A/N The third instalment of this exciting, boy's own adventure tale.
Carl was dozing, sprawled in a rickety chair with one leg shorter than the other three, tipping dangerously back as the sea swelled beneath the ship. He and Van Helsing were sharing a small, tatty cabin with a few sticks of mouldy furniture. Neither the view nor the company was especially inspiring – Van Helsing was in one of his strong, silent moods, staring out of the porthole with a hostile expression chiselled onto his rugged face. That, coupled with his recent lack of sleep, had led Carl to doze fitfully for much of the trip so far.
In truth, he was becoming afraid to close his eyes. Every time he did, the image of that horrible church and its depraved occupant filled his mind, making him feel somehow tainted, as though he had come into contact with something filthy and profane. Fearful of relaxing sufficiently to allow sleep deep enough for dreaming, he slumped awkwardly in his chair, hoping that if he did fall properly asleep it would fall backwards and wake him up. It did not, mainly because Van Helsing spotted the chair tipping over and reached out to steady it.
And so Carl slept, peacefully for a while as his brain settled into a natural unconscious rhythm – and then the dream began again.
The darkness...the church...the Priest, his face still hidden, but now Carl was at the foot of the church steps and, looking up, seemed to see the other's eyes gleaming yellow through the stained glass window. Wanting to run, but compelled by some terrible force to reach for the great iron handle hanging askew on the rotting oak door, he turned it slowly, pushing the door open...
"Carl?"
"What!?" He awoke with a violent start, falling off the chair and landing with a painful thud on the rolling deck. Van Helsing, sitting opposite him, stared at him intently as he clambered slowly to his feet on unsteady sea-legs.
"I just wondered if you wanted some food," his friend was still eyeing him rather oddly. "It's almost lunchtime." A pause, then he added casually, "dreaming again?"
"Perhaps," murmured Carl, avoiding his gaze without really knowing why. "You woke me up before I had much opportunity."
"I'm sorry." Van Helsing did not look sorry. A few items were laid out on the table – bread, cheese, some cold salted beef, a bottle of dusty-looking wine.
"Never mind. Thank you," he added, as Van Helsing roughly halved the food and drink and pushed some in his direction. They munched in companionable – though just a little strained – silence for a while.
"So, why are we going to England?" Carl asked, with his mouth full. Since the question sounded like 'Swuffglnd?", Van Helsing had no idea how to answer. He waited for Carl to swallow, wash the food down with a liberal gulp of wine, and then repeat himself.
"I haven't explained?"
"No, you haven't," the friar replied, a little peevishly. "When you drag someone away from hearth and home to a completely different country with an unpleasant climate, it's only courteous to tell him why, you know."
Van Helsing nodded, though he seemed uncomfortable for some reason – seasick, perhaps? Or was it the cheese – it was slightly mouldy?
"There've been reports of disturbances in the vicinity of a church in Oxfordshire," Van Helsing explained, pouring more wine. Bits of cork fell into Carl's chipped glass, and he watched them swirl for a moment. Between the lack of sleep and his discomfort at travelling on the ocean, he felt as though he was sinking into a kind of fugue state. Van Helsing's voice seemed distant, mesmeric...he shook himself sharply, in time to catch,
"...lights, unnatural noises, and spectral visions."
"I'm sorry?"
"The manifestations at the church."
"Which church?"
"The one in Abingdon, in Oxfordshire...it's a small village outside the city itself." He looked curiously, intensely, at Carl, who stared back blankly. "Are you all right?"
"Hm? Yes, yes, fine. Thank you," Carl nibbled some more cheese, then put it aside. He found his appetite conspicuously absent, and blamed it on the unpleasant sea-crossing. And lack of sleep. It was starting to tell on him now. He rubbed his eyes wearily.
Night came swiftly on the sea; the ship was slow, stopping at other places en route to Dover, and the journey largely boring. The ocean was dull and grey and uninteresting, its only purpose being to make one queasy, Carl thought irritably. He was seated at the woodwormy table, trying to read transcripts Van Helsing had given to him, of reports about the strange events occurring at the Church of the Sorrowful Mother. God, what a depressing name! The data was interesting, but Carl was having great trouble concentrating; he felt nauseous, his head ached, and it was only fear of seeing the Priest again in his dreams that kept him awake and trawling painfully through the documents. He could feel Van Helsing's eyes on him, and that didn't help – the man was watching him again, had been watching him throughout the journey.
"Stop staring at me!" Carl snapped, eventually. Van Helsing looked faintly surprised, but obediently turned and stared out of the porthole instead. Carl, furious with the other man for no real reason, slammed down the papers he was holding and slumped across the table, resting his aching head in his hands.
"You're tired," observed his companion. "Why don't you get some sleep?"
"I would if he'd let me," Carl muttered to himself, unaware that he was speaking aloud.
"Who?" Van Helsing asked. He leaned forward a little, looking interested. Carl shook his head.
"No one. It doesn't matter. You're right, I need to sleep."
The other man nodded, did not insist on further explanation. It was not until Carl had undressed, said his evening prayers (somewhat briefly) and climbed wearily into his moth-eaten bunk, that Van Helsing spoke again.
"How did you know we were going to Oxford?"
"Hmm?"
"When said I was going to England, you automatically suggested Oxford. Pretty strange coincidence..."
"Someone must have mentioned it to me earlier," Carl replied, irritated.
"That's unlikely."
"Well, perhaps it was a prophecy, then! Or telepathy. I don't care, to be honest, and I'd appreciate it if you let me get some sleep."
Van Helsing fell silent without even a rebuke, or a surprised remark about Carl's uncharacteristic rudeness. Faintly ashamed of his outburst, but too tired to really care, Carl closed his eyes and fell into an exhausted sleep.
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"Did you have the dream again?"
"Hmm?"
"Last night – did you dream about this priest of yours?"
Van Helsing glanced down at Carl, trotting beside him, looking more or less his usual self, though a little strained. This mysterious nightmare was worrying him, and Van Helsing wanted to know why.
"I did...yes."
"Did you see his face?" Van Helsing asked, his tone casual. Carl shrugged.
"Not yet...I dare say I will."
The friar was unusually silent, and had been ever since they had disembarked from the ship at Dover. They were in Oxfordshire now, had left their meagre belongings at an inn, and were heading for the object of their mission.
"I've seen inside the church now," said Carl, suddenly, when they were close to their destination. Van Helsing shot him a swift, sharp look, but said only,
"Oh? What's it like?"
"Grim," replied Carl; his tone was light, conversational, but he wasn't fooling Van Helsing, who recognised both fear and disgust in his friend's voice. "It was very dark, and rather mouldy, and the floor was covered with dead people."
"What!?"
"Dead people...sacrificial victims. I think perhaps the Priest is some kind of Satanist."
"You talk about him as though he exists."
Carl gazed vaguely into the distance, but did not reply, and Van Helsing did not press him. In truth, he was rather afraid of the answer. He was also more than usually nervous at the approach of their mission.
He could see the church now, rising on a hill in front of them, a battered, dilapidated, grim building of grey stone. Its windows were mostly broken, with only a single rectangle of stained glass whole, its images distorted by age and dust.
"This is the place," he began, turning to Carl – but the friar had stopped several paces back, frozen, staring fixedly at the church ahead of them.
"It isn't possible," he said weakly, looking so shaken that Van Helsing quickly moved to his side to steady him, should he faint.
"What's wrong?" he asked, knowing what the answer would be, and feeling his stomach lurch with the knowledge.
"The church," Carl whispered, his eyes never leaving it. "It's the same one...I saw it in my dreams. It's the same church. What does it mean?" he turned terrified eyes on Van Helsing. "You know, don't you? You know what that church is, what the demon is that lurks inside it? Why didn't you tell me?"
His voice rose to a near-hysterical pitch, and Van Helsing took his arm, steering him to a patch of grass, and sat him down firmly. The church was in a deeply rural area, and the road was empty, the only sound a light summer breeze rustling in a grove of oaks partly obscuring their view of the steeple. There was no one to hear.
"I know something about the church," Van Helsing said, keeping his voice calm and steady. "And yes, I think I can identify your priest."
"And you chose not to tell me this?" Carl was hurt, and confused, and afraid. Van Helsing could hardly blame him.
"I was under orders not to do so. I'm sorry," he said, feeling helpless. "You're sure you recognise the church?"
"Positive! I've seen it every night for almost a week. Given that the blasted thing has haunted me for six nights I think I should bloody well know what it looks like!" the Friar was flushed with vexation. Van Helsing could not remember ever seeing him so angry and frustrated – or indeed angry at all.
"Take it easy," he murmured.
"Easy! You're not the one being..."
"All right, all right. I'll tell you everything I know, I promise. Try to calm down."
"Will you tell me what it means? Am I allowed to know that?"
"Just listen, Carl, please. I'm on your side. I didn't want to keep you in the dark about this. I wish I hadn't."
Carl looked slightly mollified. He plucked at the grass for a moment, then turned fretful eyes on his friend.
"Well then – tell me."
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Carl was dozing, sprawled in a rickety chair with one leg shorter than the other three, tipping dangerously back as the sea swelled beneath the ship. He and Van Helsing were sharing a small, tatty cabin with a few sticks of mouldy furniture. Neither the view nor the company was especially inspiring – Van Helsing was in one of his strong, silent moods, staring out of the porthole with a hostile expression chiselled onto his rugged face. That, coupled with his recent lack of sleep, had led Carl to doze fitfully for much of the trip so far.
In truth, he was becoming afraid to close his eyes. Every time he did, the image of that horrible church and its depraved occupant filled his mind, making him feel somehow tainted, as though he had come into contact with something filthy and profane. Fearful of relaxing sufficiently to allow sleep deep enough for dreaming, he slumped awkwardly in his chair, hoping that if he did fall properly asleep it would fall backwards and wake him up. It did not, mainly because Van Helsing spotted the chair tipping over and reached out to steady it.
And so Carl slept, peacefully for a while as his brain settled into a natural unconscious rhythm – and then the dream began again.
The darkness...the church...the Priest, his face still hidden, but now Carl was at the foot of the church steps and, looking up, seemed to see the other's eyes gleaming yellow through the stained glass window. Wanting to run, but compelled by some terrible force to reach for the great iron handle hanging askew on the rotting oak door, he turned it slowly, pushing the door open...
"Carl?"
"What!?" He awoke with a violent start, falling off the chair and landing with a painful thud on the rolling deck. Van Helsing, sitting opposite him, stared at him intently as he clambered slowly to his feet on unsteady sea-legs.
"I just wondered if you wanted some food," his friend was still eyeing him rather oddly. "It's almost lunchtime." A pause, then he added casually, "dreaming again?"
"Perhaps," murmured Carl, avoiding his gaze without really knowing why. "You woke me up before I had much opportunity."
"I'm sorry." Van Helsing did not look sorry. A few items were laid out on the table – bread, cheese, some cold salted beef, a bottle of dusty-looking wine.
"Never mind. Thank you," he added, as Van Helsing roughly halved the food and drink and pushed some in his direction. They munched in companionable – though just a little strained – silence for a while.
"So, why are we going to England?" Carl asked, with his mouth full. Since the question sounded like 'Swuffglnd?", Van Helsing had no idea how to answer. He waited for Carl to swallow, wash the food down with a liberal gulp of wine, and then repeat himself.
"I haven't explained?"
"No, you haven't," the friar replied, a little peevishly. "When you drag someone away from hearth and home to a completely different country with an unpleasant climate, it's only courteous to tell him why, you know."
Van Helsing nodded, though he seemed uncomfortable for some reason – seasick, perhaps? Or was it the cheese – it was slightly mouldy?
"There've been reports of disturbances in the vicinity of a church in Oxfordshire," Van Helsing explained, pouring more wine. Bits of cork fell into Carl's chipped glass, and he watched them swirl for a moment. Between the lack of sleep and his discomfort at travelling on the ocean, he felt as though he was sinking into a kind of fugue state. Van Helsing's voice seemed distant, mesmeric...he shook himself sharply, in time to catch,
"...lights, unnatural noises, and spectral visions."
"I'm sorry?"
"The manifestations at the church."
"Which church?"
"The one in Abingdon, in Oxfordshire...it's a small village outside the city itself." He looked curiously, intensely, at Carl, who stared back blankly. "Are you all right?"
"Hm? Yes, yes, fine. Thank you," Carl nibbled some more cheese, then put it aside. He found his appetite conspicuously absent, and blamed it on the unpleasant sea-crossing. And lack of sleep. It was starting to tell on him now. He rubbed his eyes wearily.
Night came swiftly on the sea; the ship was slow, stopping at other places en route to Dover, and the journey largely boring. The ocean was dull and grey and uninteresting, its only purpose being to make one queasy, Carl thought irritably. He was seated at the woodwormy table, trying to read transcripts Van Helsing had given to him, of reports about the strange events occurring at the Church of the Sorrowful Mother. God, what a depressing name! The data was interesting, but Carl was having great trouble concentrating; he felt nauseous, his head ached, and it was only fear of seeing the Priest again in his dreams that kept him awake and trawling painfully through the documents. He could feel Van Helsing's eyes on him, and that didn't help – the man was watching him again, had been watching him throughout the journey.
"Stop staring at me!" Carl snapped, eventually. Van Helsing looked faintly surprised, but obediently turned and stared out of the porthole instead. Carl, furious with the other man for no real reason, slammed down the papers he was holding and slumped across the table, resting his aching head in his hands.
"You're tired," observed his companion. "Why don't you get some sleep?"
"I would if he'd let me," Carl muttered to himself, unaware that he was speaking aloud.
"Who?" Van Helsing asked. He leaned forward a little, looking interested. Carl shook his head.
"No one. It doesn't matter. You're right, I need to sleep."
The other man nodded, did not insist on further explanation. It was not until Carl had undressed, said his evening prayers (somewhat briefly) and climbed wearily into his moth-eaten bunk, that Van Helsing spoke again.
"How did you know we were going to Oxford?"
"Hmm?"
"When said I was going to England, you automatically suggested Oxford. Pretty strange coincidence..."
"Someone must have mentioned it to me earlier," Carl replied, irritated.
"That's unlikely."
"Well, perhaps it was a prophecy, then! Or telepathy. I don't care, to be honest, and I'd appreciate it if you let me get some sleep."
Van Helsing fell silent without even a rebuke, or a surprised remark about Carl's uncharacteristic rudeness. Faintly ashamed of his outburst, but too tired to really care, Carl closed his eyes and fell into an exhausted sleep.
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"Did you have the dream again?"
"Hmm?"
"Last night – did you dream about this priest of yours?"
Van Helsing glanced down at Carl, trotting beside him, looking more or less his usual self, though a little strained. This mysterious nightmare was worrying him, and Van Helsing wanted to know why.
"I did...yes."
"Did you see his face?" Van Helsing asked, his tone casual. Carl shrugged.
"Not yet...I dare say I will."
The friar was unusually silent, and had been ever since they had disembarked from the ship at Dover. They were in Oxfordshire now, had left their meagre belongings at an inn, and were heading for the object of their mission.
"I've seen inside the church now," said Carl, suddenly, when they were close to their destination. Van Helsing shot him a swift, sharp look, but said only,
"Oh? What's it like?"
"Grim," replied Carl; his tone was light, conversational, but he wasn't fooling Van Helsing, who recognised both fear and disgust in his friend's voice. "It was very dark, and rather mouldy, and the floor was covered with dead people."
"What!?"
"Dead people...sacrificial victims. I think perhaps the Priest is some kind of Satanist."
"You talk about him as though he exists."
Carl gazed vaguely into the distance, but did not reply, and Van Helsing did not press him. In truth, he was rather afraid of the answer. He was also more than usually nervous at the approach of their mission.
He could see the church now, rising on a hill in front of them, a battered, dilapidated, grim building of grey stone. Its windows were mostly broken, with only a single rectangle of stained glass whole, its images distorted by age and dust.
"This is the place," he began, turning to Carl – but the friar had stopped several paces back, frozen, staring fixedly at the church ahead of them.
"It isn't possible," he said weakly, looking so shaken that Van Helsing quickly moved to his side to steady him, should he faint.
"What's wrong?" he asked, knowing what the answer would be, and feeling his stomach lurch with the knowledge.
"The church," Carl whispered, his eyes never leaving it. "It's the same one...I saw it in my dreams. It's the same church. What does it mean?" he turned terrified eyes on Van Helsing. "You know, don't you? You know what that church is, what the demon is that lurks inside it? Why didn't you tell me?"
His voice rose to a near-hysterical pitch, and Van Helsing took his arm, steering him to a patch of grass, and sat him down firmly. The church was in a deeply rural area, and the road was empty, the only sound a light summer breeze rustling in a grove of oaks partly obscuring their view of the steeple. There was no one to hear.
"I know something about the church," Van Helsing said, keeping his voice calm and steady. "And yes, I think I can identify your priest."
"And you chose not to tell me this?" Carl was hurt, and confused, and afraid. Van Helsing could hardly blame him.
"I was under orders not to do so. I'm sorry," he said, feeling helpless. "You're sure you recognise the church?"
"Positive! I've seen it every night for almost a week. Given that the blasted thing has haunted me for six nights I think I should bloody well know what it looks like!" the Friar was flushed with vexation. Van Helsing could not remember ever seeing him so angry and frustrated – or indeed angry at all.
"Take it easy," he murmured.
"Easy! You're not the one being..."
"All right, all right. I'll tell you everything I know, I promise. Try to calm down."
"Will you tell me what it means? Am I allowed to know that?"
"Just listen, Carl, please. I'm on your side. I didn't want to keep you in the dark about this. I wish I hadn't."
Carl looked slightly mollified. He plucked at the grass for a moment, then turned fretful eyes on his friend.
"Well then – tell me."
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