Light from Aphelion 2 - Tears of Winter

by Martine Carlsson

  Louis looked at Selen and prepared himself for the worst. However, Selen did not speak nor cry. He turned towards Louis and curled his willowy body against his chest, his face buried in his hair against his neck. Louis hugged him. No, not until the end of the week, one last day only, he thought with anger.

  “Do you know how we can find a cure?” Louis asked Lissandro.

  “We need to identify the disease first. I talked with Brother Benedict, but he had never seen that either.”

  “Maybe it happened before. Maybe they had a cure. Our only chance is the archives,” Louis said. His neck turned moist. Selen cried in silence. Louis kissed the side of his head and cupped it in his hand.

  “I thought about it,” Lissandro said. “The archives of the palace are a mess and not old enough. Brother Benedict said that if I want to find something, I should go to Tremeven Abbey.”

  “It’s where his apprentice comes from. Where is the abbey?” Louis asked.

  “Only a day’s ride to the northwest. I want to take the chance,” Lissandro said.

  Louis snorted. “Maybe you will find something, or maybe you will lose your time. Those monks won’t help us. They probably rejoice at our torment. God answered their prayers, sending the final punishment for the taxes I put on them and for the abolition of the tithe. They preach poverty, but shake one of them, and gold will pour down as ripe fruits from a tree.”

  “Don’t you push it a bit too far? They can’t rejoice at such a thing,” Lissandro grunted.

  “We’re talking about monks, with their stupid lives and stoical, useless virtues. At least, those tyrants already lock themselves away,” Louis said.

  “This is not our world, Louis. Maybe here they have evolved.” Lissandro bobbed his head. “Look at Benedict.”

  “Too much religion leads to fanaticism, whatever the name you put on the belief. Those men feed on ignorance. They are the enemies of freedom, our enemies.” Louis expected to fight more complacency from Lissandro, but the latter stayed quiet. “Anyway. If you still want to try, leave tomorrow at dawn, before I impose a total quarantine. Now that we are unsure of the disease, no one gets out.”

  Lissandro pushed himself up from the fauteuil and nodded before heading for the door. Josselin took his leave and followed him out.

  Monks, our only hope lay in monks. Louis felt anger grew in him, but his attention was drawn to his friend in his arms. Selen had fallen asleep. Louis slid an arm under Selen’s knees, gathered his strength, and carried him to the bed. Carefully, he undressed Selen.

  “Don’t…don’t want…die,” Selen mumbled in his sleep.

  Louis bent over him and loosened the ribbon in his hair. “No, you won’t. None of us is going to die,” he whispered. “Sleep now.”

  Louis removed his own clothes and crept onto the bed. When he lay down at his side and drew the blankets over their naked bodies, Selen barely stirred. Like every evening, Louis’s fingers groped lightly under Selen’s armpits and on his groin but detected no swelling. Selen’s skin still smelled of the mint and lavender he used at the hospital. The last flames of the fire were dying out. Louis didn’t believe in a cure more than he believed in providential help. Cradling his friend in his arms, Louis cursed against his own powerlessness.

  8

  After a whole day riding in the cold, Lissandro looked forward to arriving at the abbey. The abbeys he had seen in his world were charming places with trim, colorful gardens and old stones. The monks probably specialized in a beer or a wine and, with luck, he would be served a tasty, smelly cheese to accompany it. His stomach already grumbled with expectation.

  The Tremeven abbey was located on the slope of the mountains. Lissandro’s motivation decreased when he got a first look at the abbey. Standing on her rocky spur, it soared, austere and dark. The old building in grey limestone, constructed in terraces, missed only the swirling bats to complete the picture. The way leading towards it was half covered with slush and snow. From the porches of the shabby shacks standing along the path, mucky villagers stared at him with gloomy eyes. Lissandro crossed a group of peasants carrying beets and parsnips to the abbey. Some of them wore torn open shoes fixed with ropes. Lissandro followed the men to a postern in the abbey’s walls. Under the control of two brown-frocked monks, the peasants poured their crops into large baskets, while a man sitting at a small table counted coins and made notes in a register. Though he couldn’t discern the currency used, Lissandro judged pitiful the three small coins dropped in the peasants’ begging hands. With such low wages, those people were probably held in an eternal bondage towards the abbey. Something told Lissandro that the progressive laws of the city had not reached that part of the country. Lissandro dismounted. Making his way alongside the line of peasants, he headed towards the postern.

  An aged, surly monk coming from the other side drove him backwards. “The way is closed. Use the main gate.”

  “Charming,” Lissandro mumbled and, pulling his horse behind, walked towards the gatehouse. The large doors were closed, as sealed. No guards stood on the side. Lissandro knocked. A peephole on the wicket gate opened.

  “What is it?” someone grunted.

  “My name is Lissandro Lorca. I come from Nysa Serin on the king’s order.”

  The peephole slammed shut. His boots soaking up the slush, Lissandro waited until he wondered if the abbey had received the message of his coming or if he would have to make the way back in the middle of the night. The door unbolted.

  “Get in.”

  Instead of the Paradise’s doors Lissandro had expected, the gate opened on a dirty courtyard where the donkeys’ dung’s aroma vied with the one of the nearby latrines. Figures wrapped up in their frocks hurried from one outbuilding to another. The monk at his side, half hidden under his hood, poked him.

  “Follow me.”

  A young, meager monk, probably a novice, came to fetch his horse and, once Lissandro had picked up his bags, left without a word. Lissandro gave up deluding himself on the probability of a warm welcome by jovial monks and followed his guide. At least, the Romanesque architecture was worth the visit. The massive stone façade was sculpted with foliage and rosettes, and two square towers rose on each side. The windows were small apertures not larger than arrow holes in a gatehouse. They entered the main building by a wide doorway surmounted by a semi-circular arch and, in the racket of their footsteps, followed a low hallway into a cloister. A soft rime-covered basin took center stage in a garden of yellow grass and naked bushes. From between the gallery’s arcades, a monk came towards them. His black frock indicated a higher status. After the man had made a gesture with his hand, the doorkeeper left Lissandro’s side and minced back the way they had come.

  “Welcome to our community. My name is Abbot Tronchet. We received words from the palace that you come to us in search of information. It’s with sorrow that we have learned of the disease striking our capital. Be assured that we pray day and night for the gods to help you in this adversity. Please, follow me.”

  “I would gladly welcome your help in my task,” Lissandro said. He followed the abbot under the gallery, through a doorway, and up a staircase. “I need to search the archives for a first mention of the disease.”

  “Yes. It was written in the message. We have already prepared some books for you to read. You will begin your work in the library tomorrow with Brother Gildas.”

  “Tomorrow? But the sun is just about to set. It must be four in the afternoon. I can start now.”

  “Now is time for vespers. We do not receive visitors nor non-religious guests. During your stay, you will have to follow our rules. You do not need to participate, but you have to assist. It will instruct you. Someone with a face as lewd as yours must be in need of holy words.”

  You have no idea, Lissandro thought, repressing a smile.

  The abbot opened one of the doors in the hallway. “This is your cell. One of our brothers will fetch you in a few minutes.”

  Lissandro stepped in and
heard the door’s bolt slide into its socket behind his back. He stretched his arms. The tips of his fingers reached the cold and moist stone walls on both sides. This was without any doubt a cell, not even considering the thickness of the doors he had seen until now. He put his bags on the table and headed towards the narrow window. The shutter squeaked as he opened it. Behind the iron bars, Lissandro had a majestic view on the fields and woods stretching north. He heard the croak of a raven and lowered his gaze. Several feet below, lights shone from the inside of the houses in the peasants’ hamlet. Somewhere, a dog barked. Lissandro wondered if this place had ever been blessed by the summer warmth. The pull of the lock followed by a knock on the door drew him from his reverie.

  “Coming.” Lissandro stepped towards the door and went out.

  An old monk stared at him with a smile. “This way, please.” The man raised his lantern to the left. “I see you have a hood on your cloak. It would be wise of you to pull it over your face.”

  “Why?” Lissandro looked at the man, surprised.

  “We do not have beautiful young men here. You may disturb our brothers in their prayers.”

  “I thought you had settled here to enjoy meditation in the mountains’ silence. I didn’t know your faith was so weak that you needed the world to hide from your eyes to avoid falling into sin,” Lissandro retorted while they went down a flight of stairs. The hallways were poorly lit and inhabited by drafts.

  The old man snorted. “This world has fallen into sin. We are here to preserve us from its corruption. What happened in Nysa Serin is a judgment of the gods.”

  Oh, Sodom and Gomorrah once again. Too bad that the Whore of Babylon wore the angel wings this time, Lissandro thought and made a face.

  Lissandro followed the monk to the temple. About fifty monks already sat in the first rows. Lissandro took a seat on a bench at the rear. Half hidden by a column, he could observe the monks and the paintings on the nave at leisure. The abbot rose and addressed to the community in a language Lissandro did not understand. Ancient Trevaldian. You must be kidding me, Lissandro thought.

  For what seemed an eternity, Lissandro gazed at the faces of the monks taking turns behind the lectern, observed the carvings on the walls and capitals, and thought of the Frozen Mountains. Lulled by the repetitive prayers, he fell into slumber. A hand on his shoulder woke him up.

  “It’s time for the collation,” a monk whispered to him.

  “A meal at last,” Lissandro exclaimed with joy.

  “No. No meal. Now we will discuss the Scriptures.”

  Lissandro moaned and endured the rest of the ceremonial wrapped up in his cloak.

  The bells rang the end of Compline. Abbot Tronchet walked towards him and stared at him with condescension.

  “If you wanted my lewd ears to rejoice and be imbued of the holy words, you could have talked in the common tongue,” Lissandro grumbled.

  “You must be a man of little faith. The pious atmosphere of our ceremonial should have reached your heart as it does to our villagers who are enthralled by the gods’ message. I will escort you back to your cell.”

  Lissandro pushed himself up from the bench, massaged his sore thighs and bottom, and left the temple with the abbot. “I can only react to a message when I grasp its meaning. Besides, I prefer to consult the Scriptures than to listen to the interpretation.”

  “This is a slippery slope leading to heresy. Common men should not discuss the Scriptures.” The abbot turned towards him. “Common men should not write the laws.”

  “I thought abbeys provided education to the people. Don’t you form oblates?”

  “We don’t have oblates since the king made it obligatory for the boys to join the public schools. The only children left are the ones of the peasants too poor to send their sons to the capital,” Abbot Tronchet grumbled. “And what will this man teach those poor boys?” the abbot added rhetorically.

  Lissandro noted the disgust on the word man. “What do you mean?” Lissandro asked.

  “Those schools will fill our children’s heads with impure thoughts and irreverence. What kind of world will it be once the commoners won’t fear the gods’ wrath anymore?”

  The gods’ or the lords’? Lissandro thought. “Soon you will tell me that Nysa Serin is the capital of sin,” he said with a smirk.

  “How could it be otherwise with the king’s tendencies for acts against nature? This king and his so-called queen fed the offspring of their lustfulness indulging in depraved activities. This royal couple is an abomination flaunted to the face of the world. And all those reforms promoting sedition will lead our country to its ruin.”

  Wow. You really don’t fear to fall for treason. Lissandro grinned inwardly. If the monk only knew what kind of man he had at his side. Lissandro rejoiced at the idea to put his immoral hands on their books and his pernicious lips on their cups. He would have loved to kiss the abbot. The mark would have stayed. The men here didn’t seem fond of baths. “Is love an abomination?”

  “Love?” the abbot snickered. “Temptation of flesh. Luxury. No, we can only address our love to the gods—”

  “And to our neighbors,” Lissandro added. “As in compassion.”

  “Well, that too. But our devotion and admiration should only be towards the divines. Only the gods must we serve.”

  The abbot nearly drooled at his own words. Those monks were not without temptation. Their sexuality was entirely oriented on the gods and goddesses. Where the king sucks the queen’s nipple, those monks dream to suck the ones of the goddesses, Lissandro thought. They could call the nipple holy or virginal and the act a spiritual joy, but it didn’t make it less a nipple. Lissandro considered that to be turned on by a superior and fatherly being such as a god was by far unhealthier than to feel genuine desire for a fellow man. But what did those monks know about love anyway? As they reached the door of his cell, Lissandro turned to the abbot. “What are the worst crimes in the Holy Scriptures?” Lissandro asked.

  “Adultery, rape, greed, and murder are among the worst,” the man answered with certitude.

  “All these acts are abhorred by the royal couple, and all except adultery, which is a private matter, are now forbidden by the king’s laws. The king and the queen are the gods’ creatures, aren’t they? And all is the gods’ will?” The abbot nodded. Lissandro smiled. “As they can’t change what they are according to the notion of fate, so the gods put them in a situation from which there is no escape. You can’t consider that the gods are capable of such evil. So the only possibility is that their attraction to each other is the gods’ will.” Lissandro stepped inside his cell and closed the door with the intense satisfaction to have given the abbot a sleepless night.

  His stomach twisted with hunger. If only I hadn’t eaten my last piece of bread. He found a dusty jar under the bed, unlaced his pants, and pissed in it. It was best not to present his lewd face in the latrines. He emptied the pot through the window between the bars and, with his nails, tried to scrape the shutter to him. In vain. He pulled on his hood, unfolded a blanket he took from his bag, and curled under it on the mattress. Without a candle, it was useless to stay awake.

  The bells woke Lissandro up. Grumbling, he looked through the window. It was still the middle of the night. Alarmed, he jumped up and rushed outside his cell. A monk walked by in the hallway.

  “What’s happening? Is there a fire?” Lissandro asked.

  “A fire? It’s Matins. Come. We are already late,” the monk answered.

  Repressing the need to bite his fingers off, Lissandro accompanied the man to the temple.

  As he sat on one of the benches, someone whose features were hidden by a large hood leaned over him.

  “Follow me.”

  Too happy to escape, Lissandro slipped out of the temple and followed his mysterious guide through staircases and hallways. They halted in front of a door that the man unbolted with a large set of keys. Once inside the room, Lissandro gasped with admiration. The quantity of ma
nuscripts and archives was superior to the library in the palace. It stretched on a whole floor, alongside desks, and snail stairs led to upper levels. Lissandro turned to the monk who was fixing his lantern on a hook. The man pushed his hood back, revealing the face of the old monk who had escorted him the day before. The monk had a mischievous smile on his face.

  “I don’t understand,” Lissandro uttered, puzzled.

  “I am Brother Gildas. Forgive my foul-smelling words yesterday, but I do not trust men I haven’t tested before. I wanted to make sure that you wouldn’t approve our abbot’s philosophy.”

  “Why?” Lissandro asked.

  “Because in that case, I wouldn’t have given you your book.” The monk smiled and trotted towards a ladder he rolled to a shelf. Lissandro tagged along. “You have to save our capital. Our king must prevail.” The monk handed him several volumes that Lissandro piled into his arms. “These reforms are a benediction men like Brother Benedict and I have waited for a long time.”

  “Do you know Brother Benedict?”

  “Of course. We studied together in this abbey before Benedict decided to oppose Tronchet’s vision and got expulsed from our walls. I should have followed him, but I am not that young anymore. Take a seat at one of the empty desks. We will examine these books.”

  Lissandro headed towards one desk and put the books down. He blew the dust from the leather covers. No titles were written on the front. He opened the first book on the pile and observed the colorful illustrations with admiration. The lantern’s light reflected on the golden and the silver. Lissandro barely dared to touch the corners of the pages. As he folded the pages, he noticed that the entire manuscript was written in ancient Trevaldian.

  “I’m sorry, Brother. But I can’t read this language.”

  “I know. Only a few still can. I saw how you watched our nave. I assumed that you would enjoy leafing through the illustrations.”

  “If only a few still can, then the prayers…”