The Whispering Swarm by Michael Moorcock Read Free Book Online

January 1940 and he laughed. ‘How foolish of me. I should have realised. I have absolutely no sense of the passage of time out here.’
    â€˜Surely you’ve lived in this area for a while? The whole of Fleet Street around you. You’re not exactly far away from the sources of news.’ I then became apologetic. I had sounded rude to my own ears. But he was shaking his head.
    â€˜Surprising as it may be, Master Michael, we are pretty well shut off from this world.’ He glanced down at his cup, wetted his little finger and rubbed at what was probably a smudge of lipstick on the rim. ‘Close as it seems!’
    I said that I envied him his solitude.
    At this, he shook his head again. ‘Oh, it’s not exactly solitude in the world of the Sanctuary.’ I think the sound he made was a chuckle. ‘Only if you’re lucky.’
    This was the first time I’d heard him use the term. When he noticed my enquiry, he added, ‘You probably know the Sanctuary better as “Alsacia”.’ And when I shook my head, he gave a small shrug. ‘I forget. We’re a little off the beaten track.…’
    â€˜I was born in Brookgate,’ I said. ‘I thought I’d explored all the local back streets. Perhaps you could point your abbey out to me sometime. I’ve probably passed it on a hundred occasions and not noticed it. There are parts of London that are really rural, whole fields, like the ones behind Sporting Club Square. All the allotments. They’re disappearing. I’ve been trying to teach myself to be more observant.’
    â€˜Well, it’s surely best when you have a guide,’ he told me. He seemed to reach an important decision, his expression changing markedly. He frowned to himself. ‘Would you care to see it today? This would be an ideal moment. The abbot…’
    â€˜I’m free.’ I finished my teacake. ‘This would be a good time for me, too. They don’t expect me back at the office today. I mean, if it’s no trouble.…’ Should I have trusted him so readily? Had he already slipped something in my cup?
    â€˜Never any great trouble for me,’ he said. ‘You always do need a guide, I fear. At least at first. I, of course, had mine.’ Now his chuckle was spontaneous, self-deprecating. ‘It’s practically impossible to find the Sanctuary’s gates without help. But you must be prepared for a surprise or two.’
    â€˜The other monks won’t mind?’
    â€˜That’s never the question. We welcome to Alsacia all who discover us. We have done so almost since we were founded. Our articles demand we turn none away. Noble or commoner. Saint or sinner. Man or woman. That is the nature of our calling, to provide sanctuary for any who needs it. The wealthy give us donations. The poor and the needy benefit, for they can hide here as well as work. Just as we took vows of poverty, to follow the example of the Nazarene, so, too, do we neither judge nor seek to punish. We are bound to forgive and to pray. To take in all who suffer. All who are in danger of persecution.’
    I was impressed. This was the first time I had encountered such an idea. I realised how ignorant I was about church institutions. ‘Well, I’m not exactly…’ Maybe there was a brochure. I got up and followed him from the teashop, out into the grey press of Ludgate Hill. We turned together down New Bridge Street and crossed over to stand at the intersection of Fleet Street and Ludgate Circus. I looked back up the hill to where St Paul’s stood washed by the rays of the late-afternoon sun. Suddenly a silence fell over the busy streets. I found myself mesmerised by the sight of the great cathedral, remembering the stories I had grown up with, of the Blitz, the miraculous failure of the Nazi incendiaries to do anything but minor damage, while the surrounding streets all guttered and howled.
    As we