One fine day

The day was fine, butterflies flitted in the clear air and somewhere far off a songbird greeted the sun. John Cade had made a picnic for himself and had set off to the Lower Lea where he always felt happiest. Home on holiday from boarding school he had decided to lie in the long grass and watch the clouds silently drift by. Somewhere far off he could hear a tractor labouring in the field and knew which direction the field lay from the cloud of hungry seagulls that flew in a flock above. His eyes closed and he felt himself drifting off into a sweet dream or two.

As a young child he had played in this grassy pasture, always feeling secure and happy. Now that he was older, he never missed a chance to visit it when home from his boarding school.

School work had gone well the last term and his masters and his parents had been well satisfied with his performance. Now, it was a break time when he could relax and allow his batteries to recharge in preparation for his final term at Greystones.

The school had a long and prestigious history, founded in the 18^th century it had been the place of learning for many well known people including several M.P.s and various heads of industry. John’s parents paid costly fees for his attendance at Greystones  and he was not letting them down.

There had only been one fly in the ointment and now, the memory slid unpleasantly into John’s reveries. Bingham! A totally unsuitable person for the position of master at Greystones, the man was unscrupulous and totally obnoxious. John thought of him and uncontrollably shuddered having had personal knowledge of the knave. He was known for his bullying and intimidation of pupils, but as far as John was concerned, as long as he stayed out of his way, then it was ok with him.

The real problem arose when John walked in on one of Bingham’s experiments. The room had been darkened and a few candles flickered in various places in the room. Drawn on the floor in chalk was a pentacle and a semi naked First Former was laying at the centre. The poor boy was petrified and John had recognised him as Bingham’s ‘fag’, the name in the college for a  person, usually freshly arrived, who due to tradition was made to run and carry for the masters and senior form pupils. It was just drudgery of the worst kind, but every First Former had to endure it.

John helped the boy to his feet recognising him as Peter Hames. “What is this all about, Hames?” asked John. “Has old Bingham got you into amateur dramatics?”

Suddenly Hames’ eyes widened and he ducked as a large wooden baseball bat swung between him and John. Turning quickly John realised that their attacker was none other than Bingham. The master was dressed in a dark cloak and on his head he wore a cap that was adorned with leaves.

“You have no right Cade!” screamed Bingham, taking a swing at the boys again. “This is my private rooms, what goes on in here is my business!”

John stood in front of Peter and when Bingham swung the bat again, John snatched it off him. He ushered Peter out of the room and before closing the door he said to Bingham, “You are finished at this college. As soon as the Dean knows about tonight’s little shenanigans, you will be history!”

The morning after Bingham was nowhere to be seen. He had packed up all his things during the night and driven away from the college never to return. John thought that he had heard the last of the odious man until a letter had arrived for him from Bingham. It clearly stated that one day, very soon, he, Bingham, would have his revenge. ‘You’ll never see it coming’ the letter stated.

John realised that he must have dozed off, for when he opened his eyes, the light was slipping away towards evening. Collecting up his picnic things he packed them into a hamper and made his way up the path to Little Thorpe, the village where his parents lived. No 67 Rectory Lane was their address and the property was the old rectory that had formerly served St Luke’s Church before its closure due to falling numbers in the congregation. Now the people of Little Thorpe worshipped at St Barnabus in the nearby town of Dawling. During the English Civil War it is said that Cromwell’s Roundheads had taken sacred relics attributed to St. Luke from the church, a leg bone and pelvis, and after smashing them up, had dumped them on Lower Lea which was a cratered, muddy field due to successive bombardments by rival armies.

“I’m home Mum!” shouted John as he entered his house. “Sorry I am late, the time just flew when I was down in the meadow and I think I fell asleep for a little while.”

There was no sound from anywhere in the house and John thought that maybe his mother had gone out for messages. His father would not be home till late as he had a business meeting.

Going into the lounge, John switched on the television and then sat down to watch the News. It always seemed to be the same these days, plane crashes, refugees and party political broadcasts. The world was in real turmoil just now and was set to get worse. The weather forecast followed with warnings of heavy rain to come and possibly gales. It also included an interesting item regarding a lunar eclipse that was going to occur during the early hours of the following morning,

When John’s father got in from work at ten o’clock, that evening, he found a very upset, young man.

“Mum‘s vanished, Dad,” he said, feeling very tearful. “She wasn’t here when I came in over 5 hours ago!”

His father sat him down and started asking him questions. “Was she alright when you left this morning? Have you contacted the police?”

John said that he hadn’t as he had been waiting for his father to get home.

Mr Cade picked up the telephone receiver and began dialling. “That’s strange,” he said, there is no tone! It looks like it is out of order. Well, I’ll just drive into Dawling and speak to the police.

You stay here, in case she comes back from wherever she’s been.”

Mr Cade snatched up his car keys and after putting his coat on made his way to the front door. “I won’t be long, he said as he closed the front door.

Five minutes later, he was back. “The car won’t start,” he said angrily. “I only had it serviced two weeks ago and I bet the battery is flat!”

Standing cloaked in a long dark robe Silas Bingham gazed down at the frightened woman who lay gagged and tied up on the floor of St. Luke’s church. He smiled at the futile movements that she was making to free herself. “Not long now, my beauty,” he hissed evilly. “Soon your son will come looking for you and I will exact my revenge!”

Silas walked over to the altar where he had arranged his various items associated with his black art. A stolen chalice, to hold the blood of his victim, a long sword inscribed along the blade with a prayer to the dark spirit of Ashraf and a jewelled dagger with which he would slice the throat of his enemy.

He stroked the sword and then lifted it aloft, “Come my lord Ashraf. The feast is set for your pleasure!”

“Look, Dad,” said John pointing out of the window at the windows of the nearby church. “Someone’s inside, I can see lights.”

“No one should be in there, son,” said his father angrily. “It must be children mucking about!”

“But, what if it is to do with Mum?” John said in a worried voice. “I think we have to go and find out.”

Father and son made their way over the village square. It was dark and a light breeze tugged at their clothes as they approached the church.

“You stay here, John,” said his father. “In case there is a problem.”

“Aww, Dad,” groaned John. “I want to come with you.”

One look from his father made John realise that he should do as he was told. He knew that at least with one of them outside if anything happened, that person could go for help.

The church door creaked open and John’s father stepped inside. John heard nothing more for about ten minutes and he realised that he would have to go and find out what had happened to his dad.

As John stepped inside he smelt the sour smell of candle wax and mould. The vestibule was quite dark and he was momentarily blinded when he pulled the door into the church, open. Candles sat all around the inside of the church, their flames flickering and smoking.

“Come in, young sir!” boomed out a voice and as soon as John heard it, he knew who it was.

“Mr Bingham,” said John. “What are you doing here?”

Silas pointed down at the floor before the altar. “I have your parents here. I think they look very uncomfortable, in fact, your father’s head is bleeding.”

“What have you done?” shouted John as he ran towards the ex master. “Dad! Mum! Are you alright?” He knelt down and held their hands. “It’ll be OK, I promise you.”

Standing up John faced Silas who was busy placing a cap on his head. It had a sprig of leaves on it and John remembered that it was the same thing that Bingham had had on his head when he had disturbed the man and his victim, back at Greystones.

“You have a choice my young friend,” said Silas picking up the knife from the altar. “I intend to spill blood to praise my lord Ashraf. It can be either yours or one of your parents – I do not care.”

“You are insane!” said John looking about him for something to use to protect himself and his parents. “No one is to be injured, I will not allow it!”

Silas Bingham had been practising his black arts for many years and gradually his soul had darkened until now it was as black as an unlit coal cellar. The evil lord Ashraf lived there and fed Bingham with portions of his evil power to get him to do the evil spirit’s bidding. The entity needed to gain access to the Earth and its people to allow it unbridled power to create chaos and disharmony. Bingham was a means to an end and when lord Ashraf emerged as the most powerful creature on the planet, Bingham would simply be tossed aside.

Bingham raised his arms above his head and began to chant. As the unintelligible words poured from his mouth, the sound of the wind outside St Luke’s began to increase until it sounded as if a chorus of banshees was screeching. There was a roaring in the old church’s rafters as the wind rushed through and swirled about the chancel. The candles’ flames wavered in the gusts, but stayed alight.

“Well, who is it to be?”shouted Bingham over the gale’s cacophony.

John looked across at his parents trussed up like a couple of turkeys. “It will be me, but my parents must be released first!” he screamed.

“Yes of course I will release them, as soon as my master has received his sacrifice,” Bingham shouted back.

“No, now!” John  said loudly, moving towards his parents.

Bingham would have none of this and raising the knife he swung it at John. The knife plunged towards the boy’s neck but as its blade just touched John’s skin, Bingham felt as if he had touched a high voltage cable. The knife was blown out of his hand and went sailing down the length of the church. Bingham was thrown several feet away and landed by the front pews, his hand blackened and paralysed. He screamed with the pain. But the real pain began as the force that had been released from John’s body by the touch of the knife. It soaked into Bingham’s body, going deeper and deeper until it struck the black hole that was Bingham’s soul. It struck and shattered the hiding place of lord Ashraf and hurtled the creature back into the dark where it belonged. Bingham gulped and writhed as the eternal struggle went on deep in his body and at the final second when his soul was a total vacuum, Bingham was simply sucked inside out and vanished into oblivion.

Using the sword, John carefully cut his parents restraints and helped them to their feet. John’s father was slightly concussed and when they had returned to their house, an ambulance was called. The paramedics cleaned the wound and applied a bandage before transporting him to the hospital. “It’s only to keep him under our watchful eye,” said the chief paramedic. “He’ll be home tomorrow if he has a good night. You say he fell when he was doing some painting. Maybe it would be safer to get a professional painter into do the work in future.”

John and his mother sat looking into the fire, seeing images and pictures formed by the flames.

“What do you think saved us?” asked John’s mother, still feeling a little shaken from the experience.

“Didn’t someone say that the relics of St Luke had been dumped on the Lower Lea?” asked John.

“It’s a local folk tale,” his mother said. “You do love that place and spent a lot of your childhood playing there.”

“Maybe, just maybe some of the goodness from the relics rubbed off on me,” laughed John.

His mother looked back into the flames and she and John were silent for a while.

Then John put his arm round his mother’s neck and hugged her. “I think we are always being watched over and cared for,” he said simply.