The dead body was remarkably clean. It lay on the floor, toes facing the altar. The head was at the bottom of the steps, where a faint shaft of light entered the crypt from above. 

The body was carefully positioned and appeared peaceful. It couldn’t have been a deathly struggle, which meant no blood, no poison, no daggers, and therefore an unlikelihood of any vendettas or conspiracies. It looked more like the middle-aged monk had set himself down in the sacred place for a nap, not an end to his life.

But the monk in question, Brother Michael, was no weak man. He would not collapse for no reason. He would not sneak a deadly venom into his own broth to end the suffering of a soul in an evil universe. Nor would he ever wish harm upon another human being or living creature, for harm's sake. He lived by the word of God, and he did it for thirty years as best any Christ worshipper possibly could.  

A red flame flickered on the altar, where it burned without end. It was the only warmth one could find in the crypt during winter. Marble and stone required twelve hours of beaming sunshine to heat. Not even the abbey church above ground was warm to the touch during precious summer months. In winter, a monk would be wise to shrink behind their black habit and at least keep their hands wrapped up and their heads hooded with cowls. 

Brother Michael’s body was cold, and his face paler than the painted columns of heavenly white that surrounded him. There was no life in his veins, not even a trickle of blood. The soul had departed in haste. It had stolen off, like a raven.  

There was no hope for a body in such a condition. Something very nasty had taken place. But of what rod Brother Michael had been struck, and by whom, was a mystery.                 

Brother Benedict was newly professed in his vows of chastity to God. A young monk, he had been led in the ways of holy worship by Brother Michael. He was a kind of surrogate father, and had named young Benedict after the wondrous monastic pioneer, Saint Benedict of Nursia. Benedict secretly hoped he could be so wise as to predict his own death six days prior to it occurring and therefore spend a hundred and forty four hours in devoted prayer, counting his blessings before the very Judgement, as the Italian saint was said to have achieved; one among many practical miracles. 

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Benedict woke before dawn. Instinct alarmed him, and he had work to do. The first prayers of the day took place in the abbey at sunrise, and they would need to be prepared for. White candles in the crypt would have to be lit, day candles for the apse would burn before Christ in Majesty on the throne, and the tower bell ropes required much tugging on for the pealing of the Matins prayer call.  

Freezing air hung in the corridors of the cloisters and stung Benedict's ears. The garth was bare of herbs except for a few old rosemary stalks. Benedict had considered pitching the abbot a business proposal: a glass roofing for the beds of earth, to keep the soil at a temperature for life, but knew in his mind it was an excessive thing to ask. A comfy board of cotton bedsheets and a hot bath once a week was pleasure enough for a monk, especially one living in the twelfth century After the Death of his Saviour. 

So many centuries later, Benedict thought, and yet so many lessons yet to be learnt. Benedict knew Christ was watching, and that the Father would not be content with the gross tonnage of sin still left in the world. What a rotten lot, Brother Michael always says; all we can do is wait, pray, and hope to be redeemed.                    

Benedict crossed the nave of the abbey towards the south porch and unlocked a bolted door, which he swung open with surprising strength for such a stick figure as was hidden underneath his baggy religious garment. The first lance of day graced Benedict’s countenance, and he looked up gratefully, a spirit of glee in the corner of his eye. Another day working for the house of God, another day of glorifying, another day of seeking the highest place in heaven. 

Whenever tiredness came terrifyingly upon Benedict, he reminded himself that there was no better life to lead. No alternative to God.

Behind Benedict, a narrow stairway led down to the crypt. First, he plunged himself into almost total darkness, searching for burnt out candles, ones with reusable wicks. He was about to march in haste back across the abbey to the opulent sacristy, where priests’ linen vestments of green and purple were hung like cloak ornaments, but stopped abruptly. 

A body lay asleep on its side. It was Brother Michael. 

Benedict stepped aside, allowing some light to pass over his dear elder Brother’s face. 

And in an instant, Benedict was stricken with terror, and an uncontrollable trembling before something wicked and inexplicable overcame him.