gns.thedruidconnection-第4部分

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sigh；　Cleehopes　set　his　bag　down　on　the　weed…covered　pathway　leading　up　to　the　church　and　looked　around　him。
　　
　　The　wind　had　strengthened　during　the　last　few　minutes　and　he　jammed　his　homburg　even　more　firmly　down　on　his　bald　head。　It　was　bitterly　cold；　too；　demonstrating　the　treachery　of　the　elements　in　spring；　last　week　had　been　exceedingly　mild　and　sunny；　now　rain　threatened。　It　might　even　sleet　or　snow。
　　
　　Boyce　had　stressed　that　the　police　were　carrying　out　extensive　investigations　into　the　death　of　the　curate。　They　might　be　in　or　around　the　churchyard　but　he　had　spoken　to　Detective　Inspector　Groome　and　they　would　not　interfere　with　the　exorcist。　The　law　was　sceptical　of　evil　spirits　but　the　vicar　would　be　allowed　to　carry　out　his　banishment　of　the　evil　force　without　hindrance。　Cleehopes　shivered。　There　was　certainly　evil　in　the　air。　He　could　sense　it　in　the　way　the　biting　wind　whipped　at　him　as　though　it　was　trying　to　drive　him　back　down　to　the　lychgate　by　sheer　force。　Go　away；　old　man；　this　is　no　place　for　you。　Go　now　whilst　you　are　still　able　to　leave　unharmed！
　　
　　The　Reverend　Cleehopes　smelled　the　smoke　before　he　saw　the　fire　in　the　gathering　darkness；　a　pungent　aroma　of　burning　vegetation；　a　stinking　garden　bonfire　the　likes　of　which　residents　of　suburban　housing　estates　plained　bitterly　and　instigated　petitions　against　the　offender。
　　
　　He　coughed　and　stared　into　the　gloom。　Then　he　saw　the　smoke　billowing　up　from　the　farthest　corner　of　the　cemetery；　villainous　thick　clouds　that　the　wind　whipped　towards　the　church。
　　
　　Somebody　was　moving　over　there；　a　shape　that　came　and　went　amidst　the　swirling　smoke；　outlined　briefly　by　the　intermittent　orange　glow　from　the　dancing　tongues　of　flame。　Cleehopes　muttered　his　annoyance。　This　could　be　detrimental　to　his　plans；　filling　the　interior　of　the　church　with　vile　stifling　odours　that　would　only　serve　to　aid　whatever　evil　lurked　here。　It　wouldn't　be　the　police；　they　had　no　need　of　huge　bonfires。　A　verger；　doubtless；　engaged　upon　a　spring　tidying　up　of　the　graveyard。　Well；　he　would　be　asked　to　put　out　his　fire；　ordered　to　if　he　refused。　Dash　the　fellow！
　　
　　Leaving　his　briefcase　on　the　ground；　the　vicar　proceeded　to　shuffle　towards　the　offending　bonfire；　turning　his　head　to　escape　the　full　force　of　the　smoke　which　streamed　towards　him。　Twice　he　had　to　stop；　turn　his　back；　and　give　way　to　a　fit　of　coughing。　Finally　he　was　within　a　few　yards　of　the　villainous　heap　of　smouldering　rubbish。　He　retched；　almost　vomited。　A　stench　so　acrid　that　its　vile　fumes　permeated　his　lungs；　seared　his　intestines。　What　the　deuce　was　the　fellow　burning？
　　
　　Seconds　later　he　saw　the　man；　a　figure　that　seemed　to　materialise　out　of　the　eddying　smoke；　a　shape　that　had　him　stepping　back　in　alarm；　his　heart　seeming　to　flip；　miss　a　beat；　then　accelerate　so　that　his　pulses　pounded。
　　
　　'You　be　a…lookin'　for　me；　sur？'
　　
　　A　harsh　nasal　accent；　a　hint　of　arrogance　in　the　deep　tones。
　　
　　Cleehopes　stared　through　streaming；　smarting　eyes。　A　verger；　definitely。　An　old　man　clinging　resolutely　to　the　traditions　of　a　past　generation。　A　frayed　bowler　hat　was　jammed　firmly　down　on　the　oval；　elongated　head。　A　frock　coat；　torn　and　tattered；　unbuttoned　and　flapping　in　the　wind。　Scratched　knee…length　leather　gaiters　terminating　in　scuffed　working　boots。　Then　the　face；　pelling；　forcing　you　to　look　at　it　again　and　keep　on　looking。　Flesh　that　was　aged　yet　stretched　too　tightly　over　forehead　and　cheekbones　to　allow　it　to　crinkle。　A　bushy　moustache　that　drooped　untrimmed　and　hid　the　mouth　beneath　it　so　that　you　didn't　see　the　lips　move。　But　the　eyes　were　the　most　awful　part　of　the　whole　scarecrow　appearance；　orbs　that　glowed　redly　as　they　reflected　the　dancing　firelight。
　　
　　'You　want　me；　sur？'　Impatience　escalating　into　anger；　a　verger　who　resented　this　trespasser　in　his　domain。
　　
　　'Yes　。　。　。　yes；　I　do；'　Cleehopes　stammered；　his　weak　trembling　tones　seeming　to　be　whipped　away　by　the　wind　as　though　the　elements　resented　his　intrusion　also。
　　
　　'And　what　for？　Cannot　you　see　what　I　be　doin'？'
　　
　　'You're　making　a　foul；　stinking　bonfire；'　the　vicar　did　his　utmost　to　protest　angrily；　with　an　authority　that　seemed　to　be　fast　slipping　away　from　him。　'The　smoke　is　filling　the　church。'
　　
　　'And　be　that　a　bad　thing；　sur？　Is　anybody　plaining？'
　　
　　'Yes。　Yes；　they　are。　I　am。　I　am　about　to　conduct　a　service　in　there。'

　　
　　'No；　sur；'　the　other　shook　his　head　slowly；　emphatically；　'you　cannot　hold　a　service　in　the　church。'
　　
　　'And　why　not？'
　　
　　'Because　it　is　past　Evensong　time；　sur。　Also；　you　are　not　the　vicar　here。'
　　
　　'I　have　been　instructed　by　the　bishop　personally　to　carry　out　a　service　in　this　church；'　Cleehopes　snapped；　'and　I　am　ordering　you　to　douse　that　fire　this　minute。　Otherwise　。　。　。　otherwise　I'll　have　you　sacked；　my　man！'
　　
　　'You'll　'ave　me　sacked；　sur；　will　you？'　the　other　laughed；　a　mirthless　sound　that　sent　a　chill　down　Cleehopes'　spine。　'Nobody　can　sack　me；　sur。　Not　even　the　bishop。'
　　
　　The　vicar　opened　his　mouth　to　reply　but　some　instinct　made　him　check　the　angry　retort；　a　sensation　of　awe　mingling　with　fear；　the　feeling　that　he　always　had　on　those　infrequent　occasions　when　he　came　face　to　face　with　Bishop　Boyce。　Only　this　time　the　feeling　escalated　beyond　the　barriers　of　awe　into　a　much　more　frightening　realm。　Terror！
　　
　　'And　what　is　this　service　you　were　goin'　to　conduct　in　the　church；　sur？'
　　
　　Cleehopes　swallowed　and　found　himself　looking　into　those　eyes　again。　They　were　glowing　redly　with　an　anger　that　was　fast　being　fanned　into　unbelievable　wrath；　a　fire　about　to　blaze　into　a　raging　inferno　like　that　bonfire　a　few　yards　away。　God；　the　stench　was　awful！

　　
　　'I　was　going　to　。　。　。　to　。　。　。　'　the　vicar　swallowed；　'conduct　a　service　of。。。　of　exorcism。'　Guilt　and　embarrassment　flooded　over　him　as　he　got　the　words　out。
　　
　　'A　service　of　exorcism；　sur！'　Those　eyes　seemed　to　suffuse　with　red　like　glowing　coals；　move　closer　together。　There　was　no　mistaking　the　anger；　the　contempt。　And　behind　the　man　the　bonfire　suddenly　burst　into　flames　and　died　down　again　to　a　steady　smoulder。
　　
　　'Have　you　no　respect　for　the　dead；　sur？'
　　
　　'Of　。。。　of　course　I　have。'　The　vicar　shivered。　It　had　suddenly　bee　very　much　colder　even　though　he　was　standing　in　close　proximity　to　the　fire。
　　
　　'Then　instead　of　annoyin'　the　dead；　sur；　why　don't　you　help　me　to　lay　them　to　rest？'
　　
　　Cleehopes'　stomach　seemed　to　churn。　This　fellow　was　a　madman；　a　senile　grass…cutter　and　grave…digger　who　was　convinced　that　this　churchyard　was　the　domain　over　which　he　ruled　supreme。
　　
　　'You　mean　you　want　me　to　assist　you　in　the　digging　of　a　grave？'　The　man　had　to　be　humoured；　he　could　be　dangerous。　The　vicar　prayed　that　any　moment　some　of　those　CID　officers　who　were　supposed　to　be　carrying　out　enquiries　in　this　place　might　show　up。　Surely　they　were　keeping　a　nocturnal　vigil。　Or　had　the　bishop　successfully　lured　them　away　so　that　the　exorcism　could　continue　unhindered？
　　
　　'Not　burials；　sur？　We　do　not　mit　a　corpse　to　the　earth　so　that　the　worms　and　slugs　can　feed　on　its　decaying　flesh。'
　　
　　'What　then？'　A　sinking　feeling　had　the　clergyman's　stomach　contracting；　bringing　with　it　a　sensation　of　dizziness　so　that　everything　around　him　seemed　like　a　dream。　Terrible　unreality　like　a　fevered　nightmare　from　which　there　was　no　escape。
　　
　　'Why；　cremation；　sur。　What　thinks　you　I　have　this　fire　burning　for；　to　incinerate　weeds　and　the　like？　e　look；　sur；　and　witness　the　only　true　way　to　transport　the　dead　into　the　kingdom　of　the　old　ones。'
　　
　　Cleehopes　didn't　want　to　look　but　suddenly　his　actions；　every　movement　of　his　limbs；　seemed　no　longer　to　be　controlled　by　his　own　brain。　He　shuffled　forward；　moved　alongside　this　ragged　old　man；　stared　fearfully　at　the　pile　of　burning　refuse。
　　
　　The　flames　leaped　up　as　though　obeying　some　sudden　mand　and　in　that　instant　the　Reverend　Cleehopes　saw　the　splayed　thing　at　which　they　licked　hungrily；　the　limp　spread　eagled　form　at　the　top　of　the　pile；　blackened　yet　still　recognisable　as　the　charred　flesh　smouldered；　fat　running　in　small　yellow　rivulets　and　hissing　in　the　fire。　This　awful　self…styled　guardian　of　the　dead　was　in　the　process　of　cremating　the　tiny　body　of　a　dead　child！
　　
　　Cleehopes　vomited；　at　least　his　stomach　seemed　to　throw　up　and　everything　before　him　swam。　He　thought　he　was　going　to　faint　but　cruelly　he　was　spared　oblivion。　The　infant　seemed　to　move；　a　shifting　of　the　funeral　pyre；　doubtless；　because　no　life　could　possibly　remain　in　that　inert　form。　The　vicar　opened　his　mouth；　tried　to　protest；　but　the　words　would　not　e；　just　an　unintelligible　babbling。　And　behind　him　the　man　was　laughing　softly。
　　
　　'You　see　what　I　mean；　sur？　It　is　more　important　that　you　help　the　dead　pass　over　into　the　realms　of　the　old　gods　than　disturb　those　that　are　already　there。'
　　
　　The　vicar　was　aware　of　his　head　nodding；　bobbing　up　and　down　so　that　his　black　homburg　became　loosened　and　was　whipped　away　by　the　wind。　He　did　not　even　notice　the　cold　now；　staring　fixedly　at　the　half…cremated　object；　wondering　how　long　it　would　take　this　fire　to　consume　it；　render　it　to　an　indistinguishable　nothingness。　Ashes　to　ashes。　。　。　。
　　
　　'I　have　other　duties　to　see　to；　sur；　and　I　am　grateful　to　them　for　sending　you　to　help　me。　Now；　perhaps　you　would　kindly　look　after　this　fire；　keep　it　burning　until　it　is　all　gone；　if　you　understand　me。　。　。　。　'
　　
　　Cleehopes　understood　and　suddenly　no　longer　experienced　revulsion。　The　man　was　quite　right；　cremation　was　a　true　and　proper　method　of　disposing　of　a　corpse　with　dignity。　He　felt　something　pushed　into　his　hands；　took　it　and　saw　that　it　was　a　large…pronged　garden　fork。
　　
　　'Now　you　keep　this　fire　goin'；　sur；　and　don't　let　it　die　down。　I'll　maybe　see　you　again；　who　knows？'
　　
　　And　the　Reverend　Cleehopes　was　aware　that　he　was　alone。　No　longer　was　he　afraid；　he　couldn't　understand　why　he　had　been　frightened　in　the　first　place。　He　was　sweating　now；　grunting　with　the　sheer　physical　effort　of　prodding　that　smouldering　pyre；　ventilatin