The Story of John Dunkum, Servant, Sinner, Priest and Explorer.

The story of John Dunkum,

Servant, Sinner, Priest and Explorer

Amy Didd

Chapter 1

Damp. Cold. The only light came from a flaming torch, and that was interrupted by the heavy grill in the door through which it had to pass. Chains and manacles. One attached to his left ankle and one attached to his left wrist. The wrist chain was attached to the wall at a height which ensured that if he tried to lie down his left side wouldn’t quite reach the floor and his hand was above his head. The arm had died a long while ago. The same chain was too short to allow him to stand upright. Sometimes the cramp was excruciating. Most of the time he sat in one position on the stone floor, his aching back against the stone wall, his restricted movement and the tight, heavy manacles taking turns to generate and aggravate weeping sores. His new companion in this mad, evil world fared no better. They faced each other across three feet of no man’s land. It was like looking at a reflection in a dead pool.

“John Dunkum. I’m a sinner. Pleased to meet you,” he croaked.

He’d not used that voice or heard that sound for God knew how long. It sounded as though it was coated in rust. There was irony in the circumstance but not in the sentiment. Indeed, pleased was an understatement. Dunkum had been in the cell for so long he’d forgotten how long, and with just the rats for company. There were always three of them. Slop and stale bread were pushed through a small hole at the base of the door once a day and the rats would arrive a minute later. At first he was terrified by their presence but as the days and weeks passed he came to look forward to their company and he’d worked out a way to share with them which seemed to suit all parties. He’d decided that it was a father, mother and son. That had helped with their names, he told his new companion. The rats were called Joseph, Mary and Jesus. The newcomer made no response. He simply glared back at Dunkum. It was a look which conveyed a measure of blame. John was too desperate for human company to take it to heart.

“You never get used to it but somehow the anger goes. After a while it feels normal. I don’t really understand how that happens. At first, this,” he gestured with his free hand, “felt unfair, cruel even, but then after a while you realise that you deserve it, it’s justice. Injustice begets justice.”

“Keep the noise down in there, unless you wanna feel Betsy taking liberties wiv yor ‘ead.” He heard The Gaoler’s toads laugh. He didn’t know their names so he’d improvised. There was the big one, Goliath, and the little one, David. David was the one not to cross. He kicked you and cut you just for fun. At least Goliath seemed to need a reason.

At Goliath’s order Dunkum froze and slowly lifted the forefinger of his free hand to his dry, cracked lips and mouthed, “Don’t say anything.” His companion acknowledged the advice by momentarily lifting his gaze from the floor in order to make eye contact, and then just as quickly dropped it again.

“What did you do? No, don’t answer that." He leant forward and spoke in a whisper. “It was one of the serving girls, the master’s favourite. Well, the master and his brother. When they discovered they’d been sharing with me, I was hauled down here and chained like a dog. That was." He paused. "That was." He paused again, and then it came to him. "A long while ago." But not until she’d been taught a lesson, which I was invited to watch. I guess I do deserve it. I mean, she wasn’t rightly mine to share, was she? Poor girl. Forgive me, father.” Footsteps. The sound of tin sliding on stone. Goliath pushed slop and bread through the trap.

“Hey, wait. You’ll like this. Just wait and see.” Sure enough, as soon as the bowl was out, Jesus appeared, breaking into an excited chatter at the sight of the banquet laid out on the floor. He circled and sniffed and took quick glances at Dunkum. Then, without warning, Jesus ran across the stone floor and disappeared into a hole near the far corner of the cell. A minute later he was back with two companions; maybe they were siblings or girlfriends, or disciples. Maybe they were angels. Joseph, Mary and their son lined up and sat back on their hind legs and raised their paws in the air like small dogs begging. The two new members of the congregation looked on with interest.

Dunkum dipped a finger in the slop and held it out to Joseph. Joseph licked the finger clean then waited for the bread. He took it into his rat mouth from the palm of Dunkum’s hand and scurried away to his hole. Dunkum repeated the process for Mary and Jesus. Slop. Lick. Bread. Scurry. The slop licking was just a ritual. What they wanted was the bread that helped to sustain them until the next time. They followed Joseph into his dark, secret world in the walls and under the floors, free to come and go as they pleased. And not one iota of thanks. Not even a squeak. Dunkam tossed them crumbs of bread, something for later.

“See, that’s how it works. That’s the rules. Some for them, some for us. To be honest, I don’t understand it. I mean, how do rats learn rules? But they do. Honest.” Dunkum dunked the remains of the dry bread in the slop and somehow got it past the opening in his throat and on its downward journey.

“Look, son, you’re the first living person I’ve seen, except those three, for … for … I don’t know how long. For God’s sake, say something. Even Jesus makes more noise than you. What is it? Cat got your tongue?” His companion raised his head and slowly opened his mouth to expose blackened teeth, missing teeth, broken teeth and a bloody stump where a tongue should be.

“I’m sorry, son. So sorry. I had no idea. I didn’t think.”

“You! In there! Didn’t you ‘ear what I said? You carry on making those stupid fucking noises and talking to yourself it won’t just be isolation and chained to the walls, I’ll cut the rest of your fucking tongue out! And not in a nice way!” The other two laughed like it was the best joke anyone had ever heard or told. Dunkum responded by shrinking into the corner of the cell and retreating even further into the world inside his head. He felt sure that one day he would be free like the rats. He’d enter that half-world inside his head and stay there. Surely, one day. One day there would be no more pain. “Forgive me father. Forgive me. Forgive a poor sinner. Please forgive. Please.”

It felt like no time at all. One moment he was in the cell with the rats, the next he was inside his head and all things good. Then it was back to the cell. Maybe time had passed, he couldn’t tell. All he knew for sure was that his ribs were being kicked.

“Wake up, you piece of shit.” It was Goliath. “Get up. We don’t want you here no more. Get out.”

Was he hearing correctly?

Get Up? We don’t want you here? Get out? As he recoiled from another kick in the ribs he realised that his hand and leg were free. He knew because he had rolled across the floor with the force of the kick. That had never happened before.

“There’s the door, arsewipe. Get froo’it.”

It was a pleasing thought but far easier said than done. His frame was so twisted and beaten and bruised that all he could manage was the ghost of a crawl.

“What the fuck is wrong with you? I said move. Not move if you feel like it or move if you have the time. We want you out, on the outside. Now!”

Shout all you like, he thought. My arms and legs don’t understand. I don’t understand. “Luke, come ‘ere. I need some ‘elp.”

Luke? Who’s Luke? David appeared in the doorway of the cell, blocking out most of the light and casting a shadow that disguised his true proportions. He was wearing leather breeches, a leather jerkin and the most dangerous smile Dunkum had seen since his incarceration.

“No, don’t kick ‘im, you twat. We’re tryin’ to get rid of ‘im, not give ourselves anovva job t’do. Look, grab ‘im under ‘is arm, I’ll take this one. We’ll drag ‘im.”

And that’s what they did. They dragged him across the floor of the cell, across the Gaoler’s room, across The Gaoler’s ante-room, past The Gaoler, out the far door, along the corridor, up a flight of stairs, through a guard room and past some disinterested guards, then through a door. With one heave, they threw him into blinding sunlight and onto the street outside where he lay breathless and lifeless. Dead as far as anyone could tell; a corpse rotting in sunlight.

But he wasn’t dead. He was injured, for sure. He hurt terribly, for sure. Terrible things had been done to him, for sure. He could barely breath, for sure. He could barely move, for sure. He was alive, for sure, and there was no question of standing, for sure. He just had to lie there as the town’s dogs sniffed at his carcass and passers by spat on his damaged body. It didn’t matter. He was out. He was outside. He was in heaven on earth with Mary and Jesus. And as he lay there wrapped in their arms and in his pain he praised the Lord, and Mary and her son, and he thanked them over and over and over again for being there, near the end, when he need them. He wept for their love and compassion and for saving not only his body but his soul. And as he lay there in the street he vowed that from this day forth he would be their biggest champion. He would make sure that Jesus ruled the world. Jesus, son of the Almighty, would truly be king. He couldn’t speak, but in his head, where it truly mattered, he could make himself heard: “Thank you father. Thank you, Mother Mary. Thank you Jesus.”

It was nightfall before he untwisted his broken body and raised his head to survey his surroundings. He was thirsty, desperately thirsty. Desperate for slop. Desperate. And he knew that prayer could only deliver so much. He needed to find water before desperation turned into despair and despair visited him in the cloak of death. Not here. Please not here. Not yet. Not with so much to do. And with that thought and with the effort that he had already made his head fell back onto the dry ground. Moments later, he felt hands on his shoulders, hands which were trying to shake him into life. He was alive, he knew that. He just couldn’t move. Instead he croaked a sound. That’s all it was, a sound. It was an admission of life. Satisfied with that admission, the hands grabbed the remains of his shirt and used it to pull his body away from the ground. Someone was trying to turn him onto his back. He instinctively relaxed and did his best to roll with the pull.

He looked up and saw two kneeling shapes against a black sky filled with bright stars, like diamonds clustered on velvet. He couldn’t see their faces but he could tell from their dress and their frame that they were women. “Here, drink. Slowly. Slowly.” The water cascaded down his throat and he began to choke. “Enough. Enough, sister. Go find your brother. The kind one. I’ll keep watch. Hurry. You must hurry, it may already be too late.” The smaller of the two shapes shifted. The woman, maybe a girl, stood with an easy, almost athletic movement, turned, and scurried away into the dark hole of night.