PROLOGUE
//The man of the cloth who was creeping through the garden in his stocking feet looked up. The night was cold; the stars spoke the place of the Earth within their glittering geometry like fragments of a broken crown. On the night of the Nativity, the stars were said to have burst in the sky over the infant Christ so that darkness became day. Tonight they looked on over the Monastery of St. Francis dully.
Father Michel-Morais, standing between the cabbages and the beet crop, almost did not see the young boy lying under the wet eaves of the shed.
He was about to return inside when he saw a light forearm move in the radishes. A little hand came up from the dirt toward him, cryless, wanting. The child was barefoot, dressed hastily in a red tunic and torn breeches. Father Michel had never seen a boy so thin – but he knew why he looked so: his burned face was mottled and pink around the mouth, skin bubbling hideously with scars as he opened and closed his lips in silence.
“Sacre Dieu!” Father Michel-Morais lifted the boy and carried him to the doorway of the monastery. “Sacre Dieu! Sacre Dieu!” The door opened.
From here, I can see the rest: Father Michel-Morais interrupting vespers to tearfully tell Father Gabriel what had occurred, the rush to supply the child with clean clothes and cool rags, the spooning of gruel into the ruined mouth as the boy twisted and whined. He would live through the night, and grow strong, and earn a name, though he could never speak it in this life. May he speak it in the life to come, for it is a good one: Anseil.
For now, though -- for you -- there is only the incorruptible blare of light from the sanctuary as the holy man shakes the boy awake to hear the vespers - to greet the painful mess of air and sound that had only just begun to form a kind of song.//
[[PART 1: THE FOUNDLING]]
You are sitting at your desk, watching the birds. There is a jackdaw in the tree just outside your window that has an entire barley roll in its mouth, stolen from a tray left on the kitchen sill, and it is trying without success to devour the thing before competition arrives. Several sparrows have taken an interest; they squabble at each other in the branches.
Past the tree is the gentle slope of wild grasses toward the northern monastery wall, where Brother Lucas keeps bees in a hutch. Then there are the farmers’ acres and the cow paths running through them. The city strikes up in the distance like a lonely Gordian knot of stone streets and dirt alleys lined with straw. It is a place of sin, and you have no real interest in it.
Your world is mostly confined to the page -- you copy for the Brothers, and in return they allow you to stay in Father Yves' old cell. It is a quiet life.
[[You look down at your work for the day.->Encyclopedia Demonicae]]
(set:$prokelFound to false)
(set:$furturFound to false)
(set:$baromelFound to false)
(set:$gabothFound to false)
(set:$cireneFound to false)
(set:$morbrewFound to false)
(set:$basFound to false)
(set:$mahotekFound to false)
(set:$proseylFound to false)
THE ENCYCLOPEDIA DEMONICAE
The folio you are copying from is made of heavy green leather; it is about the height and width of your arm and contains a list of all 437 demons in the high courts of Hell.
(if:$baromelFound is false)[You write down the name [[Baromel]]]
(if:$gabothFound is false)[You write down the name [[Gaboth]]]
(if:$cireneFound is false)[You write down the name [[Cirene]]]
(if:$furturFound is false)[You write down the name [[Furtur]]]
(if:$morbrewFound is false)[You write down the name [[Morbrew]]]
(if:$proseylFound is false)[You write down the name [[Proseyl]]]
(if:$basFound is false)[You write down the name [[Bas]]]
(if:$mahotekFound is false)[You write down the name [[Mahotek]]]
(if:$prokelFound is false)[You hear a knock at the door. [[You should probably answer it.]]]
(if:$prokelFound is true and $baromelFound is true and $cireneFound is true and $gabothFound is true and $furturFound is true and $morbrewFound is true and $proseylFound is true and $mahotekFound is true and $basFound is true)[Well, it looks like your work is [[done.]]]
"Baromel is the lead horseman of Hell's court; he has an acuity with animals, particularly the hoofed beasts, and he is well-known for his disguise as a four-winged owl."
The nib of your quill bobs like a boat urged on through a dark tide.
(set:$baromelFound to true)
[[Go back.->Encyclopedia Demonicae]]
"Gaboth is a count in the courts of Hell; he presides over all matters of courtesy and bearing."
It is unclear exactly what Brother Simeon wants with a list and description of every ranked demon in Hell; you do enjoy the work in a sparse kind of way, though. There is something pleasing in the marriage of dark liquid to the cream of lamb’s skin as it swirls in the pores and divots of the page.
(set:$gabothFound to true)
[[Go back.->Encyclopedia Demonicae]]
"Cirene, the duchess of Hell, is skilled in the ways of song and merriment. Her long, silver flute entrances all who hear it."
You are starting to strain your neck a little.
(set:$cireneFound to true)
[[Go back.->Encyclopedia Demonicae]]
"Duke Furtur is the demon of heresy; he also has influence over the weather and causes hailstorms to happen at will."
(set:$furturFound to true)
[[Go back.->Encyclopedia Demonicae]]
"The demon Morbrew specializes in the arts; he can make life-like sculptures of any figure and paint exact portraits of any person. He also preys upon carpenters and welders."
(set:$morbrewFound to true)
[[Go back.->Encyclopedia Demonicae]]
"A wealthy and distinguished demon, Proseyl is a teacher of the liberal sciences. He also has the ability to warm bodies of water and locate hot springs, however remote."
(set:$proseylFound to true)
[[Go back.->Encyclopedia Demonicae]]
"As a demonic soldier, Bas controls the legions of Hell and is at the head of all demonic hordes. He is a fierce fighter and can behead a man at 300 feet merely by speaking the victim's name."
Bas sounds properly scary.
[[Go back.->Encyclopedia Demonicae]]
(set:$basFound to true)
"One of the oldest demons in Hell, Mahotek sits at the right hand of Bas. He is skilled in the art of persuasion and has convinced many kings and emperors to follow his will."
This is getting tiring. Your neck twinges.
[[Go back.->Encyclopedia Demonicae]]
(set:$mahotekFound to true)
It's Brother Claude, upset with the delay. His lined face twists and grins meanly at you. He stutters his way into the room, his caned gait like that of a lame horse. "Anseil!"
He thrusts a rag at you. “Monsieur Anseil, you have yourself a visitor.”
You tie the strip of cloth around your mouth. It is velvet today -- you must be meeting someone with whom the Brothers wish to make a good impression. Normally, they give only cotton or burlap rags to their charity case. When you are alone, you don't wear a mask at all. The birds don't seem to mind.
[["Monsieur," Brother Claude says. "Our Anseil is ready to see you." -> Meeting Prokel]]
The visitor taps his walking stick and stares at you curiously.
"This is he?" he says. His French is accented, but you couldn't say with what. "Your best?"
“There is no match for Anseil,” Brother Claude says. “He will make you a fine manuscript, Monsieur Procel.”
Monsieur Procel nods. He is a youthful man in his 40s, dressed in slightly tattered brown satin and a luxurious but moldy-looking purple hat.
<image src="https://www.dropbox.com/s/axveu70c4u7zt4c/Screen%20Shot%202017-02-19%20at%208.20.02%20PM.png?dl=1">
His hair is wiry and dark, and his eyes are bright. At the moment, they are filled with pity.
"He is a mute?" Monsieur Procel asks.
"Since birth," Brother Claude answers.
The visitor nods again. "And is he a fool? Or does he comprehend what he copies?"
Brother Claude throws up his hands ambivalently. "Who can say? But he copies well."
This strikes you as a bit too far. You stand and grab your manuscript of demons. As Brother Claude tries to turn Monsieur Procel away, you scribble on the page:
[[DOCENDO DISCO SCRIBENDO COGITO]]
[[MONSIEUR, I AM NO PARROT-BIRD / OF THIS YOU ARE AT LEAST ASSURED]]
[[IF IT PLEASE YOU, SIR, I AM INDEED LITERATE.]]
[[BROTHER CLAUDE IS THE FOOL, B'GOD'S BLOOD]]
(set:$prokelFound to true)
DUO LCGNIN RUBEH TNISED IHOH WDEV OLEBO
You have, in the past, copied obscure texts of the End of Times, endless lists of names for the Devil, and strange tales of saints who, after being eaten by lions, continue to sing the praises of the Lord. The assignment that Monsieur Procel gives you is undoubtedly stranger than that. The first page of the vast grey tome you copy from contains, in almost illegible script, a mysterious code.
HTRAE YREVE HTSLEWE JDNASEM UFRE POHWEN ODETS IRWTH GILO
He puts before you a quill finer than any you have seen before. It shines blue and green, with a glorious golden eye. You realize suddenly that it is the same type that hangs from his hat -- a peacock feather. You've seen pictures of peacocks before, in Brother Jean's embellishments. Perhaps Monsieur Procel keeps one as an exotic pet, as some very rich men do.
He props himself up in a chair taken from the rectory, his boots crossed at the heels. Your breath comes hot and humid back to you against the velvet's surface, and you inspect your new patron as he settles himself. That is the one comfort in wearing the mask -- it means you can stare back when people stare at you.
"Now, my friend," Monsieur Procel says warmly. "If you could, I would like these words copied in reverse. Never mind the gaps between -- all one word is perfectly acceptable. That is how the Ancients wrote, you know, in ages past. Have you studied the Greeks?"
[[You shake your head.->next]]
"A fascinating tribe. I admire the Stoics, myself."
You realize with a growing sense of dread that Monsieur Procel seems to want to talk. You are used to doing your work in absolute silence, but your new patron chatters on and on about some philosophers you've heard of vaguely. Then he moves on to geometry and the merits of the Pythagorean theorem. When he finally lets up, you turn and see he is merely taking a pause to light his pipe. It seems the man is insatiable when it comes to conversation. Unfortunate.
His attention turns again to you.
It makes you uneasy -- you have rarely been on the pointed end of someone else's concern before. With the exception of Father Michel-Morais, most of the monks ignore you unless they require some variety of text.
"You live here, yes? But you are not sworn to the Order?"
[[You shake your head again.->nextnext]]
"Fascinating. Brother Claude seemed to think your intelligence was not suited to the world beyond copying -- but it seems you know your grammar quite well. Do you know of the arts? The sciences? Do you enjoy the realms of higher thought? I'm curious as to your perspective -- as someone who has never spoken a word, yet lives by the same."
You sigh and pick up the slate that Father Michel-Morais has given you on which to copy requests. It is small and only fits a few words.
I COPY, you write in chalk. RARELY LEARN.
"But you must have a philosophy, don't you? You must believe something about the world which holds it together. Go on. I won't tell a soul, my friend."
You pause before writing:
[[ORDER->KING]]
[[PAIN->PAIN]]
[[LOVE->LOVE]]
[[NOTHINGNESS->NOTHINGNESS]]
"Order, eh? A wise answer -- but I've never put much stock in order, myself," Monsieur Procel says airily. "Rules, regulations, 'thou shalt not's...it's all too simple. Don't the people who make rules know that different times call for different measures? And it seems dreadful to have a orderly code of honor for oneself, don't you think, and to know exactly what one will do in every situation?"
He laughs. "I aspire to //less// order, nor more -- but then, my kind generally do."
YOUR KIND? you write.
Monsieur Procel raises his eyebrows conspiratorally. "Those who write with the left hand."
You blush. It's something the monks haven't trained out of you yet, though many have tried.
LUOSY MFODO OGSITA HTLLASETAL UCRICO HWENOET ELPMOCO
You finish the last line on the first page of Monsieur Procel's grey book, and he closes it with a snap.
"Excellent work," he says. "Thank you, Anseil. This will do very well indeed."
He catches your curious glance but says nothing -- he only smiles secretly to himself and bows as he makes an exit.
[[Continue.]]
Monsieur Procel nods in sympathy.
"A fine answer, if a world-weary one." He gestures toward his throat. "Does it...hurt? If I may inquire."
AT TIMES, you write.
"If it does, allow me to give you this." He withdraws a small linen bag of herbs from his cloak. "I find myself caring for the health of a friend at the moment, and this particular elderwort does wonders for an ache. Brew it in some tea and see how you fare."
You nod your thanks.
LUOSY MFODO OGSITA HTLLASETAL UCRICO HWENOET ELPMOCO
You finish the last line on the first page of Monsieur Procel's grey book, and he closes it with a snap.
"Excellent work," he says. "Thank you, Anseil. This will do very well indeed."
He catches your curious glance but says nothing -- he only smiles secretly to himself and bows as he makes an exit. You are left alone with the bag of strange-smelling herbs. You know what Brother Claude would say about this -- which makes you all the more interested in trying out the remedy. You brew a cup of it in tea and try a sip.
The taste is awful and chalky, but your throat does seem to feel less constricted. It will be much easier to fall asleep tonight.
(set:$teaFound to true)
[[Continue.]]
"Love!" he crows. "Love -- what a lovely answer. I would happen to agree."
He pauses. "I find myself in love at the moment -- hence your little assignment. They're verses, you see, composed by yours truly, and you are the hand that copies them out for their object to look upon. The name? Peratim."
He smiles. "Peratim! It is a shame you can never say the name of the one you love. It is a unique experience. But your condition does not mean you cannot have some great love, and that is what truly matters."
//Peratim// sounds like a strange name for a lady -- or a gentleman, you suppose -- but when Monsieur Procel speaks the syllables his face lights with an unseen energy; he is perfected for one moment as he pronounces the word.
(set:$peratimnameFound to true)
You look down at what you've just copied:
!LUOSY MFODO OGSITA HTLLASETAL UCRICO HWENOET ELPMOCO
//Ocompleteonewhocirculatesallthatisgoodofmysoul!//
"Do you think it a sin?" Monsieur Procel asks. "Poetry like this?"
ONLY IF POOR, you write.
Monsieur Procel smiles indulgently. "I haven't had much opportunity to practice. Forgive me."
AND BACKWARD?
He laughs but provides no further answer. You finish the last line on the first page of Monsieur Procel's grey book, and he closes it with a careful sweep of his arm.
"Excellent work," he says. "Thank you, Anseil. This will do for today."
He bows and makes his exit. You wonder vaguely if Peratim will like your handwriting.
[[Continue.]]
"Nothingness!" Monsieur Procel frowns. "Surely one such as you who can hardly bow to nothingness. There is -- there is such --"
He seems unable to speak. After a moment, he digs a hand into his cloak and retrieves a single brown feather about the length of your finger.
"Look at it," he says urgently. "Gaze on it, my friend. See how it -- it is-"
It is beautiful, more lovely by far than any peacock feather you have seen. You didn't notice at first, but the feather shines with a light that seems not of this earth. Beyond your awareness, tears start in your eyes. The feather balances perfectly upright in Monsieur Procel's palm, twirling softly in some unknowable breeze.
<img src="https://www.dropbox.com/s/73y9evdgsbsnslu/Screen%20Shot%202017-02-19%20at%208.07.07%20PM.png?dl=1">
You reach for it without meaning to. Monsieur Procel smiles and hands you the feather.
"I knew it," he says. "There cannot be nothing after all, can there?"
You're not sure what has just occurred, but something about the feather is unspeakably compelling. You nod your thanks.
(set:$featherFound to true)
!LUOSY MFODO OGSITA HTLLASETAL UCRICO HWENOET ELPMOCO
You finish the last line on the first page of Monsieur Procel's grey book, and he closes it with a snap.
"Excellent work," he says. "Thank you, Anseil. This will do very well indeed."
He catches your curious glance but says nothing -- he only smiles secretly to himself and bows as he makes an exit. You twirl the feather in your fingers for a moment, wondering what it means.
[[Continue.]]
Monsieur Procel nods enthusiastically.
"You know your Latin," he said. "Very good."
Behind the rag, you smile.
With an impatient huff, Brother Claude ushers the visitor away. You remove the velvet rag and are left alone with your thoughts.
[[You look back down at Brother Simeon's Encyclopedia.]]
Monsieur Procel bows.
"My apologies, Monsieur Anseil. Thank you for your intercession."
He turns to Brother Claude. "It appears your scribe is quite capable...more so than you give him credit for. I will trust him with the assignment."
With a frown at you, Brother Claude ushers the visitor from the room. You remove the velvet rag from your mouth and breathe a sigh of relief. It's good to be alone with your thoughts.
[[You look back down at Brother Simeon's Encyclopedia.]]
Monsieur Procel raises his eyebrows. He tries to look upset, but his mouth keeps spasming into a smile.
"See here --" he clears his throat. "Ah, nevermind. You should know --"
"What is it?" Brother Claude tries to peer over at the page. With a jump, Monsieur Procel covers your message up.
"It is nothing, Brother. Come, there is more to speak of."
Monsieur Procel wheels Brother Claude away from the desk and out of the room, stopping once to give you another curious look. You take off the rag and breathe a sigh of relief. Thank God Brother Claude's eyesight is failing.
[[You look back down at Brother Simeon's Encyclopedia.]]
With a few strokes of your quill, the message you wrote to Monsieur Procel is safely obscured. Brother Simeon can pare off the bottom of the page if he's bothered by the splotch of ink.
You should probably keep working. He said he needed the list by third prayers.
[[Encyclopedia Demonicae]]
Monsieur Procel smiles.
"A poet's touch, Monsieur Anseil! Or at the very least, the capacity for doggerel. Good, good. That will be useful indeed."
With a frown, Brother Claude ushers the visitor away. You take off the velvet rag and are left alone with your thoughts.
[[You look back down at Brother Simeon's Encyclopedia.]]
You deliver the manuscript to Brother Simeon; he accepts it with a brief bow and shuts his cell door.
Father Michel-Morais is busy, so you return to your quarters and try to find amusement in a book of hagiography. After fourth prayers, you eat your bowl of porridge and try to fall asleep.
Sleeping is often a difficult task. Your mouth and throat does hurt sometimes, and then there are the aches and pains of your back and wrist from the long hours spent bent over a desk. You almost wish Brother Claude would insist you light candles at midnight Mass again -- just for something to distract yourself.
When you close your eyes, you always see text being written -- sloping and leisurely and infinite across the dark space. You dream of it too. And your days pass in a dream of words and their endless formations, the hours each like creatures under a layer of water, visible in their passing just slightly out of your reach.
[[But everything changes the day Monsieur Procel brings you his assignment.../]]
That evening, you have your usual Tuesday tea with Father Michel-Morais. Now bent with age, he props himself up in his chair and hands you both cups. You spoon three scoops of raw sugar into yours and leave the other empty. Father Michel-Morais lives sparsely, even by the monastery's standards -- he sleeps on a single scraped board in the corner and his greying teeth are worn down from years of eating rough, stale bread. The indulgence of sugar is one that he rarely partakes in.
"Anseil -- good to see you. I hear you have a new assignment."
YES, you write. STRANGE.
"I believe he is offering to donate to the monastery quite handsomely," Father Michel-Morais says. "And the coffers have run dry of recent. We must, at times, bow to the necessity of worldly concerns - though we may well find it an annoyance compared to the contemplation of divine matters."
His lofty words are comforting. One of the traits you particularly enjoy about Father Michel-Morais' conversation is that he doesn't speak to you as if you were a foolish child or a dog -- like most of the monks tend to do. Many are quick to assume that your lack of speech means a lack of intelligence - but Father Michel-Morais has never underestimated you in that way. You nod and raise your eyebrows.
"Of course you understand."
FR. LUCAS?
"Still ill, I'm afraid. The physician says it's rheumatism." Father Michel-Morais shook his head. "I think it's all the attention he gives his hives. He is //proud// of them, I believe."
You nod solemnly. Pride is a sin.
"But I hope he will recover well. We will pray."
You used to pray a great deal as a child -- mostly for the recovery of your voice. Nothing happened. Now you mostly attend prayers for the spectacle of it all; you enjoy the incense and gold, even if your own beliefs in God are not what Father Michel-Morais might want. You've never mentioned this to him, though he has asked hopefully a few times if you'd like join the Brothers in their vows. It doesn't seem right to pretend, even if it would make the old man happy.
The hour passes amiably -- at the ringing of last prayers, Father Michel-Morais waves you off and sets the cups away on his shelf for next week. You return to your quarters and prepare for bed.
[[Continue]]
You scream.
The creature stops. With one last leer in your direction, it disappears in a blaze of sulfur and thick white smoke.
"Anseil?" Brother Claude staggers into the doorway, out of breath and without his cane. "I heard -- are you well?"
You try to speak, but the band of scars constricts again and you end up coughing. He pats your back firmly.
"You had a bad dream," he says. "Go back to sleep, boy."
You lie awake, trying to recover. Perhaps it was a dream. But then you feel the warm, coppery drip at the back of your throat of a scar torn open, and you think once more of the creature's hideous teeth. Could you have dreamed that? It takes a very long time until you stop shaking. You don't sleep at all that night.
[[The Next Day]]
Its terrible head cocks sideways.
"The angel. Where is it?"
You have no idea what's happening.
The creature rattles its teeth together and glides toward you.
"The angel. No?"
//No,// you think frantically. //No, no, no.//
(if:$teaFound is true)[The tea must have loosened your scars. You scream aloud for [[Brother Claude]].]
(if:$featherFound is true)[Maybe you can appease the monster with a gift. You pull [[the feather from your pocket and offer it with a trembling hand.]]]
[[You scramble away and run.]]
It is sometime past midnight when you wake. You don't know why at first, but then you notice -- a rhythmic creaking noise is emanating from the hall outside. You wonder if it's Brother Louis on one of his late-night jaunts to check the sanctuary for stray dogs. He has a fondness for animals that rivals that of your patron saint Francis. You settle back down to sleep.
The creaking stops. A wave of hot air hits you -- then your door slams open.
The figure at the threshold looks like a Brother - complete with dark green robes and tonsure -- but the eyes are of no one that you know. He stares at you for a moment. Then his mouth opens.
And opens, and opens. Rows of teeth eclipse the man's face in a gory splitting of sharp edges and red gums. There is a cracking noise, and his skull shudders violently. Spines begin to rise from the breach in his forehead. He shakes harder, and they pierce through both of his eyes.
[["Hail," the creature says.]]
You run as fast as you can until your breath is slamming through your lungs and your legs feel like they are on fire. Only in complete silence do you feel safe again.
"Anseil?" Brother Simeon stands in the kitchen corridor, his wan face pulled into a terrible scowl of concentration. In his left hand, he holds a thurible with coals of incense, each burning heart bright and smoking thickly in the darkness of the hall. In his other hand, he holds the Encyclopedia Demonicae with his thumb slipped between the page.
"Boy, what is it?"
You grab the Encyclopedia and point to the word that's visible on every page. DEMON.
"Bas," Brother Simeon said quietly. "I saw him too. He must have crossed the holy wards...I would have thought he'd be too cowardly to approach this place. I was wrong.."
Brother Simeon sweeps your bangs off your forehead and checks for a mark. Finding none, he nods. "Sleep in the sanctuary tonight. He can't approach you there. I'll look for signs." He strides away, thurible churning out thick smoke in his wake.
The stone floor of the sanctuary is cold. The memory of the demon is worse. You get very little sleep that night.
[[The Next Day]]
(set:$brotherSimeon to true)
"Anseil? Anseil?"
You are awake. Something is wet on your face -- wet and dark. You bolt upright and frantically try to wipe the drool and ink away from your face. You have fallen asleep on the manuscript.
Monsieur Procel nudges you. "Anseil?"
The line is ruined -- you will have to recopy the entire page. You groan -- it comes out as a hiss of air and a lingering soreness -- and grab your slate.
SORRY, you write.
"You don't seem well. What is the matter? I do not mean to burden you with these lines if it is too great a task for today."
Your face flushes with embarassment. Monsieur Procel thinks you're a fool. You pause and think for a second before writing:
IT IS [[NOTHING.]]
(if:$peratimnameFound is false and $brotherSimeon is false)[HAD A TERRIBLE [[DREAM.]]]
(if:$brotherSimeon is true)[THE DEMON [[BAS.]]]
He looks aghast. "Bas? You saw him? Here?"
You nod.
Procel covers his face with his hand. "That...that is not what I intended."
He looks at you solemnly. "I'm sorry, but you're in terrible danger."
[[You frown.]]
"Are you certain?"
He looks concerned.
"Perhaps the assignment is too much."
[[SLEPT POORLY.]]
[[TRULY NOTHING.]]
"A dream? They can be troubling, indeed. What did you dream of?"
MONSTER, you write. TEETH. EYES.
There is a beat of silence. You think perhaps Monsieur Procel is lighting his pipe -- but when you look up, he is staring at you with a terrible expression on his face.
"Draw him. Best as you can. Show me what you saw."
You trace a little sketch.
<image src="https://www.dropbox.com/s/eb73j9r21yqb319/Screen%20Shot%202017-02-19%20at%208.56.47%20PM.png?dl=1">
Monsieur Procel gazes at it a moment before scrubbing it away with his hand.
"That was no dream," he says softly. "That was a visit from Bas."
[[You frown.]]
TRULY NOTHING, you write. He nods.
"Very well. On with the lines, then -- as neat as you can. Time is of no concern."
You work late into the evening. By the time Monsieur Procel leaves, the sky is dark and the nightingales are singing. You retire to bed with a vague sense of unease, but you shake the feeling away.
Two tolls of the monastery bell later, you awake one last time to feel rows and rows of teeth close around your head. Your death is quick and entirely silent.
[[epilogue2]]
Your patron twists his hands. "I'm very sorry. You must leave this place. If Bas has been here...he will come again."
WHY?
Monsieur Procel turns to you. "I can't tell you here. The longer we stay, the nearer he will be. Come, pack your things. I'll explain to the Brothers where we've gone." He wrings his hands again. "I am sorry."
You're not sure what to do. Almost numbly, you put your writing supplies and spare sandals in a burlap saddlebag. You have never set foot outside the monastery grounds -- the farthest you have ever walked is the bee hutches visible from your cell window.
[[Yet now you must leave.]]
//Ah, Anseil! Had I known my demon brethren were looking for you, I might have prevented this. But I was foolish -- I did not know. Rest well. Forgive me.//
THE END
The plush silk seat feels sweaty under your palms as the carriage races along. The road to Paris is dusty and longer than it seemed from your window. Monsieur Procel tries to smile encouragingly, but the expression seems tight and false on his face.
"You are safe, I am sure," Procel says. "Bas is a coward, in his essence."
You want to ask how he knows this -- how he knows of demons at all, much less of their personalities -- but your slate is in the saddlebag. Perhaps he learned it along with his studies of geometry.
At the city wall, a guard ducks one head into the carriage window. He checks the papers that Monsieur Procel hands him and stares at you skeptically. "Alright, monsieur. And who is this?"
"My servant." Monsieur Procel says. "A fool and mute from St. Francis' monastery."
The guard waves an armored hand and the carriage trundles on at an almost impossible speed. As the seat bounces and bucks, you glare at Monsieur Procel. He shrugs.
"Let them underestimate us, my friend, and we will be better prepared to outwit them all. Come along -- we're here."
You brush aside the carriage's satin curtain to see a quiet street lined with townhouses made of stone and plaster. The apartments at the corner are fronted by a high iron gate topped by silver stars.
Procel leads you to the entrance and then up a side staircase to the top floor. You pause in the doorway to catch your breath. The city seethes below, a roiling mass of people and smoke.
[[He withdraws a key and opens the right-most door.]]
//Ah, Anseil! Had I known my demon brethren were looking for you, I might have prevented this. But I was foolish -- I did not know. Rest well. Forgive me.//
THE END
The creature pauses.
"You lied."
It moves closer. A few teeth splinter from its head and fall onto the floor with a wet clatter.
"YOU LIED. //YOU LIED.//"
The mouth snaps shut around your neck.
[[EPILOGUE]]
"Ah," he says. "What troubles your sleep?"
You're not sure how to answer. He winks conspiratorily. "Have you met a young lady?"
That is not the phrase you would use to describe the creature you encountered last night.
[[SAW MONSTER.]]
TEETH, you continue.
There is a beat of silence. You think perhaps Monsieur Procel is lighting his pipe -- but when you look up, he is staring at you with a terrible expression on his face.
"Show me."
You draw a little sketch.
<image src="https://www.dropbox.com/s/eb73j9r21yqb319/Screen%20Shot%202017-02-19%20at%208.56.47%20PM.png?dl=1">
Monsieur Procel gazes at it a moment before scrubbing it away with his hand.
"That was no dream," he says softly.
[[You frown.]]
The person at the window is the most strange and beautiful human being you have ever seen. His – or her, you can’t tell – hairless head glows amber in the candlelight in which you can see the glint of a pair of dark eyes staring back at you calmly. The figure’s beautiful curved mouth opens to speak, but the voice that you hear comes from nowhere at all; it seems instead to echo in your head. //Hello, Procel. Hello, Jean.//
“Jean?” Procel says incredulously. “The boy’s name –“
//His name at birth was Jean,// the voice glides in. The being re-arranges their feathery coat and seems to cough. //But if he prefers Anseil?//
“Anseil,” Procel says. “That’s what the Brothers call him. Anseil, this is Peratim.”
//A delight,// Peratim hums.
You reach for the chalk and slate – but Procel stops you.
The older man smirks. “Just say it in your head and he will hear. Peratim has many tricks.”
//Hello?// you try. It feels silly. //How can this be?//
[[Peratim blinks calmly at you.]]
//Many things can be,// the voice answers. //Even more so than cannot.//
You cannot help but feel utterly shocked.
"This is the one who copies words," Procel says -- you hear the words distantly, as if they were speaking from a long way off. "I was going to surprise you, but..."
You gaze blankly as Procel withdraws the familiar grey tome from his bag and hands it to Peratim, who opens the book with a ginger hand. "It is only partly done. I am afraid there might not be more for a while."
//You cheat.//
"Only very carefully," Procel says cheerfully. Then his expression turns dims. "But they found out anyway. That's why we're here. Anseil saw Bas appear in his room last night. They're sending emissaries. Your people will be next."
//Let them arrive.// Peratim says. His coat quivers with emotion. //And I will greet them.//
"Please, don't --" Procel says. Peratim ignores him -- instead, he puffs his chest out farther and stares straight up at the rafters.
//We will have words, they and I.//
Suddenly, his whole body shudders. A gleaming golden light fills the room. You see something impossible for just a moment, and then a soft but stiff flurry of movement strikes your forehead.
"//Ow!//" You yelp. Procel rushes over.
"Look what you did," he says, exasperated. "And probably hurt your ventral tendons, too."
Your vision clears. Peratim's dark feathered robe is gone; it has unfolded into a pair of wings. From between the feathers, golden eyes blink at you. Peratim smiles in apology.
//Sorry.// he says. //It was a fit of passion.//
"Yes, well," Procel grumbles. "You'll want to be careful."
You grab the slate and write with a shaking hand.
[[ANGEL?]]
Monsieur Procel corrects you. "An arch-angel."
Peratim shivers his wings as a bird might after touching water. //I was sent to save a man's life. I could not. To atone, I am waylaid here.//
"Some ruffians found you in a darkened ally. I would not call it atonement -- just poor luck. And it is not solely suffering anymore, is it?" Procel asks hopefully.
Peratim shrugs and lifts his shoulders slightly. //Your company is the exception, I believe.//
You never expected an angel to be so grim. Peratim must hear what you're thinking, because he flutters his wings impatiently.
//If you want pretty songs, find a seraphim. In the meantime, I am here. You had a demon visitor, Anseil, and not a kind one. We must discourage him. We might seek counsel with one of my brethren for advice.//
"We could also summon one of Bas' brothers-in-arms," Procel suggested. "Another demon might be able to convince him to find a different hunt."
Monsieur Procel turns to you and nods encouragingly.
"What do you think wise, Anseil?"
[[Summoning an angel makes more sense.]]
[[Summoning a demon sounds more helpful.]]
//Very well,// Peratim agrees.
He hands you a piece of paper from one of the books.
//Follow this precisely.//
The methodology of summoning a celestial being is remarkably straightforward: you set out a series of sage candles and begin to pray. The Latin words feel strange to speak alone -- you are used to the relative cacophony of the Brothers joining you in the incantations as each syllable resounds off the high stone walls of the sanctuary. Instead, each echo seems to disappear into the billowing black fabric that shrouds the room. Peratim and Procel have disappeared into another chamber.
You begin to wonder if you might fall asleep before the summoning is done.
[[Suddenly, there is a blaze of light.]]
"Quite," Procel says.
//"What do we do?"//
[[Procel scratches his chin.]]
The rooms inside are spacious and strangely clean; against the far wall, an vast oak dresser is stacked with books and brass seafaring instruments. Most curiously, on every wall and from each ceiling rafter hang sheets of black silk that billow slightly in the draft -- somewhere in the shifting fabric you catch a glimpse of a table, the edge of an ornate armchair, a brief flash of green satin. Monsieur Procel strides confidently into the mass of dark curtains and brushes some aside.
"Are you awake?" he calls.
[[You peer through the fabric.]]
//Hail,// says a voice. //I am called.//
The seven-foot-tall being that has appeared stands in the center of a pillar of fire, their long enrobed body glimmering and shifting in the flame. They stretch out a hand toward you. Behind them, layers of purple wings sprout from their back and seem to shift endlessly in the flickering light. They have...five eyes, you count. You take a step back.
//I am Reteyl,// they say. //Fear not, for I am aligned to serve that which is life.//
You look behind you for instructions from Procel, but he is gone. You are alone with the angel.
//"There's a demon after me,"// you think. //"He tried to kill me. I need help. Why is this happening?"//
//A demon?// Reteyl ponders for a second. You notice suddenly that their worn desert sandals do not actually touch the ground. //I have heard of a demon in these parts. A renegade who scorns both holy and occult laws. We have been trying to find him.//
//"Yes."// you think. //"That's him."//
Reteyl tilts their head. //One demon heralds more. If you have seen this renegade, others will gather in the same place. They are a scourge on this earth and in the next one -- they who are so damned that they cannot even speak the praises of God. You are in grave danger. I will tell my superiors; they will prepare to guard the portal. We will extinguish all of the spawn, if need be.//
//"The portal?"//, you think. //"You mean the monastery?"//
//You should stay away from that place, Jean. If a portal has been opened there, it will soon be overrun.//
The angel hovers. //I shall depart. Follow the orders of the Lord, Jean, and you shall prevail in righteousness.//
The pillar of fire shoots straight up into the ceiling and then immediately disappears. [[You are left alone in the darkness and silence once more.]]
"I would be inclined to choose Mahotek, then, unless you have another suggestion?"
//"How does he know about demons?"// you wonder.
//He knows many things from his travels,// Peratim supplies. You jump. It is still quite unnerving that he can hear your thoughts.
//Apologies. I must depart.// The angel bows once to you both and then strides away through the cascade of dark fabric to one of the inner rooms.
"Ready?" Procel says. He swipes away one curtain to reveal a small circle of chalk on the floor. In the center, a 12-pointed star is drawn; around its circumference, strange letters and symbols crowd the space. He lights the candle supplied at its center -- you smell sage and burning fruit -- and gestures for you to sit.
"Hail Mahotek, prince in Hell. Hail Mahotek, prince in Hell. By sacrifice I summon thee - Mahotek, prince in Hell."
He removes something silver and shiny from his cloak pocket. "I apologize. May I prick your finger?"
[[...NO.]]
[[...FINE.]]
"Quite alright. He may find animal sacrifice acceptable. One moment."
Procel leaps up and disappears through the black curtains. There is a small snapping noise, and he reappears with a dead sparrow in his hand.
The little creature is soft and still, its beak resting on Procel's thumb as if it is merely sleeping. You feel vaguely sick. Perhaps this was not a good idea.
"To communicate with a stranger, we must use their words. These are words a demon understands: pain, death, sacrifice, chaos," Procel says thoughtfully. He sounds almost in a trance. "A demon cannot speak a single word in praise of God's work -- but these words are known very well."
He places the sparrow's body in the center of the circle beside the glowing candle.
[[The flame flares, sparks three times, and is extinguished.]]
He stabs your thumb and watches the welling blood.
"To communicate with a stranger, we must use their words," Procel says quietly. "These are words a demon understands: pain, death, sacrifice, chaos."
He sounds almost in a trance. "A demon cannot speak a single word in praise of God's work -- but these words are known very well. Your sacrifice will signal him."
He takes your hand and smears the blood on the floor beside the candle.
[[The flame flares, sparks three times, and is extinguished.]]
The vision of a bright-eyed and handsome young man in half-armor appears in the smoke. The small soldier gazes up at you and salutes, growing more solid by the minute.
"Boy," he says. "I am called. State your business with Mahotek."
You look beside you for instructions from Procel, but he has left. You are alone with the demon.
"You have called me, yes? Human?" Mahotek twiddles a hand on his golden sword. "Speak."
//I can't,// you think. At this, Mahotek drops to his knees.
"Of course," he says. "I know why you have called me. Would you have me restore your voice? "
You grab the slate.
[[YES, you say. PLEASE.]]
[[NO, you lie.]]
Mahotek bows.
"I am afraid I cannot," he says. "It was an injury done to you by a human. It has wound its way into your core. I am sorry...I cannot help you, my friend."
The smokey image starts to fade.
WAIT, you write. THE DEMON BAS.
The smoke solidifies again. "Pardon?"
FOLLOWS ME. WHY? You erase the board and start again. MAKE HIM STOP.
Mahotek sighs. "Would that I could control Bas. As to why he's taken an interest in //you// I couldn't say, but...there are portals opening, you see. He likes a fresh hunt."
PORTALS?
"Mmmm," Mahotek says. "There's one not too far from here. In a church, too, I believe? Bas was only the beginning...there will come many, many more to such an enticing spot."
MANY?
Mahotek shrugs. "You'll want to stay clear of it, certainly. Most of them will die tonight. The humans, I mean. But you seem like a nice young fellow -- no reason to join them so soon. You've never really been a human, have you? With their voices and their noise, they would never let you among them...It's a shame."
The smokey figure bows again and vanishes, leaving the scent of burning flesh and sulfur. You cough and cough until your eyes are streaming tears.
//The monastery//, you think, //oh, God, the monastery!//
"Anseil? Are you alright?" Procel has appeared with Peratim at his side. "What did he say?"
PORTAL AT MONASTERY, you scribble furiously. DEMONS COME SOON. ALL WILL DIE.
"A portal?" Procel shakes you by the shoulders. "Are you certain?"
YES.
"Peratim!" he croaks breathlessly, his voice cracking. "Peratim -- it's time to leave."
//No,// Peratim says. //If the demons are going to attempt a conquest at the monastery, that is where we must be.//
"Like //hell//," Procel snarls. "It might be a coincidence or it might not; either way, it isn't our concern. We leave now and we might make it out with no one the wiser. Be selfish for once, for --"
//It is for God's sake that we must stay,// Peratim says. //I can do no else.//
"Please."
//There is no other way.//
//"Please,"// you think. //"You have to save them. The Brothers -- they're all going to die!"//
//We will protect them,// Peratim says. //We must.//
[[You nod furiously in encouragement.]]
Mahotek scowls. "Liar. I hate a liar."
The soldier's image shakes -- then turns red.
"Well, you all will be wiped out soon enough, I suppose."
The soldier's limbs begin to melt into each other. There is a high, piercing sound.
"There are portals opening, you see. Where one of us appears, the rest will follow. The slaughter will be ...truly remarkable. Good luck..."
The shadow disappears, leaving the scent of burning flesh and sulfur. You cough and cough until your eyes are streaming tears.
//The monastery//, you think, //oh, God, the monastery!//
"Anseil? Are you alright?" Procel has appeared with Peratim at his side. "What did he say?"
PORTAL, you scribble furiously. DEMONS COME SOON. ALL WILL DIE.
"A portal?" Procel shakes you by the shoulders. "Are you certain?"
YES.
"Peratim!" he croaks breathlessly, his voice cracking. "Peratim -- it's time to leave."
//No,// Peratim says. //If the demons are going to attempt a conquest at the monastery, that is where we must be.//
"Like //hell//," Procel snarls. "It might be a coincidence or it might not; either way, it isn't our concern. We leave now and we might make it out with no one the wiser. Be selfish for once, for --"
//It is for God's sake that we must stay,// Peratim says. //I can do no else.//
"Please."
//There is no other way.//
//"Please,"// you think. //"You have to save them. The Brothers -- they're all going to die!"//
//Do not fear. We will protect them.//
[[You nod furiously in encouragement.]]
At this, Procel seems to crumble where he stands. He looks out at the window -- you cannot see his face, but his shoulders shake. You think suddenly of all the times you have wept like that in the corner of your cell, your mouth open in a silent scream. It doesn't seem to matter when no one can hear.
"Fine," he says quietly. "Yes. We'll go to the monastery."
With a tender expression, Peratim kisses the back of his neck. //Thank you.//
"Let us go, then," he says. "Perhaps we can close the portal before they arrive if we make haste. There are faster ways -- tunnels beneath the city that lead past the wall. I know them well; I studied their architecture very long ago."
//My wing cannot hold for long flights,// Peratim says. //But I may be able to carry you both there...provided the winds are favorable.//
//"Let's take the tunnels."// [[Procel's route sounds safer.]]
//"Let's fly there."// [[Peratim's route sounds faster.]]
//"We should take the tunnels.// you respond.
Peratim shudders -- his wings, half-extended, fold back with a soft creaking noise. Procel ties his dark hair back with a ribbon and then hands you an old wool overcoat.
"You'll want to wear this. Sometimes it drips."
You're not sure what that means until you arrive
[[You follow.]]
//"We should fly there."// you think.
Peratim fusses with his wings for a second before expanding them to their full breadth -- twice as wide across as you are tall. The left wing is bandaged and a few of the crushed flight feathers are supported by slim lengths of wood. Procel looks concerned.
"Are you sure you can manage it?"
Peratim smiles. //I can.//
"Then we should get to the roof."
[[With a flourish of his wrist, Procel traces a hand on the ceiling until he finds the handle of a trapdoor. He climbs through and extends his hand. The evening air is crisp. You follow.]]
"Anseil?" a voice calls. "Are you alright?"
Peratim flutters down from the rafters. //The fire was unnecessary,// he says sniffily. //She is a show-off.//
You stand. Your knees feel wobbly after so much time hunched on the floor. The burning imprint of the angel's light makes shadows on the back of your eyelids that move when you blink.
//"They're going to attack the monastery,"// you think at the angel. //"The demons are all coming."//
//Fear not. We will stop them.// Peratim says. //We have fought this war before.//
"We?" Procel says. "//We// are not doing any such thing. //We// are leaving. This is beyond us -- if we leave now, we can get out alive. I am certain of it. Please, Peratim."
//"You have to save the Brothers!"// you think wildly. You grab the slate and write: STAY. HELP.
"It is not so simple, boy," Procel says roughly. "You have the luxury of believing so right now. But consider this: what have the Brothers done for you? When have they given you any kindness? They leave you alone in a cell to rot. They treat you like an animal. They feed you the scraps of their lives and tell you to grovel for them. Free yourself of them, for --"
//It is for God's sake that we must stay,// Peratim glides in. Procel falls silent. //I will protect you. I vow it.//
Whatever Procel is trying to say, the words can't seem to exit his mouth. Finally he gives up and nods wearily.
"Fine," he says. "We'll return to the monastery."
With a tender expression, Peratim kisses the back of his hand. //Thank you.//
"Let us go, then," he says. "Perhaps we can stop the demons before the angel's legions arrive to make war. There are faster ways -- tunnels beneath the city that lead past the wall. I know them well; I studied their architecture very long ago."
//My wing cannot hold for long flights,// Peratim says. //But I may be able to carry you both there...provided the winds are favorable.//
//"Let's take the tunnels."// [[Procel's route sounds safer.]]
//"Let's fly there."// [[Peratim's route sounds faster.]]
The experience of flight is like a dream --
[[cloud cover]]
[[through the cloud cover]]
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[[beggar]]
[[ignore]]
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