Five years later
There was no place within the Vasierian kingdom more distant or secluded than the peaceful fishing village of Corvid. A spot of natural beauty, the surrounding glacial mountains fed the many streams that funneled their way to the nearby lake. The town itself was built around the old fortifications of the previous Rowan outpost turned monastery, turned orphanage. It was now a place of transition, where delinquents, runaways and abundant children found themselves, and through the religious guidance and hard work, they commenced their path to salvation.
Here inside the orphanage’s adjoining church dormitory sat the carefree cleric known as Father Bellamy, who was procrastinating his way out of translating old and foreign texts into Vasier’s native language. It was a process that included its share of meditative stares at the tranquil surrounds that lay outside his dormitory window. He enjoyed the moment of escapism before the usual ruckus of life barged through his doorway.
‘It is true, Father Bellamy. The devil’s within me. I am sin. You must save me, Father Bellamy,’ said Trigbee, the bucktooth child, speaking with the high-pitch mumbles that sounded like nails to the chalkboard.
‘Nonsense, child,’ said Father Bellamy, cringing with his back to the boy. ‘The devil does not manifest itself in scared little boys who lack the dexterity to hurt a fly.’
‘But … Father. I hate, I do. And my hate hurts people.’
With an exhaustive sigh, Bellamy turned to hold the boy and spoke with the most forthcoming tone he could muster. ‘A wild imagination possesses you, nothing more. Now, do your chores and play with the other orphans.’
‘But, Father, they won’t play with me. Not after what happened to McCrae.’
‘McCrae?’
‘Missing, he is.’
‘I’m sure he’ll turn up for supper. McCrae is not one to miss a meal,’ said Bellamy as he attempted to shoo Trigbee back into the church antechamber.
‘But it’s been two days, Father. And what of Jacob?’ said Trigbee. He was unmoved and becoming more frantic with every sentence.
‘What of Jacob? Is he missing too?’
‘No, Father. He and that Riddy boy … they teased me, they did. And … and I hate them.’
‘Take it to Mother Simonet. She’ll figure it out,’ said Bellamy, kneeling to eye level with the distressed boy. His offerings of concern were unable to disguise the bulging vein above his forehead.
‘He is with Mother Simonet. Sick as a dog, he is. And Riddy. Awoke to a bed of maggots, he did.’
‘Arrr, ooookay. You know what?’ said Bellamy as he delved into full exorcist improvisation, with shaking arms and vibrations through his entire body, and even sticking a palm to Trigbee’s face. The boy startled into silence as Bellamy looked towards the ceiling, shouting in old Latin. ‘You hear me, lord. Tibi sordida adversus bastard. Release the devil from this child. Aut ego occidere eum nunc.’
The confused sensation sent chills down Trigbee’s spin, causing the boy to tense up and cry aloud with the upmost intensity. Trigbee’s hands then clenched at his side – white-knuckled as though the devil was truly being wrenched out of him.
The intensity began building, until Bellamy screamed with an uncontrolled twitch of religious fever. ‘And be gone,’ he said. He then pushed the boy off balance, before throwing the metaphorical devil back into the ground for which he came.
‘Really? Thank you, Father. Thank you,’ said Trigbee after launching himself into a bearhug that left Bellamy in an awkward position, having to soothe the poor gullible boy, while quietly praying to himself that this be the end.
He was then interrupted by another more troublesome child.
‘DON’T YOU DARE PLAY GAMES WITH ME,’ said Mother Simonet. Firm and unquestioned, she pulled a daggy, mop-haired girl into the abbey.
It was Anneliese.
She was older, but none the better. No longer the playful child, she was instead a degenerate mess of adolescent rebellion. The kind that relished the scares from her disciplinarians’ punitive actions. She wore the pagan outcast label with pride, regardless of how much scorn she received from the village of cross-worshipers.
‘Father Bellamy, I have found the culprit. Anneliese, explain yourself.’
‘It was him,’ she said, her finger pointed to Trigbee in an attempt to divert blame, but instead, she received a rather painful smack of the cane against her backside.
‘Don’t you dare tell fibs. Apologise and tell the truth.’
‘Alright. I saw McCrae and his friends picking on Trigbee and did nothing about it. Which is wrong.’
‘You certainly didn’t do nothing. We found McCrae crying his lungs out at the bottom of the well. While this one was on water duties and yet not a word,’ said Simonet.
The sounds of verbal abuse left Bellamy further uneased.
‘Oh, thank God. Bless his soul,’ said Trigbee, bracing his hands in praise of the lord’s work.
‘He wasn’t there when I last looked,’ said Anneliese, pre-emptively flinching for the punishment that was not forthcoming.
‘Please, Simonet,’ said Bellamy. He was near ready to restrain the enraged Mother before she escalated to more physical forms of discipline.
‘No, Father Bellamy. This one. She has more than condemned herself. The night of Riddy’s illness, guess who was partaking in witchery outside the kitchen.’
‘No one else got sick,’ said Anneliese with her stereotypical teenage attitude.
‘That is why it’s witchery. And the maggots. Who else is absent all hours of the night.’
‘That’s a lie.’
‘You are not to question your elders?’
‘Okay,’ said Bellamy as he picked up the restless girl before a red-faced Simonet rung her neck.
‘It’s because I’m pagan. The other girls don’t like me. Mother Simonet doesn’t like me.’
‘THAT IS ENOUGH FROM YOU.’
‘PLEASE, PLEASE, please. I’ll take care of it,’ said Bellamy impatiently as he yanked Anneliese from Simonet.
‘I hope so. Else there’s a certain place in the woods where no one will lay blame,’ said Simonet. And then with a look of ‘do it or else’, she escorted the poor, disillusioned Trigbee from the unruly pagan dissident.
‘Trigbee,’ said Anneliese, politely curtsying, as though she was of no foul nature.
Not that it did anything to sway the offence to the perfect little choir boy, who soured at the thought of being tricked by indignant pagan girl. ‘You are sin and must repent at once,’ said Trigbee.
‘Yeah, I know,’ she replied. She was apathetic to the fact that even the runts of the litter cared little for her wicked forms of justice.
‘You and me. Err. We’re going for a walk,’ said Bellamy, now appreciating the chance to remove himself from the situation.
Anneliese, however, dropped dead weight in front of Bellamy. ‘What if I don’t want to?’
‘Did you know Mother Simonet’s an executioner, daughter? I can assure you that her swinging arm does not fatigue.’
‘Fine.’ Anneliese threw up her hand, expecting Bellamy to provide the effort necessary to return her to her feet. ‘I hear there’s a pleasant spot in the forest. Apparently, it’s the talk of the town,’ said Anneliese, sarcastically.
‘The sad thing is, that’s how we found half the orphans at this place,’ said Bellamy.
‘Honestly, I sympathize with the parent.’
‘No, you don’t. Like how you don’t care about bullies,’ said Bellamy.
‘You’re right. I should stick to picking on dull boys, like everyone else.’
Her contrarian attitude was a breath of fresh air for the cleric. It was a pleasant dose of chaos to his mundane and ritualistic existence, which he could use as an excuse for adventure.
As they wondered the long way round the small provincial town, Anneliese dodged the piles of horse manure as she would the blank stares of her peers.
They eventually made their way to the stables.
‘Ahhh, Father Bellamy, what brings you to my harem of steads,’ said the cherry-cheeked farrier. He was all smiles as he brushed the last job from his leather apron.
His stiff lower back could not even restrain him from a boisterous welcome. The kind that made life’s frustrations bearable.
That was until Anneliese barged through, partaking little in the pleasantries as she gained herself a saddle. She then worked her way around as though she had done it plenty of times before. Even the smaller white- and brown-spotted pony looked to her with anticipation while she prepared her favorite journey companion.
‘Just doing the lord’s work, in all its forms. Or in this case, separating the fox from the sheep.’
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
‘Ahh, about time. A real troublemaker she is,’ said the farrier with a tap of his nose and a wink, as though hinting complete accordance to any ill-fated trip into the woodlands.
‘I know, right,’ said Anneliese.
‘We’ll be back by sunset,’ said Bellamy.
‘Take as long as you need, Father.’
And then Bellamy and Anneliese escaped the outskirts of the township, travelling along the various fields of crops not yet ready for harvest, and the winding roads that traversed the lowlands en route to the next near-identical township after another. Each was populated with hard-warn serfs, who represented the domain and wealth of some indistinguishable noble dynasty. Who, through the church and various middlemen, dictated much of the serfs’ short, unbecoming lives.
But for the rare few, following the faith was an opportunity for social mobility. Where a simple peasant could become learned and avoid the backbreaking labour that accompanied serfdom, potentially advancing to communal leader, with all the perks and exposure afforded to aristocracy. While for Bellamy, it was the safe choice in a world of despair. The only option that offered the time and resources to pursue his own curiosities.
‘What are we to do with you?’ said Bellamy. The conversation was more of a secondary consideration, as his interest lay in the surrounds.
‘Teach me how to forage so I can be on my way,’ said Anneliese, who was behind and taking notice of the cleric’s more curious nature.
‘Why? You seem to know your way around the poison berries.’
‘There’s only so much you can learn from books.’
‘So, you’re the one sneaking around my quarters every night,’ said Bellamy. His focus then shifted as though lost, and yet he felt calm, as if the journey was more important than the destination. He was then content to turn back and give Anneliese her long-overdue attention.
‘If there is a book missing, I’m happy to help you find it,’ said Anneliese, still true to her rebellious nature.
‘Of course, you would. So, you like to read?’
‘Well, serfdom has its perks, the whole obey and routine thing. It’s growing on me,’ she said with a dry sarcasm that hinted at her defeatist mentality.
‘You know I’m an alchemist?’
The factoid sparked her engagement as she looked to Bellamy with an eyebrow raised. ‘You? You’re too far into the good book to know the difference between almarian redbark and contrusis.’
‘Same substances, though one is a medicinal herb; the others is blasphemy?’
‘Okay, so, what about mirmar?’
‘Try something you didn’t learn through my books. Perhaps Coble knew something I don’t?’
Bellamy accidentally stumbling on a nerve, and Anneliese returned to disinterested silence, deafening in its abruptness.
However, the silence was broken by the sound of a howling wolf far into the mount side. The evening sun had rendered all but the sharp mountain peak blurred beyond recognition. Yet the wolf’s howls brought Bellamy to his own silent standstill, and he dismounted before wandering past the roadside brush, to find a barren forest landscape of leafless trees and lifeless soils stretching like a moat tracing the mountain side.
‘Friend of yours?’ asked Anneliese as she overtook him down the road before she corrected herself upon Bellamy’s detour into the forest.
Back on his horse, he trampled through the bush, having to navigate the low-hanging branches that for Anneliese were a simple bob of the head.
The further they went, the louder the wolf’s howls, and the dead brush thinned.
‘What if the church found out about your experiments? Might there be consequences?’ said Anneliese.
‘Nothing. The church doesn’t recognize alchemy as magic.’
‘I find that hard to believe.’
‘Ironwork requires the exact portions of ore, bone, and other additives at the right temperatures to produce high-quality metals?’
‘I saw Mother Simonet boil water. Does that make her an alchemist to?’
‘How about Mithridates?’
‘Who’s he? I can only assume it’s a he?’
‘The King of Pontus. He used to ingest tiny amounts of poison until he developed such an immunity that cyanide could not kill him.’
‘That’s not alchemy. That’s insanity.’
‘It’s said he created a cure for illness.’
‘Which illness?’
‘All of them. They call it Mithridatium, and there is a hefty prize to whomever can rediscover it,’ said Bellamy.
They were about midway to the mountain incline, when forest devolved into a dry, lifeless landscape of dying trees and arid sands. It was an obvious sign that they were close.
Bellamy’s ears pricked up as he trailed off in no particular direction, rather following some innate instinct that was beyond Anneliese’s comprehension.
‘I thought they prohibited clerics from earning money.’
‘That is the oath we take, but like you, rules aren’t exactly rules,’ said Bellamy, his memories of his previous venture sparking familiarity with the rough terrain – particularly, a scattering of loose rocks protruding through eroded soils. He then quickly dismounted from his horse, and after a few lacklustre minutes of toil, he cleared rocks to reveal a small opening edged into the mountainside.
Ill-suited to the manual labor, Bellamy solicited help from Anneliese. And they excavated the opening until finally confronted with the entrance to a pitch-black enclave. Their entrance was greeted with a sea of glow-worms that illuminated and dimmed in a slow-pulsing rhythm to the sounds of their footsteps.
‘What is this place?’ asked Anneliese, her hands feeling the intricate carvings too difficult to see among the scarce glow-worm light.
‘Too old to tell. My guess would be the early enchanters built these magical strongholds during times of conflict,’ said Bellamy. He was carefully tracing his steps towards a dying blue flame of a small ceremonial room. Its walls were covered with stories of dragons and brave-bearded barbarians. A plethora of pagan history over an undetermined timeline that ended with an invasion of legions was depicted. Thousands and thousands of headless square-shielded infantries were shown. Their numbers consumed burning villages and enclosed crossed-out insignias of old pagan tribes.
‘This is blasphemy. Why would you bring me here?’ questioned Anneliese. She kneeled to feel the non-existent heat emanating from the firepit. The smoldering ashes and loose-laid rocks were nothing more than a cold illusion that crumbled in her hands.
‘There was a time when paganism ruled the lands. When the church was the unruly nuisance from the far end of the world.’
‘Then the church wiped them out?’
‘No. You mustn’t have made it to that section of the library. Not to worry, because if you give me your hand, I’ll show you a history lesson you can’t learn in books. ‘
‘Try me,’ said Anneliese, placing her hand in Bellamy’s stewardship.
At first, he placed his sizable metal cross between her fingers and encapsulated it with his left, while scooping up a pile of blue flame-cambered rock fragments with his right. His eyes peered into hers like some pagan ritual until the projected memories pierced her consciousness: a world of chaos and massacre, from blood-swept streets to slave yards filled with the dispossessed and conquered peoples. Tales of pagan against pagan at its most brutal, each side guided by their various god’s bloodlust. A fearsome time of conquest and subjugation that sent her falling back in a crying fit of disbelief. ‘That … that was real?’ said Anneliese. There was a sickening sense of filth upon her, as though all forms on contact triggered some unbearable stain.
‘What did you see?’ said Bellamy with his own shock, having underestimated her reaction and unaware of the depths of horror she witnessed within the split second of dazed visions.
‘They butchered them. Tied up the survivors and sold them like cattle. Women, children.’
‘My apologies. It appears not all experiences are the same,’ said Bellamy. With a sense of guilt, he sifted through the dry dusty floor to find his discarded metal cross. ‘What you saw was real. The age of paganism was neither fair nor just. Yet without the church, we’d still be perpetrating such barbarities. Not that the church is perfect, but when you realize the old pagan world it saved us from, you see past the rhetoric, the rules, and you appreciate its contributions.’
‘Coble would never. Pagans … He … he could never do such horrible things.’
‘Coble was a great and noble wizard. A welcomed departure from norm, but he couldn’t offer you something the church can.’
‘What’s that?’
‘A future. One where your intellect can make a difference. All you have to do is bear the cross and follow the church’s traditions. Pretend to believe, and the people will accept you enough to leave you alone.’
‘But what about wizardry?’
‘Alchemy is wizardry by another name. If we rediscover Mithridatium, we’ll have the wealth to leave this land, leave the church. The past, the present, leave it all behind,’ said Bellamy as he placed his metal cross firmly into her hands. He held it tight and unyielding, until her initial repulsion subsided to reserved acceptance of his proposition.
‘I … I don’t know.’ Her hand trembled at the unnatural sensation between her fingers. Not one of emotional weight, but a tingling that reverberated through her arm and body. And then the room became enveloped by a cold draft emanating from the dying firepit.
The sounds of shifting earth and rock instilled the fear of death in Bellamy, and so he rushed to his feet with Anneliese in tow.
Each pounded on the stronghold walls, trying to recount the distance until the next turn, only to find each left became a right. Short passages became extended corridors. The glow-worms few and far between. Their exit: a pint-sized gap at the end of the last turn.
‘We’re too late,’ said Bellamy as he kicked furiously, hoping to dislodge the surrounding rocks, which remained unmoved.
The formation had hardened and solidified into a single slate of stone. Their fates were now to be slowly entombed within the pagan stronghold.
‘What’s happening?’
‘It’s dying. The forces of magic can no longer sustain it,’ said Bellamy. He then began clawing at the ground, trying to dig a way out. Soon, the shrinking opening resembled the setting sun.
All hopes of escape dwindled as Anneliese flew into her own frantic desperation. Her instincts pushed her to abandon Bellamy, while she stumbled around in the dark, before realizing the stick metal frame of an extinguished oil lamp in her hand. It had a string-attached flint that dangled by her knees. Not knowing or caring how she came across it, she immediately got to work, and yet with every strike, the sparks failed to ignite the oily rags. Instead, they sent a disorienting aroma that twisted her perception of time and space.
Bellamy’s sinful cursing warped and elongated.
The corridors moved and shifted, closing off the old passages and opening new one, until directly in front of her was the faint outline of the wolf’s head. A mere foot away. It’s low-pitch growl and warm odorous breeze was against her face.
And then suddenly, the dormant torch ignited into a bright-blue flame that flashed the wolf from existence, leaving Anneliese alone in the illuminated corridor.
The wolf’s growl was an enduring echo in Anneliese mind from every direction.
As the wolf’s stronghold shifted under her conscious thought, without knowing how it started or how to stop, her mind surpassed physical form, trying to escape the lone wolf, with no need of worldly constraints mandating her consciousness within the boundaries of flesh and bone. It was a sense of freedom without direction. A free spirit drifting around the empty stronghold like a god within their own domain.
Then, as quickly as the sensation had taken hold, she returned to the forest.
The horses were gnawing on plentiful grasslands in sight of a lone black wolf atop the cliff face. Its thick coat was rustling in the wind while it peered down upon her, looking unamused as it wondered off into the hill’s side.
Its absence then dawned the realization that Anneliese was alone: no cleric, no mentor, no barrier between her and the court of conformity. ‘BELLAMY,’ she cried.
Nothing but the absent whistling winds replied, whose cold cut to her spin. There was no sign of an opening, no loose rock formations. Just the shivering realization her mentor remained trapped inside the cave, his only remains being the metal cross laying elegantly arranged upon a patch of dead dirt beside the solid cliff face. Shallow claw marks had been dug into its side where they had originally entered.
The hour was late. The dusk was slowly slithering into night. Clouds streamed, crossing the waning moon, making the journey back one of impending peril, where any wrong turn would leave her lost in the wilderness. Her horse huffed with deep-straining breaths, galloping with all haste back to the stables.
When she arrived, she was greeted by the farrier.
‘What be your business this hour?’ he asked.
‘It’s me. They’ve captured Father Bellamy,’ said Anneliese, who was now a pale-white panic of her former self. Both physically and emotionally exhausted from the day’s costly escapade, she practically fell from her saddle and into the farrier’s arms.
Mother Simonet then came racing up towards them. ‘Bellamy, is that you?’
‘What happened, girl? Where’s Bellamy?’ said the farrier, his voice loud and direct, awakening the nearby animals, as though their masters had called for them.
‘Gone,’ said Anneliese, a fragile ball of tears falling from her eyes while she hastened her breath.
‘Nonsense. Lie again and you’ll regret it, so make quick with truth,’ said Mother Simonet. She was ready to throttle the distraught girl but was held back by the farrier’s strong, fending palm. His other arm cradled the anguished Anneliese’s.
‘The pagans took him. I … I couldn’t stop it. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.’
‘Now, now, dear. It is in God’s hands now,’ said the farrier, holding the girl tight, as to share in her dismay. He clenched his eyelids, holding back his own tears.
‘May the lord have mercy upon his soul,’ said Mother Simonet, tracing the cross upon her head, shoulders, and sternum, recanting endless Hail Marys. The hard stable dirt bore the brunt of her collapsed knees, for the stiff-lipped disciplinarian couldn’t find the oxygen to keep herself afoot.
A moment of mournful solidarity eclipsed all divides. It was the closest form of acceptance in the most unforgiving of times. A truth within the lie, as the incompressible spared the pagan to condemn the cleric. In doing so, it brought the pagan closer to the cross that hung firm upon her chest. Held tight with clenched fist, it was the last remains of another fallen mentor.