The Two Confessions by John Whitbourn (good books to read for adults .TXT) 📕

acquittingthe innocent trees of Baltic-pagan Yuletide associations.

Herhome was in Keere Street, whose constellations were among the best; polishedsteel sunbursts from the Wealden forest foundries, or complex glass and wirelattices harbouring a lamp within. Apparently, she resided near the bottom ofthat steep and select cobbled road.

Forone bad moment Samuel thought it was Southover House, the great edificebuilt of Caen-stone robbed from the first priory of St Pancras back in‘Reformation-Devastation’ times. The Church, when it returned in victory,robbed it back so to speak, and bestowed the freehold on more faithfulservants. That happened to be the Howards of Arundel, Earls of Sussex, advisorsto Cardinals and Kings, and even Trevan's energies quailed before the notion ofapproaching them. He didn't dare consider what favoured tenant orretainer they'd installed within. Father Omar (a fanatic re local history)related how the Blessed Isaac Newton had conversed with the Creator in thatvery property, writing down verbatim the 'Aetheria Principia'. The studyin which the voice of God once resounded was now forever sealed; a shrine toChristendom's few dabblers in 'natural philosophy'.

Itwas all too intimidating for Samuel to contemplate. Despair stood in the wings,poised to come on. Fortunately, his misapprehension soon became evident.

Thecorrect address was not so unattainably grand, but a powerful mismatch all thesame. The best destiny Samuel could reasonably aspire to was a tradeapprenticeship in the Town - and even scrolling on a decade or two, oncequalified and Guild-approved, no Lewes artisan, however assiduous or fortunate,would end up in such favoured accommodation. There was Caen-stone in thosewalls as well as good Wealden brick (though insufficient to merit Churchrepossession). The roof was capped by strong Horsham-stone, not thatch, and thewide windows were defined by fashionable 'mathematical' tiles (peculiarto well-to-do Lewes and Brighton) in pink and red. In the small front garden theresat an ancient sundial. But best of all, the front gate bore a brassname-plate, boldly stating:

GALEN HOUSE

M.Farncombe Esq. MA (Wessex). Surgeon.

Thehouse was old and yet preserved and improved all at the same time - and thus perfectlyin keeping with the spirit of the age. Samuel stood before it and did homage.

Therewas no way of knowing, but he indulged himself and just assumed she was within.He thought of her at the - presumed - grand dining table, or seated before aharpsichord, or even, despite the hour, pink and naked tucked up in bed. Theywere all equally ravishing visions. He remained there a long while and barelynoticed a brief shower of rain.

PerhapsSamuel's fervent thoughts called her forth, or maybe made the atmosphere insidehumid and unbearable. Whatever the reason, like an answer to his prayers, sheemerged.

Thegirl was arm in arm with her presumed father, a set-faced man in a stovepipehat. He loomed over her, stiff and unaffectionate in Samuel's attuned judgement:though little enough time was wasted in studying him.

Asfor her, in cape and black crinoline and matching riding bonnet, shelooked even grander than at their first encounter - and more glorious. The realitywas plumper and paler than the image he'd treasured, but it was the reality,not illusion, he was after. False, enhanced, recollections were mercilesslyjettisoned without regret in favour of the actual. His sincerity wasvindicated.

Fatherand daughter noticed him at the same time. Myriad minor signs told them thiswas no pure and simple passer-by. Father glared - though unsure why. Daughtersurveyed - although free to interpose her opened umbrella. She and Samuel fixedglances: for just one precious second.

‘Ignorehim, Melissa,’ ordered Papa. ‘Keep walking.’

‘Melissa’obeyed. Then they were past the interloper.

Itwas an inconsequential encounter to all outward appearance. Superficially,there was nothing untoward about it. In a relatively unrushed world peopleoften stood and stared. Yet, inwardly, each of them knew, even if presentlyonly via a vague dislocation, that something life-long had been born.

************

‘Yourgoing is a cloud in the clear sky of our happiness. We require you to repentand reconsider.’

Forall his years in Sussex, Father Omar retained the courtly and poetic form ofspeech peculiar to his homeland. What scholars called 'Jerusalem dialect'beautifully mutated whichever tongue it employed.

‘Askanything else.’ Samuel's bad conscience made him hard-faced and curt. Being adisobedient son left internal scars. ‘You know the one thing that'simpossible and then ask for it. That's not right.’

Theautumn of life had come upon Father Omar swiftly. His spade beard, hair's finalredoubt on his head, was grizzled. Those broad shoulders found it an effort notto slump. Both locks and vigour had fled away and now Samuel proposed toemulate them.

‘Informme,’ said the priest, ‘oh Samuel-of-the-single-mind, who first taught youof right and wrong? Who whispered the sublime notions in your infant ear? Doyou now instruct me?’

‘Ifneed be!’

Samuel'seyes were porcine and uncharitable at the best of times: but, them beingGod-given, he couldn’t be held responsible. However, in surrender to anger theybecame as hard and shiny as sea pebbles. Blame might be attached to that sight.

Thepriest accepted their ill will without demur - which only made the situationworse.

‘Youhave answered me correctly, child,’ said Omar, gently. ‘A dawn breaks in ourdarkness. We have taught you well.’

Samuelsat back and closed those same eyes, pretending that summer sunshine slantingthrough the window pained them. Yet the scene persisted, printed upon theretina.

‘Iam an ungrateful sod,’ he said. ‘I know. I'm sorry: really sorry.’

FatherOmar steepled his massive hands and looked out of his office at the river.

‘No,son-of-chance, you are not one of these sods. You are driven. We pityyou. We will never approve but we... sympathise.’

Thatsurprised Samuel and he opened his eyes again. He realised he should have hadfaith. In consequence, and if it were possible, he felt even more unworthy.

‘So,I go with your blessing?’

FatherOmar smiled.

‘SamuelTrevan, my blessings will never leave you. No child of these walls is everthreatened by mere conditional love. All I implore is that you do not tread aperilous path.’

Samuellooked down, burning a hole in the floor.

‘Ihave to. Otherwise I'd stay, I'd take the apprenticeship and never leave.But... I'm not destined to be a barrel-maker.’

Omardisdainfully shook his head.

‘Thereis no such thing as destiny, or what you English called wyrd. There areonly decisions. Today you are fifteen years and 364 days old, and thus in ourcharge. Your 'destiny' is still our remit. Tomorrow that changes. Decidewell tomorrow,