Diary of a Sociopathic Vicar – Part 34

Due to lack of practice, clergy in the Church of England are typically clumsy in their attempts at bribery. Arguably, this is a good thing, but it is also quite irritating.

My immediate irritation was caused by the Rev. Martin Dawson, who was suggesting that he might smooth the approvals process of building a new church in my parish –I had burnt the old one down – in return for a favour. This favour was bound to be related to the little treasure hunt I had set for him and his cronies of the Sons of Jesus Lemurian. That this game of Indiana Jones was intended to destroy his secret society was something he hadn’t yet worked out.

I shifted the phone to a more comfortable position, and said, “What is the nature of this favour you would like me to perform?”

“Right, well, you know you found the Gospel of Jesus of Lemuria buried in the ruins of your church?” asked Martin.

I indicated that I did. I had had a forger create an impressive looking document bearing that title and given it to him.

“Well, I’ve managed to translate it from the original Latin.”

“That is most impressive,” I said, and meant it. It appeared he had mastered the use of Google Translate.

“Yes, and I’ve made a discovery.”

“Yes?”

“There is an ancient artefact, which was split into four pieces for safety and hidden around the Diocese.”

“No, surely not!”

“I assure you; I am quite convinced of this.”

It was clear that Martin had seen little of Hollywood’s output of the last forty years, or he might have been a little more critical of such ideas. Still, if it was good enough for Lara Croft…

“Anyway,” he continued, “It says that if we follow the Stella Maris – that’s another name for the Pole Star – from where you discovered this manuscript, we will find the first piece of the ancient artefact.”

“Incredible,” I said, ignoring his patronising tone. Obviously, I knew the Stella Maris was the Pole Star. I’d written the mysterious manuscript, after all. “Does it say how far to travel?”

“Yes, it says to travel for the number of the divine multiplied by the number of the circle. Well, the number of the circle has to be Pi, and we all know that seven is the number of divinity.”

“What do we find if we travel North the required distance?”

“St John’s, Nebeck is 22 miles from where you discovered the manuscript.”

“But according to my calculator, seven times Pi is just under 22.”

“Which proves it! You don’t believe that the ancient ones were bound by mere numerical conventions, do you? Theirs was a far deeper truth.”

“Indeed, indeed. Didn’t you say that the parts of the artefact were hidden around this Diocese? Nebeck is in the next Diocese.”

“Ah, yes, that fooled me for a while too. But after much research, I discovered that the boundary was moved 300 years ago.”

“Why did they move the Diocesan boundary?”

“Oh, that’s simple – it was moved by the foes of Jesus of Lemuria to make it more difficult to find the hidden artefact. It is yet more proof.”

“I am truly astounded,” I said, quite truthfully.

“Yes, but there is danger in our path. An archaeological find has been made at Nebeck, and their Diocese has forced an investigation.”

“You don’t think they’ve discovered the artefact, do you?”
“I can’t see any other explanation. And that’s why I need you.”

“What do you need?”

“I have to search that site tonight and I want your help. In return, I’ll ensure the documents for your new church are all signed before morning. Then all you’ll need to do is to get Graham Walters to sign the financials for you.”

“I see.”

“Mind you, I’m a bit concerned about Graham. He doesn’t seem quite himself these days.”

“I don’t really know him, only in passing. When do you want to meet?”

“St John’s, Nebeck at dusk.”

We said goodbye, and I thought for a moment before phoning the Rev. Graham Walters. He was the recipient of another of my faked copies of the Gospel of Jesus of Lemuria. Since being introduced to Google Translate, he, too, had made considerable progress in understanding the manuscript. His copy was subtly and contentiously different to the one that Martin had, but the gross details were the same. Not wanting to make two trips to Nebeck, I arranged to meet him there a couple of hours after Martin. In return, he was happy to ensure the financial documents for the new church were signed.

I allowed a good hour to get to Nebeck as the roads out that way aren’t very good. I parked just down the road and entered the churchyard of St John’s through the back gate. It is an ugly modern building, inflicted on the good people of Nebeck by the charlatan architect Michael Garrison. It was him that I had convinced of the archaeological find at Nebeck, and the necessity of informing the Diocese. There was a smallish digger parked by the church, as I had also intimated to him that the church had poor foundations, and he wanted to check them out.

“David!” called a voice from beside the digger.

I walked over and saw Martin.

“Good evening,” I said. “What’s the plan?”

“We fire up this digger and have a look over by the East end of the church. Looks like someone has already been having a go there. I hope we’re not too late.”

It is a little-known fact that the average member of the clergy is a competent car thief. Ageing members of the congregation are always losing car keys, or forgetting them, or locking them in the car. Thus, vicars become experts at entering cars to retrieve the keys, and, if necessary, defeat immobilisers and get the vehicles started. Electronics have made it a little more difficult, it’s true, but I am pleased to note that vicars have risen to the challenge. Martin had the digger started in under two minutes.

I jumped out the way as he jerked the digger backwards and forwards. Clearly he had never driven one before, but using enthusiasm as a substitute for skill he got it to the East end of the church. By the light of the torch I was holding, he started digging. An experienced operator does this effortlessly, but Martin was intent on making it as hard as possible. After half an hour thrashing around, he’d done significant damage to the foundations, and excavated maybe three inches.

“Wait!” I called to him. “I think I see something!”

He backed up while I got down on my hands and knees. I retrieved a small bag I had placed there some days past. He climbed down from the digger and took the bag from me with trembling hands.

“Have we really found it?” he asked.

“Open it and see,” I said.

He opened the bag and shook the contents into his hand. There was a piece of paper wrapped around an object. He removed the paper, revealing a disc. It was a few centimetres across and perhaps one centimetre deep, made of a translucent orange material. I shone the torch on it.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Could that be amber?” I asked in return.

“Why yes, I think it could. Wait – is there something in it?”

“Hold it in front of the torch.”

He did as I asked as I shone the torch at the wall. Markings buried deep within the disc became apparent, projected onto the new-fangled white panelling.

“A message from ancient Lemuria,” said Martin, eyes filled with wonderment.

At this point, the amount of damage he had done to the church’s foundations became apparent as the East wall slowly collapsed towards us.

Disclaimer: Diocesan boundaries were changed in the early 1700’s purely for administrative reasons. Any suggestions that the boundaries were changed at the whim of enemies of a non-existent cult are nonsense. Clearly a non-existent cult cannot have enemies, and so the non-existent enemies of the non-existent cult would be unable to affect the boundaries.