The Parchment (The Memory of Blood)

by Sylvie Brisset

  Childeric had decided to find the devil's mark on her. He had made her undress, shaved, had stung her with that dreadful needle to find the sensitive area where Satan would have marked her. She screamed her pain, had begged him to stop this torment. But the monk continued relentlessly, even in the most intimate areas of her body. The mere sight of the sharp torture device was enough to cause her uncontrollable tremors. Her body was only a painful mass. She did not know how to position herself, the slightest touch of her skin was unbearable. She had vomited, cried, screamed her distress, also prayed to God, increasingly louder to cover his iniquitous voice.

  Traces of needles had caused infection to the great satisfaction of the monk who had plenty of choices to locate the demonic marks. Her skin was striated with marks of needle and suppurating buttons.

  From that day she had not said a word. She was afraid of going insane. She would have liked to request the presence of her confessor, but refrained in time before the monk did interpret this request as a confession. She prayed and prayed, with all her strength, for God to grant her a dignified death and host her away from this world of pain and shame, to give her oblivion.

  But she did not pray hard enough, or was unworthy of the Lord's help, because the trial had continued. She had lost track of time, had built a wall of silence around her.

  From prison, she sometimes heard the invectives of passers screaming "Death to the Sorceress!" She couldn't see them but had no doubt. It was for her they were intended.

  She focused her thoughts on her children, her little girl of seven years with rosebud lips, and her son of twenty-five years, officer in the Navy. Her other children had died in childbirth or in their first year.

  Thinking of them hurt her too. She was ashamed. She suffered the humiliation that fell on them too. Fortunately her son was stationed far from here, but what about her small, so beautiful spring flower. Who was telling her knight stories in the evening, to prevent her from having nightmares? Who gave her the morning kiss? Tears streamed down her cheeks, and she prayed for her two cubs. Only they now gave her the strength to resist these torments. They were her reason for living, her secret garden, her strength and weakness. What would become of them? She prayed for them.

  The day before, like every day now, the monk had come to her cell, asking her to repent and confess. He had promised to uproot the evil of her body. He would do it the very next day, by force if necessary. And she wondered what would be done the next day, hoping to get the end of all this, and dreading the dawn. His executioner was the only one allowed to visit her. And each time, he exhorted her to repent for the salvation of her soul. His vicious eyes had become the very picture of the evil, to resist his imprecations became her crusade.

  CHAPTER - 2 -

  When the accused was pushed into the hall of judgment, she wanted to look at neither the crowd nor the ecclesiastics. She only wanted to pray, and forget where she was.

  The judge nodded to the monk to speak. There again, he gathered his papers into a neat pile. When he was satisfied with his work, he rose and, after a quick genuflect before the crucifix, turned to the crowd waiting impatiently for what would come next. It was announced that today would be the culmination, the day the witch would repent. Peasants had assembled, in order not to miss anything of the scene of her probation.

  "Men of little faith! Remember the elements that led us to hold this proceeding on behalf of our Lord, the opportunity that we have given to the accused to defend herself, to leave the road to perdition that she was following, to save her soul, and to renounce evil. Remember the devil and his minions are everywhere!" He pointed to the crowd, which drew back, murmuring. "It is our sacred duty to pursue and destroy them! The Evil is lurking everywhere, only acts of faith can protect us, for the glory of our Lord. You are ALL unworthy of Him! Only His sheep will be saved, others will remain the goats to Satan for eternity. They will suffer eternal damnation! Repent! Kneel before the Lord! Kneel, disbelievers!"

  The peasants looked undecided, then knelt in loud noises and hung their heads in reverence and submission. The monk raised his hand for silence.

  "Good Christians have told us of suspicious behaviours of the accused. We know that women are naturally inclined to witchcraft, infidelity and lust and this is no exception. Remember, who ate the fruit of the tree of life in the Garden of Eden? Who gave them to the man who took them? Baron Tower was put to death seven long years ago. And we know that widows are particularly tempted by evil, without a husband to remind them the right way. All are whores and daughters of Satan!"

  He spat his last words with force and again pointed to the crowd. A hen cackled, but nobody laughed. He paused and resumed his diatribe with a voice more cantankerous, more and more threatening.

  "These heretics sow the disaster. They make men impotent and women sterile! Kill foetuses in the wombs of mothers! Destroy crops! Celebrate black Sabbaths in the moonlight! Have sex against nature, and these are just a few of their sinister plans. This female demon refused to renounce Satan! She is impure!"

  He paused again, catching his breath, scanning the crowd that looked down, afraid to get his attention. He had deliberately used simple words to be sure they understood his speech. He shouted so loudly that no one was required to be present in the room to follow his harangue.

  The crowd that thronged inside and outside was strangely silent and relieved to be only spectator. If they could develop doubts at the beginning of the trial on the guilt of Lady Tower, everything now demonstrated that the charges were based. They felt betrayed by this woman who had been one of them, and discovered her in a new light.

  "So we did conduct a survey according to the rules of our Holy Mother Church," Childeric continued.

  "Have you conducted it according to rules of the Malleus Maleficarum?" one of the assessors asked.

  In fact he feared that the monk has resorted to torture, as was mentioned in the manual. But the monk did not understand it well.

  "I have no need of this collection to recognize a witch when I see one. And this woman is satanic," he added, pointing to the accused. "Lady Tower is a witch! A daughter of her Master Satan! She brought evil upon your community!"

  He shouted these words to stir the wrath of the crowd, which booed the accused. The monk waited for the cries to cease before continuing.

  "You heard, like me, the evidence. This female killed her husband, this lustful female practiced satanic rituals, this female is a servant of Satan! And all those who claim otherwise are merely their servants too! So ask yourself the question, to whom do you give allegiance? Is it to Our Lord or Satan?"

  The crowd stood up and again clamoured for her killing. Lady Tower saw them holding up their fists to her. The guards were struggling to maintain the assembly back.

  "Death to the Sorceress! Kill her!"

  The cry had been launched from the outside, but was quickly taken up by the whole congregation.

  The judge banged his gavel on the table without getting silence. The cries continued. The monk let them boo the woman and returned to his desk to take one of his parchments. He came back at the dais, raised his hand, and the crowd felt silent immediately.

  "Did she confess?" the judge asked.

  "It is useless. She has the mark of the devil."

  An aghast "oh!" greeted this statement. All peered at the accused in the hope of discovering the dawn trace.

  Brother Childeric marched against the accused, who looked terrified, seeking an escape. He tore the shreds of her shirt and revealed her torso, then turning sharply to the crowd, pointed to her breasts filled with purulent scars.

  "Look! Look! The claw marks of Satan!"

  She tried to cover her body, but all had seen and took a step back, frightened. The judge frowned, not knowing how to interpret this development. The monk, disgusted by the contact of the woman, pushed her violently and she felt to the ground in a clanking of chains. She remained motionless, prostrate, ashamed at having been exhibited.

/>   "Bring her daughter!" the monk yelled.

  Hearing this, the woman reacted and screamed.

  "No! Let my daughter go!"

  "Look! She tries to protect another servant of the devil! This is proof that the mother and daughter are guilty!"

  "No!" screamed Lady Tower

  The crowd parted, letting pass a little girl. She advanced bravely to the crowd, while a guard pushed her towards the monk. She looked all around, probably looking for a friendly face, but all turned away with frightened eyes, making the sign of the cross.

  That's when she saw her mother, on the ground, in torn clothes. It had been days since she had seen her, and she tried to throw herself into her arms. She had to tell her all the unkind things people said about her and her mother.

  But the woman looked away. The little girl stopped dead, prohibited. How could she imagine that her mother did not want, by showing her love, make her her accomplice? That the rejection was the only way for her not being the road to ruin? The little girl watched her mother, fighting back tears. She held out her arms to her, pleading, begging her not to abandon her, as the other did. But her mother remained kneeling, eyes fixed to the ground, fleeing her eyes, seeming to repudiate her.

  Then the little girl left her arms fall slowly down her body. It could not be her mother. Hers was so pretty, she took her in her arms, tickled to make her laugh.

  Why should she repudiate her? She had done nothing wrong. What others had said was true! She was alone now, she understood. She threw a look of hatred to the woman who had taken the appearance of her mother, certain she would receive it even if she avoided looking at her.

  The monk was jubilant. The case was carried out efficiently. She was going to confess and the mother and daughter would suffer the just punishment.

  Lady Tower got up painfully, rattling her chains. She looked at the crucifix, and then her eyes went down to the judges, these ecclesiastics who had eaten several times at her table. Her gaze then went into the crowd, these men and women she had supported, cared for, fed and who now demanded her execution. She dared not look her daughter. But what would become of her, and her son? She had to prove her innocence, right away. The urgency gripped her. But how to succeed where she had failed for nearly two weeks? But she had to, for her daughter for her son, for her name. She had to end this travesty of justice, before losing her mind, before her children suffered the same fate.

  Enjoying the silence of the room, she turned to the judge, and said in a voice that she hoped was strong and steady.

  "I am innocent of the facts which I am accused of. I ask the ordeal, the judgment of God."

  A new murmur ran through the audience. The judge frowned, puzzled and turned to the monk.

  "Brother Childeric? This request seems admissible."

  But the monk did not seem to share this view. He was red with anger when he spoke to the accused.

  "How dare you, bitch, ask anything? And what right? Have you forgotten? You must not put the Lord your God to the test. Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain. Repent! Renounce Satan!"

  Lady Tower did not however let him impress her and turned to the judge. The embarrassment that they showed was the only hope that she has been given since the beginning of the procedure. She knelt down and prayed the Lord as his judges.

  "I beg your mercy."

  The audience was stirred, not wanting to be deprived of the expected show. The test could take many forms and imaginations were rife.

  The monk looked at the crowd and judges. He preferred to receive the confession of the witch. He was sure to get it. Such was the mission entrusted to him by the Lord. Hunt the servants of Satan, make them atone for their sins, and give them the right punishment. He did not care about what the crowd was waiting for. Anyway, they were only lost sheep that he had to turn to the right path, and away from demons.

  The judge called for silence. He hesitated on what to do. The crowd demanded a victim. He regarded Lady Tower with esteem, but a woman's life was nothing. Whether she was a witch or not, she probably had done something wrong, otherwise she would not be in this court. But he disapproved any form of torture, he had to canalize the monk’s acrimony, without openly confronting him. Lady Tower gave him perhaps this opportunity.

  "Do we have acid-test which would not object to the Malleus Maleficarum, but that would satisfy everyone, Brother Childeric? The search for truth can also be done with dignity. Ducking, maybe? The carpenter had just finished the new water mill for our master weavers."

  The monk had a disgusted grimace. These judges were weak-willed. He would have to investigate to determine the extent of their spinelessness. Anyway he had no doubt. The ducking test would only confirm his beliefs.

  "Okay."

  The crowd rustled, questioning the nature of the torture. Was it bone-crushing boots, would they disarticulate her body with the strappado, tear her fingernails out with pliers, fill her nostrils with quicklime? Assumptions rang out. They were taught by the hawkers about incredible things that were happening on the continent. She was just a witch who had made a pact with the devil, hidden in the middle of their community.

  "We will make ducking trial. Go fetch the water mill!”

  With this appeal, discussions resumed, rising like a wave. If the witch goes into the mill, the carpenter would have to make a new one. Undoubtedly, the weaver would still prefer to use a washing mill rather a demon’s water mill.

  All stood aside to let four men bring a big tub. Following the instructions of the monk, they placed it in front of the dais.

  A chain was formed to fill it with water. When the level was satisfactory, the monk blessed the tub and explained to the crowd the following events.

  "This water is holy. It rejects Satan's children. The heretic will remain on the surface of the water. It will prove her true nature!"

  The crowd came closer to have a better view. They were disappointed. Why did the monk not usher her to the creek outside the village? Certainly it was not very deep, but at least everyone could enjoy the show! They were curious to see a swimming witch.

  Lady Tower was pushed in front of the tub. She silently thanked God that the monk had not selected a more painful ordeal to prove her innocence, or better said her guilt. She wanted to see her daughter one last time, but the little girl turned her back conspicuously, probably holding against her having ended up in such a situation.

  The monk had taken her everything, even her own daughter. She felt her throat tighten with sobs. She wanted so much to embrace her again in her arms, saying sweet words, to reassure her. She also wanted to confess to a priest before dying, to ask God to forgive her.

  The crowd seemed to protest the choice of her end. Would she keep too much waiting, the monk could reverse his decision, and she was not certain to resist what his madness could whisper to him. Better to finish, quickly.

  She looked at the dirty water that would be her shroud, and shivered with cold and fear. The monk laughed evilly, seeing her reaction.

  "Holy Water scares you, Witch? Doesn’t it?"

  She swallowed the ball of anxiety in her throat, looked at the crucifix and made the sign of the cross. May Lord God have mercy on her!

  She tried to get into the tub but the chains weighed her down and were too short to allow her to step over the side of the bath. Laughter rose from the audience to her difficulty in moving. Smutty jokes rang out without his author being visible.

  At a sign from the judge, one of the guards swung her unceremoniously splashing around.

  The crowd came nearer, bitching, seeing nothing, waiting for the appearance of Lady Tower’s head. The little girl struggled from the grip of the guards and ran to the tub. She was so small, she had to jump and almost felt also into the vat. The crowd laughed at her poor attempts. But she did not give up and managed to hang on the edge, looking for her mother.

  She saw her resting at the bottom, masked face down. Her hair seemed to want to hide her behind a moving
seaweed curtain gently driven by the current. The little girl called her mother, in pathetic cries that silenced the assembled crowd. She reached for the cold water but just succeeded to touch a piece of cloth that floated.

  Lady Tower was jerking. Her chains struck against the sides the tub. The villagers looked into it, not wanting to miss the moment when her head would emerge. Some already claimed to see her hair turned into snakes out of the water.

  Her first reaction was to pull herself out from the water. At the last second she thought of her children, whose protection could not be assured if she rose to the surface and thus confirmed her guilt. So she urged not to fight, prayed God to forgive her and opened her mouth to suck in the holy water that chilled her.

  There was the sound of bubbles bursting on the surface, but the head of Lady Tower did not reappear. The crowd waited, silent, in vain. The little girl stood beside the tub, not knowing what to do, awaiting the return of her mother, refusing to believe that it was her who was resting at the bottom of this sinister receptacle.

  When it was evident that Lady Tower would not reappear, the crowd protested against the quick and unspectacular end. No villager thought that she had established her innocence, only that her death was not commensurate with her vile actions.

  The monk went back behind his desk without a word. He took up his pen, dipped it in the inkwell and wrote down the end of the trial on one of his parchment scrolls.

  The populace did not move, waiting for an event, a development that would boost the trial and would meet their expectations of sensationalism. All turned to the monk who ignored them superbly.

  The judge discussed in secret meeting with his assistants. Better to disperse the crowd before things could escalate. Brother Childeric had sown the seeds of violence and anger. Alleviate the suffering of Lady Tower was probably not a good idea. Why didn't the wretched woman reappear, depriving the crowd of the vision of her end? The monk seemed totally disinterested in what was happening around him. It was necessary to close the case.