The Golden Helm: More Tales from the Edge of Sleep
Page 10
“There is no charge,” said John. Baldwin nodded his thanks and strode off down the path. The girl, with a final humble glance at us and a whispered “Thank you,” hurried to follow him.
When they were out of sight, I saw that John’s fist was clenched on the table, his eyes shadowed by pain. He murmured as if to himself, “So much cruelty . . . There is a terrible hunger in me, a hollowness that aches to be filled. I do not know how to live with it.”
I put a hand on his shoulder, and felt the tension in him. “We can pray for her . . . And for one another,” I said. “That is all we can do.”
He turned away, his shoulders sagging. “Yes,” he murmured.
* * *
When the full moon came the next month, I lay sick abed. A fever had come unlooked for and taken me over, with sweating, trembling of the limbs and pain in the joints. I had no more notion of the passing of the days and nights than a newborn babe, and forgot to see to the bolting of Brother John’s door.
I learned later that he had asked young Brother Giles to see to it. He had even locked the shackle himself, but he had grown so thin in the last months that the shackle was of little use. And Brother Giles, being overcome by curiosity on the third night, had unbolted the door to see what manner of creature whined and scratched within. He found out when it rushed past him, knocking him into the wall where he struck his head and lay unconscious for some time.
The first that I knew of it was when I came to myself, shivering and lying in a pool of sweat, gazing out of the window. Slowly what I was gazing at swam into focus, and I realized that it was the apparition of the full moon. At that moment, a long drawn out howl from a great distance away rent the silence of the night.
Seized by dread, I struggled to rise. Brother Ansbert, who had been watching in the room, came at once to my side. “Father,” he said, “you must not get up. You have been very ill.”
I seized my robe and began to pull it on. “Thank you for your concern,” I muttered. “I’m feeling much better.”
He took my arm. “Really, Father, you mustn’t get up.”
I met his eyes. “Get out of my way.”
Startled, he let me go, and somehow I found myself at the outer gate. Several of the brothers had come with me. They tried to persuade me to return, but I was overwhelmed with a premonition of terror and was not to be dissuaded, so at last they came with me.
As we drew near to the village, which lay less than a mile from the monastery, we heard shouts and saw lights. I felt a terrible sinking of my heart, but pressed on. The snow lay deep and crisp on either side of the path worn by feet, and we went single file. We reached the first houses, and a woman came crying to us. “Brothers, help!” she cried. “Something dreadful has happened.”
She pointed to a house set off by itself near the millpond, and we went in that direction. There we found a scene of horror: the disfigured girl met us, trembling and crying, clutching at the gown torn from her shoulder. She pointed to the one room of the house, where pressing inside we found the miller himself, throat and chest slashed and bloody. Neighbors were trying to stanch the blood, but as I knelt beside him I saw that it was too late; though he still lived, the pallor of death was in his face.
He grimaced in gleeful hatred through his pain. I leaned near to hear his words: “At least I got the bastard back,” he wheezed. “He ran limping off, but you should find him nearby—nail his hide to my door!”
Those were his final words. He gave a rattle in his throat, and died. I left him with Brother James, and rose to stumble out of the door.
I did not know what I was searching for, but it was not long before I found it: roses of blood in the snow, dark in the moonlight. The prints of paws ran with them, and the blood lay in great gouts by the time I saw the body, lying under a pine. He had tried to reach the forest.
The paw prints changed to human footprints just before the body. I knelt at Brother John’s side, but the breath was gone already. The stab wounds had been deep, and the miller’s vengeance had already overtaken my friend. I reached out a trembling hand and closed his eyes. The men with me crossed themselves and uttered prayerful ejaculations, but I could only kneel in the snow and weep, overwhelmed with grief and futility.
* * *
The funeral morning was cold and clear, with a wintry sun shining in a pale blue sky. Some few of the brothers meant to accompany me for the final words, although we could not lay Brother John’s body in consecrated ground. Brother Ansbert had come as well, as if to keep watch and assure himself that I comported myself correctly. Grief had eaten its way into my soul, and I felt a bone-deep numbness.
When we came out of the monastery gates, several of the brothers bearing his coffin, to our surprise a crowd of the villagers were waiting for us. I had not realized the depth of their respect for Brother John until I saw them assembled there. The men uncovered as we drew near.
The girl with the disfigured face, whose name I had learned was May, now came up to me. She had a bunch of dried flowers in her hands, and her hood was drawn over the right side of her face; she wept with her left eye. “I am so sorry,” she said in her child’s voice.
“I am sorry as well, that he frightened you so,” I said. “He would never have wanted to do so, in his right mind.”
She gazed at me. “It was not Brother John that tore my dress,” she said at last. “It was my stepfather. The wolf stopped him from hurting me. He will never hurt me any more!” A fierce wonder informed her words, as if the realization were still new to her.
She hesitated, then said, “May I?” and gestured with the flowers. I nodded dumbly.
She went to the simple coffin that the brothers bore, and laid the bunch of flowers on it. As she did so she reached out a hand to steady herself against the coffin. Then she gave a little scream, and put her hand to her cheek.
I ran over to her, and saw that the tumor had gone: melted back into her face. She looked up at me wide-eyed from a lovely, fresh girl’s face, with no trace of disfigurement. She ran her hands over her cheeks and began sobbing. The village seamstress ran over to her, stared into her face, and cried, “A miracle! It’s a miracle!”
Noise and confusion reigned briefly, until I raised a hand and called for silence. “We will go to the churchyard,” I said when all could hear me. “He will be buried in consecrated ground.”
Brother Ansbert pushed his way through the villagers, protesting. “Father! He did great evil—we cannot do this—”
I raised a palm. “I cannot read the mind of God,” I said. “I can only see the signs he sends me, and this is clearly a sign. Brother John was a man who hungered after righteousness, and struggled with a grave affliction. You can discuss it with Our Lord when you arrive in heaven. Here, you will do as I bid you.”
We returned to the church yard, and Brother John was laid to rest with the other brothers.
I am a child in these things, and no scholar. But blessed are those who hunger and thirst after righteousness, for they shall be filled. I believe that my friend has now come to the source of all righteousness, and of mercy as well.
The End
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About the Author
Victoria Randall lives in Seattle, and has five children and three grandchildren.
Her favorite authors are C.J. Cherryh, Robert Crais, C.S.Lewis, Dorothy L. Sayers, and Charles Williams.
You can contact the author at
victoriarandall57@gmail.com.
Her website, Future Dreaming,is here.
Discover other titles by Victoria Randall at Amazon.com:
Shadowcat: Tales from the Edge of Sleep
The Children in Hiding series:
Get on Board Little Children, Book One
Come on Home, Children, Book Two
City of Hidden Children, Book Three
Victoria Randall, The Golden Helm: More Tales from the Edge of Sleep