The
plan went off
beautifully well. As I sat in the
rectory, just above the courtyard, I listened to his screams as one would
bend an ear to the call of the sparrows that sounded the
dawn. His piteous cries sound as sweet to me as the chorus of
cherubs in
Heaven, and I know that I have done the Lord's work on
Earth. He was an
affront to God, and he stained this holy place. Better his bones
bleach in the sun. My pen dips in the ink well and I impart my
confession to the parchment.
Only God will judge me.
I felt a tinge of
guilt as they dragged him past me in the
hallway, and his bare feet scrabbled on the stone for
purchase. It wasn't a
guilt of having damned him to the Inquisitor's hot irons and
thumbscrews; No, he had earned those with his
wickedness. Instead, it was more a tear you would shed while watching a
fatted calf being lead to the butcher, a prayer for a dumb animal. It moved me to put pen to paper, lest the
knowledge die with me.
I was tending the
garden at the north wall the day that the
Wicked One came amongst us. He was draped over the back of an
ass, lead by the
junk dealer from the village. As the man did with all
refuse, he had come here to
bury his problem. Insensible from
drink and
sloth, the human
parcel was dumped on the doorstep, as many
plagued and dying men before him. His was a deeper sickness, which we could not see. Forgive us
Lord, but we try minister to
all the creatures of the Earth. Surely, he sprung up from the
bowels of Hell to darken our door. I stayed in the garden and watched the junk man lead his ass back along the road. He wore the face of a
tradesman that had finally completed a very complex
task, and his satisfaction gave me pause.
At the
evening meal, much talk was devoted to the newcomer. He did not take food with us that first night, instead spending the time sleeping off his stunning
hangover. As time passed, we wondered if the
junkman had
blunted his wits with a
pan as well, a compulsion we grew to understand well. Forgive me Lord, I struggle to
deny these wicked thoughts. Indeed, our brotherly concerns that first day were
copious and
genuine, and we prayed that you would lead the unfortunate man down the path to righteousness. A test for our
faith soon followed.
In this Abbey, we have seen all types.
Madmen have lived in these walls,
half-wits are welcomed with open arms, even the
crippled have a place here.
All manner of men, broken by the cruelty of the world are brought here and tended to lovingly, as
Jesus taught so long ago. It is the
willfully wicked that poison our hearts here, My Lord. Those that would
bully and
parade,
judge and
threaten. The
arrogant and
ugly hearted.
They are the true snakes in our garden. Indeed, I would prefer a thousand
harlots be given lodge here before another
beast of the earth such as him. I know I should not judge, My Lord. The flesh is weak and I beg forgiveness.
Oh, even to remember it chills me. Our hallowed halls became a
wastrel's flophouse. He donned the robes of a monk in
mockery of us. The terrible taunts suffered by the dull-witted, the vile
arguments he struck with the
wrathful. He
swaggered and
preened,
self-anointed as lord of the manor. No manner of
penance could be impressed upon him. Our kind hearts were
ill prepared for his
brazen soul. I sought to counsel him in the ways of the
Church, but none would have influence on his prideful mind. Indeed, I fell victim to my own ill humors and sought to
challenge his sins. I found I would have been better ministering your message to the
oxen in the barn. The abbey filled with
trod upon hearts while the
Devil played in our midst. Truly, My Lord, no feeling is worse than
helplessness. I clung to my
faith like a drowning sailor swept overboard.
Let it be known that the Lord works in mysterious ways.
In my darkest hour, I turned to the
Abbot. Surely he could help me, steer me from my
dark humors and show me the path to understanding.
The Wicked One sat at the throne of all my thoughts, mocking me. After the business of the gardens was concluded, I broached the subject of the
troublesome newcomer. The Abbot sighed heavily, and before he spoke, I knew it was a
speech he had made before. He entreated me to love all the souls that came to our door, and leave the judgment for the
Heavenly Host. "Just rewards will be given in
afterlife,
my son." he said, his voice betraying his
frustrated heart. It was at that very moment I decided to
act.
Divine inspiration? It is not for men to know.
As I walked the hall, I saw the
faint light of the torch as the
Beast wormed his way over the wall and made off for a night of
making merry in the village. He would return and lay
insensible in his bunk, leaving us to labor around him. The stink of
wine and
whores mocks us from his room. I sat at the dark window and watched the light dance across the hill, puzzling. What is worse than his actions in the house of God?
Witchery!
The divine inspiration flashed into my thoughts from
on high, my very prayers answered. The
Inquisition would swoop down like a
wrathful hawk to pluck a witch from our nest. I clapped my hands together and gave praise to God for delivering me, delivering all of us!, from this
abuser. Quickly, a plan formed in my mind. The floodgates opened and holy purpose poured in, like light from the
dawn painting the courtyard. I made my way to the library under the cover of the welcome
darkness.
Oh, the
foulness I waded through in those books. The more I read of
devils and
demons, the more I could see the hell-borne character of the
Beast. Indeed, it was a small matter to dream of his midnight wanderings as
sojourns to
Black Masses or
baby thieving trips. I took special note of the investigation of the
Holy Inquisition, as told in letters to the Abbot. I secreted a
quill from the transcription room and penned my damning missive to the
Bishop, under the cover of anonymity. I held the quill in my left hand to disguise my penmanship, and effected the coarser words of a
clerk in the city. A
sinister hand for a
divine plan. While the Beast was out at play, I worked in his room, hiding scraps of
blasphemous verse and painting an
unholy sigil under his mattress in salt, as
devil summoners do. In the garden, I buried the workings of a
witch in the form of small bundles of
vermin bones and
broken rosaries. The scale of the
heresy grew in the lonely night.
I was again in the garden,
weeding the rows with my
hoe when the dust from the horses rose up along the road. Riders under the
Churches flag. Inquisitors. I wiped the sweat from my brow and watched as they thundered into the
keep, paying no
heed to a lowly monk in the fields. I turned back to my plants as the dusty cloud washed over me, content that my part was done.
Hushed talk by
candlelight and harsh words behind closed drawers was the order of the day. Burly men, likely born in the
crucible of
the Crusades knocked on our humble doors and turned out our rooms. The tools of my nocturnal trade had been long since been burned in a
sanctified fire, lest they work true
evil. The hard-faced men held their swords at bay and offered a slight apology for disturbing me, but ventured no
explanation. I nodded a forgiveness and they closed the door firmly, still seeking their
quarry.
Not long after, while I sat with my head pressed to the door, I heard the
harsh and
angry words. The Beast fought like a
bar brawler, and damned himself further than I could have ever hoped.
His own mouth was his undoing.
The
lashings continued all night.
By morning
the stake was ready, piled high with
sticks and
oil.
Forgive me Lord, for I have
sinned.