Confiteor
The Book of Holy Kings (XXIV)
‘I confess to Almighty God, and to you my brothers and sisters that I have greatly sinned. Through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault. Therefore I ask Blessed Mary, ever-Virgin, all the angels and saints, and you my brothers and sisters, to pray for my to the Lord our God.’
On the night of Ash Wednesday – March 4th – I saw in a dream a headless giant wading through the moonbright sea towards a line of white cliffs. He strode ashore then stepped inside a cave. A log fire burned and crackled on the threshold with a great bearded head on the ground beside it. The giant stooped low, picked up the head and placed it on his shoulders. Then he walked around the fire and vanished into the cave. He returned, a few moments later, a light of mingled gold and silver shining all around him. He stepped into the sea and I awoke, conscious already of what I had to do.
I made coffee and stood in the yard, smoking and thinking as the late winter dawn streaked the chimneys with pale cold fire. The White Cliffs. Yes. That's what the ancient lore said. That's where Brutus, in the youngtime, had buried his bronze horse with the statue of Diana and the drawing of Apollo inside it. To find that horse, that statue, that drawing. Now that would be something. To touch them, feel them, talk to them even. That would be more. And to think of the knowledge, wisdom, and insight they’d bring to Britain once released. The time had come, I was sure, and I was the man to make it happen.
It took me two weeks to prepare, and I set off for Dover via Kings Cross on the morning of the 18th. I had been to the Cliffs a few times as a boy and I knew a path to the bottom I could take. But not yet. I wasn’t ready for that encounter yet.
I pitched my tent in some scrubland behind the council flats near Dover Port. I had provisions for a fortnight and could always have got more if I needed to, but I wanted to keep contact with the world to a minimum. I had to go deep inside myself and at the same time deep inside the fabric of the land. Otherwise the Kairos – the supreme moment – would pass me by. I wouldn’t be worthy of it. I had to descend to the deep places first.
For nine days and nights, aside from toilet trips and washing in the stream, I stayed in my tent, senses silent and withdrawn. That was when the pummelling began. I felt the shame and embarrassment of it all – the vanity of my pompous title, the vacuity of my meaningless role, and the grand illusion of my pretensions to power and influence. I felt the slow-motion collapse of the UK too – except that one day it won’t be slow, it’ll be quick, and that’ll be the shocking, bloodsplashed end of Norman Britain. People will be stunned out of slumber into Being and they’ll find that Being horrific if they’re not ready for it and most won’t be. Clinging to materialism, trapped by literalism, they won’t have the vocabulary or sensitivity or imagination to know or understand.
By the ninth day I was a total wreck, completely unaware of who I was and what I was doing. I had forgotten to eat, drink, wash, etc. It was night, I recall, and through the tarpaulin I caught sight of a strong, persistent light. I unzipped the door and looked out, thinking it was a torch or a police car or a monster’s eye. The sea air smacked me straight back into life and I was awake and alert and instantly on point again. A lordly-looking star hung high in the sky, directly above and ahead of me. Its hue was blended gold and silver, and as I stared it dived down to my right and disappeared beneath the cliffs.
I whipped on my coat and set off in pursuit. It was time to take the path now – hard, tricky, and steep – but I made it to the beach and carried on, the cliffs towering up to my right, until I came to the mouth of a cave and a log fire burning on the threshold. I paused and warmed myself and said a prayer. I asked my father and all the Grail Priests and Kings before him to help. Then I passed into the heart of the cave.
It was a tight, somewhat constricted space. I stood before the back wall and by the light of the fire discerned the figure of a phoenix painted on the rock. Then I noticed a little recess next to the creature’s right wing. It looked like a lamp was burning inside, and as I entered I half-expected to find a monk or scribe writing, reading, or praying. But there was no-one there, just a shelf halfway up the wall and a bronze horse standing in the middle, its black beaded eyes pinned to mine as if it knew and expected me.
I gulped and shook all over, feeling 100% unworthy of what I now had to do. I remember rubbing my hands over and over on my trousers, as if that obsessive act could wipe away so much accumulated sin and foulness. Then I had a better, more coherent, idea and said the Confiteor aloud – ‘I confess to Almighty God …’ – before striding forth and taking hold of the horse. The latch was on the underside and easy to undo. I took out first the statue of Diana and then the drawing of Apollo, wrapped up like a scroll and bound with red parchment.
My legs gave way and I fell to the ground and wept. But I clasped the holy objects in my hands and felt their strength course through me – slow then quick – as they refreshed and replenished my soul – spiritually, mentally, emotionally, imaginatively.
I glanced up then and beheld a shadow on the wall. I turned and saw a man I had never met before yet recognised straightaway standing there in blue and gold, looking straight at me, the firelight leaping up to High Heaven behind him ...