The Essence -Part Two Of Three

Part Two

Raising my hand I stared into a dark void, my eyes slowly adjusting to what little light there was, provided mainly through cracks in the barn roof.
The place was practically empty, I supposed its main purpose was as a storehouse for their stolen goods, but as I edged my way round I stumbled over a couple of objects on the floor. Tentatively, I prodded them with my foot and heard the clink of glass.
Shifting them along to where light reflected directly down I saw they were the type of boxes they’d been unloading when I’d spied on them. They must have been overlooked or forgotten.
Curiosity led me to lift the top of one. It contained two bottles, and even in the poor light the contents seemed identical to the stuff the locals had been drinking. I was thirsty and hadn’t even had time to drink the water I’d been given – and I was curious, despite my situation. Moreover, as a keen drinker I couldn’t resist taking a gulp-
The screw cap came off easily enough and with the bottle to my lips, I let the green liquid ooze slowly into my mouth.
It tasted a bit like grapefruit, sharp and tangy. I baulked at first, I couldn’t imagine those pub locals knocking back grapefruit somehow and it didn’t so much flow down my throat as trickle, but even after a couple of gulps it seemed to be taking effect.
I was used to getting, if not plastered, then a little tipsy, but I hadn’t vouched for the effect this concoction would have.
It seemed my mind was fragmenting into several parts. I was aware of the dingy dark interior, but it seemed consciousness of it had dropped down a level and what had replaced it on the upper floor was the comprehension of the bottle against my lips, the contents spilling down my throat, not the green substance but a dark bitter brew I recognised as my favourite. But my pleasure at that began to fade as I realised the bottle had no bottom, it just kept flowing and flowing and I couldn’t stop drinking from it. I felt my head spin, whirl, while revolving around in a room in my mind were the pub locals - eyes bland, unseeing, faces unsmiling, supping the liquid.
I lurched against the wall, struggling for balance, unwilling to sit lest I couldn’t get up, and then faint grey light filtered through the entrance and I felt the icy cold.
The big guys were back, but they weren’t alone. Through the opened barn doors I saw a tall gaunt man in black walk in ahead of them. My head was spinning and as wonky as a lone wheel spiralling downhill out of control, but I was aware of him snatching the half-consumed bottle from my hand and scooping an empty one from the floor.
The voices seemed far away but I could still make them out – ‘You fools, you let him drink the essence?’
‘We’d hardly do that, Parson Peters – not without your say so.’ The bald one swallowed, swept a hand across his nose, ‘Landlord Dobson’s call caught us by surprise that’s all.’
‘That’s all is it?’ He pivoted to me, it was getting dark, I couldn’t see much but I noticed how deep set and penetrating his eyes were –
‘Except now we have an outsider in our midst, one who has tasted the essence and endangered our secret.’ He snorted, standing to his full height that I reckon was six and a half feet or more. I saw his bushy brows rise as he seemed to reconsider. ‘Well perhaps it’s to the good.’ His eyes studied the bottles he held in his hand, ‘He’s drunk enough of the essence to render him a convert to our cause, tomorrow he’ll have no memory of times gone by.’
I couldn’t stand without the support of the wall, but somewhere in the compartment of rooms that had become my mind a lonely voice called out for Donna, now so far away.
The parson grunted, ‘He’ll need somewhere to stay and supervision until his conversion is complete and he can join the rest of converted souls 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.