Memory Of A Falcon

Chapter 3-1

THREE

LOWER QUINTON, WARWICKSHIRE, AND BARHOLM, LINCOLNSHIRE, 2021 AD

With nostrils flared, Jake pounded his fist on the table. Luckily, he was back home for work commitments and alone, because he was spoiling for a fight. Liffi had gone out shopping and so was saved from the snapping and sarcasm and other irrational reactions provoked by his old and inconsequential adversary, Bill Backhouse. The tabloid journalist had succeeded once more in triggering Jake’s wrath, which—this time, at least—wouldn’t be directed at an innocent bystander.

Jake snatched up the newspaper and looked over the headlines again—DESECRATION OF ALL THAT’S HOLY.

He wrung the newspaper as if it were a wet towel, only stopping when the muscles in his forearms ached. At that point, he flung it to the carpet and stamped on it, pretending it was the head of the hack journalist. Still trembling with pent-up fury, he threw himself into the armchair and simmered, trying to calm himself by adopting logical thought.

Why he should let the worthless muckraking scribbler get under his skin needed a clear answer. Jake thought he knew. It was the implicit manipulation of the truth, the insinuations that irked him. What was it he’d written? Twice investigated for murder, notorious opportunist Conley, bestselling author based on his notoriety… Currently successful director of a theme park on the crest of the same disrepute… blah, blah, blah. Did the cur dip his pen in ink manufactured of pure envy? Was he a frustrated writer? Was it because Jake’s two novels had topped the bestseller’s lists? Did he now survey Jake’s managerial career at the summit, from his grubby desk at base camp?

Whatever inspired his venomous articles, Bill Backhouse, like no other, had the knack of winding up Jake, who had fought long and hard and suffered to clear his name. Striving, even now, for acceptance, he wished only to be seen as an ordinary person. Backhouse correctly suspected that he was anything but normal. Although he had little or no idea of the extent of Jake’s paranormal condition, he possessed a dogged persistence that had led him to vomit this latest article.

It mustn’t have been hard for him to find out who was responsible for the erection of the Heathen temple at Goodmanham. Although the concept of the shrine was Liffi’s, as was the everyday overseeing of progress, Jake’s was the signature on all the cheques and contracts. Any two-penny hack worth his salt could have dug that up. The question was how one reacted to the information. Backhouse’s instinct was to sling mud in a melodramatic manner as possible, or as Jake saw it, to stir up trouble. Why else would he have gone running to the Archbishop of York for a reaction to the construction of a Heathen shrine in the diocese?

Jake, regretting having mistreated the rag, eased himself out of his seat and gathered up the twisted newspaper. As well as he could, he undid the damage and smoothed out the crumpled pages on the table. He wanted to re-read the worthy archbishop’s comments, because they would need a reply. Blackening his hand with printer’s ink, he flattened the relevant article enough to understand the gist of the words. I will do everything in my power to convince Whitehall to tear down this abomination in the sight of the Lord.

Jake sneered. Does he mean in the sight of himself?

He read on. …of course, this is a country where liberty of worship is constitutionally enshrined…

Bravo, now you’re talking!

…and anyone can build edifices to venerate their God. But this acceptance assumes a monotheistic outlook. Any other is abhorrent to Christian society.

Exactly—to Christian society!

…In the words of our Saviour in the Gospel of John, “I am the way, the truth, and the life. No man cometh unto the Father, but by me.”

Ah, the old Yahweh p********a!

Seething, Jake snatched up his mobile and pressed Backhouse’s entry, among his contacts.

The journalist answered, “Mr Conley, to what do I owe this honour?”

“As if you didn’t know, you half-informed, brain dead son of a—”

He heard the gasp and the spluttered, “Steady on, there’s no need—”

“Every need! Didn’t it occur to you to pick up your phone to ask me what I thought about the archbishop’s statement? Don’t you think your readers are entitled to balanced, unbiased reporting? No, you don’t. That’s the point with you, isn’t it?”

“If you have anything to say, Mr Conley, out with it and I’ll see it gets into tomorrow’s issue.”

“You’d better print it verbatim. Is that clear? Otherwise, I know how to deal with vermin like you, Backhouse!”

The reply came shaky and breathless. “No need to get abusive. I’ll report it word for word. Fire away. The recorder’s on.”

“The purpose of the temple at Goodmanham is constituted of a movement back to Nature, seeking a peaceful refuge from the ills of post-industrial civilisation. In spite of the archbishop’s objections, full ministerial authorisation has been sought and granted. The initiative implies a simple heritage revival, a structure not representing any fixed religious dogma or theology. Instead, it offers a pantheistic worldview, as appropriate today, beside the Wolds Way as among our ancestors in prehistory or the Saxon era. Got that, Bill? Yeah, splendid! Any questions? No, we don’t benefit from government grants. This is a self-financed project. The taxpayer won’t have to contribute a penny. Please stress that it’s a non-profit-making contribution to the heritage of our country.”

The reporter’s tone was suspicious. “There’s more to this than meets the eye. You’re keeping something back, Conley. But whatever it is, I’ll get to the bottom of it. You’re not the altruistic type and you don’t convince me. But you’ve had my promise. I’ll publish what you’ve given me, word for word, but I’ll do my job. See if I don’t!”

He cut the call before Jake could reply, and he spat out to the empty room, “Damn him! Where there’s Backhouse, there’s mischief.”

He seethed quietly in his armchair for a while, dreading to think what levels his blood pressure had risen to. Eyes closed, he controlled his breathing. Soon he was calm and lost in thought.

Liffi wasn’t answering his calls. Earlier, on the phone she’d said she was slipping out to buy eggs. She must be attending to something involving the temple. No regrets about the added hassle. He wouldn’t change his beautiful wife for anyone else, not even a top model.

The shrine was bringing problems, as he’d foreseen, but his Heathen studies had prepared him for a backlash and he could understand so much more about what appealed to Liffi about Heathenry. What he liked about it more than anything else was a fundamental truth wrapped in a simple creed—We are our deeds. The importance of regaining a sense of ethnic spirituality was also clear to him, but until he’d researched more deeply, nagging alarm bells continued to jangle. He had no coherent idea of why this should be. Had he known what Liffi was doing at that moment, he might have formulated one.

Liffi had driven down into the south of Lincolnshire, to the small village of Barholm, near Stamford. The internet had turned up a woodcarver who also produced figurines for Heathen altars. She had loved the photograph of an oak-carved statuette of Freya, complete with falcon feather cloak, necklace, and two cats. Each of these symbolised the essence of the goddess’s myth. Liffi had spoken to the carver on her mobile but needed a personal encounter.

Kenneth Robinson, in his thirties, bearded, long-haired, and a fraction over two metres tall, towered over her like a Viking warrior, but judged the right firmness of handshake fitting for a lady.

“As I said on the phone, I have a massive project in mind for you, Mr Robinson.”

“Ken. Please call me Ken.” His warm smile extended to his grey eyes. “What do you have in mind?” He swept cigarette ash off a stool and indicated for her to sit. “Bit spartan here, I’m afraid.” He pulled over a metal pail, upturned it and perched uncomfortably in front of her, raising an expectant eyebrow for an answer.

She took out her mobile from a back pocket and tapped the gallery icon to retrieve the photo of the Freya sculpture she’d copied.

She showed him the screen. “You carved this. It’s exquisite, and I’d like one.”

His eyes mocked her. “I thought you said a huge project.”

She laughed flirtatiously. This craftsman appealed to her.

“Four metres tall.”

His jaw dropped, eyes widened, and he spluttered, “Y-you’re joking. Tell me you’re joking!”

“Can you do it? I mean, identical to this but four metres tall?”

Stiffening his posture, he blinked rapidly before staring hard at her. “It depends.”

“On what, Ken?”

He pressed a hand against his chest, fingers splayed. “First of all, it will take time, and time is money. Then there’s the question of the material…”

“It has to be oak. I won’t consider anything else.”

“Oak’s slower and dearer than softwood, so we’re back to time and money.”

Smiling coyly, she fiddled with her braided plait. “p*****t isn’t a problem, but I’ll need an estimate. I want all the same details, replicating what you put in the eight-inch statuette. But remember, this godpole has to be seen in the round.”

“So you’re a Heathen, Ms Wyther.” He stuck out a hand.

She took it and didn’t let go, looked him in the eye. “I should have known you were, too, by the details on your Freya—the Brosinga mene, and all.”

“Ah, the golden torc! You know your stuff, I see.”

“I’m opening a temple to Freya in Yorkshire and we’ll need a totem.”

“I read about that in the paper the other morning. Isn’t the famous Jake Conley involved somehow?”

A secretive smile came, and went as swiftly. “Jake’s my partner, but I’m some way from converting him to Heathenry, even if he’s financing my shrine.”

“Then I have no worries about this commission.”

“If you mean p*****t, none at all. I’m quite happy to leave a generous advance to show good faith. But,” she rose and finally let go of his hand, “I want to see the master in action. I can’t believe how you can carve all of those small curves without a slip. I’m sure I’d damage any effort beyond redemption.”

“Ay, I’m sure you would. It takes practice, calmness, and patience. Please step inside my workshop. They crossed the untidy floor littered with shavings, to a bench whose surface was filled with tools, and stood under a wide single-paned window.

“I’m working on this statue of Woden.” He picked up a figurine, about the same size as the Freya she’d photographed. “I’ve almost finished. This wood is oak, by the way.” He held out the statuette of a man with a full beard, holding a staff in his right hand.

Liffi took it and turned it to catch the light. “You’re very clever. How do you manage all the tiny details?”

“Like this.” He took the figure back from her and picked up a tool. “A 41/6 gouge. It has a sixty-degree vee to it, for careful incision. Look!” He deftly pressed and wiggled the chisel. “Wiggling makes the cutting easier and more controlled.” Before her eyes, he produced a perfect cap for the little god figurine.

“Wow! You work well. But tell me, Ken, won’t you need different tools for a project like mine?”

“Honestly, I can’t begin it until I go shopping.”

“How’s that?”

“I mean, I’ll have to traipse around timber merchants until I find a four-metre oak trunk that’s suitable for the pole. And that won’t be easy. It needs to be straight and without defects. I’ll know it when I see it, but finding it could be the devil of a job.”

“Not if you sacrifice to Freya.”

He laughed, but she could see he hadn’t dismissed her remark. “You know what, I’ll do that. Here, take this. It’s a gift.”

The Woden statue nestled in her hand and she beamed up at him. “Thank you, Ken.”

“Now, to answer your question, of course I’ll have to use power tools for such an enormous job. I’ll be honest, it’ll be the biggest I’ve undertaken, but I’m confident I have the skills and experience to pull it off.”