn’t take the Lancashire climate. Back home in her native Louisiana, she contracted typhoid fever – or became possessed, as Willy tells it. In the third week, she started to cut the flesh from her own bones. Willy lent himself out to every witch around – drawing water, mending what was broken, giving up food meant for his own mouth – all in a bid to learn the way to cast the demon out.”
Ailen’s eyes softened. “He didn’t learn enough in time to save her. After his mother’s death, Willy returned to Britain and put his skills as an exorcist to good use.” He placed a heavy hand on the canon’s shoulder. “The others have similar tales. We sniffed out the fear in each other – not fear of personal attack by the supernatural elements we encounter, but fear that we would not save others from those same dangers.”
Nicholas frowned. He took time over his words, as if adding to a stack of cards. “Please understand, Mr Savage. Dean Richards is in a vulnerable state and our cathedral . . . it houses some remarkable treasures.”
“And you think we may find those too great a temptation to pass over, being the lowly vagabonds that we are?”
“Not you, Mr Savage. You are an honest Lichfield son, no doubt. But the men you travel with are a coarser breed. By your own admission, one is part-negro—”
Ailen drew himself up. In that instant, he appeared less man than something gnarled and grown tall over hundreds of years. “Do not judge a man by his skin!” he thundered. The canon flinched as the mummer moved in close. “The very fact that spirits have survived beyond death and haunt your cathedral should be enough to illustrate our worth beyond the boundaries of flesh.”
A flicker of confusion crossed Nicholas’s face.
They were interrupted by Naw, materialized through the mist. He smiled, an expression that exaggerated his skeletal appearance.
“Mr Savage does love a good debate on subjects of a spiritual and religious nature. But he don’t always appreciate the force of his vigour.” Naw’s soft Welsh lilt instantly humanized him.
“Of course. It is good and right for a man to exercise his intellect. But my apologies, sir, we have not been introduced properly. I am Canon Nicholas Russell.”
Naw shook his hand. “Naw Jones of Cardiff. Mummer, spiritualist, historian.” He laughed kindly. “Please do not hold the latter against me.”
Nicholas looked newly floored by Naw’s generous spirit and evident education. Ailen almost felt sorry for the clergyman. He consulted a small brass pocket watch hidden amongst his tunic rags. “What time do the stonemasons start work?”
“At eight,” replied Nicholas.
“We have an hour.” Ailen pointed at the bunch of keys the canon carried. “Please accompany us inside. I will need to hear all the details you can offer on what has occurred within.” He slapped Naw on the back. “And, hopefully, our historian here can go some way to explaining why.”
“... very little in the way of restoration until the architect James Wyatt undertook repairs late last century. Wyatt’s idea was to create a church within the cathedral – a bullish idea to my mind – which saw the interior whitewashed, the arches of the choir filled in, the High Altar removed and seating installed right through to the Lady Chapel.” Nicholas held up his hands, indicating the magnificent restored interior. “Mr Scott has repaired this great building with flair and sensitivity.”
“It is certainly soul-rich,” murmured Naw, intent on the device he held in his palm.
The tan leather box housed a circular device with a flickering hand – not dissimilar to a compass, thought Nicholas, distracted from his efforts to demonstrate his superior knowledge of the cathedral’s architectural history.
“And that device suggests as much?” He stared at it quizzically. The hand was a shard of purple crystal.
“Amethyst.” Naw tapped the glass cover over the dial. “Wards off danger while protecting mental and psychic clarity.” Circling slowly on the spot, he cast a long thin shadow.
“Have you located the source of the apparitions?” Nicholas felt the weight of the cathedral keys at his belt.
“The source?” Naw pointed down. “We’re standing on it. One thousand Christians murdered on this spot during the Roman occupation. And what about the three spires above us – coincidental, or in homage to the three martyred kings buried at Borrowcop Hill?”
“Nothing but folklore!”
“So their prominence on the city seal is pure fancy?” Naw eyed his ghost compass intently.
Nicholas blustered, “I’m simply saying, a town as rich in history as Lichfield is bound to have an abundance of pagan lore and country legends.”
“And the shrine?” Naw pointed to the far end of the nave and the High Altar with its decorative apse. “Saint Chad died in 672. But while he was originally interred here in the cathedral, the Reformation saw his bones travel as far as France and return at last, having acquired a third thigh bone. Or so legend has it.” Naw inclined his head respectfully. “Yet still you believe, Canon Nicholas.”
The boy stood to the fore of the south-east aisle. A bird fluttered among the ceiling arches. Dawn lent the stained glass windows a subtle glow.
“Thom?” Ailen approached slowly. The lad was so still he could have passed for a statue. He appeared absorbed in study of a large white marble monument depicting two young girls at rest in one another’s arms.
“I’m not sure about this spot, Mr Savage. I think it might be colder here.” Thom cocked his head. “Are the girls’ bodies buried beneath?”
“Dean Richards said not. It’s just a monument. Commissioned when a mother lost both her daughters and husband, who was a clergyman, inside three years.” Ailen laid a hand on the cool stone of the eldest sister’s forehead. A shooting pain lanced through his arm and he pulled away.
“You all right, Mr Savage?”
