Chastening Day

This story is a work of fiction. Do not copy anything in the story.

CHASTENING DAY    Act III:     RIVAL ELDERS, HALF A RESCUE

© smack magnet

Ch 11: Lemon Dressing

How Runnel knew the way to Crookmount, when Faltren himself was unsure where even Crothin lay, he could not fathom. But though Runnel chose each path without thought, their progress was still halting. More than once they stopped to adjust the way in which they carried the girl. More than once she tried to walk, part-supported. But her feet seemed too sore, though she offered no words, and they always returned to their odd fireman’s lift. As the sun sank, then set, they walked on, now down, till they crossed a small stream spilling down off the heath. There they let her chill her feet in the water till her shivering started to worry Faltren. The looks she gave each man he could not interpret. She tried to smile once or twice, but the smiles led to twitching, then fragments of incoherent speech, till Faltren said, “Yes well, I’m sure you’ll get your meaning out soon.”

They set off uphill on a narrow path between broom and heather.  Here they could not carry Anja between them, so they took turns to ferry her on their backs. She clasped their necks like a child as they held her knees with forearms, walking slowly, though in truth she was not particularly heavy.

Faltren, walking behind as they climbed a steep rise on a narrow, eroded path, found the girl’s naked backside to be level with his face. The light was now poor but, conflicted, he stared. Looked behind him as if his wife would be watching. Peered up at the back of Runnel’s head. Gave in to his instincts. Stared so avidly, frowning, that he failed to see Anja’s own eye looking back.

“We are close. She grows heavy.”

“Yes ah, yes but the bushes leave no room for me to pass. Just ah, now… A little higher?”

Crookmount slowly revealed itself, roof by roof, a short way beneath them as they circled the hill. Their path was still rising when Faltren took his turn. Runnel, showing his age in his stoop, climbed slowly ahead. But at last they reached a crest. The church, on a narrow level field, perched below. The priest’s cottage was closer. Able to walk abreast again, they hoisted the wordless Anja between them by her arms and knees for the last hundred yards. A rough wooden gate sat in a hedge of flowering hawthorn. Faltren pushed. The gate’s creaking reflected in an echo off low cottage walls. They carried the girl to the black-painted door beneath its open wooden porch. There Faltren paused.

“Knocker,” said Runnel.

“Ah, her feet?” said Faltren. He put the one he was holding down on the ground.

“Lift it,” said Runnel.

“We are visiting a priest!”

“She’s hurt.”

“She’s in flagrante!”

Runnel turned his head. Faltren turned to meet its gaze. Shuddered. And quickly lifted Anja’s knee.

He tapped the knocker with his free hand.

“Louder.”

“Eh?”

“Knock!”

Faltren knocked louder. They waited.

“Knock again.”

Faltren hammered, though he winced as he did so. Waited. Felt the sweat on one palm where it gripped the underside of Anja’s knee. Continued to wait. Then, with a shunting of bolts, the door creaked inward. A shortish priest, half dressed in dishevelled black vestments, with a dog collar hanging half off at his throat, stood framed in the doorway. He looked. Focused. Focused on breasts. Looked down at Anja’s crotch. Sputtered, then laughed out loud. Peered at Faltren. Peered at Runnel. Tipped his head.

“Ah!” he said. “Is it Easter, already?” Then he cackled a second laugh, backed into his home and waved a hand for them to follow. “Come in, come in! Would you fancy a snifter or two, my friends?”

They followed him inside, turning sideways with Anja. Faltren led. Runnel pushed the door shut behind him.

In his low front room, the priest was clearing a space on his table, a wide slab of oak mostly covered in a mess of cups and gravy-crusted plates.

He plonked them with a series of clatters on the floor, till all that was left were a few rough-piled papers. These he swept off with a flourish of an arm and said, “Plop the poor girl down on that then, won’t you?”

As the Elders moved to position Anja, lowering her with her back to the table, the priest bent his head close. The light in the cottage was poor. A candle burned in a stick on stand where the priest had been sitting in his armchair by the fire. A newish log spat embers, its red light glowing in the fireplace grating. One weak gas lamp burned white in a tarnished brass bracket on a wall behind. The priest peered close to see anything at all.

He laughed. He laughed louder. “Fuck!” he said. “Is youse lot from Crothin-under-heath? Is your man there getting settled in? What’s his name again, now?”

“Dominic,” said Runnel.

“Fuckin’ Dominic, that’s right! I heard he was in. Has that eejit Father Peter fucked off now for good?”

Faltren found himself pursing his mouth, much as Runnel had habitually done for years. “Father Dominic…” He cleared his throat. “Yes, Father Dominic has been in Crothin for a little over a year, or more. Father Peter has retired.”

“Ha!” said the priest. “So he’s gone? And now this?” And he pointed, unabashed, at Anja’s injured crotch. He squinted over at Faltren’s face. Laughed again. “That fuckin’ Peter was a pain in the arse! Back to the old then, is that your man Dominic?”

“I fear… yes. Sadly.”

The priest rolled his shoulders and head, made a rising, falling, sing-song sound. “Sadly is it, then? So who’s got to clean the girl’s bits out, I wonder?”

“Ah?” said Faltren.

Father Melchin peered at Runnel. Spied the small spark of madness as it rolled between his eyes. Jerked his head back. Said, “Fuck, is that Albemart Runnel? Fuckin hell man, how long?”

Runnel’s St Vitus stare leered directly back.

“Good lord,” said the priest. “A drink! You’ll want a drink.”

“Runnel doesn’t care to drink,” Faltren said. “He always says, he doesn’t mind others drinking so long as they drink in moderation. But that doesn’t mean he feels the need to drink himself.”

“Does he not, now?” The priest lifted a finger, pointed it loosely at Runnel’s nose. “I bet he will tonight though. Am I right, or am I right?” He turned and crooked a finger behind for Runnel to follow.

Runnel dropped Anja’s leg down with a thump. Pulled her arm off without ceremony. Followed the priest to a dresser by a wall. There the priest glugged out two fat glasses of whisky. Picked one up himself. Gave its counterpart to Runnel. Chinked his glass.

“How long is it, then?” he asked the man.

Runnel cleared his throat. Said slowly in that new-found gravelly voice, “Nine years. Six months. And thirteen days.”

“To the day then, is it?” A doubt passed over the old priest’s face. It was subsumed in a quick-spreading grin. “Still, about feckin time, eh? Have a snifter with your old pal Father Melchin!”

The priest knocked back a glug. Runnel stared at the swirling in his glass. Put his nose close. Flared his nostrils. Drew a breath in, deep. Sighed voluminously, shut his eyes. And tipped the glass’s contents directly down his throat. Then he rocked on the spot as the fire hit his belly. He smiled, long, slow and broad. Flicked his eyes to Melchin’s bottle. Held his glass out for another shot.

He would get no help from either man, Faltren saw it clearly now. He stared at Runnel, now sprawled in an old, tatty armchair opposite Melchin. Legs akimbo, head lolling, his pose was unrecognisable to Faltren.

Melchin had angled his chair so he could still get some fire warmth, but also watch the naked Anja on the table.

“I’d help you,” he said, then giggled. “I’d come and feckin help you out. But I’m not sure I can stand!”

“Yes well there’s no need,” said Faltren primly.

“Got a wife,” said Runnel.

“Has he, now?”

“A nag in a village where nags are all banned.” The abnormal sound of Runnel laughing sent a queasy shiver up Faltren’s spine. That laugh hadn’t trilled like a normal laugh.

“If she could only see him now, is that the kind of thing?” asked Melchin.

“She’s a nag, she’s a nag, she’s a hag of a nag.”

“In Crothin? Ha ha! And him the village elder, is it?”

Faltren snapped, “He’s an elder himself.”

“Is your wife a nag, Runnel?”

“She’s dead,” said the other.

“Is she dead now? A pity. She was alright, your Ella. I always liked her whatsits… what was that biscuit she baked now, man?”

“Ginger,” said Runnel.

“Oh deary me yes, they was top now, ginger biscuits! I can taste ’em in me mouth as I sit in me chair!” He turned his head, blurry-eyed. “How’s your man doing with them tweezers, now? Are they working out for youse?”

Faltren licked his lips. He stared at the girl’s face. He’d tried to make her comfortable. Taken bedding off the old priest’s single bed, placed it under her back to protect her hips and spine. He’d found candles through a half-directed rummage in the kitchen. Found a decent candelabra with a central holder and a flower of four. Each white flame flickered bright above half inch wicks.

“It’s embarrassing I’m sure, but it’s got to be done.” Faltren parted Anja’s legs by several inches. All Anja could manage was a shuddered, breathy moan as he bent to look closer and extract a tip of thorn.

“Alcohol,” said the priest.

Runnel let a burp slip.

“For the chit. Some kind of alcohol, that’d prob’ly do it.”

“Do what?” asked Faltren.

“Where them gorse pricks went in. You should clean her up proper.”

“Where is it, then?”

A pause. “Where’s what?”

“The rubbing alcohol.”

“What rubbing alcohol?”

Faltren turned his head. “You said you had alcohol. To clean her up. Where is it?”

“Who told you that?” The priest took a sip. “How should I feckin know, what would I be wanting with rubbing alcohol? Sounds like a feckin waste to me.”

“But…” Faltren found his jaw working oddly. “How… If she needs cleaning up, how should I clean her up?”

Father Melchin blew a breath out with a noise like a horse. “Jaisus, man!” he said. “Have you not noticed? You’ve got a feckin gorgeous filly there on her back with her legs apart. Is there much left to your imagination there? So, feck, does that not leave you some imagination over? What are them pounds of grey between your ears?”

Faltren sniffed in anger, stared down, looked up. “Yes, well,” he said to Anja. Looked away. “I don’t suppose I want to.” Then he stared at her directly, his decision in his eyes. “But we’ll just have to get you properly clean. We can’t have things down there going septic. Can we?”

“That’s the talk man,” said the priest.

“His wife,” grunted Runnel.

“A pillar of pious prayer and afternoon teas?” The priest spilled a laugh. “Feckin priceless if she pictured him now though, eh Runnel?”

Faltren left the girl on the table and clattered once more in the cluttered-up kitchen. When he couldn’t find each thing he wanted, he sniffed, shook his head and improvised. He came back with a pile of things on a tray.

Runnel still sat immobile in the armchair. His chin was flopped against his neck. His eyes were open but he glared at the fire.

The priest looked him up and down. “Well, you’re no fun,” he said. He blinked at Faltren. Blinked at the girl, who had pulled the blankets tight up around her. “Eh, non o’ that!” He staggered to his feet. Came up to the table. “Did you not have her in the position, man?”

“Well she must have been cold,” Elder Faltren said.

“Did you get out all them whatsits? Gorse thorns?”

“One or two. Not nearly all.”

“Ah! Excellent! Let’s look, eh?” He whipped the blankets back off the girl. Slapped a foot. Said, “Right, eh? These’ll want to be back!”

Faltren looked horrified. The girl’s face clicked towards him, clicked back to the drunken priest.

“Go on,” said the priest. “Get your legs behind your head!”

“Get her…”  Faltren’s mouth hollowed.

Anja whined, began to move.

“Do it fast!” said the priest. “Do we look like we’ve got all day, or what?”

The girl knew to move. She’d been traumatised, broken. She barely whined as she rolled her legs up above her hips. Her knees she kept locked. But the old priest scuttled to the back of the table. Grabbed her ankles, pulled them backwards.

“Now, steady!” said Faltren.

“Steady what? Have you not got to see what you’re doing?”

He pulled Anja’s knees wide apart, pushed them down to touch the table either side of her shoulders. She was young and she was flexible. He grabbed her right hand and clamped it to her ankle. Did the same with the left.

“There,” he said. “Can you see things, now?”

Faltren’s mouth was opening, closing again. He stared at the girl. She trembled her mouth but the words wouldn’t come, though her journey to Chastening Day on the heath had been caused by sniping words. The preponderance of notes in Dominic’s accusation box had been for Anja. She’d had more notes than any other, almost more than the rest of the girls lumped together.

“Stay like that,” said Father Melchin. To Faltren he said, “We heard about this one even up here in Crookmount. Down in Crook, over that ways, I bet they heard of her there as well. Can you not talk, girlie?”

Anja’s glistening eyes just blinked at the man. He stared straight back.

“I’m needing a piss,” he said suddenly. He shuffled about and headed for the kitchen.

Faltren called after, “If you’re thinking of helping, Father, wash your hands!”

The priest grunted as he left.

Faltren stood back. Pursed his lips. Looked at the girl. “Well yes,” he said, “yes well we have to have some access I suppose. Improper, I know, and I’m terribly sorry. I suppose one must think it necessary, though.”

He bent close to Anja’s hips with tweezers clasped in faint-trembling fingers. Picked a thorn. Peered closer. Clamped it, slowly. Pulled it out.

Quare had returned to the village of Crothin. He shuffled quickly (for Quare, at least) down its main cobbled street. Then pulled to a stop, and listened, his head turning, bird-like, this way and that. He was sure something had sounded. There was silence. Nothing.

“Hello?” His thin voice quavered as he listened for an answer, as the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. In the distance, something fell, a pot lid perhaps, and rolled on its rim before clattering to silence.

“Hello?” His voice rose up to a squeak as he spoke.

No reply.

“I am ah, only walking on. I carry no money.”

Turning his head, he shuffled forward on stick-thin legs, heading quickly as he could for the village hall. Reaching it finally, he went in through its tall gate, up the stone steps behind, and reached for the place where the elders hid its one ancient key (for its great door and lock had been rescued from a crumbling mansion higher up the hill, upon which grounds Ballards School now stood.) But, finding the key absent behind the loose brick, his knees began to knock.

Clenching withered old buttocks, Quare approached the door itself, which stood incongruously now in a wall near too small to accommodate it. With trembling fingers, he tried its handle. Turned it. Pushed it with just the right amount of force (for, as First Elder, he had opened it up many times before) but found it would not shift. He pushed again. Turned the handle the wrong way. Pushed.

“Oh dear, oh dear,” he muttered, rather high in register. Then turned back to the street, descended the steps, and, looking in fear up the hill and then down, he shuffled away on his sparse-muscled legs, head twitching left and right too often to count.

Till at last he reached his residence and, entering by its sticking back door, pulled it to with a thump and locked it fast behind him. Then he rushed upstairs, divested his day clothes, pulled on his night clothes, quickly used his chamber pot and clambered into the high, lumpy bed. And there, pulling knobbly knees up to his chest, he slid heavy bed clothes to his scrawny neck and shoulders. Snuffed out his bedside candle. And blinked at the dark with saucer-wide eyes.

He did not normally feel this frightened. Something was amiss, and the worry of it settled in his ancient bones. What kind of a change had Dominic released? What kind of a world would he find in the morning? He would not sleep till dawn, of that he was certain, as he worried and fretted at the day’s strange events.

Old Father Melchin was back in his study. He leered at the girl. “Feck,” he said. Then, not standing on ceremony, he dipped his head close between Anja’s legs like a stiff wooden toy. Stuck his fingers out. Took a grip of a delicate inner lip. Pulled it this way, pulled it that way. With his other hand, he pointed. “There,” he said. “There’s a couple of the little feckers right there.”

“It’s improper!” said Faltren.

“What is?” asked Melchin.

“The way you speak! Doing…. that! You’re a priest, man!”

Keeping hold of the lip, the old man turned his head. “Improper?” he asked. “And was you lot not this girl’s responsible elders?”

“I was… not, it was Quare!”

“Still,” said the priest. “You was one of her elders, no? Improper? Have you noticed? She’s thorns stuck square in her cunt there.”

“Your… speech!” said Faltren.

The priest held up a finger on his free hand. “I never swear in sermons! There’s thorns in her arse here as well. Give them feckin tweezers over, eh? They’re me only pair.”

“I should… use them myself.”

“Ah, roight then. So do it. Get your nose up this little slut’s fanny, man.”

Faltren huffed. Faltren muttered. But he came in close, with the priest’s hand still pulling on the girl’s pink lip. A thorn’s short tip was sheared off, embedded. Faltren couldn’t get a grip. Melchin squeezed with finger and thumb tip to help push it out. The girl whimpered, voice catching. When Faltren couldn’t find a grip, Melchin pulled the tweezers closer, though Fatren’s own fingers were still holding on, and clamped it on the flesh, at an angle, to either side of the buried thorn.

“There!” he said. “The end’s poking out!”

“You’re pressing on the tweezers!”

“You’ve fingernails, I see ’em. The length of a girl’s.”

Faltren muttered. Tried to get his face in close. Tried pinching the thorn against his finger with a thumbnail.

“I can’t see!”

“So bring the candles close!”

“Ah, no. I’ve got it.” Faltren pulled.

“Show us,” said the priest. He peered at the tiny snapped-off thorn. “Not big. But nasty. They should all come out. I tell you what,” he said. “She’s your Shrew. It’s my cottage. And candles and whatnot, and all these bits and bobs on your tray.” He glanced behind at Runnel. “Plus, him over there, he’s on a different planet, so he’s no use. But the chit needs mending. So I’ll do this side, and you do that side. It’ll go a lot quicker. And we’ll both share the fun.”

Faltren’s head jerked, offended. “Fun?” he asked.

“Ah, ya mealy-mouthed cunt. She’s gorgeous! Feckin’ look at her! And no fear, she needs attention, am I roight? It’s gotta be done, roight? isn’t that how it is, girl? You want these pointy feckers pulled out o’ your flesh, eh?”

The old priest peered at her face, head tilted back over wire-framed, half-moon reading glasses, which he’d slipped on in the kitchen.

“See? I seen her nod there. But you man, you pretend like it’s more than a chore. A chore? There’s her gorgeous young breasts man, and here, here’s her fanny! I’m an old alco priest. I admit it, I’m hardly headed straight for St Peter’s gate. But it’s not often gorgeous girls spread their legs up on me dining table. So me, I’m up for enjoyin’ meself! You, you sorry cunt, you can feel what you like. Now shove us your tray and let’s see what we’ve got.”

Things went quicker now the priest had got involved. He fetched a pair of kitchen chairs and pulled them up close. Faltren found a cushion to prop under Anja’s up-tilted hips. The priest went behind, wangled Anja’s knees even further down, behind under her shoulders. Clamped her hands back on her ankles. Shoved her forwards. On the blankets, it was easy to push her this way and that.

Faltren started working on the girl’s left buttock, Father Melchin took her right. Where the elder tried to move carefully, find a thorn, come in close, use the tweezers, clip and pull, the old priest was far less circumspect. He found a thorn, squeezed the flesh. Pulled it up, squinted, poked with a finger nail. Gave it a scrape. Pinched it harder. Used his teeth when he could. The girl was flinching, emitting short squeals.

He went out to the kitchen again. Had a rummage. Brought back a pot filled with water. Hung it from a hook just over his hearth, so flames licked its underside. Went out. More rummaging. Came back. Dropped things down in the pot. Took some pieces from the tray, dropped them in the boiling water.

“Are ya doin’ alroight then, Jacob Faltren? Are ya havin’ some fun yet?”

Faltren was a touch more engaged by now. Seated on his chair, he worked steadily, moving over Anja’s skin inch by inch. “There’s one I can’t get out,” he said.

“Sure now, I had a couple o’ them. There’s sewing needles on the boil back here. I was told a thing by this visiting doctor. Wee beasties, he said. The feller had this fearsome glass for seeing roight up close. Made me old feeble eyes feel thirty years younger. He said, he said we’re covered. With these miniscule beasties. Made me skin crawl, but they’re everywhere, he said. These tiny bastards, on your skin, on everything else in the world as well. Germs, he called ’em. And trust me, he said, you don’t want the buggers gettin’ under your skin. Sterili-something, that’s what he said. You know what’ll work?”

“Work for what?” asked Faltren.

“For after we pull all the gorse thorns out. For sterili-whatsit. So she doesn’t get infected? Mind out.”

He bustled Faltren aside. He’d a thing in his hand. He sat down. Held his hand close to where he’d been working. Looked up at the girl.

“Just remember,” he said to her, “this is for your own good.”

And he pressed his hand to the patch he’d been working. Rubbed it in, rubbed it up and down. Anja inhaled sharply, panted, screamed. Her hands clenched fiercely around her ankles. Her winking holes clenched clam-tight shut. Melchin held a cut yellow object out to Faltren.

“See, lemon’ll clean the little bastards out her skin.”

Faltren sniffed. The poor girl keened. The priest dipped his head with a wicked, giggling smile.

Faltren might feel angry and guilty, but he soon saw the sense. He’d seen grazes infected. They could lead to far worse, lead even to death. This should never have happened to the girl. What had happened was offensive, worse than wicked. But now that it had, she had to be helped. Some pain in the short term could protect her in the long term. And better it was him and this lecherous priest now than leaving things to fester. So he flared his nostrils, found thorns, plucked them out, then scrubbed Anja with lemon till the  tears stung her eyes.