Bread

by Stephen Brown

TAKEN FROM THE RIGHT AND ORDERLY NOTEBOOK OF SADFAEL THE MONK

  If I am to believe what I have so far discovered, then our Lord - in his infinite wisdom - would appear to be testing me far more than I could ever have imagined. In fact, what I have racing through my mind right now could be construed as heretical, even blasphemous!

  Simply to think of myself being in the situation I am in, having undergone all that I have, would cause even a flagellant trouble! He would run out of birch and have cramp in both arms before he had managed to thrash even half the sin out. And yet think it I must and my journey has only just begun.

  I sit here writing this in surroundings which are as outlandish, foreign and downright other-worldly as anything I have ever known or heard of in all my life. Now I am aware that, with much of my time on God’s green earth having been spent within the walls of the St. Malcolm’s, there will be my critics who would perhaps suggest that another, more well-travelled man might not be suffering the same culture shock as I.

  Well, I concede that that is possible, but I must let it be known that at no point in my narrative have I exaggerated in any way and I must also point out my very firm belief that no matter how well travelled a man may be, were he to find himself in my position and had he not the same depth of faith as I, he would find himself, methinks, faced with such a level of insurmountable confusion and doubt that he may never recover! Whether I do or not is in the hands of the Lord.

  I have been put up in mystifyingly sumptuous accommodation by the vicar of the local parish, the wooden cot I am used to having been replaced by the bed and furnishings of a King!

  This is my second night here since I awoke - for I do not mind admitting that I fainted during my tussle with the devil, though not at first, I might add. I was fully awake and aware during my confrontation with the Satanic foe back in the hut. It was only afterwards that my wits failed me, after an enormous bang and once all the smoke had cleared, when my surroundings presented themselves to me. When I found myself I knew not where, I knew not how.

  If truth be told, I thought myself to have been transported to the Outer Circle of Hell, but this first supposition has since been proved erroneous.

  I shall list the facts plainly as they would appear to stand, however far fetched, and then explain how I have come to accept my situation - as accept it I must, lest I go mad!

  It would appear that I have been catapulted several hundred years into the future - and a very strange future it is, in this, anno domini two thousand and nine!

  I know, I know, but as preposterous a claim as it seems, it is the only explanation to be found, and here is how I came across it.

  As the smoke cleared and I took in - well, everything - I could not make out what on earth had happened and then upon looking around, as I said, I fainted dead away from shock. When I came to again, I found a small cluster of people gathered around me, all dressed very differently than we do. I was lying at the foot of a nice and comfortable looking wooden bench. The floor was hard and not dissimilar to flagstones once they have been warmed by the sun, although there was only one unbroken piece stretching as far as I could see.

  I was carried into a neat little church which, I noticed as I was lifted through the doors, bore the inscription ‘Bramfield Chapel’ and as I learned later that day it lay nestled in a small village similarly named Bramfield.

  Most of the parishioners were ushered out, leaving only a dear old lady and the vicar of the parish. I was brought around by a milky, sweet, hot herbal drink of tea and was delicately probed with numerous concerned questions. By my clothing, so unlike theirs, they thought that I had been to a celebration of some sort that required the participants to dress up in costume, as the nobility are wont to do. Having ascertained that this was not the case and that I was not under the influence of the Devil’s own brew, they asked me to explain what I was doing and, indeed, who I was.

  Having been told, the look on their faces gave away the fact that they were both of the mind that I was a hopeless lunatic; a poor, ranting simpleton, scratching a living in-between the worlds of the capable and the dependant.

  A discreet look from the vicar encouraged the old lady to make her excuses and leave. Then the vicar, the Reverend Gawdley Pinball, asked me once again to explain myself. So one more time did I recount to him my story so far – both the Heavenly quest and my terrible dislocation. Throughout my narrative he interspersed in timely places, asking astute questions and clarifying things within his own mind.

  I like the Reverend Pinball, I must say here. He is kind, wise, intelligent and most humble – the very soul of compassion. Or so he appears and whilst I admittedly know very little of him beyond first impressions, the respect he generates in his community adds a not inconsiderable weight to my own humble suppositions.

  Having finished this retelling of my tale of woe, he invited me to pray with him in the chapel, and then to look at the Holy Book of the Parish of Bramfield. And it was here, in the Parish Book that I learned what I now know and which troubles me so deeply.

  Flicking through the early pages of this aged book the Reverend somewhat excitedly traced the lines of script with his finger and read out certain excerpts from several passages.

  “Here, look,” he said. “‘Thee next week after that most dreadful of combats with thee foul Devil, only after seven days of glad rejoicing had taken place, but days that were also used for remembering such a sad loss and noble sacrifice, thee Church commissioned a chapel to be built in honour of that brave and most humblest of Brothers…’” He fell silent here, murmuring to himself as his finger travelled over a few more lines of text. “Here we go: ‘…that bravest soul who most willingely gave himself up unto the bosom of thee Lord, that heroic monk sent out from St. Malcolm’s wythe his singular purpose to banish that foul figure of evil, Beelzebub Himself.

  ‘Therefore do we pay honour and tribute in this, thee very Heart of thee Parish, to that Knight Protector, that Paladin of the Lord, Brother Bramfiel.’”

  “Bramfiel?” I almost shouted. “Bramfiel?” The good Reverend put a hand to my shoulder to settle my shock.

  “Brother Sadfael, calm yourself, please! It could easily be a mistake in the translation. You see the inscription stone, which supposedly marks the exact spot of the exorcism, was so faded with age and the effects of the elements that it was removed some years ago and a commemorative bench was erected in its place.”

  “But, but, the book,” I stammered. “The book must be accurate, surely?” He shook his head in a way which suggested this may not be the case.

  “Well, we think it is, or did anyway, but the original parish book was damaged by floodwaters some four hundred years ago.” So approximately five hundred years after my own time! “It was copied immediately afterwards, so in the early to mid Seventeenth century, but parts of it, certain words, had to be guessed at in places.

  “The name ‘Bramfiel’ was chosen as the most appropriate from examining the faded inscription left chiselled into what has since been made the foundation stone of our lovely new pulpit.” He signalled to the admittedly magnificent structure to the right of the altar.

  Unlikely as it may seem then, it would appear that upon touching me, the Devil managed to transport me several hundred years into the future without actually moving my feet! So ironically, although I had moved scarcely a yard, I am now further away from home than I could ever possibly conceive.

  Despite my troubles though it is of huge consolation to me that I had seemingly managed to complete the exorcism successfully, thus freeing all those tortured peons of Duke Duster from that hideous creature’s depredations. It is also humbling in the extreme to find that a church and indeed an entire village has been named in my honour! Incorrectly named, maybe, but the thought was there and one must not succumb to the sin of pride, must one?

  My relief was short lived however, for something was announced this very morning which leaves me to believe that my work is not yet done, and that the Devil abounds s
till in this very parish!

  This latest aberration occurred some time in the early hours of this morning. Unfortunately it would seem that several Holy Artefacts have been taken from the very chapel in which I am staying! A range of ceremonial robes, aspersoria and other silverware, crooks, crucifixes, plates and a wide variety of other religious icons have been removed by a man who was only glimpsed by chance by an individual who delivers milk to several of the houses in the village. From the little he saw, it is beyond doubt I fear that my nemesis is biting his thumb at us once more.

  At around five of the morning clock, Bedward D’Elevere, the ‘milkman,’ observed a man in his fifth decade - or sixth; in the light it was difficult to tell - whilst out on his daily rounds. Quite brazenly this man entered the chapel by the front doors and although his hair was wild and unruly, in all other aspects he looked from a distance not unlike the Reverend Pinball: staunchly built at around five feet and seven inches tall.

  It was only natural for this D’Elevere to assume the vicar had got up early on Parish business, perhaps in a rush, had been unable to brush his hair in time, so he thought no more about it at the time.

  Now though, in the clear light of day, it is heart-rending to see that the sanctity of the Church itself has been violated. The Artefacts and the Relics of the Chapel have been feloniously removed in their entirety. Gone! Stolen!

  Worrying. Very worrying indeed.

  ***