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Kevin Wood
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@KevinStphnWood
12:39 PM 10th December 2021
fiction

Diary Of A Sociopathic Vicar – Part 55

 
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Levels of fitness amongst the clergy are really quite appalling. I do not expect them to be able to run a marathon, or bench-press 100 kilos – but there are certain minimum standards that should be met. Personally, I do maintain a reasonable level of fitness. This is essential as God has called me, a humble sociopath, to become Archbishop of Canterbury. It is an easily verifiable fact that no one who is over-weight has ever held this post, so keeping oneself in trim is a must.

Even for those of us who are not called to such lofty positions, it makes sense not to let oneself deteriorate. I suspect that the reason for the lamentable lack of health amongst priests is that they know they do not share my destiny – hence, they give up.

The result of this negative attitude is that I was currently following the overweight posterior of the Rev. Graham Walters as he struggled to the top of the Musdon Minster tower. He had permitted me to carry a church warden's stave that he had brought along, but even unencumbered, he was making heavy going of it.

Strange, really. He had had several months warning of this climb, and yet hadn't done any training. He anticipated a divine revelation at the top. He anticipated the revelation would enable him to take over the Church of England. He had not anticipated climbing a tower required physical exertion. It was very disappointing – some people just don't try.

At long last, he heaved his sweating buttocks through the door to the top of the tower. I emerged a few seconds after.

There is a fine view from the top of the tower, as might be expected when the tower is 40 metres tall, and situated on top of a hill. Off to the north, I could see the lights of my parish of Sutley a few miles away. You used to be able to see my church, too, until I burnt it down.

I watched as he rested with his hands on his knees, panting. After a couple of minutes, he straightened, reached inside his jacket, and removed a slim book of ancient appearance, and a curious apparatus with an eye-piece and four amber discs arranged like a telescope.

He glanced at his watch and said, "Not quite five to six. Plenty of time. And then the location of the final Testament of Jesus of Lemuria will be revealed to me. To me! Me!"

His maniacal, Scooby-Doo style laughter was interrupted by the Rev. Martin Dawson emerging from the shadows, and proclaiming, "I think not! I alone shall receive the revelation!"

He held aloft another telescope device, and a similarly ancient looking book.

This really was rather splendid.

I had never attempted to destroy a secret heretical cult before, and it seemed I had got it right first time. The cult, the Sons of Jesus Lemurian, had schismed in two, as a result of supposedly ancient documents I had faked up – the same supposedly ancient books that they were each holding now. The result was that I was standing on top of Musdon Minster with the leaders of the two factions that had emerged. Each book was just slightly different to the other, enough to cause contention, and so schism. Not only that, but each book held a series of clues, so that the leaders had been sent on a treasure hunt to locate a series of amber discs I had hidden around the Diocese. My reasoning had been that if it was good enough for Lara Croft and Indiana Jones, it was good enough for cultists – and indeed, they appeared to have had a wonderful time.

There had been bumps along the road, of course, such as all but these two cultists killing each other. Still, we learn by doing. I suppose that at some point I ought to investigate the original book that I'd based my fakes on. I'd discovered it hidden beneath the flagstones of my church, in an ancient chest. Well, it was a busy time - perhaps I'd look into it in the New Year.

"What are you doing here?" demanded Martin, looking at me and disturbing my precious moment of self-congratulation.

"Oh, I'm holding this church warden's stave. Keeping it safe," I said.

"Have you betrayed me?" he asked.

"Fool!" said Graham. "He works for me, not you!"

"Nay, ‘tis me he works for!" responded Martin. I don't know what it is about these secret cabals, but they feel that they have to talk like characters from third-rate fantasy novels.

"Gentlemen, please," I said, "I am simply the One Who Knows The Truth."

Now, here is some helpful advice for those seeking to destroy secret societies. If possible, when providing forged ancient documents write yourself into the text. In this case, both Martin and Graham were holding books that described me.

"Is it you?" asked Graham.

"It must be – the Gospel of Jesus of Lemuria says that one will be revealed at the end," said Martin.

"Yes, the One Who Knows The Truth!"

"Then I give you my word," intoned Martin, "That I shall cause you no harm."

"And I," said Graham, "For to allow harm to come to you would mean that I would be denied the knowledge of the Lemurians forever."

"You? Heretics like you will never be worthy of the Lemurian knowledge!" yelled Martin.

I thought that the two were about to come to blows, which would have been interesting, but possibly inconvenient. At that moment, as they were starting to close on each other, there was a flash of light, from the direction of Sutley. Both their heads whipped around to look at it, and Martin rushed to the edge of the parapet.

A light was illuminating a portion of Sutley.

"So, it has come to pass," whispered Graham.

Martin fumbled with his telescope device, dropping the book in his haste. He held it to his eye, fiddling with the amber discs.
"Yes, yes, I can see it! The Testament will be mine!"

Graham walked briskly up behind him, grabbed an ankle in each hand, and tipped him over the parapet. There was a short scream as Martin plummeted to his doom, followed by a thud and silence.

"He was mistaken," said Graham, "The Testament is the reward of the righteous."

I retrieved Martin's copy of the Gospel of Jesus of Lemuria while Graham brought out his own telescope device. I didn't want to leave potential evidence like that lying around.

"Truly the glorious light leads to knowledge," Graham said, as he continued to fiddle with the device. I suppose it could have been true, but I thought it more likely to be due to other arrangements I had made. Specifically, asking Mordred, the Reader attached to St James, to provide lighting at a certain location. I had to say, he had done rather better than I had anticipated.

"Have you found it yet?" I asked.

"I am yet trying to align the discs."

I suppose it was no surprise that he couldn't handle the amber discs. Fake amber, rather. Everything about this was fake. Porker, Hells Angel and skilled forger had created the discs for me, and come up with a way of placing an image within each of them. What Graham had to do was to rotate the discs so that the images lined up to create a picture. This achieved, he had to point the device in the direction helpfully lit up by Mordred, and it would indicate where to find his Final Testament of Jesus of Lemuria.

Simple, you would think, but I had had to guide him every step of the way so far, and this was no exception.

"Give me the artefact," I said.

"I cannot! It must be kept pure!"

"Who am I?"

"You're the One Who Knows The Truth."

"So I'm hardly going to desecrate the artefact, am I?"

"Well..."

"And there's no telling if the mystic lights are going to remain lit while you mess around, is there?"

"No..."

"So either give it to me, or be prepared to live in ignorance."
With reluctance, Graham handed me the device. I rotated each of the discs, and they clicked into their detents.

"There, there, there and there," I said, and handed it back to them. "Now, where does it guide you to?"

"I'm not... Ah! Wait – yes, I think I have it. I can see a road quite clearly. I think it's Sutley. Good grief, that's a coincidence, it being in your parish."

"Which road is it?"

"I don't know – I'm not that familiar with Sutley."

I whipped out a map of Sutley that I had brought with me, anticipating this situation.

"Fortunately," I said, "As the vicar of Sutley, I am never without my map of the town."

"Truly, this is why you are the One Who Knows The Truth."

"Yes, exactly," I said, "Can you find the road on here? The map goes the other way up."

As he considered the map, lit by the Minster's floodlighting, I pondered if there was some kind of gullibility quotient, an equivalent of IQ. Some way of measuring gullibility instead of intelligence. If there were, he would be genius-level.

"Here. Yes, I'm sure of it. Rosebud Avenue."

"Good, good," I said, although, of course, I already knew the location. "Which house?"

"This one, with the tree in the garden."

"Ah! Number 18. Yes, that makes sense."

"Why? Do you know that house?"

"Oh, yes, certainly. And you had best beware, if you value your life," I said, nodding in what I hoped was a sage-like manner.

"Who... who lives there?" asked Graham, his face suddenly slick with sweat.

"Who, or what?" I asked, and he shuddered.

"Tell me!"

"Violet Johnson."

Disclaimer: The Rev. David Wilson’s derogatory comments regarding the language used by cultists are rather disturbing. Instead, he should aim for greater inclusivity in his approach.

A map of Sutley may be found here:
https://kevinwoodauthor.com/SutleyMap.htm

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