The Essence, (Part two of three) (standard:mystery, 1375 words) [2/3] show all parts
Author: Brian Cross	Added: Dec 07 2008	Views/Reads: 2895/1996	Part vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
a cyclist takes shelter from a snowstorm and encounters a village of strange residents who sip an even stranger potion.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

in this corrupt village.' 

‘But he's an outsider,' the bearded one complained as he and fellow
crony gesticulated. 

‘The essence cleanses the mind as well as the spirit, a convert to our
cause is all we should consider, now help me get him out. The rectory 
is large enough to accommodate one more wretched soul.' 

I was led to the Jeep, one of the men either side of me, not so much
guarding but propping me up, while Parson Peters led the way. 

After a couple of minutes, turning off the main street and passing the
village green and church we stopped at the rectory, quite a grand 
Georgian three-storey structure. The big guys accompanied me to the 
entrance and I felt suffocated between the pair of them, actually 
feeling glad when the parson gestured them to leave. However, I soon 
learned that I wasn't bound for the house but a cabin structure out the 
back, which resembled a very badly kitted out motel room. 

The parson took me by the arm, like I say he was very tall and gaunt,
and my unbalanced state didn't seem to bother him unduly. Ushering me 
into the room, he just turned his back and swept out, some degree of 
alarm seeping through my shattered senses at the sound of a key 
engaging the lock. 

The room was pokey and stuffy, the windows splattered with snow. There
was an old bed with a pillow and the remnants of a blanket, a couple of 
cabinets, a single wardrobe with the door missing and nothing else. It 
might have served as a refuge for vagrants at some stage or other. 

In any case, being in no state to appreciate the fineries of the place,
or lack of them, I slumped down on the bed, my brain continuing to 
revolve inside my skull – and as soon as I closed my eyes I became 
submerged in a sickening dream, nightmarish in its reality. More and 
more ale seemed to be pouring down my throat; everywhere I turned I saw 
bottles of dark ale and the eyes of the locals in the pub, wandering, 
unseeing, unfocused. 

I awoke in freezing darkness with just a flimsy blanket to wrap around
myself, my head was sore and I felt sick, but more aware. Aware enough 
to recall the parson's words, that I was a convert, whatever that 
meant, and effectually his prisoner until my conversion was complete. 

I had to get out of the hell-hole but was too weak to even try, and then
I heard a key turn in the lock, held my freezing breath until the door 
opened. I heard the flick of a switch and weak light emanated from a 
single light bulb in the ceiling. Parson Peters emerged through the 
haze shrouding my eyes, and on a tray he carried not food but the light 
amber liquid. 

Closing my eyes at the sight of it, I said, ‘Take it away.' 

‘Drink.' He wrenched the cap from the bottle and held it towards me,
more of an order than a request, ‘It's both food and drink, and it's 
what you need.' 

‘Later,' I said. 

‘Now.' He looked at me with his deep set eyes, ‘You'll begin to acquire
a taste for it, be sure of that.' 

I must admit, despite my worn condition and its tendency to open up
“rooms” in my mind there was something oddly addictive in its bitter 
fruity taste. 

‘Drink,' he repeated, as if taking in the slight fragrance the liquid
gave off. ‘Tomorrow you will feel better, and you may join the sermon 
of the converted.' 

Sermon of the converted? What the hell was that? I repeated the words
but remember nothing further that night, at least in a conscious sense. 
I know the light was left on and that I drank from the bottle, that 
again my mind opened up into a house of many rooms, including one where 
ale and spirits tipped ceaselessly into my mouth, my mind, my brain. 

To be continued... 


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