by Z. M. Wilmot
Afflatus Divine
I
“You shall be late, Brother Florence! Get your quill and follow me immediately!”
Brother Florence scrambled amongst his scant belongings, desperately seeking his quill. There was no theft at the monastery, so it could not have been stolen. As quills were not alive, there was no way that it could have walked off on its own, either. He must merely have misplaced it, as Brother Florence was wont to do. It did not appear to be among his belongings, which led the poor monk to believe that it had fallen from his hand on the way back from the scriptorium.
Just as despair and the fear of a lashing at the hands of the Father Abbot began to sink into the weary mind of Brother Florence, he spotted it: his quill! Or, more precisely, a quill that bore a superficial resemblance to his own, but with a slight variation in the distribution of black spots upon its white feather.
As Brother Florence picked up his tool of the word, the spots shifted before his eyes – or had they been in those places all along? It was definitely his quill, yes. He quickly set off to the scriptorium, quill firmly in hand.
Florence waddled furiously across the damp dewed grass; the sun was already peeking its head above the treeline. The bumbling monk was naturally the last to arrive, and was sternly ordered to his seat by the Father Abbot.
And so his day’s work began.
His hand moved seemingly of its own free will, as it had ever since his first few months at the monastery. He had learned to scribe very quickly, after having been left there by parents unable and reluctant to spend even a single copper to pay for their son’s well-being. His hand knew especially well this current document; the monks had been working on The Annals of the Kings for three months now, and Brother Florence could recite the entire document from memory.
In the Thyrd Monthe of the Fourthe yeare of the Seventh King, there was indeed prosperity throughout the lande. The greate beaste Fellmawg had been slain moste greatly, and celebrations did flourish throughout…
Florence’s mind began to wander as his hand wrote, not that there was much to think about. He lived the same life day in and day out; he prayed, he gardened, he wrote. Sometimes he would sleep, and on special occasions, eat. Mostly, though, he wrote – Florence was a horrid gardener and had trouble concentrating during prayers. He was not a willing monk, but knew that he had no other choice; no others would take him in, as he had no skills.
And so he spent his days, wasting his life, transcribing manuscripts to be distributed throughout the kingdom. He didn’t even illuminate; his world was black and white, and his words were the same. He finished the page, placed it in his “finished” bin, took out another sheet of parchment, and began again. In the Thyrd Monthe…
Lunch was a short, meager affair. Florence received half-rations for his lateness, and his potato and lentil stew seemed even harder to swallow than usual, especially after Brother Vindus’ sickening grace.
As the brothers returned to the scriptorium from the dining cell, Father Paterias called Florence aside. Cringing, Brother Florence did as he was bid. Paterias held a sheaf of parchment in his hand. He showed it to Florence, saying not a word. Scanning it, Florence’s face paled. “But, Father, I did not write that…”
“But this is your parchment, is it not?” the Father asked quietly. Paterias was one of the kinder Fathers – certainly much more kind than the Father Abbot – but his disappointment stung more than another’s anger ever could. Florence could merely hang his head and nod.
“And what possessed you to write this upon the parchment? Surely the third King never did ‘impregnate the mighty Beaste’ and ‘raise its half-formed chylde to rule the Kingdom as his heire?’”
Florence shook his head. “Surely not, Father.”
“So what, then, made you write this?”
The monk could not say why – his imagination had always been vivid, but the monks had done their best to quash it beneath their thumbs. Imagination was not a suitable quality for a monk. But every once in a while, as Florence sat silently in the scriptorium, his thoughts would wander and he would think impure, bestial thoughts – and often would apply them to the page in front of him. For example, of late, he had been trying to determine why the great Seventh King’s successor had been one of the worst kings of all time. Combining his impure sexual fantasies – which should have been done away with in a monk long ago – with his hatred of the Eighth King, the grandfather of the current one, he had come to the conclusion that the Seventh King must have copulated with a dragon-beast to give birth to such a terrible son.
“I am unsure, Father – I must have let my mind wander.”
“Then your mind is a place where I should not want to be – nor should it be in the state it seems to be in.” Father Paterias looked sternly at Brother Florence, and then said those dreaded words. “I am greatly disappointed in you, Brother Florence…”
Florence’s head hung down even further as Paterias continued. “Normally I would overlook such an error – but three out of your five pages so far have been like this, variations on a similar theme. Impure thoughts muddle your mind and destroy your purity; as such, you will write again these three parchments, and then transcribe an additional three. Every impure manuscript thereafter will acquire you two more transcriptions: one for that which you have ruined and one for penance. You will receive quarter rations until that task is completed. Is that understood?”
Florence nodded gratefully – Father Paterias was so kind! The Father Abbot would have had Florence flogged. “It is, Father – it shall not happen again.”
Paterias nodded and walked off, slowly ripping apart Florence’s corrupted work. Seeing the last of the monks ahead vanish into the scriptorium, Florence waddled after them, earning himself another sour remark about his tardiness.
He tried to write more quickly this time, and so his first new parchment came out incorrectly; not with impure thoughts given physical words, but with the misspelling of “Thyrde” as “Thryde,” and so he had to begin again. He did his best to banish his any thoughts unrelated to his current work in order to not make such a mistake again, and finished his three re-writes very quickly, earning him a faint nod of approval from Father Calixtus – who Florence often thought of secretly as Father “Vindictivus.”
Florence finished his three copies of penance as the other monks began to retire from their writings, having completed their quota of ten copies. Father Calixtus, the Chief Scribe, left as well, leaving Florence under the watchful eye of Father Paterias. What use is it for me to produce three copies of this one page, Brother Florence thought, when no one else has caught up to me?
Doubtless they believe it is good for you, said a voice in the back of his head.
All that it does is make things even worse and increase my bitterness!
Indeed, came the voice again. Don’t you sometimes wish they would go away?
Brother Florence was still writing – working finally on the first manuscript of his next required five – and his quill quivered angrily. I wish worse – I wish sometimes that Father Calixtus would be consumed by hellfire where he stands, arms outstretched to the false heavens for repentance as he melts and burns into nothingness before the horrified eyes of the Brotherhood!
What could only be described as a chuckle echoed in the back of Florence’s mind, and a faint smile touched his lips. That would indeed be good…
To Florence’s horror, he saw that he had written down what he had been thinking. In the Fifthe Monthe of the Fifthe Yeare of the Tenth King, Father Calixtus of the Monastery at St. Mary’s was consumed by a balle of fiendish Hellfire, plummeting down inexorably from the Heavens in the manner of God’s Fiste, damning him to the fires of Helle as his flesh did melte and burne, consuming his very being in a greate and terrible orgy of death and destruction.
Horrifed and mortally afraid of what would happen if Father Paterias saw it, Florence hastily folded up the parchment as Paterias dozed off, slipping it into the fo
lds of his habit. I will dispose of it later.
A wise choice, said the voice approvingly.
“Shut up,” Florence muttered to the voice, startling Paterias awake.
“Did you say something, my son?”
Florence shook his head. “No, father.”
“Oh. I could have… very well, then. Does your work come along, Brother Florence?”
His stomach rumbling fiercely, Florence nodded. He needed to finish tonight so that he did not have to endure quarter rations for very long.
“How much do you have left?”
“Just the five, Father.”
Paterias nodded. “Very… good. Carry on.”
Florence inclined his head in respect and continued to work. He concentrated very hard, but could not figure out why his thoughts had come out on the parchment, when he had thought similar thoughts for quite a long while. This has never happened before…
It was well into the night when Florence finished, approaching that midnight hour in which nothing has any right to wander. Brother Florence woke Father Paterias from his nap, and Paterias was well-pleased. “You have done good work and made up for your sins in good time. Our Father in Heaven will be most pleased, Brother Florence.”
“Thank you, Father.”
“Now go and claim your quarter ration for supper – you did skip that to finish your work – and let us both retire.” Brother Florence was more than happy to do so. On his way to the dining cell, he tore up his offending parchment and scattered it among the bushes. No one will find it now. Following his small bowl of soup and breadheel, did his best to sleep on an empty stomach, pushing all of his impure thoughts aside. Perhaps they do do more harm than good…
Don’t let them get to you, said the voice in the back of his head. It’s what they want. Exercise your imagination! Let it grow! Don’t let them defeat you. You are better by far than they.
Brother Florence groaned. “Shut up,” he muttered as he turned over on his stone cot.
