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Kevin Wood
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5:00 AM 2nd July 2021
fiction

Diary Of A Sociopathic Vicar – Part 32

 
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There is a really rather splendid view from the top of Musdon Minster, as you might expect from a tower on top of a hill. Apart from special occasions it’s not accessible to the general public, as access is via a series of rather awkward spiral stairs. People who work at the Minster can get up there if they want, but seldom bother. The typical member of clergy has difficulty climbing the stairs to bed, so they’re unlikely to scale a 40-metre tower.

Thus, I was surprised to find the Rev. Graham Walters of the Diocesan Finance Office up here. He was not the most athletic of souls, known more for his accounting skills than his physique. His presence here was troublesome. I had come to see the scene of the death of Gilbert Holdstock, a curate who had descended the tower without making use of the steps. I did not think his death an accident, and now, here, I found a senior member of the same secret society as Gilbert; the Sons of Jesus Lemurian. More, he was one of the two people that I had given fake ancient documents in order that create a schism within their society.

I hoped he was not intending to jump. It would be very annoying as then I’d have to find another society member to give the faked documents to. He was staring out across the town, and I didn’t know if he was aware of me, so I decided to break the silence.

“What can you see?” I asked.

“I see nothing,” he replied. “I am blind.”

As he’d managed to get up here, I assumed he was talking in pseudo-spiritual gibble-gabble rather than literally. I responded accordingly.

“What is the source of your blindness?”

“I know the answer but not where to find it.”

I was right – gibble-gabble.

“Tell me what you know,” I said.

“I must stand here when the sun is overhead and use the eyeglass the Atlanteans brought from the lost continent of Lemuria, which the Lemurians in their turn brought from the lost continent of Mu. When I turn the eyeglass due East, I will see the location of the final scroll has been hidden - the scroll written by the hand of Jesus of Lemuria himself.”

“What else do you know?”

“I know how to make the frame for the eyeglass – indeed, it is being made as we speak.”

I don’t know what it is about these secret society types that they feel they must talk like a Robert E. Howard novel. “As we speak”? What’s wrong with just saying, “Now”? Still, it seemed prudent to meet his expectations, so I said, “Tell me that which you know not.”

“The lenses of the eyeglass are hidden; I know not where.”

As bad as talking to Yoda, this was.

“Did not the Gospel of Jesus of Lemuria reveal the answer?” I asked, referring to one of the documents I’d faked up.

Finally, he turned towards me, his face a picture of pain and anguish. “I did Hebrew at college – I can’t read Latin!”

His level of stupidity astounded me. Not for being unable to read Latin, but for not getting someone to translate for him. It was clear that he’d just looked at the pretty pictures, hence finding out about the eyeglass, and now he was scared of having to do some work. I contemplated pushing him off the tower myself, but, as I have to keep reminding my housekeeper, murder is wrong.

“You are aware that the Atlanteans were descended from the Lemurians?” I asked.

“Yes, of course,” said Graham Walters, readily agreeing that one made-up group of people were descended from another, equally made-up group.

“Then you will be aware that when Atlantis sank beneath the waves, the survivors fled, some to South America becoming the Mayans and Incas?”

Walters nodded vigorously.

“And most of the rest fled to the Mediterranean Basin, becoming the ancestors of the Egyptians and, of course, the Romans.”

“So that’s why it’s in Latin,” said Walters, his face shining in revelation.

“Which is why it is important to learn Latin. But time is of the essence. I suggest using Google Translate.” Seeing the look of confusion reappear, I added, “Your office staff will show you how.”

I turned to leave, but as I did so, he called out, “You said some of the Atlanteans fled to South America.”

“Yes,” I replied.

“And most the rest fled to the Mediterranean Basin.”

“Yes.”

“Which means there must have been some left over. Where did they go?”

“Wales. That’s why there’s similarities between Welsh and Latin.”

“That’s amazing! My grandparents were Welsh!”

“No,” I said, “It is destiny.”

Once home, I showed Abigail, my housekeeper the cassock buttons I had found near where Gilbert Holdstock had fallen.

“What do you think?” I asked.

She grunted. “Someone pushed him, he grabbed their cassock, the buttons came off.”

As always, my housekeeper’s knowledge of murders was more detailed than might be expected. I wondered how many people she’d killed that I didn’t know about.

The week progressed to Sunday with minimal fuss. I prepared the dreaded CD of hymn tunes. Naturally, I choose the hymns based on what will fit the theme of the service. I do not let the fact we’re using a CD player rather than an organ affect my choice. Still, the hymns were what our organist – who had broken both wrists – would describe as “big old hymns”. I wasn’t sure a CD player from Asda would do them justice.

It is surprising how much you notice while standing in front of a congregation. As the service started, I looked around with some satisfaction. Before I burnt the church down, we averaged ten regulars each Sunday. Now the figure was over twenty. Burning the church down had been one of the most sensible things I have done. It was one of the factors contributing to the increase in attendance and is a course of action I would confidently recommend to any vicar. I also saw that Mordred Williams, our newly acquired Lay Reader had managed to successfully enter the building this week. The previous week he had been trapped outside by a metaphysical conundrum of his own devising.

I saw that Jill Baildom the organist was upset during the hymns. I wasn’t surprised, as she used to enjoy massacring them. The bigger and better the hymns, the more she enjoyed giving them her own, individual interpretation. I was pleased to see that Al, president of the Hells Angels, was sitting next to her, apparently comforting her.

I have no illusions about our resident chapter of Hells Angels. They are quite capable of being nasty, brutish, and violent. If you mess them around, they’ll mess around with your face. Their language is best heavily edited, and their capacity for alcohol is prodigious. One of them has convictions for forgery, and another has been charged with assault so many times he’s on first name terms with the magistrates – he tells me they send each other Christmas cards. They are not “nice people”.

And yet – I have seen them perform acts of kindness worthy of any saint.

I think they are beautiful.

Right now, Al was offering the basic human kindness so often missing in our society. A response that other members of the congregation had failed to make.

The time came for the final hymn, which was “Thine be the Glory”. Traditionally, it’s an Easter hymn, but it fitted in with the theme of the service, and it’s popular. I pressed play on the CD player, and rather painfully, the feeble speakers of the CD player wheezed through the introduction while Jill Baildom started to cry quietly. Al seemed to be having some kind of internal debate, but then abruptly stood up and marched to the front of the hall we were using for the service.

And pressed the “stop” button on the CD player.

Disclaimer: It has been found that CD players from Asda are more than adequate for all but the largest services. Despite such fundamental errors, it should be noted that Rev. David Wilson made an interesting point about the similarity of Welsh and Latin.

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