by Allen Werner
Most of the evidence of their mystical interference was wholly arbitrary and unintentional. They weren’t trying to inform the living of anything. Some were meddlesome and frightening, joshing the living with unexpected noises, moving their things so they couldn’t be found. Sinibaldus could spot these foolish playful spirits a mile away and had learned to intimidate them and injure them, if necessary. They stopped long ago, messing with him and his things.
But other spirits were just lost or seeking knowledge of the world they left behind. They materialized purposefully because they missed life. They were trying to reconnect with something on this side, create a link and get a message through, or just talk to someone.
‘She is in there,’ Sinibaldus thought with unbending faith. ‘Claire is in there and speaking to me through Viridian. The gold paint was another sign.’
Claire was dead, long time dead.
At Sinibaldus’ coronation, the day he was crowned king of La Piscine Vivant, Claire had been painted cap-a-pie, head-to-toe in gold, her whole body transformed into a magnificent idol of living flesh.
Sinibaldus refused to forget how Claire shone that day. No one could ever steal that memory away from him. He wouldn’t allow it to disintegrate or disperse. He clung to it jealously.
The cave-dwellers of La Piscine Vivant reverenced the giant like no other man before him. He had led them into battle several times and killed Christians by the dozens. Never in their history had one man risen to the title of kingship. The tribes were simply too diversified.
Sinibaldus was a revelation and united the tribes.
By the age of fifteen, Sinibaldus had surpassed all the coven priests in stature and skill. Some were undoubtedly wiser due to their long years of experience but none so notorious. Sinibaldus was crushing men’s skulls, rampaging out of the hill country and causing whole Christian towns to cower before him.
The cave dwellers had come to love him and fear him. There had never been anyone like him, not in that region of France, not one so friendly with magic and mysticism.
As far as the old ones were concerned, Sinibaldus was the prophesied messiah. His beastly image had been painted on the walls of the caves eons ago by long dead storytellers. Sinibaldus was the divined man-beast issuing forth a new era of theology and enchantment. The upstart Christians and their unholy armies of sword-wielding knights, their marbled edifices and golden altars, their vile traditions and insipid rituals, would all be sent back to the dust from whence their Adam came. La Piscine Vivant led the charge and other covens joined with them. Clan after clan rose to destroy the churches and the temples, destroy organized religion. It was a revolution and the priests and priestesses, the warlocks and witches, all the dwellers of the caves came to claim what was rightfully theirs, eventually hoping to usurp the golden seat of Peter itself. ‘Damn them all,’ the prophets taught. ‘Damn the Christians and their judgmental hate for us, their hypocrisy and lies, their cruelty and torture, their ostracism. We shall shame them, burn them in the fires they have lit beneath our feet. We shall eat their flesh and grow stronger on their deaths. We shall be nourished by their milk white bones. We shall drink blood from their evil hearts and call it our communio.’
Even among the cave dwellers, however, there were tedious rites that required years to accomplish but Sinibaldus managed to perform them all and elevate quickly. He was entirely unique and the elders didn’t know what else to do with him but crown him and beg him to lead them.
At his coronation, Sinibaldus was first stripped naked and christened in blood garnered from their enemies. He was smeared in paints representing the earth, greens, browns and blacks.
And then the music and revelry ceased and they presented him with his prize, his queen.
It had been nine long years since Sinibaldus last laid eyes on Claire. Together, they were destined to spawn the immortals which would lead the tribes to glory.
The Living Pool was an enormous cave, naturally hewn, adequate for housing four large dragons, if they had had four large dragons.
There was no water flowing through The Living Pool, none but that which had been collected, carried or melted from the frosty peaks of Mont Dolent.
The first High Priest of the cave dwellers, a magician named Monteller, entered this enormous hollow in the Alps with his flock and immediately elicited the aid and protection of the spirits he claimed had gathered here en masse, a living pool of warrior souls. This divined defense had continued uninterrupted for generations.
During the coronation, the cave was not only populated by these fearsome, protective spirits, but by every kind of witch and warlock, priest and priestess, there was, all of them come from miles around, all come to pay homage to the one man and one woman who would save them and raise them from obscurity. There was wine and meats, fire and song. It was a celebration unlike any other day in their history.
The festivities paused for a moment as all eyes turned to the newly minted black stone dais, something they had never seen before. And there on the dais was their King, glorious and naked, his giant body smeared in blood and dark paints. To Sinibaldus’ left and right stood the highest orders of priests and priestesses from all the other covens. To see all these men and women unified in one accord was something few had dreamed might ever happen.
Two sinewy priestesses in green and silver gowns pushed their way through the throng leading a woman shrouded in black from head to toe, the hood of the robe covering her head and face completely. All eyes now fell on her.
Sinibaldus stepped forward and confidently placed his fists on his hips, his powder blue eyes staring at the black shrouded woman. The priestesses bowed before him and then pulled back the hood of the offering. They undid the toggles on the front of the garment and removed the entire covering. The woman inside was painted entirely in gold, skin glistening in the fire light. Her eyes were big and brown. Her hair long, curly and black, reaching all the way down to her waist.
Naked, she walked slowly up the steps, her voluptuous frame enveloped beneath the enormous shadow cast by her King.
Sinibaldus’ vit now stood at attention, healthy and hearty, facing away from him as a spear before it is thrusted.
Claire knew her duty. She had been schooled and prepared for this event, fully indoctrinated to perform the ritual. How she longed for this day to come, to reach out to Sinibaldus and hug him, embrace him, call him ‘Son’ once more. ‘He will make the Christians of Chamonix pay for their sins.’
Claire didn’t have to bend down or get on her knees. Her son, the King, was a step above her and a giant. She looked his bloody spear in the eye and smiled. Resolutely, confidently, ready to be the queen of The Living Pool, Claire took hold of Sinibaldus’ enormous vit and forced it in her mouth, shoving it all the way down her throat, denying the reflex to gag. She sucked and sucked until all the blood that covered it coated her mouth and lips. She pulled away and gasped aloud, her tongue dripping.
The cave-dwellers cheered as their King grabbed Claire roughly, barbarically by the hair and dragged her up to the altar. He lifted her and turned her and bent her over the black marble. He entered her from behind and the crowd cheered. The beating of drums shook the cave to its depths and awakened any spirits still foolish enough to ignore the feast and sleep.
The clans began to dance.
Chapter 23 – The Birth
Disheveled, filthy, stumbling cold through the tangled brush beneath Mont Dolent, in fields and wood she had never seen before, and she had seen most of the land nearest her village, Claire forged ahead, no destination in mind. She was trying to escape. They wanted to stone her. “Witch!” They cried. “Whore of Satan!” They accused.
Claire was fifteen and running scared, her colorless gown shredded and torn, the cheap sandals on her feet doing next to nothing to insulate the soles from the wild barbs, the rocks and stones. Dust and grime caked her legs, arms and face gray. Her knees and elbows were scraped, scabbed and sore, bleeding from multiple falls. She ha
dn’t eaten anything in nearly two days and the milk in her breasts had dried up. She had nothing left to offer her child, the infant.
Claire fell beside a large boulder and wept hysterically. The heated voices trailing after her had ceased hours ago but fear had made her keep moving, beyond exhaustion. She was unconsciously going higher into the hills, into the wastelands the townspeople, including herself for so many years, feared to go. The cave-dwellers, the witches and warlocks who inhabited this region of the Alps were said to be bloody thirsty cannibals, sacrificing virgins and children to Satan. Claire didn’t even have time or the conscious awareness to pray for protection from them. It was the superstitious, stone-throwing Christians she currently feared the most.
Night was nearly upon her and the mountainous air was cooling with it. She could see her breath clouding before her face. The dew was turning to frost on what little grass remained. The sweaty moisture on her arms induced a chill. The entire landscape was stone and rock, mountainous, and she was not adequately attired for the coming cold.
The heavy child bundled in her arms wasn’t crying anymore. It had stopped its fussing about the same time her pursuers did.
Sinibaldus was not even a week old yet but he was wholly unlike any infant Claire had ever seen. He had the height, width and girth of a child closer to six months. He had a full set of teeth and could stand when he wanted to, already speaking a few words.
Claire pulled back the trappings and inspected the infant’s limbs for injuries. She had staggered and tripped many times since the last checkup and was constantly second-guessing herself. She wanted to confirm that she hadn’t overlooked something.
Sinibaldus said nothing. He was awake, weak but unconcerned. His powder blue eyes were docile and empty, his pale skin clammy and cold. There was not a single hair anywhere on his body not even on his head.
To the superstitious folk living in the village of Chamonix, Sinibaldus was a grotesque. That’s what they called him, Claire remembered. “The devil’s spawn!” Several women attending the birth cried hysterically before dropping to their knees, praying to St. Margaret for protection. “Save us from the seed of an incubus! Kill it, Claire, kill it!” That’s what they demanded she do. “Kill it, Claire! Kill it now! Prove your devotion to Almighty God and kill it!” They even tried to force her to take hold of a sharp metal crucifix adding cruelly that the blood of Christ would cause the thing to suffer more. “Stab it, Claire! Kill it now! Kill that loathsome thing Satan has placed in your womb! Repent!”
Everything about the pregnancy had been suspect from the start. The quickening occurred around two months. Claire was fully swelled at five months, her body pissing strange grey urine and her ass-end producing pasty black feces. She gave birth at six months. The infant was completely covered in a sac, a sinewy black membrane. The child or sac had forced itself from her womb as would an egg dropping from a chicken. Claire didn’t have to struggle or push although there was still a great deal of pain involved.
The thing wanted to leave to her body. It wanted to be hatched.
The docteur took a scalpel and cut through the squishy black membrane holding the babe within. Blood gushed out suddenly as the membrane exploded and dissolved completely, leaving behind an enormous hissing infant. The child did not cry and no one wanted to touch it. It laid there on the table and susurrated. One nursemaid finally found the courage to step forward and approach it, holding forth a dry blanket, her mouth mumbling earnest prayers to Saint Margaret.
The thing on the table, still covered in blood, slashed at her, it’s little hands already possessing sharp fingernails. Everyone stood back with their mouths agape and watched helplessly as it struggled up into a sitting position. The infant sat there and hissed at them, this time displaying a full mouth of teeth. And then the room went deathly quiet as the hideous grotesque spoke its first word. “Mama,” it said.
Two horror-stricken women rushed for the exit.
Claire started crying, reaching beggarly for the child, tears streaming down her face. The bloody, beastly thing crawled across the table and fell in her arms. It went straight for her breast and suckled.
The docteur shook his head and sent for the prêtre, the priest, Jean Lemaire.
“He’s just a baby!” She contended yet again, her futile cry for compassion echoing through the mountains and valleys. “He’s just a baby! Leave us alone!” The memory of the rejection pained her to the soul. Every time the wind whipped through the mountains, sparking her long black hair to life, she thought she heard the voices of her pursuers again. “They want to kill us.”
Claire didn’t know anything about the child’s father, not even his name. Some said he must have been the devil in disguise, roaming the forest as a wild beast, an incubus that forced himself on her, planting his evil seed. They expounded on Saint Margaret, on how she was swallowed whole by a dragon, and escaped using a cross on its innards. Poor Claire didn’t know what to think anymore. She was as prone to superstitions as any other member of the village and she knew the tale of Saint Margaret well enough. Margaret was a patron saint of childbirth and Claire had been petitioning the lady for months. Until today, Claire believed that bearing life was the greatest blessing any woman could give back to God. She thought this child would make her happy again. She hadn’t expected to be rejected and ostracized by her own people, cast from town by stone-throwing, self-righteous Christians branding her Satan’s whore.
“I’m still Claire,” she whimpered. “And I’m so scared.”
Chapter 24 - Claire
Early in December 1123, a fierce storm ripped through the Alps, carpeting the entire region beneath a deep and unforgiving snow.
Claire was fourteen and living alone in a formerly abandoned shed just outside the village of Chamonix, near a cliff overlooking the Valley of Flowers. The rugged structure was built into the bluff, one wall of the cabin composed solely of rock. The roof was slanted to allow rain and snow to fall easily away. It was a humble dwelling.
A former stray, Claire had worked her way off the streets of Chamonix by taking Old Nan’s advice. When she was just eight-years-old, the vagrant was encouraged to quit her thieving ways and take to the wood, scavenge and gather nuts, berries, fruits and roots, any goods she could find. It was an ambitious undertaking for the young, uneducated girl. Claire, with an ambitious smile on her face, foraged all day long, returning to town near dusk covered in honest sweat, hoisting two bags full of her labors. She had grabbed everything and anything she thought was valuable.
Old Nan seemed pleased at first, nearly proud of the bright-eyed girl. But once the elderly merchant, who was nearly blind, started picking and poking through the various items Claire had collected, meticulously inspecting them for quality, a scowl appeared. It was a hard lesson for Claire to swallow. The old bitch started tossing everything on the ground. Finally, she had enough of throwing things and just dumped the bags out, stomping on them for good measure, even spitting on them to add insult. She raised her cane and rapped the child firmly across the head. Claire bled. “Don’t be gathering garbage,” she declared. “This randomness is unacceptable.”
Scared and injured, confused, Claire slunk away, disappearing in the shadows where she lived. She cried the night through. The next morning, embracing the hard lessons of the former day, Claire steeled herself and hiked back up into the hills. She scavenged again. No one had ever taken the time to teach the street urchin the difference between refuse and quality. She was going to have to learn this by trial and error. Exercising a bit more discernment, evaluating each object with a youthful, untrained eye, Claire carefully selected her items. When she returned to town earlier this time, and one sack less, her enthusiasm waned. If she got rapped on the head again, she was through.
Old Nan did what she did the day before. She started throwing things out, disposed of the majority of items Claire had collected but there were two items she kept. Old Nan took the time to explain to Claire why the two items she sel
ected and kept were acceptable, not great, but acceptable. She even patted Claire on the head for her labors, rewarding her with a hard crust of day old bread. It wasn’t exactly the kind of encouragement most people would embrace but Claire could sleep without nursing a swollen head and that in and of itself was reward enough. She also got bread without filching it.
As the days, weeks and months passed, Claire grew measurably more confident in her ability to scrounge. Every day’s new crop of supplies was superior to the last. Her experience in the field, in the wood, was paying off. The measure of goods she recovered was never an issue again. It was all about quality and she understood that. There was something to be said for bringing back only the best. No one wanted the inferior things anyway. The merchants of Chamonix had reputations to think of. Their customers expected the best.
Claire eventually learned that the merchants were either selling the items she gathered directly to the population as was, for greater profit then they had paid her, or they would bake the items into pies, breads and other delicacies.
Claire had no reputation and no savings and couldn’t afford her own stand but she was beginning to discover a niche in this society which was far superior to being a light-fingered street urchin.
By the time Claire turned ten, she was no longer homeless. Claire was earning enough coin to rent out a room, a closet more precisely, behind the livery. She no longer had to sleep in dark doorways, keeping a vigilant eye open, concerned she might fall prey to the violent, sneaky advances of slavers, perverts, hooligans and other devious waifs like herself. She was somebody now. She had a room.
Filthy, still stinking like the wood she roamed and the dirty straw she slept in, the black-haired girl had become an expert scavenger and appraiser. And the best lesson she came away with was a thorough understanding of the terrain near Chamonix. This knowledge worked close in hand with the changing of the seasons. She didn’t have to waste her time anymore randomly seeking resources. She knew where they were and when they would be ready for harvesting.
