Although with the fresh pain shooting down his fingers, pounding his wrists and elbows, Brother Jacob could understand why such desperate lies were believed.
Pray to God for the pain to stop, but be grateful if it continues: for that is a sign that you are engaged upon Holy Work. Pain incurred by hours clutching the quill and scratching at parchment is joyful.
The abbot’s words were small comfort on such a night. Brother Jacob’s arthritis – no, his holy burden – was more painful than before, but it was nothing compared to what the wretch in the interrogation room had suffered.
At least my fingers remain, he thought, shuddering with the memory of the simple ease with which the heretic’s digits had been sliced away by the Questioner. He lifted his palms to the evening air and mumbled a brief prayer of thanks. Fresh pain shot down his wrists, did not terminate even after it reached his elbows. He doubled over, nausea replacing the pain with the thought of what he had to write tonight.
Is that God’s answer? Are we truly doing the Lord’s work? He turned and faced the lectern with its manuscript, the blank pages waiting for his input, mocking him with the promise of pain to come – from his fingers, with the writing; then his mind, with the horrific imagery he had heard and had to put into words.
* * *
Testing…testing…one, two, three. (Pause) Yep, that’s working. Okay, how to begin?
Hail, Belphegor, Lord and Master of the Seventh Level! Glorious Archmage of Hell, and Grand Demon of Scribes and Artists. You fucking twat. Cocksucker.
Yep, might need to edit that one out. (Chuckles) Thank fuck for modern technology, eh? Well, modernish. To the fucker I’m gonna visit, this’d seem like witchcraft. He wouldn’t believe me if I told him it’s over one hundred years old and…ah, never mind. It’s not as though I’m gonna leave it here for him.
There’s irony for you. Patron Demon of Scribes, and I’m recording this account not with a handwritten report but with a twenty-first century voice recorder. Of course, I’d have to transcribe this on to paper for Ol’ Bollock Chops when it comes to debriefing time if I wasn’t reporting directly to the Big Boss.
“Old ways are the best. Look what happened when we tried to digitise all Hell’s records.” And so forth. Dozy ol’ fucker wouldn’t know how to switch this thing on, let alone use playback. ’Bout time Lucifer put him on the scrapheap; as it was the Big Boss who PERSONALLY commissioned this task, I reckon I’ve got a good chance o’ taking Ol’ Bollock-Chops’ place!
Two thousand years, causing monks to misspell, put typos in their work, distracting them…and now my chance to rise up the ranks, become a proper demon, if I get this right.
This one…hmm. Gotta hand it to the Big Boss: this one’s a real challenge. Brother Jacob…doing what his predecessors did over seven hundred years ago. Hand written accounts, manuscript copying, an entire life spent on his knees in prayer or hunched over a desk, and less than five hours sleep a night…just like the good ol’ days.
Ah, I see…this bugger’s not made a single error. Twenty years with a quill, thousands of manuscripts…but no typos, no ink spillage, no mistranslation; he takes no pride in it either. No wonder his guv’nors have given him this task. They can’t afford any fuck-ups. (Pauses) Hmm, that’s interesting.
Yep, that must be it. They’re scared. Scared o’ what this “heretic” has unearthed. Proof.
Proof they think they’ve destroyed. Proof that I’m holding in my little claws right here, and using.
* * *
“Brother Jacob.”
The summons was whispered; Abbot Hugo did not wish to startle the scribe. Not out of courtesy, but because a loud distraction could cause the monk to start, for the quill to jerk across the written page. Errors such as those were costly, in more ways than one.
But Brother Jacob had heard the soft shuffling of the abbot’s worn sandals on the stone flagged corridor, knew the head of the order was coming for him. Knew what was required.
The Reverend Father looked older than Brother Jacob remembered. The scribe blinked and rubbed his eyes, so tired after the – how many hours was it now? He glanced at the marker candle and saw the flame dancing above the third line. Three hours on the manuscript. He stared at the words, beautifully inscribed upon the parchment – as elegant and artistic as the works of his predecessors. How easy it would be to fall into the sin of pride, and take satisfaction in his artistic ability…but the events he was transcribing, the subject matter of the calligraphic lettering, put paid to that. He resisted a shudder as he placed a crossbar over the letter ‘T’. He looked again at the abbot and inclined his head.
“Abbot Hugo. What can I do for you?” There was no mistake, nor trick of his weary eyesight: the abbot’s face was the colour and texture of porridge, the lines more deeply engraved in his features. The eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed, and the narrow shoulders were slumped. The palsied hands were clasped, held close to the abbot’s chest, as if holding a precious relic and wary that someone would steal it from him.
“The Questioner has summoned you, Brother Jacob. Doubtless the heretic has more sins to confess.” The voice was thin and reedy, accompanied by breath that misted like cold winter fog in the night air. “You are to go at once.”
Brother Jacob closed his eyes in an attempt to stop the cell spinning. He put out a hand to steady himself, then realised his gnarled fingers were about to touch the freshly-inked lettering. He pulled back in time to stop smudging the ink.
“I am weary, Reverend Father. Cannot another scribe go?”
The abbot’s nostrils flared, and he gave a snort of derision. “You know very well the task is yours alone. Your talents – God-given talents – are to be used when His servants require.”
Monk and abbot stared at each other, neither speaking a word. Brother Jacob sought to read the Abbot’s true feelings in the man’s watery grey eyes.
“It is because I make no mistakes. But I am only human; it is bound to happen sooner or later.” He gave a thin smile. “Just like Brother Paul. And what then? Will I go to the gallows as he did?”
The abbot’s eyes flashed with momentary anger, then filled with the fear the monk had witnessed on the Questioner’s arrival at the abbey two days ago. Abbot Hugo glanced over his shoulder, even though no-one could have overheard the younger man.
Surely God’s servants should not inspire fear such as this?
“Brother Paul made an error with the inventory of the heretic. An error of that magnitude cannot be forgiven.”
Brother Jacob stared at the flickering candle flame, wondering how long it took Brother Paul to die. He gave a grim smile. “He blamed a demon for the error. Did you know that?”
The abbot glanced at his feet. “I heard, yes. The delusions of a madman…the demon Titivillus never existed; it was a creature our forebears created to blame for their own clerical errors. A joke.”
“A joke,” Brother Jacob said quietly. “It was said Titivillus comes when scribes are too proud of their endeavours; that pride is meat and drink to him. A cautionary tale, but a humorous one nonetheless. Sometimes I envy the monks of old. How long is it since we laughed?”
Abbot Hugo stared out the lancet window. His hands continued to worry the chipped wooden cross on his cassock. “This is no time for levity, Brother Jacob. We are building a New Jerusalem; we cannot allow a moment’s weakness. We must all take responsibility for our errors, and pay the price. There can be no mistakes, above or below.”
Brother Jacob got to his feet, wincing, as the abbot continued.
“The Questioner has not weakened, nor allowed weariness to impede his sacred duties. We must give praise to God that we have been given such an example to follow.”
Brother Jacob looked at the gnarled and twisted claws his hands had become, comparing them in his mind’s eye to the brute-like paws of the Questioner. He wondered when age and infirmity would strike the interrogator, wondered if the strain of inflicting tortures and wielding knives, pokers and hammers would e
ventually cripple those hands as his were.
Abbot Hugo glanced at the monk’s work in progress. “You write most eloquently. Your…reinterpretation of the heretic’s lies is to be commended. Soon, this will form part of the New Testament.”
Brother Jacob cleaned the nib of his quill and closed his ink pot. “I trust I will be worthy, Reverend Father.”
And know I take no pride in this.
* * *
So I’m a fuckin’ joke, am I? We’ll see about that, sunshine! Your mate Paul weren’t laughing when they hanged him for fuckin’ up the arresting officer’s inventory, was he?
(Chuckles)
Yep, that was a good one. Pissing in his inkwell so that he couldn’t finish the list of forbidden items the heretic had in his possession. You try writing a full list when your ink’s turned to a solid block of sulphur and brimstone.
Ol’ Paulie was so knackered with lack o’ sleep, he thought he was hallucinating! Who was gonna believe that he saw a minor demon picking his nose with the tip o’ his forked tale and smearing it over the inventory sheet? Mind you, his executioners weren’t too bothered about that – they were more worried about this missing item. They were fair shittin’ themselves when they couldn’t find it in the heretic’s belongings. “Technology is the tool of the Devil”, they keep sayin’. “Use it or lose it”, I say.
More brownie points for me from the Big Boss, I reckon, nicking this and usin’ it against them. Take a leaf outa my book, Jacob, ol’ son! It’s all right to take pride in yer work…
Okay, enough chatter. Back to work.
(Sound of claws clicking across stone flooring)
Funny how this ol’ pile o’ bricks ain’t changed in over eight hundred years. No surprise, though: the holy institutions look after themselves. When you think of all the buildings that’ve risen over the millennia, you’d think it’d be the structures of chrome and glass, concrete and steel, that’d remain. All the temples to mankind’s true deities: money and power, industry and manufacturing…all gone, vanished in nuclear rage.
(Pauses)
I sometimes wonder if mankind really needed help to fall, y’know. They did such a good job on their own. And all this bollocks with the “new medievalism” they’ve fallen into – I’ve seen the things they do to each other in the name of God – ow! Fuck me, that hurt! (Spits)
Jesus! No, wai- (Gurgling and screeches)
FUCK!
(Pause, interrupted only by ferocious spitting and vomiting)
Okay, guess the ol’ boy in the sky has some power left, if even saying his name fills me gob with snakes and ulcers. Lesson learned. (Spits again) Look at that: another bloody scorpion. (Sound of arachnid carapace crushing underfoot)
According to the guv’nor’s map, the layout ain’t changed…o’ course, they had to rebuild some of the sections when the bombs fell, but overall the abbey got off pretty light. Hmm…so they don’t use the cellars to store wine or brew mead anymore. No booze, eh? That was one o’ the few perks of being a monk. No wonder they were having visions all the time: lack o’ sleep, hardly any food, and half-pissed all the time. Hey, I’d be seeing Jesus in a tankard as – ah, SHIT! For fuck’s SAKE…
* * *
The section of the crypt the Questioner had appropriated for his duties was probably the warmest part of the whole abbey, but it was a warmth Brother Jacob would gladly shun.
Coal, as rare and richly prized as the few remaining forests, was granted only to those who could justify the use for God’s work: warming the individual’s body was a sin, as the chill imparted to the flesh by the nuclear winter was all part of the mortification of the flesh, so beloved of God.
The vaulted ceiling was spattered with blood, and the flagged floor was littered with streaks of crimson, the gaps between the slabs filled with clotted blood, which glowed in the light cast from the brazier: a veritable gridwork of holy suffering. The monk’s breath misted, and he wondered how much steam came from the heretic’s body when the cutting began and hot blood gushed forth.
Something stirred within the shadows on the far wall; a huge, dark shape strode forth, bearing what looked like a pair of tongs. Brother Jacob swallowed dryly, and fought the temptation to pull the cowl of his habit over his eyes.
The tongs crashed into the brazier’s coals, sending sparks flying over the flags. The bearer spat into the flames, and then turned to face Brother Jacob.
The look of anger on the Questioner’s face startled the monk. Normally so impassive, emotionless – the man took no pleasure in his work, but derived no hardship from it either – it was obvious something was wrong. Two days in the crypt of the abbey should have been sufficient to extract the confession.
Something else moved in the shadows. Brother Jacob peered into the darkness, avoiding the sight of the human wreckage the Questioner had been working on. A small, scurrying thing, like one of the rats seen in the early days of the Tribulation; except this stood upright, dragging some sack-like burden.
Brother Jacob blinked, and the shadow was gone. He turned to the Questioner.
“Abbot Hugo said my services are required.”
The Questioner spat once more into the brazier. A thick globule of pus-tinged phlegm shrivelled and sizzled on the coals like one of the oysters that were consumed by the senior church hierarchy. The light from the brazier showed the glistening, sweat-drenched features of the man, twisted in frustration and anger.
The wrath made the man look younger than his forty years, the expression that of a spoiled child denied his own way.
“Aye. The heretic is ready to confess. You have your ink and parchment?”
Brother Jacob shook his head. The Questioner snorted.
“Of course, you memorise everything, don’t you? Scribble it down in your cell afterwards. Not a single mistake, no inaccuracies.”
Brother Jacob inclined his head. “God’s special gift to me. I trust it will serve your holy purpose.”
The Questioner spat again and walked towards the monk. His boots echoed on the flags, and Brother Jacob had the impression the huge man’s footsteps caused the very walls of the crypt to shudder. A meaty finger jabbed his chest, and he hissed with pain.
“God’s gift, eh, scribe? The heretics had a phrase for it: eidetic. Or, if you would use an even more blasphemous term, photographic memory …”
Brother Jacob frowned. Alien words from a distant time. Words like nuclear winter, collateral damage, and fallout shelter…
Yet, with all the phrases the heretic used to describe the godless world that existed before the Tribulation, the one that chilled Brother Jacob to the bone was digital publishing. That surely was proof of one who was not only in thrall to Satan, but driven insane by his possession. Words created without ink and paper? The ability to destroy them, wipe them from a paperless screen with the touch of a plastic tile? To a scribe, that was hideous. Where was the artistry, the painstaking efforts required to bring each word to glorious, eternal life?
The press of a button, the heretic said. That was what destroyed the world and heralded in the Tribulation – or, as the heretic insisted on calling it, the nuclear war. To think the same could be done to words. An entire history, a work of the gospel, destroyed with a plastic tile…
And something else. A device that could record spoken words. A device the heretic had in his possession when he was arrested.
Brother Paul’s error. Perhaps…
Shuffling from the corners. A wet, slithering sound, as something dragged itself across the floor. From the shadows, the heretic emerged. Brother Jacob gasped.
It wasn’t the ravaged stumps of the man’s fingers, oozing black blood around glistening shards of shattered and crushed bone; it wasn’t the flayed back, with the ravaged muscles and pulverised vertebrae which surely could not have allowed the wretch any movement; it wasn’t the inch-wide holes in the buttocks, still steaming with cauterised flesh and cooked blood.
It was the smile. Through broken teeth and ra
ked nostrils, the man was smiling. It was not the beatific smile of a man who knows he will die a martyr to his cause; there was no holiness in it, but the all too human grin of a man who knows he has won a battle.
The tortured, triumphant over the torturer. Brother Jacob fought to control himself, keeping his features neutral. The Questioner knew he had lost, but he did not want it admitted – neither by himself nor a monk. Yet the interrogator had said the heretic was ready to confess.
Confess what? Now a fresh chill replaced the ever-present physical cold, a chill that even his proximity to the brazier could not displace.
“Back again, scribbler?” The voice was slurred and guttural, thick with broken teeth and clotted blood, punch-drunk from interrogation. “Back for the next instalment of my testament?”
He inclined his head towards the Questioner, who leant against the door, arms folded stiffly. His eyes refused to meet those of the heretic’s.
“He knows. They all know, but they don’t want to admit it. They hope to rewrite the truth, just as they did after the bombs fell. That’s why they have people like you. Hope you’re proud of yourself.”
* * *
(Sounds of scurrying, sack hitting the floor)
Okay, I’m in the far corner, behind matey-boy’s torture toys. Don’t think they can hear me, but I’m gonna keep me voice down. Glad this magic voice thing’s got a good microphone.
(Pauses. Sounds of human voices can be heard: two males, one in considerable pain, another with a cultured voice that speaks of years of learning)
Yeah, that’s cool. This is recording everything they’re saying. Should make transcription a lot easier. (Pauses) Fuck me, there’s some juicy stuff here.
So this is what I have to do. The monk is incapable of making errors, but he’s beginning to doubt. He’ll record the ‘official’ history, but his memory won’t let him forget the heretic’s story. The truth will out, and humanity will see through the lies…and rebuild. The Big Boss don’t want that, of course. It’s in His interests to keep mankind as backward and as superstitious – as fearful - as possible. Easier to pick up the souls, I guess. Nothing like fear to make humans perform evil against each other.
The Demonologia Biblica Page 29
