Bread

by Stephen Brown

TAKEN FROM THE RIGHT AND ORDERLY NOTEBOOK OF SADFAEL THE MONK

  I now find myself more alone and confused than I have ever been in all my life. I shall endeavour, by these writings, to glean perhaps a small part of the explanation as to how I am... wherever it is I am. Much have I prayed to the Holy Father, but so far He has chosen not to answer, so all I can do is record the facts leading up to my present predicament in the hope that by doing so some answers and perchance some much prayed for guidance will be sent my way.

  I had through Divine Guidance and, methinks, not a small amount of luck, caught up with my quarry sooner than I had thought possible. He was not difficult to follow mind you - it was like following Johnston le Hat’s heifers after they had escaped and fled through the wheat field last year – only a thousand times more harrowing. I simply went from ruined village, to battered hamlet, through each of which a wide swathe of chaos and confusion had been cut.

  Oh! Was it only yesterday that I came to stand atop that craggy hill, overlooking the site where this demonic fiend had apparently been trapped? It seems like an impossible eternity to me now.

  Even without him in sight, the crowd’s reactions were too obvious to be coincidence. There was a small, single roomed hut surrounded by at least two score enraged God-fearing peoples of all denominations: peasant farmers, through soldiers and militiamen right up to the mounted nobles of a nearby keep. Fiery brands were being wielded, Holy Bibles were being quoted from, spears were brandished and accusations were flying about like nesting birds, flitting from one end of the mob to the other in a matter of moments.

  I muttered a silent prayer to give me strength for the confrontation to come, and headed down the grassy knoll into the morass, where I made the Lord’s presence known. After a moment or two, all but a few recalcitrant herdsmen were quiet, and I asked for a spokesman to tell me what the disturbance was concerned with.

  Unsurprisingly, it was one of the mounted peers that spoke. He declared himself to be Duke Duster of Nine Feathers Castle, a stout upholder of the law and a devout Christian. I could not help raising my eyebrows slightly at this, as I noticed the lack of a crucifix around the Nobleman’s throat.

  He explained that a moustachioed madman had attempted to subvert his entire population of serfs with evil demons and witchery. Thankfully he said they had not been duped, despite many of them being afflicted by his hideous spells. They had chased him as far as this hovel, kept him here whilst a sizable force was mustered, and they were now set to burn him for the abomination he undoubtedly was.

  I held my hand aloft at this juncture however and told them of my Holy Mission, from God Himself, to rid the land of this accursed fellow, whom I had been pursuing now for several weeks. They immediately conceded that if that were indeed the case then it was now well and truly in God’s hands. For the time being at least they agreed to hold back their torches and bade me luck, one and all, as I approached the door to the peasant’s house.

  Immediately as I reached the door though I heard a tortured sobbing from within and turned sharply to the crowd who were by now eager with anticipation of seeing the Lord’s work done and justice served. With a calmness that belied the tumultuous feelings that were running amuck inside my puny body I caught the Duke’s eye and asked who else was in there.

  In their satanically inspired bloodlust, perhaps pardonable under such trying circumstances, the gathered menfolk had neglected to mention that two individuals - the local hounds’ man, and a visiting London dog breeder to the high society - were trapped inside, along with the demonic cause of all this mayhem.

  Fearing the worst, but resolute, I squared my shoulders, breathed deeply and entered.

  What I saw inside sent my mind reeling in an instant! I had told the ugly mob outside to take no action unless I did not re-emerge in half an hour, but I could not help wishing that I had not intervened at all and instead had allowed the crowd to burn the hut and its occupants - all of them - to the ground.

  I know these are sinful thoughts indeed, but at least in taking that particular course of action I would have been saved from the terrifying moments that followed!

  Indeed, I would also have been spared the torment I am going through now… To continue though:

  There were flashing lights, as if a hundred multi-coloured will-o-wisps had been encased inside a number of boxes that lined one wall. The boxes were of metal I believe, but of a craftsmanship so fine that it would have been any Smith’s proudest day to show them off at his Village Fete. Also, there was a myriad of... I know not what - similar to ropes, yet much thinner and smoother - and these were criss-crossing all over two thirds of the room, like a tangled fishing net.

  Cowering to my right as I entered were the two innocents whom I had been told about: the Londoner, Paul Coddingtail and lying wounded in his lap was Albert Brass, the hounds’ man. The gentleman, Mr Coddingtail seemed remarkably on top of the situation and was keeping his head admirably. Mr Brass, however, would not last long I feared, as he was gibbering like a madman, thrashing and flailing about uncontrollably.

  Unfortunately I never had the chance to go to his aid directly however, as it was at this point that my eyes fell upon the very Antichrist himself! Surely this was the Devil in a human incarnation and although finding strength in my faith, I now feared for much more than my life.

  He – It - was connected to the boxes on the wall by a cluster of metallic tubes that appeared to suck on his head like a horde of leeches. I noticed that two of these led to a small, sealed casket upon which I was able to read the inscription ‘Caravan, 12 Volts’, although what this could have meant I did not have the time to speculate. After the event I can suppose this chest once belonged to a trader’s caravan, perhaps of twelve wagons in length and that it once was the property of a Mr Volt – however, this is nought but idle speculation and quite irrelevant as to what happened next.

  I crave the forgiveness of whomever is reading this account, but please try to understand that at the time of writing I am searching for anything – even a minor detail such as this – which may help me regain control of my most pitiable situation. I freely admit that I am desperate! Anyway, back to the events as they transpired inside the hovel.

  This devil, his eyes were quite clearly mad and the poor soul who had originally inhabited this body I can only hope had been mercifully pushed aside long ago, at the moment his body had been completely possessed. It was an hideous sight, and I at once crossed myself and began the exorcism rite I had been revising daily since my hurried departure from St. Malcolm’s. The Demon stared straight at me, feigning surprise.

  “What’s this?” he snorted. I immediately retorted with the next lines of the Latin incantation. He collapsed and I wondered hopefully if this would be easier than I had imagined. It quickly transpired though that he was laughing.

  “Oh no!” he mocked. “It’s the Exorcist, come to get me!” He screamed with more insane laughter which fair chilled my blood.

  Somehow I maintained enough presence of mind to motion for the two unfortunates to try and get out whilst I kept the Luciferian menace at bay. The next three lines of the Rite issued forth from my mouth to which the Lord of Illusion doubled up again in fits of wicked cackling.

  “Hokus pokus, gobble-di-gookus,” his gutter-tongue spewed back at me, each word poisoning the air with its foul blasphemy. “Espiritu Santi, my fat Auntie,” his abominations continued. “By the love of Christ and all that!” He waved a dangerous finger at me. “Don’t forget ‘Get thee behind me Satan!’”

  How I longed to close off my ears, to shut my eyes, to flee from the hovel and this devil incarnate, but the strength of God suffused my body allowing me somehow stand up to his despicable tauntings.

  “Look,” he said in yet another tone of voice, “I hope you’re not expecting my head to turn green and spin round full circle, projectile vomiting and all that.”

  I neither knew nor cared what he was talking about. I simply continued unbroken in my chant, speak
ing louder and louder as I went on in order to drown out his foul insanities. Eventually I was forced to shout as I neared the end because the lightning infested boxes had begun emitting loud and unearthly sounds.

  I stepped closer to the fiend, to drive the incantation home and also to prevent him from doing any more harm to the two men who, mercifully, I could see from the corner of my eye, were making good their escape through the door. The brave Mr. Coddingtail was having to drag poor Mr. Brass to the safety which lay outside, but he managed and by the Grace of God I knew that they were now safe.

  As I screamed the last words at the top of my voice, directly into the Demon’s face, the power of the exorcism rite began to take hold and smoke began to race from inside the tubes affixed to his head! Again he laughed insanely and his arms shot out to grasp my own - then, a blinding, searing white light, a deafening explosion and now he is nowhere to be seen, and I know not where I am...

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