Madson left the train station and made straight for the town centre. The sound of passing traffic escorted his footsteps but the volume was far less intense here. Within moments this market town felt like another world. A mild breeze now replaced the itchy heat that had licked at the back of his neck on the rumbling streets around Kings Cross. He headed on towards the river determined and grim. 

The cathedral sat atop its granite outcrop, chaperoning pedestrians across the bridge. Madson paused to watch a sortie of ducks sail from the riverbank into midstream then, taking a deep breath, he checked his watch and headed across the bridge into the cobbled streets of the old town. The ancient buildings arched forward in interest as he passed. A young women dressed in a shop assistants overall mingled amongst the shoppers holding a tray out in offering. She turned towards him.  ‘Try a free sample of our traditional oat cake sir, local delicacy.’  

Feeling obligated he picked a small round piece from the tray then paused. ‘This bit’s a little burnt, could I …’ but the girl wheeled away, disappearing into the crowd. He grimaced but popped it into his mouth, swallowing without even tasting. He slipped into a side road that twisted left then climbed steeply, heading on for the cathedral.

Figures emerged from the shadow of the spire blinking into the silvery afternoon. Madson watched the last worshippers straggle away then went forward into the buildings cavernous interior. He walked slowly, his lone footsteps conspicuous. Stained glass scattered honeyed light onto the walls. From the nook behind a Knights tomb a shadow detached itself and drifted forward.

‘Mr Madson?’ The man stood a few feet away, wearing a long flowing garb that he guessed denoted some clerical rank.

‘You received my letter? You’re here about Karyn?’

Madson nodded.

‘I’m sorry to go about things in such a clandestine manner. But I think you’ll understand when I explain.’ The priest beckoned then began walking slowly towards an altar rising in the murky distance. He spoke as he walked, his tone solemn. ‘Can I offer my condolences. It’s such a tragedy and a waste, my heart goes out to you.’ The long saturnine face and deep probing eyes regarded him intently’

‘Thank you.’

‘Were you very close?’

‘We were orphaned at a young age, we only had each other to rely on, so yes, very.’

‘And it’s been how long now, a year?’

‘Almost to the day.’ Madson raised his eyes to the soaring roof as though seeking revelation. ‘Karyn was a beautiful, kind, talented woman. Her career was just beginning to take off. The reviews for her latest book were glowing. ‘He shook his head. ‘She had so much to live for. I can’t believe...’

The priest stopped and reached out, placing a consoling hand on his shoulder. ‘I’ve been here for more years than I care to remember and I’m sorry to say these things occur with some frequency.’ His eyes were luminous in the soft light. For a moment, in his grief, Madson became locked into them, longing to relinquish responsibility and guilt and put himself in his hands like a child. 

 ‘And I have to say she was an unlikely candidate for suicide.’

He felt the familiar outraged incredulity. He swallowed. ‘You think there was more to this than meets the eye? Hence the letter.’

‘Yes!’ The man sighed and turned away. He gestured towards a large sculpture pinned to the opposite wall like some giant butterfly that had swooped in and become trapped in the amber stone.

Madson gazed at it for some moments, an obviously modern addition, jagged and angular. It showed a figure, the limbs spread-eagled, the folds of the long garment floating upwards as though in free fall, eyes raised in transcendental ecstasy.

‘Our very own Saint Cedwar,’ the man said with something close to reverence. ‘He gave his name to this place. The patron saint of the despairing.’

‘I’d never heard of him until I received your letter.’

The man nodded. ‘One of the lesser known amongst the ranks of the exalted but a fascinating story. In his youth Cedwar was a feckless, rather materialistic young warrior of noble birth. He spent his time fighting, whoring and drinking, a bit of a dark-age chav as it happens,’ he smiled. ‘But at some point he became overwhelmed with a sense of the meaningless and futility of his life, what we’d recognise today as clinical depression. He took himself to the top of this outcrop and threw himself off.’

‘He committed suicide too.’ Madson glanced sideways.

‘He tried, but he survived without so much as a scratch. He later recounted that as he fell Christ took him up and lowered him gently to the earth, proceeding to tell him he had work to do still. Consequently Cedwar renounced all his worldly goods, converted to Christianity and dedicated the first church; building it on this very site.

So where was God when Karyn needed him. ‘Nice story,’ he muttered. ‘Do you believe it? I suppose you have to?’

‘I believe there’s a definite energy here, something holy; but there may be other, darker aspects which persist alongside it.’ For a moment the man pursed his lips then continued. ‘There were pagan rites associated with this region. It could be some of the ancient legends became incorporated into the tale. Many Christian customs and story’s have their roots in pagan lore.’

Madson detected some odd tone ‘What does all this have to do with Karyn?’

‘Your sister took an interest in many different belief systems, so I read. Including the occult.’

Madson frowned. ‘She always had a fascination with spirituality and esoterica. She made her name writing about it.’

The man bowed his head apologetically. ‘I’m sorry to have to frame it like this but could she have been seeking…something to give meaning to her life? Could that have been the spur for her interest?’

‘Karyn had everything going for her, why would she need more.’

‘You’d be surprised Mr Madson,’ the man replied sagely. ‘It’s often the most successful people. They’ve achieved all they dreamed of and find it’s not enough. They go looking for something more, desperate for answers, vulnerable to the first questionable guru that comes along.’

Madson gazed once more at the sculpture. He decided it really was quite ugly, its contours harsh and primitive amongst the soaring pomp of the building. ‘Are you saying she was co-opted into some pagan cult?’

‘I can only voice my suspicions Mr Madson. I’ve served this town and Cathedral for many years. This is my home but there are times when I’m aware of something covert that operates beneath the day to day normality.’

Madson laughed. ‘This is starting to sound crazy.’

The priest continued to gaze at him. ‘Is it any more crazy than apparently sane people throwing themselves from the top of this spire? Karyn wasn’t the first by any means and like her few of the others had good reason to end their lives.’

Madson tried to think of an appropriate response but the man’s words engulfed him in a bewildered daze. He’d been hoping for answers, not riddles. A red-faced sun leered in at the windows and fired the walls. The embroidered crosses on the hem of the priests garment seemed to catch and glow.

‘Would you like to see where it happened,’ the priest murmured softly and touched him again on the shoulder. ‘It might help.’

 Madson shook his head savagely, appalled by the idea. ‘I’m sorry…I just can’t.’

‘It will help. Climb the spire with me.’

Madson opened his mouth to protest and was amazed to hear his voice agree softly.

He followed as the priest turned and flitted into a recessed archway. Stone steps curved in an endless spiral, the walls narrowing as they climbed higher. Soon his breath was coming in short bursts. Pain clutched at his knees but he pressed on. He wondered how the older man managed so effortlessly. His voice came floating back to him in the pitch like gloom. ‘Try not to be nervous. All will be well.’

He concentrated on the hem of the man’s robe swishing on the steps before him. The cruciform shapes became twisted and distorted by the folds, appearing runic and angular like the sculpture below. He took another hitching breath and raised his head to gulp more air. The last of the light squeezed through a narrow window to play on carvings high atop the wall. Chaotic, grinning faces with tongues lolling from jagged mouths. Madson recalled photos he’d seen on Inca pyramids, images of bloodthirsty gods.

‘You’ll see evidence of that everywhere in this place if you look closely enough,’ the priests offered as though reading his mind. ‘As I said the old deities and their icons are never far from the surface despite being banished. They lurk, biding their time, perhaps even clothing themselves in the Christ raiment’s to perform miracles, tricking the unwary into keeping the old traditions alive.’

‘Traditions?’ Madson echoed.

As if by magic the steps opened onto a narrow doorway. The priest turned and smiled. ‘Human sacrifice; flung from this cliff at sunset on certain times of the year. An act to appease the gods, to accept a life in lieu and continue to allow the fallen sun to rise again.’ He stepped through the doorway.

Madson followed, stumbling breathlessly out onto the wooden walkway that circumvented the walls. The huddled rooftops of the town tumbled away towards forest and heath-land beyond. A fiery sun sunk towards the earth a in a bower of amber cloud.

The priest stood by the western rampart, looking out onto the cathedral close. ‘Come here,’ he commanded and Madson obeyed.

He pointed down. ‘This is where she gave her life…your sister, Karyn.

Karyn…. For long moments the name floated and spun in Madson’s memory. Unmoored, hard to grasp. ‘Sister,’ he muttered and the priest touched him once more on the shoulder and gazed at him, eyes as bloated and fierce as the setting sun.

‘She came of her own free will and volition, as you did, she took and ate the burnt offering, as you did, then offered her blood and shattered bone on the ground below as a libation, as you will too.’ He turned and peered over the edge, Madson’s gaze followed and for a moment his mesmerised mind almost clawed it’s way back to shocked awareness.

Far, far below in the dark well of the close light from a legion of burning torches flickered and leapt, illuminating the towns people that milled, swaying and chanting. His eyes raised a fraction to the streets fanning out beyond. More orange flame caught dancing, shadowy figures, eyes glittering as they stared upwards like the hungry damned.

The priest moved aside and beckoned towards the ramparts edge. The last molten slice of sun drained into the earth. ‘Climb up onto the wall Mr Madson.’

He stepped forward and up. The evening sky stretched itself into glittering wakefulness. From below, chanting voices rose in awe.

‘Honour the gods,’ the priest urged. ‘Offer yourself.’

A last alarmed cry echoed faintly in Madson’s head. For a moment he stopped and frowned, trying to locate and interpret the insistent call but an evening breeze fanned his face and ushered it away. The scent of spring and spent days and mystery beyond comprehension filled his mind.

‘Now.’ The priest's hiss sheared away the last of his reason.

He smiled in understanding as he stepped out into the night air.