The Scars of Saints

by Unknown

  They were met with sunlight again. Glancing around, Röark made sure he couldn’t see anyone. The slight grassy mound ahead, the fields to the left and the two cottages to the right were all vacant any signs of activity. The cottages nearby belonged to the Trundles and the Veermohres, both of whom would be traveling south, selling their wares for the harvest festival. Pondering his next move, Röark paused for a second, giving himself time to think.

  He recalled the strange and aggressive way Sorin had acted – obscenely out of character. What did he mean about Cervis? Why were they looking for him? And what was the Censu?

  He noticed, beyond the Trundles’ cottage, an armed man pacing back and forth, barely visible between the Trundles’ gigantic fir trees lining the periphery of their property. The man seemed to pace one way, stop, and then turn and do the same the opposite way. It was a village guard, and it appeared as though he was patrolling. It seemed that the small contingent of guards that resided in Sibiu and its neighbouring villages were all out in force. Röark shook his head in confusion.

  “My father’s farm is this way,” Röark explained to his apprehensive companion, his breathing staggered and uneasy, “my mother will be there. She can help you and tend to your wounds and offer you a bed. She might seem angry at first, but she will help. We can rest there.”

  Due to the open pastures ahead, there was little time to rest. If they didn’t make haste, they risked being spotted. Again lifting the weakened man over his huge shoulder, Röark fled across the fields to his left, and crossed a quiet cobbled road before making their way down an alleyway pinned between two pinewood farmhouses.

  Reaching the end of the narrow alley, Röark placed the man down on a clump of scrap hay, gazing down the road and over at his cottage. He smiled brazenly, an overwhelming sense of relief sweeping over his entire body.

  There was his mother, in their front yard.

  Never before was he so happy to see her. A sense of relief swept over him, whether it was the knowledge she was okay, or the desire to embrace normality again, he smiled jovially. Out in the orchards that littered the front of the cottage she stood, curiously accompanied by three other men. She seemed happy; an unusually iridescent smile pasted across her normally scowling face. Röark’s sense of delight quickly diminished.

  The three men accompanying her wore long flowing cotton robes. The same robes the men wore who had visited the house daily, trying to take over the farm. The same men whom his mother had unceremoniously informed they would receive a brutal pummel if they were to not leave the property immediately.

  Now she was outside laughing with them?

  “I’ll be right back, I promise,” Röark informed his fatigued comrade, taking a step out into the open, towards his cottage. Taking a foolhardy deep breath, he felt an uneasy vulnerability out in the open, delicately advancing towards them. It wasn’t until he reached the old creaky entry gate to the house that the contingent noticed him. One of the robed men smiled contently, offering an open palm by way of a greeting. His face was almost angelic, like a baby’s; soft eyes, chubby cheeks and bright white teeth.

  “Look what Aevum has brought to us,” he chimed, in a tedious high pitched monotone.

  The other two men along with his mother, turned to greet him.

  “My dear boy,” Röark’s mother bleated, “oh, my dear boy is here.”

  “Mother?” Röark questioned with unease, his eyes not leaving her, “why are these men here?”

  “They want the farm dear, they say the blessed need it. Can you believe it, our farm? How did we come to be so fortunate?”

  Röark felt his nostrils flare, a lump forming in his throat. His clenched his mighty fists.

  “Mother, what words you choose, this is father’s farm, our farm.”

  One of the robed men chuckled audaciously to himself.

  “Röark,” the man explained, “your mother understands the needs of the blessed. She understands that this farm has been chosen, and what a special blessing it is,” and as he trailed off, he clasped his wiry hands together, his fingernails long, his fingers arched like talons, “and she has also informed us about your association with the Censu.”

  A rebellious, angry frown dominated Röark’s face. There was that word again, the same one Sorin accused him of – the ‘Censu’.

  “Get off my father’s property,” Röark hissed, dragging out every word as he stepped forward, growing increasingly protective of his mother.

  Weakness is the birth of humility.

  The three men all gazed at each other calmly, chuckling. The taller of them took a step forward, his hands still clasped together.

  “That’s impossible Röark. You see, it’s our farm now. Your mother has donated it to us. She understands that Aevum has a need for this land, and for its people. Therefore, it is you who is trespassing.”

  Once again, Röark felt a deep feeling of dread. The same feeling he felt in the dying forest. Their smiles and peculiar mannerisms filled him with apprehension. There was a sense that they weren’t regular people. They weren’t in Orlat to trade, nor to haggle. They were not interested in fish or honey.

  “Leave us,” Röark insisted, his brow filling with sweat. He did his best to appear intimidating, puffing his chest and squeezing his fists.

  “As we presumed,” one robed man quipped, “an infidel, one born of the Censu.”

  “Mother, come with me!” Röark demanded bravely, outstretching his arm.

  “My boy,” Röark’s mother replied, a calm soothing tone, “my beautiful boy. Why must you act like this, full of hate? What have the Censu done to you? Is it true, have they clouded your mind?”

  “Yes,” one robed man preached, hands clasped together, “they have filled your mind with lies. Where is the Censu boy, where do the cowards hide?”

  The three men flanked Röark’s mother, and made their way towards him. Stumbling backwards in shock, a surge of adrenaline took over and Röark turned back towards the alleyway.

  His mother wasn’t herself, she was confused, persuaded, or worse. What had they done?

  Röark knew he would need to get inside his cottage from the rear, and so he decided his best chance was to take the route past the butcher’s shed and down the brick alleyways to the front of the Rëichard’s mill.

  His feet grew heavy, as though his shoes were filled with lead. As he fled, the robed men made no attempt to give chase, instead watching him as he disappeared behind the wall of a nearby house. He could hear the men shouting in a language he couldn’t understand. Their voices seemed a lot deeper now.

  Reaching the alleyway leading to the butcher’s shed, Röark’s foot caught hold of a lip in one of the stones lining the street. He tripped, landing on his side against the windowsill of one of the cottages. Small potted herbs fell from the ledge and he gashed his chin against some decrepit fence paling, rolling sideways in pain.

  A stabbing sensation gripped his chest, and he wheezed. Hauling himself to his feet with assistance of a nearby chunk of lumber, he ignored the intense pain shooting through his body.

  A figure, dressed in a tattered brown robe approached from the shadows of a small arched doorway opposite, face concealed by an oversized hood. Bending over, the figure grabbed Röark’s shoulder, clenching it tight.

  “Don’t touch me!” screeched Röark, kicking his leg into the faceless figure’s exposed shin. Responding with a roar of pain, the cloaked man faltered backwards, whipping off the hood revealing his face.

  Cervis!

  Appearing behind Cervis, Collarbone leapt towards Röark, swiftly licking his face, before fleeing down the narrow passage to their left.

  Wincing in pain, Cervis scowled at Röark, rubbing his shin.

  “Careful!” he snapped in disdain. “You’d better get up and come with me! Quickly, they’re coming!”

  CHAPTER 5.

  Excerpt (3). - Dr. Hyclid Van Wëegan’s transcripts, dated July 16 1349;

  It’s quite amazing wha
t human beings will do in the depths of despair. My work in small villages in years past exposed me to all kinds of people; farmers, hunters, priests, weavers, fish-mongers, all with their wives and daughters, sons and grandchildren. They’re all insignificantly sad in some way, yet distantly content with their existence. But now I have been witness to the final moments of hundreds of people, clinging to hope, their eye sockets empty, soaked in their own urine. Their pathetic meaningless lives suddenly mean something to them. They call out to me, they plead with me to save their life. They will do anything. Anything at all. But I cannot save them. My potions are ineffective, my remedies worthless.

  It took almost two days to cross the English Channel, and we landed much farther south than I would have anticipated. It was the first time I had seen the ocean, and I didn’t much care for it. The beach we came upon was riddled with boulders, and hundreds of bodies lay waste along its shoreline. These men, women and children had been dead for some time, their remains festered in black spores and maggots. As we watched on in agonising silence, rats ate their innards, eventually scattering as we approached.

  The merchants allowed me to gather my belongings before they hastily pulled away, telling me their destination was the ‘promised land’, north towards Scandinavia. They had received word the illness had not reached those shores.

  My own concern was in the prospect of having to make my own way to London. The merchants couldn’t help me. “The city has been felled”, they preached, “the people are all gone.” I remain sceptical. Although Cassandra’s letter would have been penned many moons ago, I am rest assured her health is intact. And by the time I reach her, she will have arranged for the items I requested, so I can undergo my duty on curing the world of this dreaded illness.

  ---

  Whisking Röark down a tiny, darkened laneway, Cervis lead them into an unkempt garden behind the old water mill. Alongside them ran a series of small rectangular farmhouses, all the same shape, all in various dull shades of brown, off-yellow and mint green. Their roofs were delicate, having withstood decades of harsh Romanian weather. Lush green patches of grass, boasting abundant brightly coloured roses and briar stems littered the road adjacent to the rows of cottages. And at the end of the cobbled road, the tall, faded yellow gothic byzantine clock tower. This was Cervis’s destination.

  “I must keep going, my mother is in danger,” Röark cried, turning back to try to locate the wounded man. Cervis grumbled, tugging Röark’s arm.

  “We need to keep moving-”

  “I found a man, in the woods!” Röark blurted, turning to face Cervis who was once again cloaked in his hood, “he’s back near the mill, and he needs medical help. You must come help me.” Röark was frantic, rushing his words.

  “It’s okay, he’s with us already, we’re helping him inside the tower,” Cervis assured his oldest friend, grasping his mighty shoulders.

  Röark asked inquisitively, “you mean, you…he’s okay?”

  “We need to move out of sight,” Cervis advised, grabbing hold of Röark’s arm. He forced aside a thick contingent of hedges and raced down a narrow pathway alongside the old clock tower, veiled by thick pine trees. It was a trail Röark had never seen. He was of the understanding he knew this village better than anyone, yet it appeared anyone except Cervis.

  When the path ended, they turned a corner, greeted by a tiny gothic wooden door held shut by a rusted steel latch. Lifting it with ease, Cervis, followed by Röark, made their way into the murky darkness inside. Röark felt his stomach tighten. Invaded by an overbearing odour of damp stagnant air, he spluttered, and waved his arm to create aeration. Whatever this room, no one had entered it for years. For the second time that day, Röark found himself in an unrecognisably pitch-black room, bombarded with the same perpetual unease. But soon enough various candles were lit, one by one, from each corner of the room, and Röark realised he and Cervis were not alone.

  Two young men; one skinny and one muscular, and a beautiful girl with striking red hair sat silently, each with their gaze locked on Cervis. In the far corner lying on the floor, the man Röark had rescued from the forest lay motionless, his chest slowly rising and falling.

  The muscular lad swiftly blew out the tiny flame on his match, and dropped the remaining bundle back into his tunic pocket. He turned away from Röark, not interested in the new arrivals at all. The other skinnier young man kept his gaze on Cervis, his beady eyes dark and cold, magnified by his large glasses. In the furthest corner resting on a giant old church bell, was the red haired girl, scowling at them with her lip raised in displeasure.

  Grasping his chest tenderly, Röark pleaded Cervis for information, clutching his arm. “What’s going on here?”

  “Have you seen Mihaela?” Cervis asked. “Have you heard from her at all?”

  “No,” Röark replied, shaking his head, “why is the entire village looking for you? There are guards outside, everywhere. What did you do?”

  Cervis didn’t reply. He turned to face the skinny young man, who sat cross legged in a ponderous state, his thick black glasses resting on his crooked nose. He wore a rugged dark cloak and a necklace with a small, wicker dream-catcher attached, a pretty, multi-coloured feather dangling from it.

  “I did what I had to,” Cervis stated with assurance, again flicking a glance at the glass-wearing individual in the back corner, “now we need to find Mihaela.”

  “You did what you had to? What does that mean?” Röark asked hesitantly, adopting a whisper, “Did these people make you do something? I have never seen them before.”

  “We’re wasting time,” grumbled the flame-haired girl up the back, arms crossed in an impatient manner, “we need to find András and leave.”

  Röark had never seen a girl with hair as red. He was instantly smitten, impressed yet hesitant.

  In the opposite corner nodding in agreement, the skinny man fiddled with his glasses, keeping eye contact with Röark. He gently stroked the circular dream-catcher attached to his necklace.

  “Don’t forget Mihaela,” Cervis added, turning to the group behind him, reminding them, “you said you’d help me look after her if there was a problem. That was the deal.”

  “Are you people part of Aevum?” Röark asked boldly, his voice a little louder, more insistent.

  Cervis met eyes with Röark. Cervis knew his friend well. He knew his tentative nature, his cautious approach to new people. His mother had imbedded that in Röark, ever since his father had deserted them. It was part of the reason Röark was distant, introverted. There was certainly no way Röark would believe what Cervis had to say. Sighing, Cervis stepped forward.

  “This is Phillipe,” Cervis acknowledged, to the dark-cloaked, ponderous looking young man, who again fiddled with his glasses in an agitated state, “and this is Sully.” Cervis pointed to the girl, curly red locks and freckled cheeks with a somewhat distinctive scowl across her face. She appeared much younger than the other two.

  “You mustn’t say my name!” Sully snapped, a shrill in her impish voice.

  “And this,” Cervis directed “is Rian,” ending his introductions and flaring his chest in adulation, “you might have heard of him. He is one of the illustrious thieves from Bucharest, who-“

  “The whereabouts of András now has a heightened importance,” Phillipe spoke, interrupting Cervis, ignoring any pleasantries, “it’s imperative we locate him, the information he has gathered on the details of Aevum will impede and objectify those of the faith, and will certainly help our cause.”

  “We haven’t heard a thing from him,” chirped the girl worryingly, her facial features curling in an almost sour way. Her speech was battered and rough, her curly red hair draped across her soft face. She was dressed in a range of animal skins, wrapped around her thighs like a dress, then rising up from the back, over her right shoulder and covering her upper chest. Her legs and arms were skinny yet brawny.

  “András?” Röark questioned, trying to keep up with the conversati
on, “is he the reason you are all hiding in this clock tower?”

  “Cervis brought us here, in case we need to escape,” Phillipe said softly, rising to his feet.

  With the assistance of Rian, they grabbed the old bell and slid it sideways. Stone shavings fluttered about the floor as the heavy steel bell lurched sideways. Underneath it, a small rectangular hole that led into endless darkness.

  “What is that?” Röark queried with aversion, taking a hesitant step towards it, looking down. “Where does that lead to?”

  “I am not sure,” Cervis said behind him, his expression concerned, “I discovered it late last winter.”

  Röark shook his head, his face losing colour. “That’s dangerous, it could lead anywhere, we cannot go down there.”

  “Röark, listen to me,” Cervis explained, resting both hands on Röark’s bulky shoulders, “there’s a lot of corrupt people in the village.” Cervis’ grip on Röark shoulders grew tight, “Phillipe explained to me there’s a connection with the dying forest outside and the arrival of the governing faith Aevum. You too cannot deny some strange things have been going on. And these guys have explained to me it’s not just in Orlat, it’s everywhere, all over, as far as Southern France!”

  “Aevum,” Röark nodded in agreeance, his eyes falling to the floor, “Aevum, the men in the blue robes, near the orchard with my mother.” Röark expressed the words slowly, his head lowered, his expression lost in ponder, “who are they? Why are they here?”

  “You’ve never heard of them?” Sully scoffed, “how can that be?”

  Röark lifted his head, looking up at Sully. He knew his face was pale, locked in worry. He knew his eyes gave away his distress, his concern for his mother. The fiery-haired girl just gazed back at him, her ever-present scowl sealed across her face.

  Weakness is the birth of humility.

  All of a sudden, thunderous screams exploded from outside, intermittent roars followed by a rumble. Inside the clock tower, the occupants fell silent, listening intently to the rabble outside. Hundreds of footsteps clambered, scurrying past. The earth felt as if it were moving.