The Organic Alchemist

Plague descended silently on the unsuspecting village of Helhevyn, carried by the leathery wings of an infected bat. The first victim, a young girl helping with the harvest, fell in the field beneath a golden sun, a clutch of  wheat-straw held in her twitching arms. By the time they had buried her four more villagers were in their beds begging for deaths release.  The news spread to neighbouring villages and from ignorance and fear, the people of Helhevyn were cut off and left to their fate. Amongst their number was a monk, Angelcynn, who had skulked into their village some months earlier. He assembled the people in his small church and told them that he could cure them of the plague but only at a considerable price; that the first-born of every couple should be delivered to him. They agreed and the plague subsided, true to their word the mothers carried their first-born and laid them at the church door never to see them again. Eventually, the people rose against him and they hacked him to death with their axes as he prayed before them. As they dug his grave in the crypt, they unearthed the bones of small children.

*

When Harold Parnell practised alone, he was not aware of the cracks that appeared, running the length of the aisle. If he had happened to turn his head, he would have seen the ghost of a cold flame lick around the edge of the widening fissure to taste at the ancient timber of the pews. When Harold played, he was a man possessed. He gave himself up wholly to the religious music of Bach and Handel and imagined himself a conduit for their genius. As his pudgy hands ran expertly along the keyboards and his little legs pumped furiously at the pedals he would lose himself in the rapture of playing and would throw back his head and shout 'Hallelujah! Hallelujah! I am coming Lord. Oh sweet Jesus I am coming!'

Harold had been the organist and verger of Helhevyn Anglican church for more years than he could remember. During that time he had served the church well and, apart from that little unpleasantness that had featured in the local papers, he had been left alone to perform his work both diligently and professionally. During that debacle the allegations that were made against him didn't stick, mainly because most of the congregation were of the ardent belief that he was of good character and the Vicar (bless him) offered his full support. Besides, those sorts of allegations are something of an occupational hazard nowadays for those that are in charge of impressionable young boys. Harold played on...

'Mr Parnell?'...

Ever faster, Harold's fingers run along the keyboard. His fingers pull at stops. His fists punch at stops. Sweat is glistening on his brow and droplets gather to form runlets down the side of his ample head...

Much louder now... 'Mr Parnell!'

'Eh?' said Harold looking over his shoulder. His eyes, magnified behind the thick glass of his spectacles, rolled around in their sockets as he tried to locate the disembodied voice. 'Who said that?'

'It's me. Mr Sneep from the Correction Centre. I bring you good news. There is another group of wayward boys that are in need of your .. um .. special skills'.

'Oh no, I don't think so', Said Harold. 'Not after that last lot - I will not do it any more. It's too dangerous. I refuse to!'

Harold said the last with such conviction and sat so straight in his seat that he tumbled backwards and banged his head on the pedal-board. He clambered back up, straightened his glasses and walked, rubbing the back of his head, to stand before the visitor. 'I won't do it, I say, and you can't make me'.

'Oh, can't I?' said Sneep 'We'll see about that.' He then opened his briefcase and pulled out some papers, which he brandished in front of Harold's face. Harold's shoulders dropped, he didn't need to read them. He knew that they were missing person posters published by the local constabulary. 'Now what do you think the vicar would have to say if investigation of these drew the police to the door of this church, eh Harold?'

'Oh dear', said Harold.

'Oh dear indeed', said Sneep 'So that's sorted then. Expect the next consignment of council estate scum this evening. Good day to you sir'.

Harold watched as the despised Sneep made his way down the aisle and out of the main door. Muttering to himself, he walked back up to the choir stalls, turned left and ducked beneath a low doorway and into the vestry. He reached into a pocket of his cassock and pulled out a key. He stood there for a while staring at it in his grip before retracing his steps into the choir stalls. Standing before a thick velvet drape that hid a small door he unlocked it with his key. The door creaked on its hinges as it opened to reveal stone steps leading into the dank, darkness of the crypt. Harold mopped his brow with a handkerchief before making his cautious way down the steps and into the crypt.

With every downward step, the light diminished as the smell of damp increased. When Harold had completed his slow spiral progress to the crypt floor, he paused a while to let his eyes grow accustomed to the gloom. Harold knew the crypt well. He knew every squat, ornately carved pillar that supported the roof of the crypt but there was one pillar in particular that he made for now. Whereas the other pillars were worn and drab with age this one looked as if the stonemason had just downed his tools and broken off for lunch. This pillar projected right through the ceiling of the crypt and, as Harold had previously calculated, directly into his organ above. It was at the base of this pillar that the alleged bones of Angelcynn were found. Harold had neither doubt about the existence of Angelcynn nor of his incredible powers of conversion. He was testament to both. He placed his hand against the cold stone of the pillar and the ancient granite started to hum and pulse. The vibrations resonated against his palm, along the sinew, blood and muscle of his arm, and down through his body back to cold, dead earth.

Later that evening, Harold was wiping down his organ with a tissue when Mr. Sneep entered the church followed by three boys.

'I hope I'm not disturbing anything', sneered Sneep.

'Of course not', said Harold, pushing the soiled tissue back into his trouser pocket. 'I say, what a fine looking bunch of young boys.'

'Who's this fuckin' puff?' exclaimed the tallest.

'Shut it, Whiteside', snapped Sneep. Whiteside quickly stepped forward and threw a punch at Sneep, who deftly stepped to one side while at the same time pulling a truncheon from beneath his jacket. With the truncheon he gave Whiteside a vicious crack on the back of the head.

'You bastard', whimpered Whiteside as he lay on the cold floor of the church.

'I said shut it', said Sneep aiming a kick between the prostrate boys legs.

'Stop it, please!", said Harold 'I cannot abide such violence. Leave the poor lad alone'.

'Poor lad?' jeered Sneep 'He'd do the same to you given half the chance - and more. They're scum, the lot of 'em. Rotten through and through'.

'There's good in all boys' said Harold.

'I doubt it' said Sneep, 'but if there is then it's your job to find it isn't it, Parnell'.

'Will I? ... Who? Oh, I don't know', said Harold, whisking his gold rimmed spectacles off his face and smearing the lenses with the re-emergent tissue.

Sneep grabbed Harold roughly by the elbow and steered him out of earshot from the boys.

'Listen here', hissed Sneep, 'don't you let me down. You know the score. Nobody cares about these bastards. They're too young to be locked up for good and far too dangerous for social services to look after. Now, we get good money from the state for everyone we rehabilitate and you get a good percentage for everyone you help us convert, no questions asked. You also get the pick of any of them that takes your fancy. They won't be missed. Christ! Even their own fucking Mothers wouldn't miss'em'.

'Language, please', said Harold 'This is a house of God, you know.'

'House of God! There's more Devil about this place than God, if you ask me', said Sneep, peering around the church 'This place gives me the fucking creeps. Now what do you say, Harold?'

'Well, I must admit I have taken a bit of a shine to the lad with the blond hair'.

'Oh aye, proper charmer that one', said Sneep, 'raped and murdered his six-year-old sister... and he's one of the nicer ones. Still, there's good in all boys, eh', mocked Sneep giving Harold a hearty slap on his back. 'Don't fuck this one up, Parnel', warned Sneep, and with a parting scowl at the now cowering knot of boys left the church.

Alone now, the boys recovered their courage and started to circle Harold like feral dogs. Whiteside flashed Harold a wicked leer and pulled a blade from his jacket pocket. 'Stick him one, Liam', said the blond haired lad, who then started to whoop and jump about in excitement at the prospect of spilled blood.

'You won't touch any of us up you filthy bastard', said Whiteside advancing on Harold.

'Oh dear. Now come on lads lets not have any unpleasantness', said Harold as he backed up and felt the cold stone of the church wall against his back He had nowhere to go and looked in fear at the knife that was being drawn for the first lunge. Just then, a high-pitched keening chord could be heard from the organ. Its eerie sound filled the church and Harold's body sagged with relief.

'Who's playing?' demanded Whiteside but now the look of confidence had gone from his eyes and the other boys stood closer together unsure of the situation they now found themselves in. The organ music became louder and the boys felt an invisible pull from the choir stalls and they reluctantly shuffled towards them.

'That's it lads. Onward Christian soldiers', said Harold as he took his place at the organ and the boys filed into the stalls. The smell of sulphur was now discernible in the air and the organ pipes glowed and spat sparks that threatened to light the beams of the vaulted ceiling. 'Sing up boys, sing up my sweet darlings', coaxed Harold. The three boys started to sing, their untrained voices out of key and tuneless. Harold could see the boys behind him reflected in a highly polished brass plate he had positioned above the keyboard.

Darkness shifted through the air: darkness that had skulked and cowered within neglected corners and cornices; darkness that had snuffled in damp cracks for decades and nestled in deathly crypts for generations. Now was the time, Harold knew, now was the time for the boys conversion. He screwed up his eyes for fear of seeing and sang loudly for fear of hearing. The boys sang and harmonised with him: a diabolical choir of fallen angels. It was at that moment that all four felt something intense and horrible in the noisome dark. It was ancient, it was heavy and it bore itself upon leather wings. The three boys screamed as one, causing Harold to open his eyes and, on this time looking around, saw his hell before him. The colour drained from Harold's face when he saw the flames that licked from the wide fissure that split the aisle but worse than that was the vision of the six, dead, blond boys who stood there staring accusingly at him. Before them stood a figure in a cowl, Angelcynn himself, the finger of one hand pointed intently at Harold and a finger of the other pointed with even greater conviction at the open door that led to the crypt. 'Oh dear', whimpered Harold.


Oh dear indeed, Harold

*

The vicar of Helhevyn church was sat in his study and had just completed writing the Sunday sermon. He sat back in his chair and, sucking on the end of his pen, reflected on the strange events of the last week. He had found three boys sleeping in the choir stalls. He hadn't a clue where they had come from and had handed them over to social services. They were such pleasant boys and each one with the face and manners of an angel. Such pleasant boys. His thoughts then turned to Harold, the organist, he hadn't seen anything of him since the day he found the boys. Not a note or anything. It was so unlike Harold, he was normally so reliable. He will have to get in touch with the Job Centre, he surmised, and advertise for a new organist. It was such a shame - he really could do without the cost of paying for a new organist. After all, he could "tickle the old ivories" himself. Only this morning he had played the organ and was surprised at the feeling of empowerment it gave him. He never knew he could play so well and that awfully nice Mr Sneep had come in and complimented him on his playing. He had even intimated that a business deal could be arranged between them . Well, the money would come in handy. Those steeple repairs won't pay for themselves, you know.

Should he get a new organist or not? He really couldn't make up his mind.