Toll Of The Spectral Monk

TOLL OF THE SPECTRAL MONK ?

An immature hare squealed for the last time when the stooping falcon
found its target. Both the hare and the attacking bird engaged in a
dance macabre among the yellow gorse thickets. The commotion caused by
the expiring animal and its feathered predator raised a fine cloud of
delicately perfumed pollen from the heather between the gorse and a
grey rocky outcrop. From a thicket of feral rhododendron, the victims'
siblings watched indifferently as their now dead, once infirm brother
was systematically dismembered by the talons and hooked beak of the
winged butcher.

Cheviot sheep grazed, detached from the feather and fur mortal struggle
and its inevitable outcome taking place only feet away from them. They
foraged on the sparse fodder provided by the very hills that gave the
sheep the name Cheviot. The rugged Northumberland bluffs created a wild
beautiful backdrop to this cruel tableau. Craggy splendour somehow gave
the fierce but natural incident the appearance of a tragic but
well-rehearsed ballet.

Browsing sheep were not the only beings ignoring the essential drama
and panorama that lay exposed to them. Two young men oblivious to the
natural dramatic wonders of their surroundings drove their off road,
turbo diesel Daihatsu Four-track past the scene. They had driven past
many similar spectacles without seeing any of them on their excursion
across the majestic Northumberland countryside.

Their trip was not one of admiration and sensibility for fauna and
flora. They gained their dubious pleasure from tearing across the
magnificent terrain, or rather ripping it up astride their supercharged
mechanical steed. This it was that lured the two to Northumberland, the
most sparsely populated part of England.

Rod Dalton and Tony Smyth hailed from the home counties. They were both
employed in the city in a commodity brokers office. Money came fairly
easy to the pair but kindness and restraint did not. Off road driving
was one of two hobbies the young men shared, the other being as
followers of a London soccer team. They could not be described as
supporters of the team. Their only reason for patronising the football
club was to slyly commit wilful acts of violence and vandalism under
the camouflage of a big crowd. Largely their off road pursuit enabled
them to vandalise using their vehicle, in areas where there was no one
to witness their wanton behaviour.

Driving through a planting of spruce saplings and scattering a group of
ewes and lambs, Dalton and Smyth came across some ruins. Saint
Cuthbert's Church was derelict, its tower looked very old but solid,
yet the main body of the church was open to the sky. From this tower a
muffled bell seemed to be ringing. Climbing out of the Four-track the
two approached the church and urinated against one of the fallen grave
stones. After relieving themselves the men walked arrogantly into the
ruins, but they stopped aghast. Before them was the figure of a monk
apparently stooped over a low altar and obviously praying.

As they watched the tolling of the bell stopped and the figure of the
monk gradually disappeared. Rod Dalton and Tony Smyth wasted no time
leaving the ruins and climbing into the Daihatsu. Slamming the doors of
the powerful machine Dalton crashed the vehicle into gear and they sped
off towards the nearest road. When they'd gone about half a mile from
the church they came to a small pub. As the vehicle came to rest in the
pub car park the terrified vandals looked at each other not daring to
voice their thoughts.
"Hello what can aa get yi gentlemen?" The cheerful landlord asked his
two troubled looking visitors who glanced nervously round the almost
empty, badly lit but cosy bar. "Two very large scotches and lemonade"
replied Smyth without in any other way acknowledging their jovial
Northumbrian host.

When the Southerners had consumed three more large whiskies and a big
ham salad stottie-cake each, they asked the tenant about the ruins. The
strong liquor had put a bold veneer on their fear and loosened their
tongues. With wide eyes the bartender and two of the regulars listened
to their experience with the praying monk.

Having ended their story Dalton asked the locals if there was any
explanation for what they'd seen. Geordie Forster the eldest of the
local customers related a local legend to the group of drinkers.
Everyone listened intently as the old man recounted the myth. "During
the early Christian era in Northumbria Saint Cuthbert's Church was the
centre of a thriving small monastic village. Its tower was what was
commonly known locally as a peel-tower. This being a reinforced
stronghold where the villagers could take shelter, with their cattle in
the event of Viking or border reavers raids. During the night the
brothers of the order took it in turn to keep watch from the peel.
Their reason for this vigilance being made necessary due to the
regularity of attacks from Vikings and other pagan vandals. In the
event of aggressors being sighted, it was the duty of the watch to ring
the bell summoning the community to sanctuary.

Brother Godvin who was standing guard one night left his post to share
the bed of a young widow. While he dallied a group of Berserks took the
commune by surprise, resulting in the sacking of the abbey, and almost
half the populace being killed. Godvin for his serious neglect of duty
was sentenced to be walled up.

He was sealed inside a small cell, provided with a small altar and a
tiny spy hole sighted towards a potential foe's approach. All were
forbidden on pain of death to nurture him in any way. He was cursed to
guard the locale for eternity. As the chamber was small he could only
adopt a kneeling position over the altar. Thus ensuring he prayed
forever for the souls of the victims of raiders and those about to die
in the village.

From that day to this the bell sounds out when marauders approach. If
someone dies or is about to die the praying monk appears to pray for
their souls. No one has lived in the village for over one hundred
years. Since the quarry closed in fact." "No bugger must've told the
bloody monk the village was closed then." Laughed Dalton drunkenly.
"Load of bloody bull shit if you arsk me." Sneered his equally tight
companion. "Well now that you're fortified with Dutch courage why don't
you pay your ghostly friend another visit. I'll bet you a fiver you
won't." Retorted Geordie Forster winking at the landlord. "Right then
old man you're on, give the guy behind the bar your fiver, here's ours.
We'll bring you back a bit of the church to show yer. OK mate?" "If
your going, walk up, these roads can be dangerous especially in your
state." Warned the landlord. "Who needs bloody roads. We'll show you
bloody hill-billies what a Four-track can do. Go to Hell and back this
machine can." Boasted Smyth. Without further ado the friends left in
their vehicle, smashing through the car parks shrubbery enclosure as
they went.

Nearing the ruins the buggy smashed its way through a gorse thicket. It
seemed to fly as it burst from the gorse then it went into a nose dive
towards the disused quarry, floor, one hundred feet below. During that
last short journey the two commodities clerks learned a lot. They
realised whom the bell had warned against, and also whose souls the
spectral monk had been praying for. Possibly they even realised, too
late of course, that the Four-track would take them on a one way ticket
and not on a round trip to hell and back.

Two minutes after the shock of the explosion a falcon stooped, a
leverit screamed, and the small flock of Cheviots beside the quarry
continued with their grazing.

by Don Passmore. ?