The Shadow Crucible

by T. M. Lakomy

  The Frankish town near the nunnery was small but financially welloff, with enough luxury to distinguish it from other small towns in the vicinity. But its most important feature was that it was the passing point for all travelers going in and out of the Frankish kingdoms into Britain. Estella’s skills earned her much renown in the town. However, she was only begrudgingly sought after at first, for being foreign and lacking the requisite modesty expected of a nun, she was slow to grow on her fellow sisters and townsmen. But like all things habitual, they grew accustomed to her and even fond of her.

  Soon she was spending most of her time away from the priory and its excessive solemnity, instead entering into the joyous hustle and bustle of the Frankish town. Eventually she even gleaned some autonomy by setting herself up in a small cottage near the church. This allowed her to go about her daily business visiting the sick more easily. Through her duties, and with the protection her habit afforded her, she was able to mingle with all levels of society, both rich and poor, and gain entry into their social circles.

  Now uncomfortably perched on a chair at the far end of a rickety table, her mind drifted in and out of the conversation she was having. The low room was claustrophobic and windowless, and numerous icons of the Christ and his mystic bride adorned the walls. The Magdalenes were initiates of Mary, the red bride of Magdala, Christ’s wife, and followed her practice of celibacy, prayer, and service to God. They venerated her gospel and followed the course she took up when she departed the Holy Land after the crucifixion.

  “Sister Mercy, we really need your help today,” said Prefect Gustave. “The mayor is welcoming a guest into town, a traveling prince of the Saxon kingdoms. His herald came ahead to warn us of his arrival, and has informed us that he has been taken ill. He usually solicits the services of this nunnery for his confessions, therefore we would require the skills of your holiness; prayer naturally for his expedient recovery, and your expert healing capabilities.” The prefect spoke softly with a remarkably mellow tone. He was a handsome, middle-aged man with luscious brown hair and a healthy beard. His cornflower blue eyes were analytical and pensive. And though his features were comely, he had a certain roughness about him, which he had tamed with education and courtesy.

  His gaze often wandered over Sister Mercy’s face, wondering what her true name was and who she had been before she took the vows. But such questions were forbidden, and he was indulging in a convoluted guessing game. Estella had not been able to shed her irascible spirit nor her stately upbringing, and her languishing moods and solitude had tempered her into a melancholic, absentminded waif. Her stern neck was less rigid, and she often looked to the ground where her face could be hidden from the simple eyes of the townfolk. Her eyes betrayed what her mouth did not speak, and kept that unearthly glow that bewildered onlookers.

  “I understand,” Estella replied. “I shall go of course. May I request a carriage? And what about lodgings?” Her disinterest was fully noted as she nonchalantly fixed her interlocutor with a bored look. The prefect nodded, sourly construing her indolence as disdain for the social gap that yawned between them. He understood from her bearing that she was no castaway daughter of a simpleton, easily recognizing her as a daughter of nobility.

  “Everything has been arranged for you. You will be set up next to the prince in a neighboring room for the duration of his sojourn. And if it pleases you . . .” he paused, shooting her a meaningful look as he reached for a dark leather pouch beneath his cloak. He opened it delicately, withdrawing an elaborate crucifix encrusted with rubies and diamonds on a heavy gold chain. The prefect studied Estella closely as her eyes lit up.

  “This is a gift from the mayor, who has heard of your godly work in this town at the service of the people. He has long wanted to thank you. This is a token of his pledge to honor your works. Please wear it, and think of him when you pray.”

  The prefect rose and strolled casually up to Estella, her piercing dark eyes suddenly more alive and mischievous, measuring his motives with a dubious frown. But her face betrayed the interest he wanted from her, and he dropped the crucifix into her grasp, using their proximity as an excuse to appraise her more closely. He was a man that hated mysteries and riddles, and he longed to unravel the secret identity she hid beneath her habit.

  “Indeed, it is a thing of beauty,” she murmured admiringly. “Rubies were my favorite gem before . . .” she trailed off dreamily. A haze traversed her face, and again she abandoned him to meander in places far from his ken.

  “Before what, sister? Where were you before? You have the airs of a great dame with holy aspirations, surely you must be some noblewoman.” The prefect’s casual tone could not disguise his evident curiosity. And there was a meaningful look in his eyes as he glanced quickly at her long, slender fingers and nails, which had clearly never felt the strain of hard labor.

  “Many thanks to you and the mayor, Prefect Gustave,” Estella said, stitching a cold smile across her face. He was overstepping his familiarity, and she had to be wary. Relief flooded her as the bells for vespers tolled in the distance. “Tonight then,” she added sweetly. Rewarding the prefect with one of her most ingratiating and charming smiles, she departed in a flurry of black robes.

  Traversing the streets was always easy, for the jostling people, usually boisterous and uncouth, moved out of her way deferentially as she strode by. The citizens of the town beamed at their prodigious nurse, whose remedies and silver hands wrought wonders in the domain of healing. She smiled back meekly and bowed her head as she went along on her way to the church to join the other sisters in prayer.

  Disguising her boredom by feigning weariness, she entered the damp church, already ruffling the pages of a missal she produced from her robes and pretending to give herself over to prayer. She seated herself alone at a distance from everyone and withheld her gaze. The other sisters present were a mixture of high and low born—the progeny of princes and castaway daughters that found no place in society. They were blended in with a few truly mad pious women of the poor and the nobility, as well as some that hoped to avoid the bondage of marriage and escape the ownership of their fathers.

  So far she had only befriended one sister, a coy and mischievous lass from the Emerald Isle who indulged her with all the town gossip and amused her with her sly manners. Siobhan, who had escaped from her Gaelic people, was the illegitimate daughter of a wealthy noble. Her father had arranged a marriage for her which she politely declined by having an epiphany about God’s purpose for her. And since refusing such a declaration would have been considered an affront to the church, and because Siobhan had used all her cunning theatrics to articulate her fervor, she managed to escape a life of thralldom to some older man. She had thrown herself headlong into the mystical teachings of the Magdalenes, and as a result was able to enjoy a relative freedom. Sister Lucas, as she was now called, glided into the church austerely. Sweeping her gaze over the benches, she spotted Estella. Marching up to her, she rolled her eyes dramatically at the loud sermon being given and sat down.

  “The mayor has invited you to care for our guest I hear,” she whispered behind a kerchief as she feigned a gentle cough.

  “Yes, so I just learned,” remarked Estella from behind her missal.

  Siobhan adjusted her head covering. “This Saxon prince is a real beast you know . . .” she nudged Estella gently and shot her a playful glance.

  Estella raised an eyebrow with a lopsided smile. “Oh dear me, and what do you know about that?” she grinned, darting looks around her to ensure they weren’t being overheard.

  Sister Lucas snorted with a mock scandalized look. “He has this curious habit of wanting the sisters to flagellate him as a means of incurring true remorse for his sins. It sends him into a frenzy of holy ecstasy they say. Well, the word is that the true reason he enjoys the whip from our hands so much is because he likes being dominated sexually. And the confessions from the town girls seem to prove as much.” She nodded knowingly with a sparkle in her gr
een eyes.

  “And how would you know precisely what he enjoys?” Estella queried, pinching Siobhan’s arm subtly as she stifled a yelp, giggling soundlessly. They were already attracting acrimonious looks and forceful coughs from the other sisters, but Estella plowed on heedlessly in her boredom. Siobhan grimaced at them contemptuously, propping her missal in front of her face.

  “See, I measured the time between the confessions of the town girls and the timeline of his flagellations. Each instance occurs around the same night or the one following. Obviously he gets all roused up by his penance and then ravages our dear lay sisters.” Siobhan shot Estella a wily look but Estella, sensing more, held her gaze till Siobhan lowered her eyes. The musty air of the church and the malodorous mold tickled at her throat and nose.

  “And what exactly are you trying to tell me, really? You want me to arrange a night between you two to try him out?” she goaded Siobhan searchingly.

  “Don’t be so ridiculous! Well, he seems to have chosen you this year to care for his needs since he is ill, and he is likely to make you his confessor. You see, he donates large sums of money to the church and to the sisters individually, and it’s now been five years since I have been undertaking the task of confessing him—until you came,” Siobhan grasped Estella’s hand desperately and her face, normally joyous and devoid of worry, was a mirror of restlessness. Estella felt waves of guilt and bitterness emanating from the young nun and she frowned.

  “You need the money, don’t you? But for what or whom?” She was irked that Siobhan was suddenly confessing her secrets to her and embroiling her in her worries. Estella desired only time enough to fashion a detailed plan for her escape and the right opportunity to leave them all behind to rot. She hated all the nuns and the Mother Superior. She hated the rituals and endless petitions to the cold heavens. She often mused that if God had to listen day and night to the endless rambling and tears of his devoted people, he would surely lose his divine mind and extinguish the earth to rid himself of their constant nagging.

  “Rose, you are the only person I feel I can confide in,” said Siobhan, using the name Estella had given her as her own. “I need your help. The gift that Prefect Gustave gave you today . . . that was my idea. I wanted you to have it. I have observed how you grew red rose bushes around your house near the church and how you polish the church’s finery with special care for the rubies . . . I wanted you to have that gift as a token of my sincerity toward you,” Siobhan said. But her tone was disingenuous and Estella saw the envy lurking in her eyes.

  “It’s important for you to understand that I did not come here willingly,” Siobhan continued, “as undoubtedly was the case for you too, though you were grateful to us for rescuing you. You are just like me. We are both grateful for the merciful nature of this order that shelters us from the man’s world and its politics. Well, you must see that Gustave and I are in love.” She dropped the words dramatically, swallowing hard, little beads of sweat forming over her delicate, porcelain face. Estella had anticipated her words with thorough disinterest, and was thinking of a polite excuse to disentangle herself.

  “I see. So you’re saving to run away with him back to his own town, marry, and live happily ever after? I guess the gold from this Saxon prince is the least you can do for a dowry to make up for your lack of family name.” Estella’s words rang out coldly.

  Siobhan’s eyes watered and she trembled softly, her breathing suddenly shallow. Estella, meanwhile, averted the attention of the inquisitive sisters who had finished their prayers by slamming the missal shut and greeting the nuns filing by with an appropriate amount of asperity and humility. Then waiting for the last sister and lay person to leave the church, she turned to face Siobhan, lounging against the pew in an indecorous manner.

  “Shame, really, I wanted to use that gold to make my own way out.” Estella’s tone held an underscore of disdain. At that moment, both she and Siobhan dropped their heavy masks in unison.

  “You want a way out of here, well so do I,” Siobhan pouted. “The prince is crossing into Britain, and you could find reasons to go with him. I can help you with that. Then you could disappear into their green pastures.”

  “Ah, I see. And with what wealth shall I rebuild myself there?” Estella’s sarcastic tone was not lost on Siobhan.

  “Oh, but he will treat you with the utmost respect and shower you with gifts fit for queens. He often requests some sisters to escort him on the travels he undertakes. Normally the wealth he endows them with goes to the church and provides for it, but you can simply disappear with it and rebuild yourself.” Estella’s mind began to whirl with endless possibilities, and she started cobbling together plans to dupe the prince.

  “Hmmm I must think this through carefully,” Estella breathed, half listening and rising to her feet. Suddenly taller and more towering than ever, Estella walked toward the church’s exit with purpose in each step.

  “Just remember that Gustave and I aren’t the people you ought to be making enemies of here!” Siobhan bitterly called out after her, heedless to eavesdroppers.

  Estella stood at the doors, taking in the details of the town with fresh eyes. And those who passed her by were startled by the incandescence of her fiery gaze, reignited once again.

  15

  THE AGELESS TEMPTATION

  But my heart bleeds irrevocably, its wound inflicted by the heavenly spear

  No amount of weeping can quell the rapture my visions glean

  For with every rupture of the bonds of my soul, every poison bled through my tear

  I bask in the radiance of your echoing presence mirrored in the sunbeam

  BACK IN HER GARDEN WHERE SHE TENDED HER ROSES, ESTELLA paced up and down thoughtfully, her prayer beads in one hand in case someone came bursting in requiring her urgent help. The other hand was making flickering movements before her. Drawing with thought patterns only she could see, she waited patiently for the carriage to pick her up and escort her to the Saxon Prince Erik. Her powers were slightly rusty, and she exerted her mind strenuously, cursing herself for allowing herself to weaken.

  With each moment, she grew more and more impatient. Various devious plans hatched in her mind for the prince’s benefit, and already she could taste the tang of freedom in her mouth, along with the familiar security and boundless possibility that money brings.

  Finally dusk crept soft and steady upon the day, robbing it of its colors. The sunset’s last dying throes tinted the skies in vibrant hues of crimson and orange. But it brought with it an uneasy feeling. There was something brewing within the silences of the skies and the mellow town noises, something foreboding and imminent.

  Shaking the feeling of unease, Estella left her cottage where the anxiety was weighing upon her like a cloud. Waiting before her gate, she scoured the cobbled streets for her carriage. After much anticipation, it emerged on the horizon. The heavy, polished carriage was drawn by proud chestnut horses with silver harnesses adorned by white plumes. The sight of the looming carriage made Estella’s senses tingle, and her heartbeat quickened. She felt as though her brief respite from the world was drawing abruptly to an end, and she braced herself for some token of deceit from the darkness, finally seeking her out again. She smiled as the carriage approached. The driver averted his eyes from her, crossing himself devoutly.

  “My master would be honored if you would accept this escort to the White Fort, holy sister,” he said, descending from the driver’s seat and whipping his hat off his head. He bowed before her while opening the carriage door. Estella felt alive and excited for the first time in months. Beaming, she placed her delicate hand on his head to his great surprise.

  “May the Lord absolve you of your sins,” she intoned gravely, enjoying the flow of thoughts she had shut herself away from in her sadness and caution. She opened the door into his mind, searching for secrets, and they came to her in a tidal wave. The unguarded mind of a simpleton was easy to unravel. Before she closed the door to the carriage she cal
led after the driver, “And your wife shall conceive, there is no punishment from God upon you, be happy and full of praise.”

  The driver stiffened, grasped a medallion at his throat, and crossed himself. His bleary eyes, finally locking with hers, were wide with shock. “Yes, holy sister, thank you, always at your service.”

  He scuttled away and they took off swiftly while she made herself comfortable, easily savoring the luxury of the carriage. She looked out of the window admiring the dusk as it deepened into night, and the whispers and murmurs rose as a gentle breeze and twirled around her like scattered leaves. But basking contentedly in her reveries, she soon rebuked herself, for nature’s voices soon intensified and beyond the carriage shadowy forms escorted her.

  These shapeless shadows flitted between the early night’s moonshine, sliding out of the Twilit world. Demons were gathering, detaching themselves from the gloom, and like fireless smoke they hovered with hollow eyes, immaterial and so frail one who saw them would doubt their own eyes. Estella waved towards them mockingly and yawned, hiding her anticipation. If she was returning back into the world, she might as well be ready for them.

  “Fancy someone like you cowering in a nunnery.” The tone was malicious and rang like steel with a frosted edge to it.

  Estella detached her gaze from the window and looked to the seat next to her. A demon was watching her with beady, black eyes—eyes bereft of any light or hope, with chasms of darkness gaping where the chaos of the fallen angels rolled into an endless emptiness. His hair was fair, bound behind his head, and his features recalled to her a ravenous dog, hungry and coldhearted. He was unrefined and heavyset, as if wrought by the fumbling fingers of a lesser creator.