Free Black Ceremonies by Charles Black, David A. Riley Page A

He called for a servant and instructed him.
    “One by one the nails were drawn out. So painstakingly slowly, that in frustration I took over, levering the lid off, myself.”
    Eagerly we leaned forward in our seats, and Dawson loitered near at hand, anxious to hear the denouement to the Major’s story.
    “You gentlemen speak of Edgar Allan Poe, and his story of premature burial, ah, what a hideous fate to be buried alive.” Major Guthrie shuddered at the thought, as I suspect did we all.
    “And indeed the coughing coming from that coffin had installed the thought in my mind that that was the very fate that had befallen dear old Hadingly-Scott.”
    Major Guthrie paused. I am still unsure whether it was because of the enormity of what he was about to reveal, or whether he was merely savouring the expectant expressions on the faces of his rapt audience.
    I could stand the suspense no longer, and neither evidently could John. “Well?” he prompted before I could.
    Guthrie finished his drink and nodded. “But you see gentlemen, the body contained in his coffin was quite unmistakably dead, and had clearly been so for quite some time!”
    And with much shaking of heads, we all had to agree that it was indeed a curious business.
     
     

The Madness Out of the Sea
     
    It began with a pounding upon the church door and a cry, “Open up. Open up for pity’s sake!”
    Roused from my prayers I hastened to open the door – to reveal an old man. A man lean of limb and gaunt of face. With wild hair, unkempt and white, and a face pocked and scarred. His clothes were worn and dirty, and he smelt strongly of alcohol.
    “Sanctuary, I demand sanctuary,” he gasped, collapsing to his knees. He wrapped his arms around my legs, and, wheezing as if after a strenuous run, he begged, “For the love of God, grant me sanctuary, Father!”
    At any moment I expected to see a mob of pursuers come charging along the road, for he had the appearance of a man chased by Satan’s very hounds of hell.
    But there was no one else to be seen. Just this ragged old man, and his much-travelled haversack.
    “Have you a bed for an old man?” he asked. “It’ll be a bitterly cold night, Father, and there’s a storm coming. I can feel it, don’t you know?”
    I must admit I was rather taken aback by his request and his actions. Did he seek sanctuary or merely accommodation? I looked up at the sky – it was blue with a few white clouds. There was no indication of a storm brewing. 
    “Have you not tried the village inn?” I asked, indicating Kirowan’s pub.
    “As they say, there’s no room at the inn. Besides I’d rather spend the night here in the church or under the roof of a man of God.” He released his hold on my legs and clasped his hands together.
    “I’d feel safer – for I’d dare say the inn is full of rogues, and if the Lord cannot protect me from those others, then no one can,” he said cryptically.
    “Surely you can find room for me,” he went on. “Or is there no such thing as Christian charity anymore?”
    “Have you broken the law, my son? Are the authorities seeking you?”
    “You must hear my confession,” was his reply. “I am not long for this world,” he muttered, as he rose from his knees.
    “God welcomes those who are prepared to repent of their sins, my son.” I told him piously, allowing him to enter.
    “Like as not, you’ll not believe me, but I swear to you, Father, that it’s the God’s honest truth, no word of a lie.”
    His shirt was ragged and so faded that I could not be sure what colour it had once been. A man obviously fallen on hard times. I could see tattoos on his arms. “You’re a sailor,” I guessed.
    “Aye, Father, you’re right at that. Patrick Crawford is my name.”
    “You’re aways from the sea.”
    “Not far enough , Father.” He shuddered, then muttered again, “not far enough,” looking around the church, as if there were someone or perhaps something hidden, about to