The Scars of Saints

by Unknown

  Approaching the old shack, he heard a deep whisper.

  “Do you want her to die?” a voice chimed, a deep baritone carried through the mist, seemingly close yet distant at the same time.

  Röark’s eyes widened, his mouth agape in a fright. He felt the colour fade from his face, a cold sweat taking hold. He spun awkwardly, arms outstretched, in a desperate attempt to locate the source of the raspy whisper. The ugly blackened tree-trunks formed a blur as he circled, like a noxious oil spill.

  “Who’s there?” he rattled, again performing a full circle, his feet etching a circular divot into the dirt. Opting to stick by his plan to seek asylum inside the shack, Röark discarded his plight to find the ghostly voice, instead bounding onto the front porch. It was all but bare, except for an old rocking chair perched alone, battered by decades of deterioration.

  The volatile creaks under Röark’s weight gave life to the old timber, unsettled and awoken from slumber. Brushing aside overgrown vines climbing the mouldy walls of the shack, he latched onto the flimsy, rusted door handle.

  “She has to die,” the whispering voice conspired, “her soul is pure. She is not one of the blessed.”

  The back of Röark’s neck tingled. The grim whisper felt close, close enough that he knew it was right behind him. The smell grew so intense it made him nauseous. Clutching his gut, he fought the urge to vomit. Sweat pouring from his brow and underarms, he turned the handle clockwise, his teeth still chattering. He felt the door click with ease, and he pushed it open, hauling his great body through, eyes squeezed shut.

  CHAPTER 3.

  Excerpt (2). - Dr. Hyclid Van Wëegan’s transcripts, dated circa June 1349;

  This is truly the age of despair, fear and panic. The rich have fled to the countryside, hiding with their wealth. Others flee to the seaside, their intent to swim to the islands that surround. There are no doctors left to cure the ill, no farmers left to crop the harvest, no chefs to feed the needy, no chemists, smiths or bakers. There is no social order. The pestilence has seen to that, its terror as wide as the beaches of Normandy.

  While I wait to cross the English Channel, I pen my last few days travel. The ship I will inhabit I have paid extortionate fees for; a small merchant ship, barely able to house the goods for its trade route to the southern lands. Its galley is awash with swollen wood, and I yearn for it to stay afloat for the rough journey across the channel. The merchants tell me no man has died of ailment in its confines, but I am mindful of their deceit. I conversed with a trader from the vessel not long before, his body covered in swelling boils, his arm pits red and black with gargantuan bulges. Blood gushed from his eyes, the tips of his fingernails deathly black. Yet he spoke to me as though he were cured, ignoring the debilitating curse eating his insides.

  “The mice”, he told me, his eyes wide as saucers, tongue black as tar; “They did this.”

  This man seemed to know much. I had planned to summon the trials of Constine for him once the moon rose to the centre of the sky. By doing this, I could heal his illness with the usually nebulous blessings of Flúer, with powers that far outweigh the ailments of this sickness. But I was too late, for he perished there and then. He coughed a lake of putrid black ooze, and fell to the floor. His skull may have cracked, I am not sure.

  My hands are barely clean of blood as I write this, the smears of the dead still lathered on my cloak from moments before. But I know now, I know it was that moment I truly realised that time was short. I was ill-prepared for the atrocity that had become, and I was unfit to continue until I had thoroughly determined what rituals I needed to save these lands and the people in them.

  Many weeks ago, during travels across the borders of Hungary and Austria, I managed to obtain a painting by a man who perished from the sickness several months before. He had sketched six skeletons, dancing together with perceived jovialness, their jaws agape with glee. The man who showed it to me explained it was the dance of death, the melody drummed by the beating of sheep skin with two human bones. He was inundated with fever as his body shook veraciously, clearly dehydrated. He had not lost hope, this idea of the dancing dead perpetually uplifting. I imagine the overwhelming sickness has taken his life by now.

  The fragile nature of mortality is now exceedingly clear. When I land safely in England, I will find Cassandra. She will tell me more.

  ---

  “Have you seen Cervis, or Röark?” Mihaela enquired of her neighbour, the frail old Mrs Küvler. Having searched for them all morning, she was tired and the morning sun was hot. Standing in her doorway, Mihaela leaned over the towering yellow sunflowers that separated their properties, projecting her voice so her elderly neighbour could hear. Clutching a grey tin can and waiting for the trickle of water to flow through the soil around her small shrubs, Mrs Küvler hobbled toward Mihaela, resting her weight on the stone arch entry to her garden.

  “That boy Cervis,” Mrs. Küvler replied briskly, “always up to no good. I know where you won’t find him, and that’s in prayer. Have you been going to church lately? I haven’t seen you there.”

  “I attend regularly,” Mihaela assured Mrs Küvler, “promise.”

  “Fear not for that boy,” Mrs Küvler preached, barely able to hold the watering can aloft, “Cervis is a stain on our village and by God we’ll be damned. The Lord cannot save someone so misguided, someone who is just a no-good thief.”

  “Cervis isn’t a thief,” Mihaela said, defending her friend, “why do you infer such things?”

  Mrs Küvler waved a finger at Mihaela as she always did, “that boy is no good I tell you. This village will be better off without him.”

  “I don’t think Cervis is going anywhere,” Mihaela assured, a subtle hint of cynicism to avoid hurting her elderly neighbour’s feelings.

  Accompanied by the clip-clop of horseshoes, two townsfolk came past seated high in their horse-drawn cart. With a swift tug on the mighty rope, the two equines slowed to a meandering trot, allowing one of the townsmen to shout up to Mihaela.

  “I see Cervis is up to his old tricks again?” one man called, his hand wrapped around his mouth to amplify his taunt, “what’s he stolen now?”

  Mihaela recognised them, they were the owners of the dairy farm south of town; the Fluris family, sixth generation.

  “What do you mean?” Mihaela asked, insulted at the accusation. No one ever stood up for Cervis. The townsfolk regularly made fun of him, and Mihaela grew weary of it.

  “Whole towns searchin’ for him, seems he’s taken off, must be hidin’ up the river somewhere. My guess is he’s taken Röark with him. When will Röark learn to avoid the likes of him?”

  “I don’t understand,” Mihaela frowned, taking a few steps forwards towards the men.

  “He broke into the church and stole something very precious. Everyone knows it was him. There were witnesses and all. The little rascal broke in, and then ran off. The gall of him! I knew the day would come. Has he no respect!?”

  “The Church? He wouldn’t!” Mihaela defended, her voice choked, “he would never do that to Father Hugal!”

  The two men in the horse drawn cart exchanged weary glances, rolling their eyes.

  “I see you still protect the boy. My advice is to see him go.”

  “Cervis didn’t steal anything, you’ll see! I’m going up there to see Father Hugal right now!” Mihaela shouted, shaking her fists, her calm nature replaced with agonising concern.

  “Off you go then, and if you see Cervis, tell him he’s in a load of trouble. Tell him to come out from hidin’! Don’t you get messed up in his problems, you hear?”

  With a swift crack of their whip, the enormous Clydesdale horses set forth on their way down the road, leaving Mihaela shaken, tears forming in her eyes.

  “He wouldn’t!” Mihaela said alarmingly, turning to Mrs Küvler, who was in the middle of watering her window herbs. She cast a brief look towards Mihaela.

  “Sorry my dear, I’m not sure what you mean?”


  Racing down her brimstone steps, Mihaela sprinted towards the church.

  ---

  Inside the old grave keeper’s shack was pitch-black, the air musty, undisturbed for decades. The stench of rotting flesh remained abundant, even though he was inside, the door slammed shut.

  Waiting a while, Röark realised he was breathing heavily, gasp after gasp. It was the only sound he could hear in the blackened space. Eventually, he rose to his feet, flailing his hands about to make sure he wasn’t going to harm himself or knock something over.

  Fossicking around, Röark slowly progressed across the room, feeling anything nearby with his outstretched hands. He discovered what appeared to be a ragged old chair, a small table dressed with a tablecloth and bowl, and a peculiar, intricately engraved chest. His blinded footstep kicked something metallic on the ground, making him jump. With the room deathly silent, his senses flared up, a result of the racket. He waited in silence to see if anything was awoken by his accidental interaction with the metallic object.

  Breathing! He could hear breathing!

  Although faint and staggered, it was certainly intermittent gasps. He wasn’t alone in the old abandoned grave keeper’s shed after all, a thought which made him lightheaded, his stomach tighten, and his jaw to chatter once again. It was profoundly dark, so much so he couldn’t make out his own hands. Clamping his jaw shut forcing the chatter to cease, he slowly bent down in a bid to pick up the metallic object he’d trod on. Waving his hands across the floor, he awoke sleeping piles of dust, fluttering amongst the stale air. He sneezed.

  Again, he paused to listen to what repercussions his disturbance had brought. He couldn’t hear the breathing now. Either it had stopped, or whatever it was had now moved somewhere else.

  Then, a small light caught his eye. Just a tiny speck, the luminous light wavered slightly, and then as quickly as it had appeared, it diminished. In that brief moment, Röark darted his eyes around the room, spotting the distant speck from the back corner of the shack. The flame was dim, but it had been enough for him to make out a decrepit old archway right ahead, large ropes hanging from the roof, and a snow shovel leaning in the corner. Rows of unlit candles donned the windowsills. On all fours, he crawled towards the extinguished light, with desperate hope it may reappear.

  “Hello?” he called, fighting back the urge to cough, the rancid air smoky and dusty, tickling his throat and burning his lips.

  His sweaty palms pressing against the cold wooden floor, the pressure of his weight disturbed dormant bugs that restlessly scattered and fluttered across his face. Larger insect bodies scampered over his bulky right hand, pressed firmly on the dusty floor. His chest burned, and he realised he’d been holding his breath for some time. Careful not to make a sound, he exhaled quietly. He brushed past what seemed to be a smaller shovel resting against a wooden box, and lowered his hand to keep crawling, only to have it land in a thick vaporous puddle. The liquid felt like honey, the same honey he would help the beekeepers in the village extract on warm summer days. He lifted his hand from of the unidentified honey-like goo, and brought it to his nose.

  Blood.

  Holding down his urge to vomit, Röark inhaled deeply, a wave of panic threatening to paralyse him. The light reappeared, accompanied by the unmistakable sound of a match strike. A soft glow lit up a tiny area just ahead of him. And that’s when he saw it.

  The face of a man.

  He was covered in bloody rags, his face and body cut up with open wounds, his eyes full of sorrow. Around his gruesomely lacerated neck, a mattered scarf similarly soaked in dried blood. The little available light exemplified the features on his gaunt face, high cheekbones, pale skin, and deep blue eyes. Completely bald, he opened his mouth, managing only a terrified high-pitched wail. He was devoid of all teeth, just bloodied gums and a stump where he’d bitten off his own tongue. The right side of his face was badly burned, crusted scabs hanging from fleshy red skin. His malnourished arm could barely hold the tiny match, his bony hand missing two fingers and shaking with visible strain.

  Röark froze, mouth agape.

  ---

  Mihaela raced up the winding hill towards the town’s ancient cathedral, her legs burning, attempting to ignore the unprovoked and unruly shouts from what appeared to be antagonistic and bloodthirsty townsfolk.

  “Where’s Cervis?” they shouted at her, their voices filled with rage, their eyes swelling with anger, “round up the thief! Round up the thief!”

  Hundreds of questions swam through her mind. Why were they shouting these horrible things? Why had they turned on him so quickly? They knew what he was like, they knew his background. How could they do this to him now?

  What did they have to do with this anyway?

  She knew as soon as she spoke with Father Hugal, she could sort it out. He was gentle, humble, and dependable. There was nothing in the church worth stealing, and Father Hugal trusted Cervis. He trusted everyone. He was the kindest man in the village.

  Where was Cervis anyway? Why wasn’t he here defending himself?

  Racing through a small contingent of elderly ladies, Mihaela passed the small stone effigy of a bowing angel, noticing a small ring of roses now placed around its neck. People packed around it, pointing at the base of it, mimicking the actions of digging up dirt.

  Mihaela reached the arched gothic doors to the church, flinging her body weight against them as she always had, their mass normally too much for her to open alone. When they swung open, she entered, the usual tip-tap of her footsteps echoing through the small enclave that led into the main prayer hall.

  Inside, the chancel and vault were empty. The stalls were all clear, an unusual chill lingered. Rubbing her hands together to warm up, Mihaela’s breath emitted a dainty puff of mist each time she exhaled. It was unusually brisk inside, yet it was mid-summer – why was it so cold?

  “Father Hugal?” Mihaela called, her voice echoing throughout the cavernous room.

  “Hello child,” replied a voice, from the front of the church pews. Stepping out from behind one of the three giant stone pillars adorning the back wall, a short man, dressed in Father Hugal’s pastor uniform, smiled contently. His face was trustful and empowering, his features light and unobtrusive. There was a glow about him; smiling in such a way Mihaela immediately felt as though she trusted him. His light brown hair was parted sideways, combed with intricate care. One eye seemed lazy, the eyelid above it drooping as he watched her. The man fondled a small pendant in his hands, emitting an impressive soothing red glow. Jerking his head up, he quickly dropped it into the robe pocket, out of sight.

  “I’m sorry,” Mihaela said, covering her mouth with her delicate hand, “I was looking for Father Hugal.”

  “Father Hugal?” the man asked, seemingly confused.

  “Are you a visitor? Are you here to meet the Father?” Mihaela asked softly, pausing, fighting off the urge to shiver in reaction to the dropping temperature.

  “Heavens no,” laughed the man in a suspended chortle, “I am the Pastor of this church.”

  “But,” Mihaela hesitated for a moment as she processed the information, “but I have never seen you before.”

  The pastor took a few steps towards her, his heavy footsteps clunking with an echo, the trusting smile never parting. For the first time in her short life, Mihaela felt a deep sense of unease, blood rushing to her head.

  “I understand you know of this thief boy Cervis, the one who stole from me?”

  Mihaela quivered, shaking her head softly, wiping tears from her eyes.

  “No,” she replied.

  “Don’t lie to me girl.”

  “He didn’t steal anything,” snapped Mihaela, her eyes welling up, clenching her fists.

  “You’re incorrect Mihaela,” the man insisted, his voice calm, purposeful, tranquil, “Cervis did take something. He broke into my church and stole from me. Nobody steals from me.”

  “Who are you!?” Mihaela screamed, taking a step backwards. Her vo
ice bounced off the walls, echoing over and over. Still the man kept his unwavering smile.

  “I can see you’re a bit confused Mihaela, perhaps you aren’t feeling well?”

  “How do you know my name?” she wept, tears rolling down her red cheeks, “where’s Father Hugal?”

  “I don’t know who Father Hugal is,” the man spoke, his voice calm and soothing, “but I can see you’re anxious Mihaela, perhaps you should sit down. I can get you a glass of water.”

  “I’m not thirsty.”

  “Perhaps Aevum’s teachings can help in your distress,” the man preached, reaching an arm out.

  “Imposter!” Mihaela screeched.

  The obnoxiously flamboyant smile the pastor wore quickly dissipated. His thick eyebrows lowered and his eyes blackened. His top lip curled with disgust, and a scar rose from his chin, across his lower lip and up to his lazy eye.

  “You should choose your words carefully, dear Mihaela,” the man snarled quietly, “I’m a servant of the blessed faith of Aevum. This village has embraced the beauty of Aevum, I suggest you rethink your words, after all, are you not part of this village?”

  “Stop saying my name,” she demanded, her tone weakened, resisting the urge to collapse to her knees in surrender, “please stop saying it. I don’t know you.”

  “Tell me where Cervis is,” scowled the man, his expression one of antipathy as he stared at the quivering Mihaela, “tell me where the boy who has defied the world’s blessed governing faith, and turned against his own, is hiding.”

  “Where’s Father Hugal?” Mihaela wailed, taking steps backwards towards the exit.

  “I’ve already told you, I don’t know who that is,” the robed man preached, through gritted teeth, “and if you don’t tell me where Cervis is, I will cut you open and eat your insides. Would you like me to slice you open, pretty little girl?”

  Gasping in horror, Mihaela froze. Although the muscles in her legs fell limp, she turned in an attempt to run, finding two muscular men blocking the exit, holding sharpened pickaxes.