The Treason of the Ghosts

hear this sermon. The parish priest raised his head.
    ‘Death!’
he thundered.
    The
congregation hugged themselves: this would be an exciting sermon.
    ‘Death!’ Parson Grimstone continued. ‘Is like a bell whose function
is to waken Christian people to pray. But lazy folk, after hearing the first
chimes, wait for the second: often, they are so heavy with sleep, they do not
hear it.’
    He
glanced quickly at Molkyn’s wife.
    ‘Bells
have different songs.’ He smiled down at Simon the bell-ringer. ‘The song of
this death bell is: “Remember thy last end and thou shalt never sin .“ ‘
    Parson
Grimstone pulled back the maniple on his left wrist, warming to his theme.
    ‘Death
is like a summoner.’
    He
paused as his congregation nodded and muttered to themselves. They all hated
the summoner, that dreadful official of the archdeacon’s court, who came
sniffing out sin and scandal. When he found it, be it a married woman playing
the naughty with her lover, he issued a summons for the offending parties to
appear at the archdeacon’s court.
    ‘Ah
yes,’ Parson Grimstone continued. ‘Death is like a summoner and carries a rod,
as a sign of his office, more sharp, more cruel than
the finest arrow. Death is also like a knight on horseback. He carries a huge
shield, cleverly quartered. In its first quarter, a grinning ape, which stands for a man’s executors who laugh at him and spend his
goods. In the second quarter, a raging lion because death devours all it
catches. In the third quarter, a scribe, indicating how all our deeds will be
written down and recited before God’s tribunal. And in the fourth quarter...’
    The
door to the church was flung open. Parson Grimstone lowered his hands. The
congregation craned their necks. Peterkin, the village fool, a man of little
brain and even less wit, came lumbering up the nave. His shaggy, matted hair
almost hid his wild eyes, his hose and battered boots were caked in mud.
    Parson
Grimstone came slowly down from the pulpit. Peterkin was one of God’s little
ones. He depended on the charity of the parish and slept in barns, or at Old
Mother Crauford’s, eating and drinking whatever was doled out to him. Parson
Grimstone could see he was agitated. In fact, Peterkin had been crying, the
tears creating rivulets of dirt down the poor fool’s face. The man bared his
lips, blinked but the words never came out. The congregation were now agitated
at their Sunday morning routine being so abruptly disturbed.
    ‘Hush
now!’ Parson Grimstone ordered. ‘Peterkin, whatever is the matter? This is
God’s house. We are having Mass. You know that. Are you hungry? Are you thirsty? Or have you had one of your
nightmares?’
    Peterkin
wasn’t listening. He was staring to his left and pointed to a painting in the
transept. He was shaking and the inner leg of his hose was stained with urine.
Parson Grimstone grasped Peterkin’s hand.
    ‘What
is it?’ he demanded. ‘Show me!’
    Like
a child Peterkin led him across into the transept, the peasants and the
cottagers making way. Peterkin pointed to a painting on the wall, showing the
beheading of John the Baptist. The saint’s head was being placed on a platter
by a wicked-looking Salome, to be taken to her vengeful mother.
    ‘Have
you dreamt of that?’ Parson Grimstone asked, curbing his own impatience.
    Peterkin
shook his head. ‘Molkyn!’ the grating voice replied.
    ‘Molkyn the miller?’
    ‘Molkyn
the miller,’ Peterkin repeated like a schoolboy. ‘His head is all afloat!’
    Those
around heard him. Some scrambled to their feet, staring across at Ursula and
her daughter, Margaret, who gazed, round-eyed, back. Parson Grimstone took off
his chasuble and threw it to his curate. He hitched up his robe under his belt
and grasped Peterkin’s wrist.
    ‘You
must come! You must come!’ Peterkin said. ‘Father, I do not lie! Molkyn’s head
swims!’
    Leading
Peterkin by the hand, Parson Grimstone walked quickly down the nave of the
church. The rest of his parishioners, taking their cue, followed close behind.
They went down the steps across the graveyard under the lych-gate. Instead of
going right, down into Melford, Peterkin turned left towards Molkyn’s mill. The
morning mist was still thick and cloying, shrouding the countryside. Parson
Grimstone was conscious of a gripping sense of fear, a chill which caught the
sweat on the nape of his neck. Peterkin’s laboured breathing and the clatter of
his parishioners