The Gift

by Gerard A Whitfield

  Now that was a ridiculous word, mission. It sounded as though he was passing on the faith to the heathen. Rather he was saving the butts of at least four overweight, pompous windbags, whose faith stretched more towards how much they could each rob from the poor. And it was just such a competition which had placed him in this untenable position.

  Why he had refused the tithe, he did not know. Perhaps years of grubbing out a living, using his blood, sweat and tears to feed and clothe, not his family, but the rich Churchmen, had finally caused him to snap? That would be the easy explanation. The truth of the matter was that when the greasy Cardinal had placed his sweaty paws on Jenni, who had looked at him with those big brown eyes, already resigned to her fate and forgiving him for his inaction, well that had been the last straw.

  Jenni had only recently completed thirteen standard years and was the light of his life. She was still in many ways a little girl and he adored her, as any loving father would. To see the lascivious light in the obese clergyman’s eyes, how he licked his fat lips in anticipation, well that sort of explained why he had buried his fist into the man’s face. That could have been forgivable with penance, but the knee that smashed a nose into smithereens and the chair which broke all over the tonsured pate, probably could have been seen as overkill.

  No matter, it was done now. Here he ran. Breathlessly he staggered on, down interminable lengths of dank corridor, deeper and deeper into the catacombs beneath the Cathedral. Let them be wrong. Please let him have more time, let it not be life or world threatening. In his bones though, he knew it was not so.

  *

  Every year at this time, this same scene was enacted; a condemned man was chosen, his life in the balance, as the ultimate prize in a vicious and cruel game. He would be given the time to reach the lowest level of the catacombs and bar a certain door, which was unsealed just this one night of the year. Normally much more time was given, but his over reaction had caused a shortening of the time. His failure meant not only his death, but indeed the destruction of his whole world.

  Other years the men succeeding were in fact well known members of the Church’s staff, who were being punished for some minor infraction. They never really had much trouble in completing their task, and the run was more of an obstacle course to complete. It was true that two years previously a man had died of heart failure during his trial and the Church had executed all of his immediate family, it was after all the Law and he had not completed the course.

  Taking that into account, the Church did not really believe in the old wives’ tales and the real reason for this mad dash. If they had done, they would have given him more than four minutes.

  He though, Stefan Kudwicki, knew the truth, knew the real reason this door was checked and barred. The unsealing of the door was the Church’s idea, the original yearly check went much, much, further back and had never included the opening of the thrice-damned thing.

  That was why local men burst their hearts in their attempt to reach the door and that was why he was still running. Yes for his family, but for all of them too; the drunks, the impious and the worthy few. Beneath them all slept something so old, so deadly that not even Urion himself could stop it. The Church had interred it down there, and in four…no, less than three, minutes it would be free.

  *

  Above in the audience chamber the clergy partied; an excess of wine, food and debauchery awaited them and they fully intended to enjoy themselves. Once this farce was complete and this man, Stefan, failed, they would kill his family, but slowly and not before they had tasted them in their own inimitable way.

  Neither they nor their sycophants were worried, but not so the people outside, who began to gather nervously, huddling together for comfort, saying their potentially last goodbyes to family and friends. For, to them, this was no game. Every year they worried, but never had anyone taken such risks, been so blatantly unconcerned about the outcome of the race, not like this year.

  Their prayers urged Stefan on. Their tears fell for his pain and that which awaited them if he did not succeed. Stefan, however was oblivious to their plight

  *

  He was almost there, three more flights of stairs, four more corridors and he would be right in front of the door and he still had more than three minutes! His jubilation lasted but a moment, as one exhausted leg trembled, one foot missed a step and he crashed downwards. Bouncing and tumbling, he slammed into wall and stair, skinning his knees, bruising his forehead and cracking his skull, until finally he came to rest, dazed and unknowing where he was.

  It was the insistent voice that woke him, two minutes it said, and falling. He’d lost a whole minute. He wasn’t going to make it! Scrambling to his feet, he hobbled at first, then shambled, until finally he broke once more into his tormented run, as the time remaining dwindled, ever so slowly, but oh so finally.

  *

  One minute left and he had at last reached the final chamber, it was a long candle-lit vault, the waxen sentinels giving out a feeble and guttering light. The darkness pushed oppressively back at them and Stefan felt its eagerness to extinguish their faint resistance. Slowing slightly, he caught his breath. He could actually see the door and its cracked waxen seals. Paper prayers hung forlornly where they had been torn aside, but that was not his problem. All he had to do was to close the door, spin the locking wheel which sealed it in place and they were saved. They could all live for another year.

  It was then that the candles began to flare and subsequently die; firstly the two either side of the door and then one by one, as though something walked amongst them, pinching the wick between moistened finger and thumb, but there was nothing there, there couldn’t be, not yet!

  The monotonous voice in his ear continued with its tedious repetition and Stefan wanted to scream. He was close, so close and with arms outstretched he blindly groped his way forward as fast as he could, bumping into candle stands and burning himself on the still hot and liquid wax.

  His beating heart pounded loudly in his chest, in time with the echoing resonance of the numbers as they inexorably counted down to his death. Now he was on his hands and knees, crawling as fast as possible in his straightest line. Stefan knew he could do it, he had to!

  As the count reached zero his head struck the door jamb, and weeping with relief he hauled himself upwards, throwing his weight behind the slowly swinging door. With a dull clang it closed and he spun the locking wheel and then turned and rested his back against the door, before slumping wearily to the floor.

  “It’s done….”, he whispered, knowing that there would be great joy above in the city and some disappointment amongst the clergy, as one or two of them were no doubt looking forward to a night of drunken diversion. Stefan snorted in disgust and wondered how he was going to get back out of the chamber without the candles.

  The darkness had closed in and he could not even see the faint outline of the lighted corridor beyond. Holding down his panic, he began to pray and as if in answer, the candles spontaneously sprang to life once more, retracing the path of their extinction exactly in that of their rebirth.

  A huge sigh of relief left Stefan’s lips and he rose quickly, eager to get out of this depressing and forbidding place. His steps quickly became a trot and then a full run, as he let his panic have full reign and used it to exit as quickly as possible. Halfway across, the candles’ flames began to die once more and he ran faster, suddenly a wave of cold washed over him and his breath began to steam.

  Once again the darkness took control, his speed useless against its overwhelming embrace and he stumbled crashing to the floor. This time, he did not crawl forward, nor did he try and stand, instead he just lay there, shivering with the cold and trembling with fright. As his precious light disappeared he had felt a gentle, cloying kind of embrace, no, more like a caress. It was as if someone had stroked his face as they passed by, not waiting for his reaction nor overly concerned with him, just letting him know they were there.

  Without und
erstanding why, Stefan began to weep uncontrollably, inconsolably. There, deep below the earth, he finally realised something; he had failed. One second too many had been more than enough and it was free again, and now there would be no new year, no joy, no family. All there would be was a return to the death and darkness of the old times, that which their grandfathers and their grandfather’s grandfathers had warned them about.

  Stefan felt its touch once more, a cold anaesthetic feeling accompanied it and he felt his skin deaden as it moved up his body. A hand lovingly grasped his hair and teased his face backwards with long fingers. He felt cold lips touch the side of his face, the kisses burning now where they traced a fiery line towards his outstretched neck.

  There was no pain as the bite came, no fear, only a total resignation to his fate. Blood ran freely from the open wound in his neck, and with each mouthful of lost liquid he faded, and the creature became more solid. When nearly all was gone, Stefan looked up into her eyes, still cold and dead. Her hair long and black, or so he thought, what dim light there was showed it was dark. Her lips were full and she smiled broadly down at him, as though a parent looking down fondly at a recalcitrant child.

  “Just …too…late”, she hissed as Stefan drew his final breath. Then she stretched her arms, twirled round in a little dance and began to run. This time there was no clock counting, but one thing was certain; she had a lot of catching up to do, with a lot of people, and she was going to make every second count.

  Four Minuets

  Cardinal’s Palace

  Heavenly City

  Spindle

  Music played, symbols clashed and clergymen danced. A discordant cacophony of sound bounced brashly all around the audience chamber. As a celebration it was less than usual, and in fact many would have quite rightly been mistaken in thinking that this was a pagan gathering, rather than a group of higher churchmen giving praise in His name.

  All decorum had vanished, as the clock counted down, and wine flowed freely. Half-open robes displayed white flesh, too much of it, as the overweight priests and acolytes indulged themselves. Only one of them sat apart, like some vast spider in the centre of his web, his piggy eyes twinkling in amusement at the antics before him. The fingers of one hand drummed against the arms of his throne, whilst those of the other played idly with a mass of golden curls. These were attached to the young girl, tied tightly to his chair.

  Cardinal Urtz was happy, in fact ecstatic with how everything had turned out; he grinned displaying his rotten and broken teeth, hadn’t he in fact got the girl? She stared at him defiantly and the look reminded him of her father, causing him to wince in remembrance of the pain. Timidly his fingers brushed across the smashed remains of his nose and tweaked gently at the scabs around his eyes. This pain would be nothing to that suffered by Stefan Kudwicki and his family. He would make sure of that.

  How he would laugh, that fool had four minutes to save the world. Ha, his world anyway, and Urtz knew he wouldn’t make it, in fact had ensured he wouldn’t make it and the King’s High Executioner was waiting in the antechamber to carry out the sentence. The delicious anticipation caused Urtz to become slightly aroused, goodness the girl and the rest of them would think him saved and then the axe would fall, literally, how titillating.

  *

  The first short dance had finished, each one of the four timed to perfection and meant to raise emotions to an ever higher crescendo. Cardinal Urtz had picked each melody and now eagerly awaited the rousing chorus of the second short work. He guzzled his wine, oblivious to the quality of the vintage and envisioned Stefan’s stumbling, cursing dash, his prayers unheeded and all the while knowing that his precious daughter was here, awaiting the Cardinal’s pleasure.

  Urtz giggled, somewhat effeminately as he saw one of his acolytes slip and fall, his cassock cascading over his features and exhibiting his less than salubrious possessions to the congregation. Stafan’s wife gasped in dismay and struggled trying to shade her daughter, Jenni’s, eyes. That little witch, though Urtz needed no protection, he saw how she watched avidly the acolytes flopping gyrations, oh yes, she was not as innocent as her father thought.

  He reached across and grabbed at one of the piles of food, left within easy reach of his hands. Stefan’s ministrations had meant that his enjoyment of the repast was not quite as expected, food and wine mixing in an abhorrent dribble from his ruined teeth and swollen mouth. Oblivious to the ridiculousness of the montage, he clapped his food-smeared hands together and called for an encore.

  *

  No time for a reprise, the clock was ticking and only two movements of the piece were left. Now the music was jaunty, bouncy and the invitees jiggled and ground their way around the floor. It did not do to let the populace think that they were concerned, although he had left one or two of his more pious members outside, waving incense and intoning dirges to the faithful.

  The Cardinal felt that he had passed his apprenticeship and now the fruits of His and Urtz’s bounty were for the taking. Rhythm is a dancer, though not Urtz, but his spiritual and physical ecstacy was reaching a climax and he could contain himself no longer.

  Stomping off the raised dais he snatched at a passing wench, grabbed two handfuls of flesh and buried his face in an ample cleavage. Swaying and moaning he joined in the sybaritic celebrations; the danger forgotten, only the pleasure to come in his mind.

  All around him bodies moved, and by the throne terrified faces stared on. Outside the populace prayed, whilst their priesthood partied. They had not forgotten the doom which was buried deep within their bones, their psyche. These Johnny-come-lately’s scoffed at their beliefs, persecuted the old ways and pandered to their annual reaffirmation of life. One day they would know the true horror that slept below, all wished that today would not be that day.

  *

  As Stefan tumbled and fell, crawled, hobbled and then ran, the clergy drank. They cursed like troopers, leered at the women and spat food and drink indiscriminately around. Insidiously they had been corrupted, unknowingly they had embraced a faith steeped in the baser pleasures of life and now they glorified in it.

  One man reached a vaulted chamber, drew in his ragged breath and struggled on. He thought of his family and it gave him faith, he cultivated his anger and it bolstered his strength and cursing the clergyman gave him that last little kick he required.

  The final dance had begun, the last Minuet, partners clasped tightly together shuddered their way around the floor. Women and children screamed as there was no comforting word from below and a numb voice intoned the beat of the dance.

  With a clash of noise they abruptly came to a halt, uncertainty on their faces. There had been no confirmation of success, no cry of exultation and now fear began to creep in. Then came a whispered, “It is done…”, and the people exploded with joy, they hugged and kissed in relief and drunkenness.

  There was someone who did not cry, either in joy or in despair, a girl child who had heard the Minuet finish, the clock stop and waited. Her father’s voice had not been in time, it had taken too long. With one acerbic and calculating glance at the heaving mass of bodies, she turned away, to await her fate.

  It was then she felt the cold creep into her bones, then she saw the lights dim and the people pause and then she saw the smiling women enter, their eyes met and the creature began its own infinitely final dance……

  For Minutae

  Cardinal’s Palace

  Heavenly City

  Spindle

  Tiny, miniscule motes of almost nothingness can change a life. They can alter states of mind, political alliances and in fact decide the fate of a world. Jenni Kudwicki had experienced an entire day of such minutae, from her very first waking moment until what could very well be her last, insignificant acts had determined her up until now convoluted path.

  First had come the dropped basket of flowers, stalks and petals cascading unchecked down and across the floor of the nave. Their erratic skittering and her father’s cursed
imprecation had drawn the attention of the local clergy, and in particular that of Cardinal Urtz. The strangely dressed Cardinal, in his red silk cape and pure white cassock, had looked up at the noise, his gaze locking with that of Jenni’s. She had seen his eyes widen and had been childishly and innocently pleased, this was the first day that she had been allowed to dress in full skirt and blouse, and was proud of the fact that she was no longer considered a little child by her parents.

  Secondly, a simple smile of pleasure, one that would lead her and her family to the brink of death, and perhaps even worse. She had not, to her knowledge, invited the Cardinal’s further attention, nor the possessive way that he had grasped her arm. His foul breath causing her instinctive jerk of distaste, the rejection exaggerated as her long blond curls mirrored her movements. Had she slipped, she still wasn’t sure, but Urtz had tugged her closer and her father Stefan had gone wild.

  In all of her thirteen years, she had never seen the man she adored, in such a towering rage, his face a mask of fury. His rough hands had been balled into fists and one had smashed brutally into the Cardinal’s face, blood erupting and spattering down his white cassock, its redness mimicking that of his cape. That though had not been the end of it, the berserk maniac who she did not recognise had dragged the bloodied face down to meet his rising knee. As the now whimpering priest stumbled back, Stefan snatched up a stool and shattered it over the Cardinal’s head.

  Jenni had watched the colour drain from her father’s face, only to brutally return as the Church soldiers had beaten him into unconsciousness. They had helped the Cardinal to his feet and he spat blood and teeth out onto the floor of the Cathedral as he pronounced their fate. In particular she knew that it was not just they who would suffer, but all; four minutes was never going to be enough.

  *

  Now they were here, listening to the dead-pan tone of the acolyte as he counted down the last moments of their lives. Jenni watched the uncontrolled gyrations of the churchmen and their barely disguised excesses. Her mother, she knew, strained to protect her only child, but there was nothing to be done. Their restraints were tied tightly, pinching flesh and restricting blood flow.