A collection of original ficlets
He almost ran into the door, and stood clinging to the knocker and panting for a moment, before grabbing the key that hung on a chain round his neck and letting himself in. The key turned stiffly, and as he persuaded it round he seemed to hear footsteps and redoubled his efforts. The door locked behind him, he collapsed in front of it, and gazed upwards at the ceiling, as if he connected it with the hills of the Psalm. The peace inherent in the great building soothed him somewhat, and his heart ceased its racing.
Presently, he got up and considered his next move. In the morning, he could seek help from the people of the Close, but the hour was now too late to disturb them. For now, he would sleep somewhere here, in this place which he had served so faithfully, and which had served him well in its turn. He looked round, not to try and see, for the moonlight only sufficed to create more shadows in the vast cathedral, but to bring back his mental image of the place that had been more of a home to him than his own. The choirstalls could be a tad uncomfortable, even with their cushions, and the congregational chairs even more so. The floor would be somewhat too exposed to any early-morning visitors, and the chapels also. Of course. The organ loft. He almost fell to his knees with gratitude, but instead made his way to the inconspicuous door leading to the staircase. It was locked, naturally, but he still had the key, along with the key to the side door. He had kept both, as a remembrance of his childhood security, and in case they were needed in this madness which he found himself living in.
The organ loft was cold, as was the rest of the building, but he found the organ scholar’s robe still hanging in the same place. Ah, so the organ scholar was Simon these days? They had been friends as choristers, and he would not mind his robe being used in such a way. He spread the robe over himself, and settled down behind the organ bench, to await the arrival of sleep.
It had not, in reality, been that long since he’d been a chorister here - ten years at the most - but it seemed like several lifetimes, what with the noise that was his public school, the still noisier university, and now this strangeness, alternately threateningly loud and silent as the grave. He had dreamed of being an organ scholar here, of settling down into the familiarity and pleasure of cathedral life, where each day was organised, each service planned weeks in advance, and yet where there were still moments of awe and wonder at the beauty created here. Instead, he had been plunged into a confusion of legalities, confidentialities, and what his mind still hesitated to label espionage. He was not happy. He saw his dreams shattered in front of him, his life racing past him and his only hope to try and stay alive through the days and weeks ahead.
His instinct was to seek sanctuary here, but he shrank from drawing the Cathedral and all that served it into the shadow of this danger. He had decided that he would stay a day or two here, while he considered where to go next, and then to leave again, running ahead of his pursuers, avoiding the net they cast. It was not a plan likely to end well, he admitted in the silence of his heart, but it was better than endangering those that he loved. He began to concoct a story that would explain his presence without giving cause for alarm.
He wondered idly whether it would ever be made known that he’d died, and if the people here would ever know. His parents were beyond all knowledge now, but those here might still spare a thought, and a prayer, for his soul. Prayers were all he had left now; hopes died in the chilly certainty of death, but prayers rose beyond all rationality and comforted him in the early hours of the morning. Perhaps they would sing a Requiem for him. The idea brought tears to his eyes, and he blinked them back, telling himself that Simon would not care for a robe doused in salt water. He forced his mind back to years gone by, exploits involving water on robes and suchlike, and dispelled his gloom sufficiently to, after a while, drift into oblivion.
It was pitch black, and the air was filled with the rustling of ivy leaves in the wind. I held my lantern up, striving to see the buildings that surrounded me, to find some kind of security in the ancient stone. The flickering light illuminated many-windowed buildings, dark and uncurtained. Oaken doors, bolted and barred, with elaborate iron hinges. Stone arches, connecting the walled gardens. Finally, in front of me, the chapel, looming huge in the darkness, the great tower soaring up into the sky, the gargoyles mocking and leering, the windows flashing red and green and yellow in the lantern-light. This was the place whence I had arrived, after two days of travelling by night and sleeping by day, after months of preparation, after a year of thought since the Headmaster had called me into his study. This was the secret university, our secret, where generations of us had worked, and waited for the time to come. Tonight was the time when I would find out if I was worthy.
The bell tolled, shattering the ivy-sibilance. Midnight. The hour had come. I wrapped my cloak more tightly around myself, and approached the forbidding doors, which swung upon silently.
“Good. You have come.”
I followed the robed figure, glimpsing, as we walked swiftly down the nave, elegant columns that soared to eternity, and, far above me, the outlines of a fan-vaulted roof. A spiral staircase led to the organ loft, hung between the columns and hidden behind the hood-mouldings above the choir stalls. There, one could see and not be seen.
The other judges were waiting there, silent. They motioned for me to seat myself on the organ bench, and I complied, my mouth dry and hands shaking. The registration was already set, and the music open. All I had to do was play.
“Whenever you’re ready.”
The notes of Boellmann’s famous toccata rang out in the listening stillness of the vaulted space, and fell towards the shadowed crypt. As the final echoes of the last chord died away, the chief among them told me, in a soft voice, that I had been accepted as one of their number.
* * * *
The hours there were long, for it was necessary, we were told, to be as learned as possible, that the endeavour might succeed. After the academic work for the day was done, we trained for two or three hours, that we might endure any hardships necessary; even used as we were to training twice a week, this was exhausting. Later still, we were taught practical skills, as diverse as cooking and explosives manufacture, and as the owls began to emerge, we dissipated, each to practice music. The sense of expectancy grew by the day, and the tension mounted, for we knew that the time, at last, was coming.
Soon a date began to be mentioned: the 1st of February. An auspicious day, truly, and with this stimulus our lessons, such as Mandarin conversation and stock market analysis, held renewed interest. The shadow of this deadline hovered over even our discussions and dreams, and took possession of all our minds, and we worked feverishly, that we might be sufficiently prepared. Sleep became a luxury; yet so high was the tension that we noticed little our exhaustion. We talked of little else but the oncoming day, and that, out of long habit, was in the form of verlan besprinkled with Latin that was our common parlance for such matters, originally established for security purposes.
The plans for the day in question were rumoured to be complete, and we were each given a private document detailing which group we were in, our destination, and the equipment which we were required to take, and which should be kept with us at all times lest the deployment should be earlier than expected. The excitement mounted to fever-pitch, but the training which we had all undergone kept us outwardly calm. The only outlet was at night, checking and rechecking the contents of the equipment bag.
* * * *
The day dawned bright and clear, with a tang of frost in the air. It was odd to think that we would soon be leaving this place forever, but the thought of finally beginning the active mission was astounding, and concentration on the ins and outs of vector analysis was considerably less than usual. Finally, part way through the morning, the trumpeters sounded the call to action - our own arrangement of the Mathias Fanfare, to suit the joy of the occasion. We hurried to our meeting places, streaming out of lecture rooms, trying to remain calm and contain ourselves. Once each team was assembled, they set off in a van, off to airports and train stations. Some were going to China, some to New York, some to Belgium, and many other places, in the UK and elsewhere. Our team was going to London, to the seats of Parliament and to our recruiting network.
We swept down the motorway, impatient to further the plans. We could do nothing for the hours until we reached our destination, and were keyed up to the utmost. The tension broke when someone started singing our unofficial marching song, and we all joined in with a great roar of hope and enthusiasm:
“A la volonté du people/ Et à la santé du progrès/ Remplis ton cœur d’un vin rebelle/Et à demain, ami fidèle./Nous voulons faire la lumière/Malgré la masque de la nuit/Pour illuminer notre terre/Et changer la vie!”
We had waited a long time for this, both personally and collectively, and the glory of our mission swept over us.
“Joignez-vous à la croisade/ de ceux qui croient au genre humain/Pour une seule barricade qui tombe/cent autres qui lèveront demain…”
We sang all the way to London, any and every song, filling the car with melody and harmony, for we were still well-trained choristers.
When we arrived, most raced to the school, to let them know that the hour had come and to bring them out. I was sent to the Abbey - a homecoming, in its way - to play the Fanfare, Karg-Elert’s ‘Nun Danket’, and others of that ilk, to let all those not in school know that the plan was afoot. Once they had been gathered, we would go to the Houses of Parliament, and begin in earnest, as others around the world would be, stretching from cramped flights and eager to start the mission proper, that which we had all been waiting for. It would be a dangerous journey, for the world is always resistant to change, but a great and joyous one nevertheless, and one for which future generations would thank us with overflowing hearts. The hour had come, and change could no longer be resisted. We began our work.
Acknowledgements to Yoel Sevi for inspiration, Boublil for lyrics, Schonberg, Mathias, Boellmann and Karg-Elert for music, and Durham Cathedral and King’s College Chapel for architecture.
It was getting dark now, and she wished she hadn’t trusted that man. Her mother had always warned her about men who were kind to young girls, but she’d been so tired, and so lonely. Now she was truly alone though, hastening along the dark paths, clutching at her skirts, perpetually straining her eyes for the kindly light of a house where she could rest safe. There were no houses that she could see, just endless trees.
Thunder crashed, and rain began to pour down. She groaned, and redoubled her pace, and suddenly, out of the tangled mass of branches ahead, a church tower loomed. She rushed towards it, stumbling over twigs and catching her petticoats on brambles, hoping that there at least there would be someone who would protect her. It was further than she thought, and as she drew closer she realised that it was a young cathedral, with gargoyles jeering at her from the rooftops, and crows swooping over her head, cawing as if to mock her plight. A single bell began to toll.
She slowed, unsure now if this church would grant her the safety she was used to, but, deciding she had no choice, approached the great oak door, and timidly lifted the latch. The hinges creaked menacingly. She edged into the church, and gasped as a cloud of bats swept past her, hurriedly flattening herself against the wall. She shuddered as her hair brushed through cobwebs, and jumped as the door slammed, shutting out the sound of the bell.
A light gleamed in the distance, and she hurried towards it, and caught the heel of her shoe in the grate, and fell awkwardly with her ankle twisted under her. She watched, momentarily exhausted, as the light was joined by another, and another. As they grew slowly nearer, there was a sudden crash from the organ, and voices rose up, pure and commanding, ‘O Fortuna…’ She gathered herself up and pressed herself against the wall, trembling.
The voices and lights moved nearer and she began to distinguish scarlet robes and white surplices and ruffs, faces of ethereal beauty, all holding candles. The organ sank to a murmur, and the voices turned harsh, spitting out words, seeming like a hostile army advancing towards her, with a hooded monk leading them. ‘Semper crescis, aut decrescis’ the very words sounded ominous, and as she turned to escape, she caught sight of the empty organ bench and stared in disbelief and horror. The voices advanced remorselessly, and she backed away slowly. Then the organ again thundered, and the voices shot up, ‘sors salutis, et virtutis’, and as they sang, she saw a ruff sink down a little with the breath rushing over it, and saw a red line running round the singer’s throat.
She screamed, and turned and ran, and struggled desperately with the door before rushing out in to the dark night.
As soon as she’d gone, the church lights snapped back on, and the choirboys blew their candles out, and threw them down on the nearest pew. A smaller door near the down opened noiselessly, and a skeleton came out.
“These people just don’t consider how dangerous it is, leaving the bell up like that.’ he grumbled.
“Yes, we know, Harold, but it’s hardly going to kill you.” The monk flung his cloak down, revealing a rather transparent body. “Goodness, this thing’s hot, even with the central heating off.”
“It doesn’t do the bell any good either. You mark my words, one day it won’t toll, and then there’ll be trouble.”
“One of these days the organ won’t play either, and we really will be in for it.” came a voice from over by the organ. “All these cobwebs are clogging up the action, and the bat droppings are so corrosive.”
“Yes, yes, we know.” the monk said irritably. “Am I the only one round here who doesn’t spend their time complaining?”
There was a pause, broken by a head suddenly smacking into the monk’s chest.
“Gracious, they’re at it again! How many times have I told you not to play catch like that? You know you always end up getting a head stuck down a pipe somehow, and then George gets so upset.”
“Stay away from the organ!” A form was beginning to coalesce in front of the bench. “I don’t want to be cleaning blood out of the Ophicleide again, do you hear?” He flopped onto the bench as the choirboys retreated towards the font. “This dispersion business does take it out of you. Have you ever tried playing when you can’t see your fingers? And that’s quite apart from the energy needed to keep track of where all your particles are; when they’re hidden all over the mechanics of this thing it’s quite a job.”
The monk floated over to sit on the top of the console, and the skeleton followed, rattling somewhat.
“Never mind George, it’s nearly dawn now so we shouldn’t be bothered again tonight. After last night, let’s hope we have nice weather for a few days.”
“What was it in the end? About ten young ladies? Your boys were growing a little obstreperous by the end of it.”
“Hideously flat as well, but one can’t really blame them. What with the storms, I haven’t had time to work on any other pieces with them either; I might get a bit done this morning though, before they all fall asleep.”
“And one drunk who got lost. Did you see the girl with the pink parasol?” Harold chipped in. “She just kept dropping it down grates all the time.”
“She was useless, that one.” the monk agreed. “Young William even stole her fan - she dropped that as well when John’s ruff started flapping.”
“He’s got that quite good now, hasn’t he? I remember when he was just learning and blew so hard his head fell off; I was so amused I nearly lost track of my fingers.”
“The accompaniment was a little hiccupy after that, I must admit.” The monk smiled at the memory. “I wish we had some tenors and basses though; it’s never quite the same with just trebles. That’s the thing with having vampiric choirboys; you never have the problem of training new singers but their voices never break. I must have a look around for some adults, but they’re mostly off chasing girls - gone are the days when you could find young girls in nightdresses in every other house.”
“I knew a good countertenor once, back in the 1600s.” Harold thought back. “Name of James originally, but of course he changed it to some Ruritanian nonsense. Anyway, he’s been sulking in a crypt for the past few centuries, ever since the demise of castrati.”
“There are some decent tenors in the church over at Slade. Maybe if we sent David over there… I’m sure he’d be happy to oblige…” George trailed off, chuckling somewhat.
“Oh, just a little jab, you think? It’s a tempting thought, certainly. What are they like looks-wise? Do they have the ‘ethereal beauty’ which is deemed part of the job description? I remember having to reject a certain young lad with a broken nose and tiny eyes once - shame, he had a good voice.”
“Well, there’s a pretty blond one who can sing - oh and there’s one with pale, pale skin and dark hair. Only dark brown, but a bit of dye would soon sort that out.”
“How do you feed your boys, anyway?” Harold suddenly asked. “None of us really need to eat - though I know George does for the pleasure - but they surely must.”
“Oh, it’s quite simple.” The monk beamed with pride. “I simply synthesise white blood cells and haemoglobin for them. That’s all they need, and the best thing is that it doesn’t stain their surplices.”
“Oh, that’s what that machine is! How do you synthesise it then?”
“Science.” the monk replied, and smiled at George, who had likewise been a chemist when alive.
Harold shrugged, and did not pursue the question.
“What about basses?” the monk asked George. “Any suitable ones?”
“Well, there’s a tall skinny one, with pale skin and black hair, but he has a problem.”
“Well?”
“His hair… it’s curly.” George grimaced apologetically.
“Ah, we can sort that with some straighteners. I’ve done it before, with Jonny - blond curls are fine, brown not so much.”
George stifled a laugh at the mental image of the monk wielding straighteners.
“That’s sorted then. I think I’ll send Jordan - he’s a good hand with the needle. Injections are so much neater than this whole blood-drinking nonsense - it did tend to stain the ruffs so.”
“Sounds like a plan then. Now, what shall we teach these little ones next? How about some Rutter?”
The monk shuddered elaborately, and Harold laughed.
“That saccharine muck? In my choir? Never! I was thinking perhaps some Parry, or some Stanford. When we get some lower parts I’ll have to do Greater Love, but there’s no point even trying that without tenors and basses.”
“Well, we’ll send the recruiting mission.” Harold attempted to pacify the two musicians, who got a bit wound up at times. “Now, how about a bit of Bach to end the night?”
“Splendid.” said the monk, and coiled his legs up away from the manuals.
The sound of a chorale filled the church, and the three of them relaxed, as the dawn broke through and the night was officially over.
It was a peaceful summer’s night, with the sky still various shades of blue and green from the sunset. Seldom was the church visited on such a night; any putative distressed damsels were sitting in meadows with their young men sedately discussing politics, or had already disappeared into the hedges, depending on their upbringing.
The monk generally used such nights to teach the choir some new repertoire. ‘Their minds - and voices - need a change from endless doom and gloom.’
He called the choir to order, and Harold levered himself off the organ bench, where George had been attempting to teach him. He had been learning for a few years now - simply tolling the bell grows wearisome after a few decades, let alone centuries - and was becoming quite competent with the manuals, but still was apt to get his bones caught between the pedals.
‘Right, let’s start with ‘Floret Silva’, as a way out of this wretched sea of Orff. One in a bar, nice and bright, and tenors don’t forget to come in strongly on ‘foliis’. Jordan, fetch the tambourine, and off we go!’
The singing filled the church, so different from any heard there while working, and the remains of the sunlight seemed to dance over the great arches, lighting up the faces of the angels as if they were smiling at the sudden joyous noise. The choir were very fond of this piece, mostly as such a great contrast from their daily routine of ‘O Fortuna’ and similar pieces, and sang with great gusto - occasionally more gusto than accuracy, but the monk was always lenient with the first piece.
‘Now that we at last have a sufficiently good ATB section - you’ve done very well this past month and I’m glad to have you - we can at last have a go at ‘Greater Love’. It’s an amazing piece; I’ve wanted to do it for a long while, but there’s only so much you can do with just trebles.’
‘While we’re on the subject of being glad to have people, could I have a word with you about your hiring procedures?’ a voice came from the bass section.
There were various exclamations on the theme of ‘oh Nick, not again!’
‘Well, I can’t speak for the rest of you, but I wasn’t really enchanted by the offers of ‘a really enriching job providing many new opportunities’ becoming a forced conversion to vampiricism. After I had agreed to take the job. There’s definitely some kind of infringement of fairness to employees act there.’ Nick’s voice was gruff with indignation.
‘Well, I don’t know - the application never specifically said that we would remain human.’ Alex’s voice was shaking with suppressed laughter. ‘I guess we should never take such things for granted.’
‘Do you not mind? Having your freedom taken away from you, along with your home, your family, your very life?’
‘To be honest, Nick, I’m quite flattered to be thought a good enough singer to participate in a living legend. It’s not like our ‘condition’ really affects us, apart from eating the monk’s preparation, and this is enough of a family and more for me. All choirs are, I guess; I am lucky enough to be in one of the best.’
Had he had blood vessels, the monk would have been blushing.
‘Right, now that we’ve had the seemingly mandatory socio-economic discussion for today, can we get on? Thank you. George, the introduction please.’
George began playing, and the atmosphere sobered, with people’s focus shifting away from Nick and towards their music.
‘Many waters cannot quench love…’ the beautiful tenor opening filled the air, rising high above their heads, floating among the graceful lines of the roof.
‘Many waters…’ the whole choir joined in, sonorous and unearthly. The monk felt a shiver run down his (non-existent) back; despite all the years working with various incarnations of this choir, the beauty of the sound they produced never failed to awe him.
‘Stop now; this is falling apart somewhat. Take a moment to look at your parts, and then we’ll go through them.’
A babble of quiet chatter broke out. John leant over, explaining to William (who had instinctively put a hand up to steady John’s head - the trebles were a little over-cautious after the recent incident in the belfry) that this funny cross symbol was a double-sharp, and nothing to be worried. Philip and Robert, both sprawled across opposite sides of the tenor/countertenor choirstall divisions, began an involved conversation about the harmonic progressions.
They began again, working on the notes first, and then singing the first few pages with the monk’s ceaseless patter of first-rehearsal instructions. ‘Smoothly now - accent it, ‘drown it’ - that’s right - now attack it - death, not a minor inconvenience! Really crescendo - more - more - now come right down - trebles - beautifully legato - that’s it!’
All the trebles sang the solo, hesitating somewhat but gaining confidence on the way. The rest of the choir began on the baritone solo, but one by one fell silent, until all that could be heard was a single voice, advancing up the aisle. George faltered and stopped playing, and everyone was silent, waiting and listening.
Then Harold caught sight of the newcomer, and rushed forward to meet him, providing a percussive addition to the collective exhalations from the choir.
‘James, James, it’s good to see you at last!’
‘It’s not ‘James’,’ the newcomer corrected, sounding slightly contemptuous. ‘It’s Maledict Percival von Achenban III - but you may call me… Maledict Percival von Achenban III.’
He swept off his top hat, and bowed low to the monk.
‘I am very honoured to meet you at last, good sir Thelonius. May I have the honour of being admitted to your elite and magnificent choir?’
‘Of course you may - I have heard much of you, and would be delighted to welcome you.’
‘Excellent, excellent. You will know then that I am generally an operatic countertenor, though I can sing tenor passably.’ Maledict removed his cloak with a flourish, and tossed it carelessly across the rood screen. The red silk lining gleamed in the candlelight, as did the red buckles on his shoes as he folded himself into the choirstalls next to Philip.
Much more was sung that night, with the monk occasionally smiling with delight at Maledict’s voice rising above the rest. After the practice formally ended, the trebles were sent off to bed, and the adults dispersed around the church at their leisure. Maledict came to talk to Harold, George, and the monk, regarding his mug of tea with faint distaste.
‘A showman as ever, Mal?’ Harold’s friendship with the vampire was longstanding.
‘You know me - whatever I do is for Art, dear Harold.’
‘I do know you, and you can’t fool me like that! How long has it been, three centuries?’
‘More like four, I think, now. A mistake. One should never fall out of touch with good friends. Let this be a lesson to us both.’
‘It’s a little problematic contacting you when you shut yourself in a cellar for four centuries! I’m surprised my message got to you this time - my raven had a horrible time of it. Searching for months, she was, and all the time you were sipping wine in some castle near the Bosnian border.’
‘Four centuries? Why on earth?’ George leant forward.
‘The uncultured yobs outlawed castrati. I mean, your boys are lovely Thel - may I call you Thel? - but one really needs trained adults for the most complex pieces, and women really aren’t the same. My career was ruined!’ Maledict flung his arms up, and sank back into his chair. It would have been very dramatic had he not neglected to remember the mug of tea, which fountained over him and caused him to sit up very suddenly, mopping at his waistcoat.
‘Really, this silk will mark terribly now! What is a man to do, when even the very things themselves of everyday life turn against him?’
The monk and George watched with amusement, and Harold smiled, leaning back and losing himself in memories of the days when he and Maledict had been working together in Estonia. The vampire had been a good friend and an entertaining companion, ever ready with conversation and stories, and just as ready to do anything for his friends.
Maledict’s voice continued, with occasional interjections from the others. Alex and Richard were singing various songs from musicals, with Jonathan improvising accompaniments which grew wilder and wilder. Philip, Robert and Nick were discussing the origins of legends and fairytales. The church was alive with the noise of the undead going about their business and enjoying themselves, talking and laughing until sunrise dispersed them to their beds.