The Scars of Saints

by Unknown

  “I think it’s time you learned something about your village. First of all, the pendant wasn’t hidden,” Phillipe corrected, his gaze locked on the other items in the old, cobweb-ridden bookcase, “like I said, it was left there by Dr Hyclid Wëegan before he was murdered in the catacombs of that very church.”

  Cervis felt one of his headaches coming on. Sweat rendered his palms sticky, his eyes burned from the dust. He felt a sense of loneliness, “Impossible.”

  “Impossible?” Phillipe asked, as though the mention of the word made him sick, “and what do you know of the world, or even of the village of which you were raised?”

  Clenching his fists, Cervis grew angry, stamping his foot. “You’ve done nothing but slander me, and bring shame to me. You promised me payment, and for what-“

  “The cercle de lumiere murdered Hyclid,” Phillipe interrupted Cervis, “old Latin, basically translated as the circle of light. They are heralded as six men and women who allegedly sealed Asag Ovrai within woods somewhere south of the Hungarian border. After that, they slaughtered Hyclid, who at the time was one of the three leaders of the faith. And it’s good they did so, he was a horrible man who conspired the vilest of crimes using a false pretence.”

  “Aevum?” Cervis asked, shocked, already knowing the answer.

  “Exactly. He did despicable things. He was a man apparently driven by an ancient demonic entity, Asag Ovrai. Fed by greed, desire, envy and wrath, Hyclid concocted a faith, then managed to spread the word that this faith, Aevum, was promising eternal life. And people believed him. He targeted the poor, the desperate, and the needy. And soon after, when they joined the faith, they would disappear.”

  Cervis muttered. “Disappear?”

  “Likely sacrificed, or murdered,” Phillipe said, shrugging, “no one quite knows for sure.”

  “Sacrificed for what?”

  “Asag Ovrai flourished with each sacrifice, at least that’s what the demented Dr. Hyclid mused. The transcripts around that time are badly damaged. I’m yet to understand how the dark doctor first came across conjuring Asag Ovrai, but it’s well documented he had delusions of grandeur, born into poverty, purporting his talents as a witch-doctor linked to the dark arts of Bucharest. Some say he never really brought forth the demon at all, it was all part of his imagination. But that didn’t stop the monster inside him, and the effect he had over the desperate. He destroyed helpless peasants, crushing mental and physical awareness. That said, he flaunted good fortune if they were to then turn to follow the teachings of the faith, Aevum. He tortured them, cut them, beat them and poisoned them until their only choice was to reach out and follow the teachings of Aevum. And then his followers would do the same to others. It spread from land to land, the celebrated faith that saves man from the Black Death.”

  “Why?” Cervis asked, “why would he do this?”

  “Stulte,” Phillipe shook his head, “Why? I don’t know why. If I knew that I’d lest be here, in this dwelling with you.”

  There was silence as Cervis paused in thought and Phillipe ran his hands up and down the walls, perplexed at a range of different etchings.

  “If he was killed - Hyclid I mean,” Cervis said, a tone of worry in his voice, “and the faith disappeared, who is responsible for it returning?”

  “Aevum’s return clearly dictates the faith wasn’t abolished, it merely fell into hibernation. As I understand it, fanatics have given resurgence to it, and have renewed their recruitment once again.”

  “This Hyclid doctor, you say he was one of three original leaders of Aevum,” Cervis eventually said, visibly shaken by Phillipe’s sudden explanation, “what happened to the other two after he was killed?”

  Phillipe studied the wall around the bookcase, wiping dirt from his glasses. He grasped the dreamcatcher around his neck and shuddered. He then turned to Cervis.

  “No one knows. They disappeared.”

  “And the circle of light? The people involved in the killing of Hyclid, what of them?” Cervis asked.

  “They too, disappeared,” Phillipe replied.

  Cervis stepped forward. “And you think all that happened here, in Orlat?”

  “Over two hundred years ago. Like I said, this village wasn’t always named Orlat. Now come along, help me move this bookcase.”

  Somehow, Cervis’ hesitation towards Phillipe had eased. It wasn’t as though he believed the story, but the explanation made him feel less belittled. Doing as he was asked, he made his way forward, past the sleeping man, to the other side of the bookcase. Leaning on it, he worked with Phillipe to shove it across. Phillipe gave little assistance, his meek frame frivolous for such a task. The old, wooden case scratched along the dusty floor, a vibrant gruff echoing across the walls.

  “How do you know all this stuff, about Hyclid, and Asag Ovrai?”

  “S…s…stulte,” Phillipe stuttered, “I know much, but there is still plenty I do not know.”

  Phillipe pressed himself against the darkened wall, shielded from decay by the bookcase. Red dust clouded Cervis’ vision, as he tried to watch what Phillipe was doing. He saw him knock a few times on the newly exposed wall.

  “Someone else is here,” Phillipe’s voice said, a sense of apprehension.

  Cervis said nothing, no reply at all.

  Phillipe again knocked at the wall, then slowly lowered himself to his knees, and pressed his fingers into the brick. With ease, one brick popped out, clambering to the floor, bouncing once before resting beside Phillipe. He flicked a second brick out, again with ease. This one landed beside the first.

  “What is it?” Cervis asked, his breathing mounting.

  Phillipe popped out another brick, and then another, until a tiny semi-circled hole appeared, exposing a crawl space barely able to fit a single person. Phillipe tried to guess the length of the passage, lost amongst the unnerving darkness inside.

  Cervis immediately panicked, and made a vein attempt to avert Phillipe’s focus from the tiny opening. “So how do you know all this stuff then, if you’re just a petty thief?”

  “Your assumptions label me as such, yet I am in fact not a thief at all. Quite the contrary, I’m actually a scholar of sorts. Self-labelled mind you, but still relevant. I study the origins of daemons, particularly around beliefs, rituals and prevalence of demonic control. That’s how I know. Now, hand me that light will you.”

  It took a moment for the information to sink in for Cervis. Not long ago, Phillipe had seemed quiet, aloof and introverted. Yet now he offered such insight into his life it almost seemed untrue. A devout Christian, Cervis’ upbringing within a tremendously religious village meant he was guided by the rules of Christianity, and the Holy word of God. Seldom were discussions had around what happened to men and women who cast sin, typically with Röark’s mother quick to instigate the notion that hell lies in wait, and the merciless darkness that comes with it. Eternal damnation for the wicked.

  “You study demons?” Cervis queried, aghast at the concept and clearly not convinced. He tapped his forehead and then his chest, a quick prayer. Besides the Bible’s concept of the anti-god who rebelled against Heaven, the only demons he had heard of were the ones purportedly spotted in the Trundle windmill outside of town, but everyone knew that was mockery because the Trundle kids wanted to avoid working. No one believed it.

  Phillipe turned to him, his face plastered with agitation. “If you’d seen and read what I have, you’d harbour less distrust in their existence. Now, hand me the light.”

  “You’re going in there?” Cervis gasped, handing Phillipe the bottle housing the flame.

  “Follow me if you wish, I will not force it on you.”

  Phillipe squeezed his body into the recess, holding the flame in front of him to light the way. The tiny corridor did seem endless. Wriggling inside, he pushed with the front of his feet, sliding along the ground. The walls and roof were caked with dirt, and bugs and ants clambered all over him, disturbed from their slumber. Thick, sticky cobwebs
blocked his path, as hundreds more little critters fell from the roof, scuttling across his face. Foundations of dirt smeared across his clothing, staining him black. The recess felt smaller and smaller as he progressed, the roof eventually brushing his back as he slithered, the sides of each wall rubbing his shoulders. He burnt away cobwebs with the flame, moving inside further and further. The light flickered with uncertainty, giving in to the lack of oxygen. Unable to see behind him, he pressed on, his face drenched in sweat. The air was cold, musty and stale. The roof had lowered so much that it was threating to hinder his progression. With a pitiful jerk, he lunged forward and flung the bottle with the fire in it, and it rattled ahead, rolling along the floor lighting the path. It came to a stop a few metres away, in what seemed like an open room. Squeezing his eyes shut, Phillipe lurched a few breaths and used the last of his energy to push through the confined brick passageway. At the end, he was like a worm out of an apple, desperately spewing out of the minuscule opening, into a small room. He reached for his dreamcatcher and clasped it urgently, making sure it hadn’t sustained damage. He sucked in the air and wiped the build-up filth from his face.

  Leaning against the wall, Phillipe squeezed the dreamcatcher tightly, “Glorious Prince of Heaven’s armies, blessed is the Gold Archangel, defend me in battle against darkness, against the rulers of spite, against the wicked spirits who plague our lands.”

  Cervis’ voice called from the confined passageway, interrupting his prayer. “I’m stuck! Help me!”

  Phillipe didn’t respond, instead reaching for the bottle that housed the dying flame.

  “Please!” Cervis cried, “I can’t move, I’m stuck!” The panic in his voice echoed, shrill and high-pitched. His attempts to struggle were blocked by the enclosed walls that trapped him, his face soon covered in rampaging ants swarming over his face, into his ears and mouth.

  CHAPTER 14.

  The hideous winged creatures snarled viciously. Two of them paraded human bones in their talons, ripping off what little flesh stuck to it. The vision overwhelmed Rian – watching their ragged human faces, blood smeared across their mouths while they savagely tore at raw flesh while their feathered torsos and sharpened talons held it down was inconceivable. Above Rian, fleeting footsteps and ghastly hisses filled the air. He was completely surrounded.

  His breath staggered, his face burning with hot flushes, he turned to run. He was beginning to doubt himself. His mind must be playing tricks, fatigued from the past day. Yet the world was spinning, and the continuous horrid screeching played havoc with his senses. Something flew by Rian’s face, accompanied by an overwhelming repugnant smell akin to a rotting sheep carcass. Racing towards the arched exit, asphyxiation gripped him as he became aware the abundance of trees ahead were littered with the avian beasts. Every branch perched three or four, cramped together, horrid soulless eyes watching his desperately staggered manoeuvres. His legs felt as if they were on fire, his muscles seizing. Falling from the perch, one of the creatures swooped. With incredible precision, it cut across Rian’s face, gashing his eye with an elongated claw. Wailing in pain, he clutched at his face, blood seeping down his hand. He staggered sideways, temporarily taking his eyes off the road, impacting his balance.

  A second harpy swooped, slashing at his neck, and cutting it open fiercely. Tripping, he fell to his knees, trying to prevent himself from tumbling over. Hot blood seeped down his shoulder, sticking to his sweaty shirt. Scrambling to keep balance in panic, he quickly realised just how many harpies there were, hundreds and hundreds, staring down at him from amongst the sinister treetops.

  Able to reach only a slow jog, he began to swipe aimlessly with his arms at each attacking creature, individually diving from their roost, talons bared. They were above him, in the trees beside him, and now ahead of him, bloodcurdling screeches unrelenting. But the exit was so close now, only yards away! In a desperate bid for escape, he mustered up as much energy as he had left, reaching the exit, collapsing outside in the field of grass.

  The sky had grown perilously dark, storm clouds clustered together like water soaked marshmallows. Intermittent flashes of angry lightning blasted the surrounding hills and valleys while heavy rainfall crossed the fields reducing the view to a static haze. Soft trickles licked Rian’s face, the refreshing droplets delivering a paralysing sense of relief. Although there were no signs of the harpies having followed him, Rian wasted no time rising to his feet, racing down the hill towards the town.

  Funnelling his hands, he made frivolous attempts to catch droplets to drink, but it was almost impossible while he was running at such a speed. Tasting the blood running down his face, he sped by the rows of glorious willows, their thriving long green stems welcoming the rain. Crossing the shallow stream, church bells filled the air, intermittent chimes echoing with eerie grace. The ringing bells grew louder as Rian approached, the first glimpses of the town boasting beautiful flourishing pear and cherry trees, with a smaller convoy of plum and chestnut bushes. He noticed a quaint little church to the left, settled on the side of the hill, surrounded by fields that stretched as far as the eye could see.

  Dong! – the malevolent sound of the bell rang out – Dong!

  For no particular reason, he was reminded of the time he and Sully found refuge in the Saschiz church in Brașov, in search of gold gothic statuettes they’d traced to a gallery in town. Poor planning lead to Sully being identified, and they were forced to hide in the church. The bells rung all night, a haunting monotonous chime robbing them of sleep – the only thing stolen that night.

  But this church in front of him was much smaller, and much older. Peculiarly, hordes of townsfolk mustered outside waiting to enter, not put off by the heavy downpour. The group consisted entirely of women and children, and with an intense eagerness they all trotted into the tiny open doorway, a meticulous single file. Sliding behind one of the pear trees, Rian kept an eye on the masses of church bound village folk.

  No men, Rian realised. Where were all the men of the village? Had they all been killed by the harpies?

  He gripped his neck, and a flow of red dribbled between his knuckles and onto his shirt. The wound felt wide, he knew the serration had been deep. There was no doubt he needed a bandage. Then he noticed Sully, standing alone amongst the massing crowd, dressed in a white robe. She too was waiting to enter the little church.

  “Sully?” Rian gasped defiantly, to himself.

  Dong! - Dong! – The eerie chimes continued.

  Rian’s mind raced. He was inundated with relief Sully had not met with foul play, yet he was hesitant to show himself. This type of behaviour wasn’t new to him. These people were brainwashed, mindless souls marching in line, one after the other, into the church.

  Aevum had taken this tiny town – and now it seemed Sully was a part of it.

  Rian scrunched his fists, grimacing in frustration. How did Sully get herself into this, she knew the dangers. He noticed she wasn’t holding the rucksack she had stolen. She had nothing in her hands or on her back at all. She just foolishly strutted along behind the masses, towards the open doors. Her long red curly hair fluttered in the wind, with nothing to hide it or keep it contained.

  Shielding his eyes from the rain, he began to grind his teeth. His heart raced, his palms grew sticky. He was glad Phillipe and András were not here to see this. They commonly revelled Sully would succumb to Aevum. They would often prophesise her demise.

  “They target the weak,” András would contort, “they target the greedy, and the desperate. Sully is both those things, and she is unpredictable, merciless and disloyal. They will find her, and she will find them.”

  How can you say that? – Rian contested András’ comments each time – aren’t you supposed to love her?

  Dong! – Dong! – awoken from his thoughts by the church bell.

  Slinking out from hiding, Rian progressed down the grassy slope with caution, his feet sliding about in mud. Behind him, the willows swished, disturbed by the warm pas
sing wind. Wiping blood seeping from his neck, he continued, taking refuge behind a small crumbled stone ruin, remnants of an old barn. He could do nothing but watch. If he was to interrupt, or try to lure Sully away, it would inevitably cause an outcry. He was clearly powerless to help, left to do nothing but watch her enter the church, out of sight. Within minutes, the congregation had dissipated inside, the chiming bells eventually ceasing. The doors swung shut with a loud clunk.

  Rian was left in silence, just the gentle patter of rainwater at his feet. Gathering his thoughts, he glanced down. A puddle of mud had formed, with two human bones soaking in the sludge, bare of all flesh. Alongside the bones were a few large, darkened feathers, matted and soggy.

  The harpies had been here.

  Rian’s stomach tightened, and he knew was going to be sick. Fighting to stop his mind falling into madness, he grasped his face and wailed pitifully. He could see them, their deathly stares, those awful demonic human faces taunting him. And the sounds, that ghastly screeching.

  An assortment of trees lay to his right, a perfect blanket of heavy vegetation for him to stealthily pass the church and enter town. With a quick burst, he sprung to his feet, dashing through the army of bright green trees, his shoes cutting through the grasses and weeds with a swish, sinking in the damp overgrowth. A small cream brick house concealed amongst the topiary appeared on his left. Darting towards it, he pushed his back flush against the wall, peeking into the solitary window.

  Inside, a kitchen with a pantry stocked with empty glass jars and a small dining table. A wicker basket sat on a wooden bench filled with rotten fruits, flies buzzing around it in a circular rage. He pondered for a moment, flirting with the idea of going inside. He followed the wall along, turning the corner of the house searching for the door but soon cast off the idea when he noticed a pub, easily identifiable by the empty steel kegs stocked up outside, the courtly flower displays across the windows and a wooden panel, held to the roof by chains, bearing a picture of a stag’s head.