Excerpt

EXEGESIS I

GOSFORTH, ENGLAND

2017

WELL, YOU TOOK YOUR TIME!"

The roaring complaint was so unexpected that Churchwarden Michaels dropped his freshly printed parish circulars. The gale swept them up and chased them across the churchyard, pink sheets flapping between the moss-bound tombstones, like confetti at a giant's wedding.

"Jesus!" Michaels scrabbled on the worn slate floor, preferring to salvage his photocopies over his dignity. There was little hope of either. The coastal winds were merciless in winter and howled at the churchwarden in derision. He gave up and watched the last of his newsletters wing their way across the countryside to roost in far-distant hedgerows.

"I hope you don't keep your God waiting this long." The voice that had startled him was clear above the wind.

The churchwarden swallowed his irritation and peered out of the gabled porch. An old man stood by the Viking cross, unmoving in the storm, wrapped in a plain grey cloak. He was tall, burly even, but still the cross towered over him, a slender scratch against the bruising sky.

The churchwarden grimaced, summoning the courage to brave the weather.

"I'm sorry," he called out, "did you have an appointment?"

"What is the date today?"

Michaels was amazed at the lungs on the old chap. He could really project.

"November eighth. Have you got the wrong day? Happens to the best of us." The churchwarden practically bellowed, shrugging to emphasise his point in case it got lost in the bedlam.

"No, I am exactly on time," the visitor said.

It was commonplace for visitors to appear in the churchyard at all hours. The Viking cross seemed to defy time as stalwartly as it withstood the elements. Even the name was stubborn—he'd long since given up trying to explain that calling all the Northern tribes víkingar was like saying all Englishmen were pirates. No, Vikings were in vogue. All kinds of people paid their respects—although nowadays it was generally hikers on their way to Scafell Pike or sightseers checking off historic sites from Visit Cumbria guidebooks. Only academics made appointments, and the vicar's wife hadn't mentioned anything about special guests today. Besides, other than his long beard, the old man didn't seem especially professorial.

Michaels sighed deeply. He had no choice in the matter. He'd have to conduct an impromptu tour. He was custodian of a grade-one listed building, and that came with responsibilities, or so the reverend had said, not just to God, but to the fabric of society. You only had to glance at the newspapers to know that the world was becoming a little frayed around the edges. Community, shared heritage, those were the only things that could mend it.

A stitch, in time, saves nine. Armed with that thought, the churchwarden begrudgingly left the safety of the porch and huffed and puffed towards the visitor as fast as he could. He took a deep breath.

"Reverend Riley normally invites guests from the university to meet him at the rectory—" he shouted, struggling to be heard, "—for a nice cup of tea and a chat first." He let the thought trail into the wind, realising mid-sentence it was a forlorn hope.

He ought to preserve a modicum of respect. This was hallowed ground, after all, and he didn't want to wake the dead. Most of the tombstones dated back centuries, to when St. Mary's was reconstructed in 1789, and he supposed if he made enough of a ruckus, he might disturb the two ancient chieftains entombed below the church itself.

Tea, he reflected, would be especially welcome on a day like today. Michaels had always thought it a shame to leave the cross standing out in the British weather. One thousand years of this, it was a miracle that it had survived at all, but there it was: a wealth of detail carved into fifteen feet of red sandstone, round at the base, rising to a square top with a cross head, each of the four sides carrying images of a horseman, dragons, serpents, and all kinds of gorgeous, interlaced patterns.

The old man didn't respond. He walked around the column, examining all sides. Close up, he looked like stone-made-flesh, weathered certainly, but also uniquely carved, with withered tattoos intricately woven over his face and arms.

Michaels kept a discreet distance. He didn't mind heathens. Ásatrú or Forn Sed, they called themselves, the worshippers of the Old Ways. Neopagans, the newspapers said. Either way, they went with the territory. Admittedly, it was a little odd to find them venerating their long-dead deities on parish soil, but Reverend Riley always reminded the laity that the Church of England was a tolerant church. St. Mary's must strive even harder, he insisted, in this day and age, especially after the referendum. If the drugs or the drinking got out of hand, a quick call to the Cumbria constabulary was all that was needed to move them along.

This man though… there was something belligerent about him. Something wild. He looked like a contestant on Neo-Nazi's Got Talent, , arms emblazoned with the symbols of the progenitor race. That was the other sort Michaels had to deal with. Soldiers of Odin they called themselves; mean streaks, full of piss and vinegar, telling anyone who would listen that they'd turn back the tide of immigrants, send everyone back where they came from. In fairness, Mrs. Jones had said much the same thing at the Parish Council last month. It had fallen to Reverend Riley to point out that her beloved Vikings were immigrants to these parts themselves.

Michaels decided to try his own voice of reason.

"Beautiful, isn't it, the cross? I have a pamphlet inside the chapel if you'd like to know more."

If he could get the man out of the storm, so much the better. He might be able to hear himself think. There was still no reply. Instead the man continued to prowl around the pillar.

"Are you from the museum? The V&A?" Michaels probed.

"Jorvik," the old bear grunted at last.

"Ah, Jorvik! The Viking Centre! Have things recovered after the flood? I went to York Minster and saw one of the temporary exhibits."

The churchwarden was delighted to have placed the visitor. The York Archaeological Trust did all kinds of work in the community, even sending actors on tour. That would explain the booming voice. Authenticity, that was the key, even if things went a little askew when looking down the long lens of history.

"In that case," Michaels continued, "Heill ok sæll, be happy and healthy, Mr.… I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name."

The old bear offered a sly smile.

"You speak the Northern tongue, do you?"

"Well, churchwardens in the Anglican Communion are legally responsible for all the property belonging to a parish church. I like to think I have a duty under ecclesiastical law to keep up to date on everything to do with the cross and the people who made it." He was starting to go hoarse. "As the Bard said, 'How far that little candle throws his beams! So shines a good deed in a weary world.'"

"The eighth of November," the man said. "There is a saint whose feast day it is?"

"Well, we don't really go in for all that business at St. Mary's, but you are right. One of yours as it happens. St. Willehad of Bremen. Well, he was the first Bishop of Bremen, but he was an Englishman. Local chap, born in York. Placed in charge of converting the Saxons, sometime… well, before this cross was carved. Escaped a big rebellion, if I remember correctly."

"Very good, Churchwarden. That is quite right." He seemed lost in thought.

Old age comes to us all, thought Michaels, and he was about to prompt the man further when he emerged from his reverie and spoke.

"My name is… Chandler."

Michaels brightened, then felt compelled to explain. "One of my favourite authors, Chandler. In fact, I'm currently rereading The Long Goodbye for the eighth or ninth time. Terrific stuff, that."

Michaels was brimming with enthusiasm, so much so that he barely noticed the wind drop from an anguished howl to a conspiratorial whisper.

The visitor held him with a steely gaze.

"You like detective stories, Churchwarden?" Chandler said. "Well, as it so happens, I'm embroiled in one myself. I am looking for those who murdered me. In fact, I've sent someone to bring them to justice."