《Palus Somni》 Canto I - A Visitor in the Night It was a small thing. Slithering, like a tongue across the floor. Licking up the dust and tasting the cool slabs of bitter rock. Two figures curled around each other in the dark, a swirl of white nightskirts and entwined limbs. They huddled together beside the sink, motionless in the corner like a pair of startled deer. ¡°What is it?¡± A small whisper in the darkness that echoed back to them from the various drains and metal pipes that ran along the walls of the room. She held the lamp high over her head, the only source of light and something that gave them a small circle of safety against the midnight gloom. It flopped closer, just outside the halo of the dim, orange lamplight. ¡°Ah! Wille, what is it?¡± As it came closer it was undeniable that this strange and loathsome organism wasn¡¯t completely made of flesh. Inside the meaty body came a faint but persistent buzzing, like the sound of a droning fly in the distance. The whirr of membrane hitting membrane at a frequency only insects could master, the internal workings of a tiny clockwork god. ¡°Wille please!¡± ¡°I-it¡¯s fine. This is fine. It¡¯s just a bug, see?¡± Wille raised the lantern out towards it, and the movement stopped. It lay on the floor of the latrine in a trail of its own sticky fluids, rusty and damp. It was very much like a tongue, although of misshapen size and inconsistent texture. It might have had legs but if it did then they were small and huddled beneath the main body, invisible to the outside except for a faint tapping of chitin on stone when it moved. It had no visible eyes or face, just the smooth swell of pink-tinged tissue. It pulsated, slowly and rhythmically, to the tune of some silent song that neither of them knew. Wille wrinkled her nose in disgust and reached down to pull off her boot. The other woman had buried her face into her chest, eyes now tightly shut, and so bunches of light blonde curls cascaded around her face. Errant strands got into her eyes as she bent down to unlace her work boots, hastily slipped on over bare feet for night-time wanderings. She gripped the heel tightly and, after a pause, flung it at the creature. Both of them started slightly at the sudden loudness of boot hitting flesh, hitting stone. It had struck the target and tumbled out of sight into the darkness, and at the same moment the pulsating rhythm stopped. Instead, the fleshy bug began vibrating. There was a visible cut on the top of its body. Before her eyes the skin peeled back from each side, as though the creature beneath was too large for such a tight membrane. Specks of rusty fluid hit the floor, along with a greasy and more viscous ichor that Wille assumed was some kind of inner coagulation brought into the outside by trauma. She was wrong, and she could only watch in frozen silence as the discarded epidermis was the scene of an exodus of slithering bodies. Not one, but a multitude of maggots, bloody imitations of the mature former tongue, streaming out from the place of impact and heading to the drains. One by one she could hear them plopping into the water, the same water that she had been pissing in only a few minutes before. The same water that ran under the refectory for waste disposal. She shook her head in an attempt to chase these images from her mind. "It''s fine. You can look now." The older nun lifted her head and stared blearily at the empty bug skin. "Is it gone? Did you get it?" "I''m not sure, but we should probably head back." Will responded, lifting them both up to their feet. She was not keen on putting her bare foot down upon the stone, not with the possibility of getting that malignant drool on her toes in the dark. Besides, what if she stood on one of those baby flesh-grubs? She decided it was best not to mention that part to the other nun and hopped into the corner to retrieve her boot. With the handle clamped firmly between her teeth, the light swayed to and fro as she laced it back up, painting the room with amber. This was one of the better bathrooms of the convent, being as it was situated next to the guest house entrance. There were no open pits, instead grooves in the stone drew any excess water down through metal grating into the underground river below. It was the only place to get a hot bath, and brass pipes groaned and shook when tasked with bringing the sulphur-smelling water up from the hot springs below. Now, they were only silent and cold as the great stone bath, cut into the floor, stood empty. Along the west wall were wooden cubicles for the latrines, and it was here that the women clasped hands before walking in tight-lipped silence back out into the night-time air. The orphan moon sat high over the main cloister. A giant, cratered face wreathed in clouds and spirits that took up most of the visible night sky. The lantern was not needed out here, moonbeams drowned out this smaller source of light, and so it was blown out and left behind in a slot by the bathroom door. Reality became a washed-out grayscale, a moving picture of long shadows and subtle stillness, which was a welcome contrast to the stifling darkness of the bathhouse. They moved slowly, hands still tightly entwined, so as not to make too much of a noise on the gravel path. In the air above them was the occasional fluttering of tiny wings as the resident bats made good use of the well-lit night. A small scraping of a door latch, and a thunk as the heavy wooden door closed behind them. It took their eyes a while to adjust to the darkness of the great hall. Even with the long stained glass windows casting pale rainbows on the floor the light was still not enough to reach them in the corner. They felt their way to the staircase in the dark, an easy feat after years of practise following the call of nature in the wee hours of the night. They got only a few steps up, however, before a whisper, tinged with undeniable fury, stopped them short. "Why. Why in the name of God are you out of bed?" An angry shadow loomed over them from the top of the stairs, any identifying characteristics obscured in the darkness. That voice however, disdainful and assertive, could only belong to one person in this convent. ¡°Sister Lydia, I-¡± ¡°Willow? Is that you?¡± ¡°It¡¯s Wille, and yes, I can explain.¡± But Lydia shushed her before she could say another word. ¡°It¡¯s an orphan moon, for God¡¯s sake get back to the dorter at once. And take those ridiculous boots off, they make much too much noise!¡± She hissed under her breath.Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site. ¡°Yes sister.¡± ¡°But Lydia, it¡¯s my fault really, I asked her to come with me.¡± A new voice chimed in. ¡°Claudia.¡± Sister Lydia¡¯s tone softened slightly. ¡°I didn¡¯t see you in the dark.¡± ¡°I really am sorry Lydia, really I am. I was just too scared to go alone.¡± She whispered. ¡°You shouldn¡¯t have been going at all! Really, you need to get over yourself and use a chamber pot.¡± Lydia shook her head in the dark. ¡°We have to go now. The Gol are outside. The one from the forest is already here.¡± ¡°Already? But-¡± Will began to ask, but this time was shushed by both of the other sisters. The three of them made their way back up the stairs, past the laysister¡¯s dorm and up to the single cells on the top floor of the brethren¡¯s dorterhouse. Not a word was said. Just three pale silhouettes in the dark, trailing their nightskirts in the gloaming, one holding a pair of oversize boots. When they reached a window they ducked beneath it. Even if it was shuttered, as if by ingrained habit the three nuns would avoid any apertures, preventing even the slightest possibility of being seen. Lydia left them wordlessly at her cell door and as they reached Wille¡¯s cell Claudia stopped in the doorway. ¡°Can I sleep with you tonight?¡± She whispered, breaking the silence. Wille nodded, and the two of them entered the small chamber. A single, plain feathered bed took up most of one wall. The rest of the room contained a small fireplace, a bedside table, a dresser, a rickety wooden chair and one well-shuttered and heavily curtained window. It was pitch black, but the women knew the layout by memory. It was the same in all the cells. The two of them said their bedtime prayers, and afterwards Wille placed her boots under the bed and clambered into the feathery quilt, holding it up as Claudia slipped in beside her. They lay with their arms around each other for some time before Claudia gained to courage to whisper. ¡°It wasn¡¯t a bug, was it?¡± A small chink of light escaping from behind the curtain illuminated a slither of her face. Pale yellow curls brushed her forehead, contrasting with Wille¡¯s darker brown, and creating meandering rivers of hair on the pillow. ¡°Maybe. I¡¯ve never seen a bug like it.¡± ¡°Is it still out there?¡± Wille thought about the myriad of small tongues slithering down the drain hole, licking their way up through the pipes and finding their way into the chimney flues, dispersing themselves around the abbey. ¡°No. It¡¯s gone. I squashed it.¡± She lied. ¡°You promise it¡¯s gone?¡± Just then a shadow came between them and the moon, and the beam of light disappeared into darkness for a few seconds. It could have merely been a cloud, Wille thought, but it was awfully sudden. At the very least, she hoped it was a cloud. ¡°I promise.¡± She whispered, barely breathing, into Claudia¡¯s ear. Huddled under the goose down, the two of them drifted into a long-awaited sleep. Meanwhile, Lydia sat awake on the chair in her cell, removing hairpins and letting her dark locks fall loose around her shoulders. Unlike the others, she had been awake all this time, waiting, when she had heard Wille¡¯s boots on the stair. She had rearranged her cell so that the bed ran alongside the window with the chair facing it. A few books and trinkets were neatly stacked on her dresser. It was easy to see them, because the room was bathed in moonlight. Her curtains were open, her shutters loosed, and the bevelled glass windows thrown open to their maximum breadth. The midnight air was bracing against her skin, and she let the breeze blow her normally neat hair into disordered ringlets. Her nightgown did little to protect her from the chill and the moonbeams made the fabric appear translucent against her body. The goosebumps on her arms were clearly visible under her sleeves. The sky was clear and cloudless and she could see out over the abbey grounds, out over the western wall and into the moor beyond. She placed the last golden hairpin onto the dresser and crawled on top of the covers. She lay patient and silent for what felt like an age, until the light in her room became fragmented by a long, loping shadow. The Gol stood just on the other side of the wall, barely one hundred metres away, its bulbous head drooping on hunched and twisted shoulders. She felt a surge of adrenaline as she watched it, lying still on her bed and holding her breath as it circled the abbey slowly, deliberately, looking for a way in. It was a skeleton. Or, rather, it was the imitation of what a skeleton should look like. Like the drawing of a skeleton by a child who only knew bones from the leftovers on their plate. The joints were wrong. Too big or too small, out of place or missing entirely. The humanoid skull was grossly inflated, a pendulous sphere of knobbled, brittle bone and calcified sinew. It creaked like an old tree, joints popping and snapping as though they were about to break. The arms were too long, she thought, as she watched the oversize hands feel their way along the perimeter. But then, as she watched, the beast stood up. What she had thought were outcrops of bone peeking over the wall became knees, extending to their full height. It must have been shuffling along the ground before, perhaps still waking up from daytime slumber. It stood tall and swaying against the wind, it¡¯s mouth agape in a silent scream. With a mounting dread she wondered if it was tall enough to simply step over the wall. Her heart pounded in her chest so hard she thought that the beast must hear it even from so far away, the drumming in her breast must be waking the whole convent! But it couldn¡¯t get in, or at least it didn¡¯t try, and instead it kept up its restless pace around the edge of the abbey sanctuary. Maybe it was repelled, she thought. This is hallowed ground after all. God protects us, our Lord keeps us safe. This thought thrilled her. It was out there and she was in here, secure. She did not need to close her window, she did not need to hide in the dark. As long as she was sensible, she could watch it as much as she wanted. It¡¯s not like she was running around the abbey in great clomping work boots during an orphan moon just because she was scared of the dark. But no. She wouldn¡¯t think about those two now. This was her time, just for her and the Gol. As she returned to the present she jolted, stifling a scream. The Gol was watching her. The gaping dark sockets were trained in her direction, from a skull that was lilting sideways ever so slowly. At some point while she was distracted, it must have walked back to this part of the fence. Had she made a sound? Had she moved? No, she was sure she hadn¡¯t. It was just a coincidence. She lay motionless and silent, doing her best to ignore the cold which was becoming almost too much to bear. Her bare legs were being stabbed with every breath of icy wind, and she could hardly feel her feet anymore. They hung at her ankles like lead, anchoring her to the bed as though in this heady mix of adrenaline and emotions she was in danger of floating away, to be plucked out of the sky by skeletal hands and devoured whole. Raw meat in the breeze. At some point as she stared back into the darkened eyes, she drifted off to sleep. She dreamed that it climbed over the wall and pressed its face into her window. In her dream she touched it, felt the teeth and the jawbone as the mouth screamed breathlessly at her. God protects us. It felt soft like putty, and as though under a spell she soon found herself pulling it apart. She poked holes in the teeth and watched with glee as it brought its face down in slow motion to bite her, but succeeded only in denting itself. Its incisors folded onto each other like wet clay, bending themselves in half. Our Lord keeps us safe. She had made uniform cavities across the mushy enamel, and she wondered if tiny Gol would crawl out of them in some kind of unholy birth. If they did, she would squash them, watch them writhe beneath her fingers as she popped them open. She had the power of God here and nothing could touch her. She ripped and tore and thrust her hands deep into the bone, pushing and moulding and remaking, until all that remained were the eyes, dark and unyielding. Two dark orbs that stared at her unblinking, reflecting the manic grin and the disordered hair, the nightdress half falling off one shoulder. How dare they judge me so, she thought, how dare they remain in this hallowed and sacred space. But try as she might her hands could only grasp empty air, the darkness melting out of reach, and it was now her turn to open her mouth in a silent, frustrated scream. Canto II - The Tatter Tree [A handwritten note that hangs on the refectory door, yellowed with age. The delicate, neat lettering is still legible.] Beware the walking beasts, my children, for all shall be lost if you are to antagonise them. Do not ignore this letter, and make sure all are aware of these rules for I cannot guarantee the safety of anyone who does not follow them. Harriet - I am trusting you to make sure that this news reaches the Nocturnes. These are rules that all acolytes must follow, for the safety of everyone in our community, and of our very souls.
  1. Cover all light sources at night, nary a single candle for your work.
  2. Keep away from the windows. They have eyes.
  3. Do not rely on the shutters being closed, act as though any small movement can be seen.
  4. Do not make any loud noises. Or any quiet noises that cannot be helped.
  5. If they see you, stand still and stay silent.
  6. If they see you, pretend to slumber. They do not harm the sleeping.
  7. If they see you, do not run.
  8. If you run, you will perish.
Follow these instructions, and we shall be safe. Do not fret without me my dears, I will return soon once I have gathered the needed help. Yours with God, Mother Superior
The bell for morning vigils rang and, at four thirty in the morning, the monastic day began. One by one the sisters awoke and a medley of black, white, brown and blue mingled together as they made their way down the night stairs and into the chapel. The dawn light was a dim haze and barely made it through the gaps in the shuttered windows, and so many of the gathering held a candle cradled in their palm or sheltered in a little copper lantern, creating a procession of flickering lights in the twilight hallways. Wille and Claudia had tumbled out of bed together, dressed together, and now they walked together near the back of the group, bleary-eyed and more dishevelled than usual. Wille¡¯s short cropped brown hair had formed itself into a permanent cowlick. This general inclination for scruffiness plus the perpetual stomp of her oversized boots betrayed her in the gloom as being, without a doubt, Orison Sister Wille. Claudia meanwhile had stuffed her curly pale locks into a tightly wrapped cornette. The fabric of her wimple dipped at the centre of her forehead, casting a slight shadow over her eyes and forming a curve which stretched up on either side, creating two symmetrical horns of starched fabric. It was a difficult fold to pull off, but Claudia managed it every day without fail. Both nuns were Orisons, the black and white clad sect who were responsible for matters of theology and worship. This, however, was where any comparison ended. Where Claudia¡¯s sleeves were dagged and pinned into loops of dark black fabric, white chemise visible beneath, Wille¡¯s were plain and square cut and she seemed to have a moral objection to undersmocks. She wore the black habit alone and unadorned, with only a white scarf around her neck which had no real function but came in useful when it rained. In comparison, Claudia¡¯s white scapular had after many years of careful crafting developed an intricate and delicate lace edge that gave her an aura of studied care and attention. The chapel gradually began to fill with figures, each sitting in their designated pews. The chatter and laughter echoed up into the rafters high above. It was shaped like a cross, with two transepts intersecting a long central nave. The crossing point was divided into four quadrants, with rows of pain wooden benches for each of the Alucinari sects. Blue-clad Etudes in the northern transept, brown-clad Madrigals in the south. Orisons took the eastern apse, but the western nave only held a couple of grey-robed figures. Nocturnes were not prone to liturgy. A reverent hush fell over the room as sister Lydia took the pulpit. No trace of the night¡¯s activities was betrayed in her appearance. Not a single hair or fold was out of place. Her dark locks were pinned up into a netted snood, immaculate and no longer tousled. She wore the standard black and white habit of the Orisons, accented with an ornate golden rosary around her neck. With a glance to her right, where the Etude sister tasked with keeping the time gave her a small nod, the service began. ¡°All rise.¡± She said, her voice an authoritative tone reverberating around the ancient chamber. Candles were snuffed and there was general clamour as the women stood as one. A silence descended upon the congregation and the first rays of morning light crept through the eastern windows, the stained glass illuminating them in a heady mixture of orange, scarlet and purple. A master of craftsmanship, the threefold chapel window towered above the gathered sisters. Five stories tall, it depicted the lives of various Alucinari saints and martyrs. In the centre was the Eye of God, a marvel of engineering and the centrepiece of the triptych. Normally, it looked closed. The sleeping eye of a dreaming god. But when hit by the rising sun, the colours in the window gave the impression that it was slowly opening. Each morning until the sun moved into its zenith the eye gazed down upon them, before closing again to sleep once more. Now, when the sunlight began to awaken the heavy-lidded eye, there came the low and steady rhythmic humming from the Nocturnes. The voices of the Etudes joined them, adding another layer to the melody, this time a more upbeat and repetitive tune, moving their hands in age-old patterns to show the tempo to those nuns who couldn¡¯t read music. The chapel resonated with the songs of an ancient order, composed in dreams and sung in the waking world for the fancy of a sleeping god. The Madrigals began singing the notes. Fa sol sol sol la sol la la. Another convention which traditionally helped participants learn the hymn. After one round of note singing, all together they burst into song. Farewell, vain world! I¡¯m waking now The dreamer smiles and bids me bow And I don¡¯t care to stay here long Sweet Angols beckon me to flight To sing God¡¯s praise in endless night And I don¡¯t care to stay here long Rise up younger Sisters, awake up yonder Oh, yes my Lord, for I don¡¯t care to stay here long The words hung in the air for a moment as the beaming eye of God gazed down upon them in the expanding silence. ¡°Our vigil has ended once again this morning, and we give gratitude to our Lord for sanctuary. The dream is our shield.¡± The crystal-clear tones of Lydia¡¯s invocation rang out, and was greeted by the customary response. ¡°And let conviction be our sword.¡± There was a shuffling of feet as the congregation knelt. Lydia, on her knees besides the pulpit, enunciated in solemn tones. ¡°Let us commence the lauds of the dead. We remember Etude sister Amy, who left her name to sleep unhindered. We remember Orison sister Sarah, who fled the sorrow of secrets unspoken¡­¡± The list continued for some time as cryptic eulogies for the honoured dead, with the last one hundred and eight sisters who had passed away being memorialised in this way. The first few names were familiar to most of the gathered sisters, being the names of old teachers who showed them their first prayers, or the elderly nuns who they remembered taking slow walks around the gardens in their early years. Some of the names were younger, mostly victims of sickness. Two were killed by the Gol. As the list continued however the names became unfamiliar, outdated, obscure and none of the living could remember any memories of them, fond or not.Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation. ¡°¡­We remember Nocturne sister Caprimulgus, who never truly left us. In the sight of the dreaming God we contemplate these acolytes, lest they be forgotten.¡± As the ceremonies drew to a close Wille made her way through the dispersing crowd to Claudia, who was standing looking at a bust of a martyr. ¡°How are you feeling this morning?¡± Claudia shrugged, her shoulders pulling at the tight layers of her veil. ¡°A little tired. I¡¯m sorry for making such a fuss.¡± She said sheepishly. ¡°I didn¡¯t mean to act like such a coward.¡± The stern face of the stone-carved martyr looked down upon them from its alcove. The inscription beneath it was too worn to read, but older floorplans of the abbey named her as Saint Rediron, scion of the roiling blood. ¡°Don¡¯t say that, it¡¯s always okay to be scared.¡± Wille offered her hand, and she took it. ¡°I have your back, it doesn¡¯t bother me if Lydia stamps her feet. It¡¯s not like she¡¯s in charge. Listen, if she tries to punish me today at Chapter, just let her. Don¡¯t get yourself into trouble too.¡± The two of them walked together through the chapel, out into the main cloister. It looked different in the daylight. No longer a grey and silent stillness, it was a bustling site of daily activity. A woman in a brown smock washed clothes in a barrel, suds floating in the air around her. They passed a kneeling sister who was having her hair cut by another, her black curls falling around her in the grass. A blue-clad Etude sketched, sitting with her back against a plum tree. Under the cool, covered alleys that ran on all four sides were wooden workdesks and seats cut into the stone. This was where the community read, studied and meditated, and already several of the spaces were taken by Etudes staking their claim and preparing to lose themselves in old books for the rest of the morning. The two of them ducked into an alcove near the library, where a small corridor led them to the chapter room. ¡°You¡¯re not late for once, sister Willow.¡± It was Lydia, seated gracefully at the end of a pew. Four wooden benches faced each other around the side of the room, and various nuns had seated themselves already. ¡°Actually, it¡¯s Wille.¡± She replied and sat as far away from her as possible. Claudia sat diplomatically on a middle bench, which was empty except for Nocturne sister Amelia, clad in layers of grey and mumbling softly to herself. On the far side sat sister Beatrice, who had taken her vow of silence seriously for the past five years and was never very good company for smalltalk. Two Etudes had come, sister Hazel who managed the library and sister Alana, the resident astrologer. Next to Lydia sat sister Jennifer, smiling indiscriminately, who now turned to her neighbour with an air of kindly reprimand. ¡°Lydia, really. If you can call me Jenny you can call her Wille.¡± ¡°Wille is a boy¡¯s name, it is not becoming of a sister.¡± Lydia replied. She put emphasis on this last word. ¡°Well perhaps then we should call you by your full name too, Lydiabeth! Lyddifer!¡± Sister Jenny smiled at her own joke as Lydia rolled her eyes. Wille ignored them both. ¡°Where are Harriet and Mischa, anyway?¡± The room was quiet, most looked indifferent. ¡°Sister Amelia?¡± Sister Amelia looked up from her muttering, brows furrowed as though interrupted from a very important task, and gave a lopsided shrug. Claudia could now see the object she had been murmuring over; a long, wooden-beaded rosary, her long fingers carefully counting each bead with mechanical precision. ¡°No matter, I am not waiting for lie-a-beds. We can start without them.¡± Lydia said. ¡°Sister Jenny would you like to start?¡± Sister Jenny nodded and stood, leaning on her cane. ¡°My fellow acolytes, last night I dreamed I saw a little flutter-bird sitting on a tree, all dainty and small. It waved at me with a bright blue wing and opened its mouth to speak. But, I am but a Jenny, and Jennies cannot understand the language of birds. I told it as much, but it did not stop. Its little red beak opened and shut, yet I couldn¡¯t make head nor tail of its message. Still, the other little birds did hear it, and they flew high ¨C so high! ¨C up into the clouds above, on an adventure into the sun. Even if they kept their secrets from me, I could still enjoy the spectacle. This I dreamed and nothing more.¡± She sat back down on her pew. ¡°Well, I think this is a good omen.¡± Began sister Alana. ¡°The sky is often a symbol for the fortuitous expanse of the mind, and it may be that you are called to explore more deeply the mysteries of the Lord.¡± Sister Hazel nodded emphatically. ¡°Yes, yes! Besides, that blue-feathered bird could be an Etude. Perhaps you are to join us soon?¡± ¡°Oh, really?¡± Jenny looked genuinely excited. ¡°I should like that, though I was never one for concentration.¡± ¡°That is why the birds were flying away, my dear. It was a reminder that your talents lies elsewhere.¡± Lydia intervened. ¡°Gosh I suppose you¡¯re right, I can¡¯t imagine those blue smocks matching my hair very well at all.¡± Jenny replied, accompanied by a small laugh by Claudia. ¡°Just do what I do and cover it all!¡± ¡°I could never, no-one would recognise me if I did that.¡± Chapter continued much in this manner, with each of them sharing a dream they had experienced the night previously, or excusing themselves if their sleep was bare. Despite the differences of the group, oneiromancy was an important aspect of Alucinari faith, and so even Wille and Lydia had civil feedback for one another. That was, until confessions ended and the daily chores were discussed. ¡°Sister¡­ Wille was found out of bed last night, during the orphan moon.¡± Lydia paused meaningfully before pronouncing the name correctly. There was a shocked hush from the assembly, except from Claudia who only shrank down in her seat. ¡°I therefore suggest that she should forgo breakfast, and daily prayers, in exchange for community chores.¡± ¡°What! You think I can do that on an empty stomach?¡± Wille had sat up sharply in her seat, fists clenched in defiant anger. ¡°I think you can, and you will, because you put this entire community in danger last night.¡± No mention of Claudia, but of course. Lydia had a special place for anyone who acknowledged her authority, even if it was merely through anxiety. It was Wille she was after today. Wille, who cut her hair and changed her name and wore inappropriate footwear. Wille let out a deep breath and tried to make eye contact with anyone else in the room. All of them were looking steadfastly at their feet, or out of the window. All except sister Amelia, who had finally looked up from her rosary. ¡°I had a dream last night.¡± Everyone was silent, unsure if she has been listening to anything they had said. It was hard to tell what plane of reality the Nocturnes were living in at any given time. ¡°I dreamed I saw a holey Gol. Not holy, holey. Goley? It had holes all over its face.¡± Lydia¡¯s face went white. The silence filled the room for a long time, until Wille thought that Amelia had forgotten where she was, or that she was in the middle of speaking. ¡°¡­This I dreamed and nothing more.¡± Claudia was the first one to speak. ¡°Thank you, Amelia.¡± She placed her hand on the Nocturne¡¯s shoulder, but she was already far away and murmuring with her rosary again. ¡°Very well. Sister Wille, after a small breakfast you will report to the Madrigals.¡± Wille nodded. Had sister Amelia really stood up for her, or was it just luck? She wondered what it was that had made Lydia change her mind. As they left the chapterhouse, the rain began to fall, a soft drizzle from heavy black clouds that promised a storm to come. It wasn¡¯t until after midday prayers that the panic started. Sister Harriet had still not turned up. Sister Mischa had wandered into the refectory sometime previously, not that anyone would notice if any of the Nocturnes went missing, as they kept to their own time and spaces. But the continued disappearance of an Etude was one of note. Wille¡¯s punishment chores changed from cleaning moss out of the gutters to searching the grounds in ever-worsening rain. Vespers was suspended, and alarm rose as the sun began to set. Supper, however, was not cancelled. Thanks to the good sense of the cook, who made a simple nettle stew with dumplings and diluted buckwheat wine. The storm continued to drum on the barrelled ceiling as the nuns ate, unusually silent, beneath. Wille had barely gotten the first spoonful to her mouth before the doors opened, and sister Jenny came running into the hall. Her feet made muddy wet slaps on the stone floor as she ran and tripped her way to the high table. A few nuns stood and held her, comforted her as she heaved and panted. Her ginger hair was a sodden mess of tangles and twigs. She had gone to the tatter tree, she said. She had wanted to make a wish. She stammered this last word until it was barely comprehensible, and they couldn¡¯t get another word out of her. Wille didn¡¯t remember when she stood up and left the refectory. She barely remembered how to walk, the fear of what she might find was numbing her mind to even the simplest tasks. Others had joined her, and the sisters ran as one across the sodden lawn to the front gate; a large, wrought-iron creation that was rarely ever used, now pushed open to display the grisly scene beyond. Wille thought she could hear people crying, but the rain was loud in her ears and their voices seemed distant and dreamlike. It was Harriet, strung up and silhouetted against the setting sun. Crimson beads pulled at her throat, almost tearing through the sagging skin as her body swayed back and forth from a branch of the old tatter tree. Covered in ¡®tatters¡¯, pieces of cloth ripped from habits whenever a sister wanted to make a wish, the tree was a veritable wreath of sun-bleached colours despite being long dead. Now, however, in the growing darkness it only appeared menacing; a collection of memories, which now included Harriet. Water dripped from the hem of her habit in a steady stream, washing her clean and feeding her blood to the earth. Her face looked almost peaceful, if it wasn¡¯t for the deep gash that ran from her cheek straight down deep into her belly. There were lumps of flesh and viscera draped like cloth over her legs, red and wet and thick with the vitality of recent life. As the corpse twisted slowly in the rain, the first flash of distant lightning flickered in the clouds as the rain kept pouring, pouring, pouring over life and death with equal and callous indifference, cleansing the Earth of sin. Canto III - Death Comes The abbey of Palus Somni stood, tall and proud, atop the surrounding marshland. It was a crown, with the thick purple heather as its mantle, studded with shards of jagged, grey rock as though adorned with jewels and gemstones. These stones were ancient, but the kind of ancient that had been lovingly maintained over time. There were no ruins, and yet some of the structures were prehistoric, painstakingly restored and used in much the same way now as they were then. These early walls were constructed upon the ruins of yet an older site of worship, where weathered carvings unearthed by later inhabitants betrayed the presence of primordial humanoid ancestors. In short, it was a hodgepodge of towers rendered in various architectural styles. Roman pillars supported gothic arches, while lichen-encrusted standing stones sat amongst the bricks of the boundary wall, staring outwards with carven faces contorted into grimaces of some unknown but intense emotion. When some previous owner had wanted a new chapel built it had often been erected on top of the ruins of the older church, and so many ornate facades were left behind, a sprawling labyrinth of bricked up windows and doors to nowhere. Most of it was crafted from an imposing strain of dark basalt, though various ages could be identified by the differing materials used throughout its construction. It had not always been an abbey. Almost one hundred and fifty years ago it had been a country manor. Lord Aloysius Mallory, having died without heir after the disappearance of his only son, had entrusted his estate to the use and good fortune of the Alucinari religious order. His death was met with a sigh of relief from the local population, who had complained vocally and often about his policies during his lifetime. Intent merely upon his own insular projects, he had let much of the surrounding farmland go to fallow, with much of the area eventually being reclaimed by the marsh. Livelihoods were lost and families went hungry, but the future looked bright as Mallory began to invest in the creation and operation of a new lime quarry. He did not, however, employ the locals, preferring instead to import his workers from elsewhere. These new faces did not speak the local dialect and kept to themselves, preferring to stay on site than spend time in the nearby inns. This was some relief to the villagers, who had seen how these strangers worked tirelessly into the night, seemingly with infinite energy and with no need to stop and rest. When any of them did wander into town, they appeared lost and confused and there were some instances where they were reported to have lashed out at inquisitive folks who offered them a word of welcome. The consensus of the local folk was that the ways of foreigners were a mystery, and they were entitled to their customs but by the Gods they were not letting their children anywhere near them. When Aloysius Mallory died, work in the mine ceased, and the mysterious miners disappeared overnight. Nonetheless, by now the damage had been done and most villages on Mallory lands had been abandoned for better, and less unusual, pastures. In just a single generation an entire community had fled, the culture lost. And for what? The unknown obsession of a dying man. Then the Gol came, and everything changed. Bellemorde thought about this as she sliced her way through the tough sinew that held Harriet¡¯s intercostal muscles to her ribcage. If the Gol were so intent on eating humans, she thought, why come out all this way to the middle of nowhere? Why come to an empty land to feed? She stopped sawing to wipe her face, leaving a streak of blood across her forehead. She knew why. It was obvious, really. The amount of Gol they saw here were merely remnants, the dregs. Pitiable leftovers. The great cities must be teeming with them, with every street packed full of Gol bodies, pressed square against the walls. But that just lead to more questions. How could a single city feed so many? Surely it wasn¡¯t sustainable to have so many predators in one place. Besides, did the cities still even exist? I suppose, she thought, that they would eventually have to eat each other. Her face, hidden behind a surgical mask, cracked into a smile as she extracted her hands from Harriet¡¯s chest cavity. Eat each other! Now that would surely solve all our problems. Belle examined the tooth that she had extracted from the young nun¡¯s wound. It was a tooth, she could tell, because it had several smaller teeth growing on it. Geometric circles of tumorous growths arranged consecutively but not neatly, with some teeth splitting open to allow new teeth to emerge. She wondered if this meant the Gol, too, were growing. The infirmary was one of the larger buildings of the abbey, situated in a hall almost as large as the main chapel. A mezzanine floor held further rooms, enough for the convalescent members of the original cohort of almost one thousand sisters, but they were rarely needed these days and the upper level had fallen into disrepair. There was space enough for their needs on the ground floor and several canopy beds occupied the hall. Privacy was found behind the wispy curtains, though at the moment the infirmary only had one resident patient. Jenny had curled herself up into the smallest of balls, curtains closed and covers high over her head. Nothing she tried could block out that scene from her mind. The dark, the rain, the slow creak of rope-flung trees. There were not nearly enough layers between her and the outside world. She had woken up here that morning. She didn¡¯t remember how she got to the infirmary, though she could barely remember what day it was. The only thing that she knew was that there were monsters outside and that if you appeared to be sleeping, they left you alone. She shivered under the blankets, the chill reaching her even under all her layers. The physician, Sister Belle, had come with porridge that morning, but she had been too scared to move. Too scared to be awake. Every time she closed her eyes she saw Harriet, hanging, and every time she opened them she knew that it had really happened. She was trapped between two worlds, two different kinds of hell. And now she could hear them laughing at her, those Gol with their twisted faces and too many bones, she could hear their mirth at having finally taken one of the flock. Her flock, her family. She held back her sobs, lest they hear that she was awake. - Outside of the safety and the blankets of Jenny¡¯s four poster the hall was mostly empty, except for the stoic presence of two sisters. Seated on a hard bench near the surgery door, Lydia and Hazel sat trapped in uncomfortable silence. From their left, the small, rustling sobs of Sister Jennifer echoed around the hall. From their right, they heard muffled laughter through the heavy wooden door as Sister Belle utilised her own, unique, coping mechanisms. Caught between the tears and the mirth they sat listening as the discordant sounds filled the room with the emotions of loss and life. At long last the hinges of the surgery door creaked, and the source of the laughter came to meet them. Sister Bellemorde was a Quodlibet, an Alucinari acolyte who did not adhere to any major sect. Sometimes it was because they followed more than one path or were practising a peculiar form of asceticism. In this case, it was because the additional daily duties would interfere with her role as abbey surgeon and, as of today, coroner. She was a tall, wilting figure of a woman, her body bowing under the weight of countless storms like the twisting trunk of an old tree. This was the most striking thing about her that those who met her noticed first, which was extremely telling as her hair was pink. Not bright pink, exactly, but a pale sort of flush which masked any original colouring. A result of too many years stooped over chemicals, she told anyone curious enough to ask. In all respects, her personality matched her meandering physique, twisting every which way and never in line with what was expected, or desired. In other words, Belle was not the sort of woman who let propriety stand in the way of direct communication. ¡°Well, if she wasn¡¯t dead before, she definitely is now.¡± The smear of blood stood out on her forehead like a streak of guilty conscience. ¡°Where do I sign?¡± A pause. ¡°Oh. Sign.¡± Hazel said in a monotone and began to rummage around in her satchel for the appropriate documents. It took her longer than usual to find what she needed, her fingers brushing against paper listlessly as her brain refused to associate with a reality in which her best friend was dead. They had lived together, worked together, and even ate together. They had sung together, hands clasped beneath the morning sun. Hazel was more of a reader, whereas Harriet was a born writer. Every major abbey event went through Harriet¡¯s pen, every new conversion and old tradition. If she were still alive, she would be the one scribing the death certificate and updating the register, not her. That thought alone made Hazel falter as she handed over the sheaf of papers into Belle¡¯s open hand. ¡°Done, and¡­ done!¡± She signed the bottom with a flourish.Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon. ¡°So what happens now?¡± Asked Lydia, who was here in her self-appointed role as head of abbey affairs while Mother superior was away. It was not a job anyone begrudged her, because it was not as essential as she thought it was. In times such as these, however, her ability to remain calm and organise was received with gratitude. ¡°Now? Now, you leave her with me. I have much work, you know, preparing her.¡± Belle gestured at the coffin that had been placed covertly at the side of the hall. ¡°In that case, we shall not keep you. Thank you for your time, Sister Belle.¡± Lydia got up to leave, but Hazel stayed sitting, her fingers gripping white against the bundle of papers that declared her friend dead. ¡°Um.¡± ¡°Yes?¡± Belle inclined her head, and it was like watching a tree bend in the wind. ¡°Sister, please don¡¯t take her to the catacombs. She spent so much time down there with her work, she grew to hate it. Can we please bury her in the grounds, under the sun?¡± Bellemorde shrugged, but not cold-heartedly. ¡°There is no rule about that as far as I know, she can be buried in the sky if she so wishes.¡± ¡°Well, that¡¯s not entirely true, now, is it?¡± Lydia began, finding some ground on which she was well versed. Canon law was her specialty. ¡°There are entire chapters about care for the dead in the Summer Charters.¡± ¡°Read them. No rules about it.¡± Belle waved her hand dismissively, and the conversation was over. Even Lydia held no authority over the physician in their own domain. ¡°I will be seeing to my patient now.¡± She gestured to the still sobbing bed meaningfully and turned away without a further word. - The reverent silence of the infirmary was broken as they left the ward and several nuns who had been waiting patiently for news surged forwards. Lydia however only had eyes for one. ¡°You!¡± She pointed, and the crowd turned to look for her victim. Wille stared her down, arms crossed. ¡°What is it now, Lydia? What do you want?¡± ¡°You were out and about last night, and now Harriet is dead.¡± Her words travelled down her finger like the gleam of a brandished sword, stabbing her victim in all the right places. ¡°How is that my fault? You were there too!¡± ¡°Me? I was there to stop you. You were the one drawing their attention, stomping around at night doing heavens knows what!¡± Her voice quivered with pathos, real or pretend it was hard to tell ¡°You know what I was doing, I was helping-¡± But she stopped herself mid-sentence and instead put her energy into scrunching up her fists with powerless rage. She was not going to betray Claudia and air her issues in front of the whole monastery, not while they looked at her with such suspicion. The force of Lydia¡¯s outburst had turned them docile, or perhaps they really did think that it was all her fault. They could believe what they wanted, Wille thought to herself, she harboured no delusions that she could have been even remotely to blame. Harriet was found outside the wall, if anyone was responsible it was¡­ No. It was too soon for such thoughts. Her accuser faced her down in front of almost the entire abbey. Anyone who wasn¡¯t here would surely hear about it, sooner or later. Faces peeked at her from inside wimples, hoods and hats. Suspicious faces, blank faces. Faces of friends who were no longer sure what to think. It was comforting to find blame in a blameless world. If such tragedy could have a real, discernible cause then it felt more controlled, more preventable, and life felt safer. It made the Gol smaller, and hope swell. It was easy to turn against Wille if doing so offered some small comfort for the living. Even if they knew in their hearts that it was unlikely, even if they found it difficult to meet her gaze, who among them could refuse such an offer of culpability in these cold and callous times? She did not see Claudia in the crowd. She was spared, at least, the judgement of her last remaining friend. ¡°Let this be a lesson for everyone, the rules we follow are there for a reason.¡± Lydia addressed the crowd, grasping her rosary before her in supplication. ¡°We need to stay safe, we must stay safe. We have inherited the wisdom of a hundred years of torment, let us not forget it now. If we fall into the twilight of the final era of sin, we are damned. We have everything we need to see though these cursed times and our Lord will never ¨C Never! - let us drift into despair, if only we should listen.¡± The crowded faces looked simultaneously abashed and enthused at these words, and some of the Etudes covered their faces. Many of them had at some point been out of bed at night, or had otherwise broken the rules meant for their safety, and felt now the sting of her words as though they were aimed at them alone. ¡°Sister Hazel, what further responsibilities do you have remaining of Harriet¡¯s affairs?¡± ¡°There is not much left¡­ only the funeral arrangements and organising her belongings.¡± Lydia nodded. ¡°Grace and Bellemorde have volunteered to oversee the funeral.¡± Sister Grace, the resident alchemist, bowed her head in agreement, letting her hood fall modestly over her face. ¡°As for Harriet¡¯s outstanding affairs¡­¡± Lydia began, but was cut off by a voice from beside her. ¡°I would be most grateful for the opportunity to make up for any transgression.¡± Wille began, talking directly to Hazel. ¡°Let me take care of things. You have mourning to do.¡± Hazel nodded her thanks, still unsure of her role in the face of so much grief. Everyone knew Lydia to be on edge right now, for understandable reasons, and she harboured no doubts towards Wille¡¯s reliability. We have all broken the law at some point, she thought, Wille just had the bad luck to have been caught at very much the wrong time. She surveyed the Orison through her glasses, noting the short crop of wayward curls and simple, practical robe. ¡°Thank you, sister. That would be most welcome. If you will follow me, please.¡± Lydia was left in the courtyard as around her the crowd dispersed, justice having been served and deserted chores now becoming a more pressing urge. She sat on one of the stone benches, still wet with last night¡¯s rain, and let the water seep into her clothes. She had been abandoned here to wrestle with her thoughts and, God forgive her, the despicable memory of soft, broken teeth grinning outside her window. - The library had always been one of Wille¡¯s favourite places. Unlike the stone study desks in the cloister, it was comfy. The seats were upholstered in embroidered fabrics of green, blue and red. The curtains where thick and long, with golden trim and metallic threads worked throughout. A throwback to the days when it was part of a country mansion, and despite being so out of date it was lovingly looked after by Hazel and the other Etudes so well that barely a single moth lasted long enough under their watchful gaze to cause any damage to the ancient fabrics. This meant that the entire library smelt divine. The musk of old paper and bookbinding glue, the scent of wood varnish and dust, taken as a whole together with the stale scent of threadbare cloth it created a perfume that Wille found intoxicating. The windows were never opened, being so tall as to make opening them a monumental task involving standing on tables and angling at rusted locks with long sticks. It was better in the hot summer to move out into the courtyard and read under the trees or amongst the herbs. Today was not a hot day, being the middle of autumn the warmer climate of the library shelves was welcome relief from the growing outside chill. Wille had partly volunteered to help because it would mean she could spend the day here, rather than have to deal with Lydia¡¯s scathing comments. Harriet was a chronicler, which is somewhere between a librarian and a scribe but with the responsibilities of both. She had to maintain a good organisation of the register, and update it when necessary, as well as produce the yearly almanac which collected the wisdom of various parts of the abbey, particularly astrological phenomena and crop rotation for the coming year. Harriet had been by all accounts skilled at her job, though most Etudes only glanced at the mountains of files with dread and assumed that surely she must know what she was doing. This was what Wille felt now as she stared at the records office, which was through a small door at the back of the library. So small, she had to stoop to get in, but once she was able to pull her head up her jaw dropped at the piles of carefully annotated paperwork, books, guides, maps and etchings. It seemed that this was more than just a simple task, and that this would become her home for the next few days, maybe weeks. ¡°If you need anything just call, we generally have someone here until vespers.¡± Hazel had said before leaving her alone with merely a lamp and a reading-glass. She rolled up her sleeves, turned up the lamp, and picked up the first bundle of papers. They were marked ¡®The effects of lime and gypsum on millet growth; letters in response to brother Edgar¡¯s guide to marling and other fertilizers, circa 1889.¡± She put down the bundle and sighed. She had no idea how to categorise this, or where it belonged. Along one side of the room was a cabinet of draws marked with several categories, including; agriculture (home), agriculture (general), letters (home) and one even for lime production (local). She bundled them into the letters (home) draw, and figured that as long as she found somewhere they belonged, all would be well. She picked up the next bundle from the floor, a flutter of papers that looked like they had been dropped. Leather bound loose scripts spattered with candle wax and simply labelled ¡°Harriet ¨C Dreams.¡± As expected, it contained her recorded visions, presumably ones she had shared at Chapter as many of the entries had annotations of a spiritual nature down the margins. As she flipped through the folios a large brown envelope, tied with string and almost bursting, slipped out from the back pages. Curiosity was always a strongpoint for Wille, and when she cut the cords, she found inside a collection of letters that seemed too old to have been recently penned. The ink was faded, and a quick scan of one showed they were dated over two hundred years ago. Even more intriguing was the notes accompanying them in a small, neat hand and dated to this past week. She held in her hands what was most likely Harriet¡¯s final records. She had been working on these letters when, for some reason, she had decided to leave the abbey grounds during the night of the orphan moon. What possessed her to do such a thing Wille had no idea, but if anyone knew the answer it was Harriet, and perhaps she could still tell her. And so, she began to read.
Lore: The Alucinari Daily Schedule 4:30 am ¨C Vigils and Lauds: The dawn prayer thanking the light for returning to earth, finishing with the Lauds of the dead 5am ¨C Chapter: The various sects meet for dream confession and discuss any issues of the day 6am ¨C Prime: A time to wash your body and clothes, and to tidy your sleeping quarters 7am ¨C Breakfast 8am until 12 noon ¨C Daily studies: Depending on your sect 12 noon ¨C Midday prayers 12:30 until 6pm ¨C Chores: For community welfare 6pm ¨C Vespers: A time for evensong as the light of the sun recedes 7pm ¨C Supper 8pm ¨C Compline: Silent contemplative meditation, quiet readings 8:30pm until 4:30am ¨C The Great Silence: All unnecessary conversation ceases Further chores may be given to any sister who is lax with her timekeeping, this can be discussed at Chapter. The acolytes of the Nocturne sect need not follow this, or any, schedule. Canto IV - Letters by Lamplight [A letter from William Montagu, an accountant and cambist, to his husband Jonathan Vesey, dated 10th October 1724. A note is attached: Harriet, look at this. I think this letter was never sent? The seal was intact (Never fear, I opened it with utmost care), and it was tucked into a daybook from the old collection. Nothing interesting other than this, just accounts and payments. -Hazel x] My Dearest Jonathan, Lord Mallory is such a scrawny and odious man who boasts the most tremendous Hapsburg jaw, one might think they were in the presence of the Emperor himself. At first glance I thought him squat, but upon standing he unfolds himself like a spider and I realised it was his posture, the twisted grimace of a burdened man, that made him seem to metamorphosize before my eyes. His macilent frame towers over me, and as you know I am not a small man. Overall my first impression was one I would not like to repeat again, and so I have taken to eating meals in my salon. Presumably, this also suits my Lord, for he has not once complained about the arrangement. His son, Oscar, is a scraggy boy of twelve and by all accounts a much more likable fellow than his father, but I worry that the expectations of his family weigh heavily upon him. He is dour for his age. Where other boys might be spirited and playful, he is sullen and withdrawn. His father has him reading all day about tombs. Tombs! Really, what kind of man could even suck all the youthful joy out of a book about crypts and treasures, and yet the boy reads it as though it were the strictest punishment, presenting what he has learned every night to his father in a voice as cool as slate. I worry for his future and hope for his sake that he takes more after his mother. The mansion itself is a grand and foreboding place, I cannot stress enough just how much of it there is. Every time I think I have reached the end of a corridor, two more branch off from it like some sort of daemonic junction. Even the corners have corners! I tried once to count the windows from the outside, and could not. Even counting the windows of a single floor got me all confused, as my bedroom is on a corner, and yet I could not see the lamp I left in the window from any outside angle! The word mansion barely does justice to this vast and looming palace, it is more like a castle than a mere country house, what with these turreted towers and thick, basalt walls. The Mallory''s are the best in their line of work. The cryptography of Mallory the elder, Gods rest his soul, was renowned. Not a single noble of note was buried without a Mallory contraption in his final place of rest. I must admit, I was surprised to hear that the current Lord Mallory was not of the same level of accomplishment, but having now met him I can understand why. Something has taken root in this man''s mind, his worldview has narrowed and he has time only for his marsh, his mines and his growing religious fervour. He is training his son, however, and the boy does at least show a shining potential. I think it would help him to get away from the manor, and study in some other part of the world, where he can enjoy the fame his name grants him and forget about the building and maintaining of catacombs for a while. My work here is fairly straightforward, though by the gods there is enough of it. I feel like these accounts have never been looked at, there is work here that will last me for months. But luckily, Mallory is willing to pay. What he could be needing with all this equipment however, I haven''t the faintest idea. The mansion is sprawling enough, and I cannot see any sign of new construction nor indeed any workers who might carry it out. Apart from myself, the Lord, the young master and a few servants the place is empty. And yet, day after day carts of metal and mortar are delivered and deposited somewhere, I do not know where. I just tally the books, and count my money. The Romans called this place Palus Sulis, the swamp-land of Sulis, goddess of the water, as many of the streams and rivers which nourished the local villages came down from the peaks of this rocky haven. There was even a small temple, the ruins of which you can see in the north garden. In modern times, this has been corrupted into Palus Somni, for reasons unknown but when I mentioned it to Lord Mallory he just gave me a rasping laugh and said "Even goddesses need to sleep, Montagu." The water here is thermal, naturally heated from deep beneath the stone which has led to many a pleasant hot bath, despite being accompanied by the pungent smell of brimstone. I was told by one of the servants that the spring waters, when meeting the porous earth of the marshland, creates a rather beneficial epsom salt, pinkish in colour from the iron deposits and very good for sore muscles and as a medicinal base. I have enclosed some for your satisfaction, as I know how much your knees pain you. Everything here smells of rust and sulphur and peat, and I miss you and your good company. I miss your smiles, and your strong arms around my shoulders. I know you would have something insightful to say about all this, and I await your response with excessive eagerness, as one might who is cursed to stay in the middle of nowhere with no decent conversation in sight in the long months ahead.This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience. Ever yours, my love, William ---- [Harriet ¨C I found another letter! It was in the same book. I know, I know ¨C I¡¯m not the most observant cat in the closet but at least I found it before it got filed away forever. Poor William though, it looks like none of them ever got sent. I¡¯ll have another look through the daybooks and send any more correspondence your way for cataloguing. H x] 19th October 1724. The strangest thing, my love. The most curious incident happened this morning, and I need to get my thoughts down on paper because if I leave them buzzing around my head I fear I shall go mad. Forgive me for writing again so soon but I couldn¡¯t wait another moment, I had to share with you my thoughts. Hopefully you will receive this alongside the other letter, as the postal service here is scarce. Lord Mallory¡¯s assistant took my letter for posting but said that it may be a week or two before the postwoman comes (she is a shepherdess, you know ¨C she takes letters between the villages as she moves her flock for grazing, how peculiar!) I had skipped dinner last night, and sorely regretted it later. I thought I knew my way to the kitchens by now, but I must have taken a wrong turn in this damnable maze. Surely, all stairs should lead to the ground floor, I thought, but it was impossible to tell without windows where the earth began and the sky ended. The air grew increasingly stuffier as I made the trek down staircase after staircase, each step narrower than the last before realising that this was a fool¡¯s errand. I should have been content with the fruit plate up in my room. I turned to go back up the way I came and ¨C oh! ¨C when I put my fingers upon the wall it was damp, and there was a strong smell of rust. Where I had touched the wall - now, please suspend your disbelief for a moment my dearest - it had started bleeding! Fresh clots of bright red blood oozed out from the mortar and painted my hand a brilliant crimson. I raised my torch to see only red. The hall behind me, and in front, was a sickly mess of bloody sinew where there should have been mortar. I am ashamed now to admit that I ran like the devil and went to bed, for what remained of the night, hungry and sleepless. I don¡¯t know how my feet found their way up, some instinct to avoid the visceral and seek the safety of the familiar was at work in my brain. Jonathan, I think this building is haunted. By what, I cannot say. Perhaps it is merely channelling the restless spirit of Mallory and his mad obsession. He has found some kind of new material, he claims. A new species of metal that he calls ¡®pearl iron¡¯. It doesn¡¯t act like any normal metal that you might be familiar with, more like quicksilver when warmed and mother of pearl when cool. Its metallic radiance is corroded with speckles of opalescent shimmer, and overall it is a bright and vivid crimson. ¡°Listen closely, Montagu.¡± Mallory said to me over dinner today, as he slid a chunk of the substance over the table towards me. ¡°Listen tight and listen fast, for you understand nothing ¨C Nothing! ¨C you hear, Montagu? Nothing!¡± I could only nod my head at this, for it was true ¨C I knew nothing of his ramblings. I was tired from the previous night abroad and wanted only to finish my meal in peace. ¡°Touch it.¡± ¡°Touch it, my lord?¡± ¡°Touch the damn stone, Montagu, or I shall throw it.¡± (Such charm you would never find in the city!) I put my hand upon the chunk of ore, expecting it to be cool and smooth beneath my palm. But to my surprise, it was warm! Warm and vibrating, like the heart of some quivering, noble creature. When I took my hand away, it left streaks of red upon it, just like in the basement. I saw his laugh before I heard it, his face splitting in half with a wolfish grin. Too many teeth and too little empathy. ¡°See now? This house is as alive as this rock, and no more.¡± I felt my face burning with realisation as I watched a rusty droplet trickle down and stain my cuff. The workers were hollowing out this very same ore from beneath the mansion itself. It was pearl iron I had seen between the cracks in the walls. I have no idea how Mallory found out about my night-time jaunt but I suppose in a place like this, even the walls have eyes. I stand by what I said however. This place, if not haunted, is cursed. Ever yours, William --- [A note is tacked on to the back of the letter, in a clear and spidery hand: Pearl iron - golem coagulate. Can find it in the undercroft?] --- [The next note is written on modern paper in the same handwriting.] I checked the catacombs, it took me a while to find any but it was there. None in the undercroft, William Montagu¡¯s night-time wanderings must have taken him deeper than he realised. It¡¯s stubborn stuff, I had to bathe twice before my skin returned to normal, and even then the smell still lingers. I shall have to take some to the engineer and see what she makes of it, what properties it could have. To think that I of all people could stumble into such a mess! I¡¯ll have to be more careful. From now on, I¡¯m going to start keeping a more detailed log of this discovery. I already have a good place I can hide it. Rookery. I want to stop and put these letters down. Forget I ever saw anything. But here I stand, feet planted firmly on the mossy earth, and wonder; might the secrets we have been pining for be so very near us, so close beneath us that I could touch them, if only I reached out? - Canto V - Into the Larder In the northern levels, there was a saying. ¡®Reaping wheat in winter¡¯. It was used by children as a tongue twister, and by adults as a reprimand. If someone was reaping wheat in winter, it meant that they were naive enough to reap too early, sacrificing a bountiful harvest for a few stalks to abate the hunger that plagues the frozen months. In the long run, they only hurt themselves, as there was not enough left over for the next winter, and so the cycle repeats. To reap wheat in winter was a fruitless task that trapped you in a state of despair. When someone fell in love for fleeting youth and beauty, that was reaping wheat in winter. It was also used when someone grieved for something they haven¡¯t really lost. Dust motes floated in the shafts of early morning light that invaded the kitchen, glittering eddies swirling around pots, pans and hanging dried herbs. The beams scattered over the rough-cut brown stone slabs and tickled the stockings of a woman sat working. Thick chunks of potato fell from her fingers into the bowl as, methodically, she peeled and chopped her way through the sack on the floor next to her. Her wimple was once neat but was now in danger of becoming dishevelled, and wisps of light blonde hair peeked out from under her snood. As she worked, thick drops of clear liquid fell from her face, splattering her hands and spattering against the wooden table, seeping slowly into the grain. ¡°Cry all you like, it¡¯s just me and you down here and no-one will hear you.¡± A friendly face smiled at her as the newcomer skipped down the stairs from the refectory, arms piled high with dirty breakfast plates. ¡°Just remember to drink some water, all right?¡± ¡°I will, yes.¡± Claudia stopped peeling to wipe her eyes and face. Sophie was not a tidy woman. Her shirt wore a perpetual dusting of flour speckles, and right now her left sleeve had been dipped into something oily, perhaps butter. One of her socks was pulled up, the other had fallen down, and she wore an apron on top of another apron as though, in the jumble of thoughts that made up her brain, she had forgotten exactly how many aprons a person should wear. The kitchen was covered from floor to rafters with notes, pinned up scraps of paper with meal plans, ingredient lists, chores, stocks, tallies and reminders (in big, underlined letters). She was the last person you came to if you needed something done, because she would either do it immediately or in a year. There was no in-between. But her openness and homely unkempt habits made the kitchen a great place of refuge for acolytes seeking comfort or kindness. There were always chores in the kitchen to keep your mind busy, a listening ear from Sophie, and hot cocoa on the hob. ¡°Were the two of you close?¡± ¡°Oh no, not really... It¡¯s just¡­ I feel like¡­¡± Large tears began to form in the corners of her eyes again as she stammered out the words. ¡°I feel like it¡¯s my fault.¡± She barely got the words out before her lip wobbled and her face crumpled up in sadness. ¡°Oh, honey. How is this your fault, hmm? You are not to blame for the world we live in.¡± Sophie placed a comforting hand on her shaking shoulder, giving her a reassuring squeeze. ¡°I-I know b-but... ¡° Claudia sniffed. ¡°I went out that n-night, I needed the bathroom and¡­¡± her words trailed off with her thoughts. ¡°Listen, Claudie. Did anything see you?¡± ¡°N-no.¡± ¡°Did anything hear you?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t think so.¡± ¡°Is it not likely that anyone would see Gol if they were out at night?¡± ¡°I suppose, yes.¡± ¡°But most importantly my dear, even if it did see you, why would you be to blame for the actions of an evil creature, hmm? Gol kill humans regardless, why blame the prey for the actions of the predator?¡± Claudia¡¯s hands stopped mid-peel. She turned to Sophie with her mouth agape, her eyes dry. ¡°I never really thought about it like that before.¡± Sophie smirked, and produced a big brass key from an apron pocket. Holding it aloft, she proclaimed; ¡°Let¡¯s have a wake. A party! Let¡¯s get everyone¡¯s spirits up, hmm? What say you Claudie, will you go down to the larder for me, and pick out some nice things for us all to eat?¡± As she said this, the back door thudded open and a wheelbarrow appeared, followed closely by a pair of strong hands and a heavily veiled Quodlibet in blue and brown. Her face was obscured by a thick layer of blue fabric, and she stood straight-backed and tall in the bright morning sunbeams.You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story. ¡°Ah, Sister Abigail, perfect timing!¡± Sophie clasped her hands and smiled at the new arrival, who was transferring mushrooms from barrow to shelf. Plans were made and baskets were distributed and the two nuns, now kitted out in fresh borrowed aprons, headed down to the larder. This was not a cupboard or a storage room as you might expect, it was a part of the undercroft which had been made available for storing the bulk, non-perishable foods which kept the Abbey fed and nourished throughout the winter months. It had been several months, almost a year, since they had last seen a merchant or had any supplies gifted from the outside world and yet the larder remained relatively full. As of yet, with the help of the community farms and foraging, there was no need to panic about food supply. It was quite the descent, however, and by the time Claudia and Abigail reached the large oaken door and turned the key they were almost out of breath. Sister Abigail was Sophie¡¯s assistant and thus was used to the sight of the vaulted larder, but this was Claudia¡¯s first time visiting and as Abigail lit and raised the central chandelier her breath caught in her throat as the light began to reveal the contents of the vault. Big, sticky glass jars of honey so big it would take two people to carry a single one, whole honeycombs floating inside glistening like gold in the torchlight. Long sheafs of dried herbs hung from the vaulted rafters, sending down wafts of tarragon, rosemary and dill. Cloudy bottles of tonic wine were neatly stacked against the far wall, and barrels of cider floating with sweet-skinned apples reached to the ceiling. Giant sacks of grain - barley, wheat and millet - stood on flour-dusted floors beneath funnels from above. they were beneath a silo, Abigail explained, which could be filled from the ground level. On shelves were dotted smaller bottles with more obscure contents. Poppy oil and flax, candied chestnuts and walnuts in brine. Ferns preserved in maple syrup and baskets of wrinkled, tart little elderberries. ¡°You should choose what you find tasty, I¡¯ll advise on how to make it into a recipe.¡± Abigail had said, and not long later Claudia had filled her basket with lemon curd, dried figs, cinnamon sticks and almond powder. Seeing this, Abigail picked up some oats, white flour, clarified butter and a hard, pollen-rich block of honey. ¡°We can make spiced apple pies, mint and lemon tarts, and marzipan flapjacks.¡± The veiled nun said, nodding curtly. ¡°But right now I need you to wait here.¡± Claudia nodded and watched her as the tall nun gathered together some dried fruits on a plate, almost as if she was making a meal, and leave through a small side door. She lay down on a bag of flour and licked lemon curd from her fingertips, feeling more content than she had done in a very long time. She didn¡¯t even notice that she had been left alone in the dark. She barely noticed the first tap. The second tap, she thought she had imagined. But when the third tap came, soft and slick against her ankle, she knew it was not in her head. She recognised this sound. This hollow noise that pulsated, slowly and rhythmically, to the tune of some silent song. She shrieked and looked down at her leg, but saw nothing. No sign of the gelatinous, fleshy body of whatever insect-slug she has seen with Wille in the bathroom. She pulled her legs up onto the flour sack and clasped them fretfully. ¡°Is something the matter?¡± Claudia screamed, before stopping herself with a hand to her mouth. It was only Abigail, hunched over her and tilting her head to one side. ¡°I thought I heard a shout. Nothing down here but rodents, yes. Just a mouse it was, and nothing more.¡± Abigail patted her shoulder, and the two made their way back up the winding staircase. --- When the two of them returned to the kitchen there was a new face at the table. Two, actually, as Smidgeon the kitchen cat rubbed their face up against the mud-spattered boots of a nun in a rusty brown habit that came straight down to her ankles. She did not look up from her stew as the two entered, panting, and began emptying their haul onto the sideboard. ¡°Really Inka, that soup will be freezing cold by now! Let me warm you up a bowl?¡± Sophie said, already placing some slices of brown rye bread to toast under the fire. The rusty-brown nun shrugged. ¡°Cold is fine.¡± ¡°It¡¯s the least I can do for the rabbits, at least have a slice of toast?¡± The taciturn nun didn¡¯t reply, perhaps knowing a futile battle when she saw one, and accepted the toast when it was ready. Claudia noticed three fresh rabbits on the table, pink noses speckled with blood. Abigail left to gather some fresh garden mint, leaving Claudia and Sophie to prepare the pastry and fillings for tonight¡¯s wake. Sister Inka ate in silence, fed her scraps to the cat in silence, before leaving in silence out the back door. ¡°Who was that?¡± Claudia asked. ¡°Who, Inka? You never met Inka?¡± Claudia shook her head. ¡°Well, she¡¯s just¡­ Inka. She spends most of her time outside the walls. If the Gol are around, she is usually the first to notice, and she knows everything there is to know about animals and plants!¡± ¡°Wait, she stays outside!? all the time?¡± Claudia¡¯s eyes widened in surprise. ¡°Yep! She¡¯s a real wild one, that Inka. I guess she¡¯s an old-timey peregrine? She knows how to look after herself, I wouldn¡¯t worry about her. Besides, she is staying in the barn for the time being.¡± Sophie had managed to get even more flour on her aprons, and on her nose. Claudia stirred in silence for a moment, before asking. ¡°Do you think she knows a lot about... bugs?¡± ¡°Huh I dunno, never asked her. Not much call for recipes involving bugs! Why, have you seen any? Not in my larder I hope?¡± ¡°Oh, no, I just¡­ was curious.¡± She absent-mindedly scratched the back of Smidge¡¯s head, who had come to investigate the lemon curd in her bowl. Finding it uninteresting, the cat instead made a beeline for the rabbits on the table. The two of them shooed it out, brandishing brooms and yelling, but not before the beast was able to drag one out of the back door and into the garden. ¡°Well, at least all of us will eat well tonight.¡± Sophie said, her hands skillfully folding pastry into pie crust. - Interlude - Inkas Tale It was a cold night, but she didn¡¯t mind. The chill kept her sharp, kept her senses keen. She was not a person anymore, she was a knife. Cutting through the vegetation like butter, swift and senseless, a silent blade in the darkest moments before dawn. She severed any ties to her humanity and let them flutter, loose in the breeze like filaments of fate left hanging from the gallows. You can¡¯t see me. She thought, and it was true. The monstrous Gol did not even turn as she passed, unnoticed and invisible, through the bracken like mist in the morning. They sought out humans. No-one really understood why. Inka thought she understood, and she used that understanding to outwit them. She was a knife, not a human, and so they were not looking for her. Not many folks knew this trick. Those who fell into melancholy discovered it by accident, more¡¯s the pity, but in others it took years of careful study. You could disown your humanity if you believed hard enough, though finding it again could be tricky. Inka was sure she was still human, mostly, even if the Sisters were increasingly worried about her cold aloofness. Not right now, though. Right now she was a knife. The Gol was a small one, barely any larger than a deer. Where it should have had a head sprouted a pair of long, humanoid arms. Grossly elongated carpal bones made its hands into an extended parody of flesh, the fingertips blackening at the ends. Across its exposed, ridged spine grew great lengths of hair, straight to the floor where it brushed gently against the undergrowth. As it walked it sighed like a lonely lover, betraying a voice box that could mimic human pain. To anyone passing it would seem pitiful, perhaps even elicit a sense that the beast was somehow hurt. But knives felt nothing. And this knife knew that those hands would squeeze the life out of anyone foolish enough to feel sympathy. She kept walking. ¡°I didn¡¯t mean to I¡¯m sorry.¡± She stopped. ¡°No wait please¡­ don¡¯t please.¡± Her knife mask was slipping. The Gol turned its arms towards her position. Shit. ¡°Inka, I¡¯m sorry.¡± She ran faster, slipping through the trees and vaulting logs. She slid down a muddy bank and waited at the bottom, heart pounding. But it had not followed her, and she didn¡¯t get to hear it mimic her dead sisters voice again. A part of her was sad about that. She supposed this meant that her humanity was restored. It was dawn. So, that¡¯s why it didn¡¯t come after her. The Gol detested the light, for reasons unknown. She was sure the theologians up in their ebony tower had some ideas about it, but that was none of her concern. All that mattered to her was that they disappeared long enough to allow her to hunt. She had meagre pickings to bring back to the Abbey this time. A couple of rabbits, one hare. No venison, no pheasant. She had caught a baby deer but had left it behind. It had eyes growing from its stomach, and none on its face. Gol-touched. It was getting harder and harder to find good meat. As she crested the hill at the edge of the forest she could see the monastery down in the valley below, an obsidian fortress of leaning towers nestled amongst the purple heather. Her home, technically, though she spent more time outside it than in. As she walked down the slope to the tinkling sound of buckles she thought about the past. She prided herself on maintaining her calm under pressure, and yet that Gol had hit her weak spot. She was still bothered by the mistakes she made, a long time ago. Her hair was grey now, but back then it was still black and so long it grazed the back of her knees. The two of them would braid it together and dare the local boys to tell them apart for a kiss. It didn¡¯t matter what they guessed, they would swap names so that the lads got it wrong and they would smirk and stick their tongues out at them. If you got to know them then of course you could tell them apart, though it wasn¡¯t often that boys cared enough to get to know them, and so the ruse worked well into their late teens.Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel. Until that time when Elsa began to wander. Their mother had rolled her eyes and said something about ¡®soppy girls in love¡¯, but Inka knew her sister as well as she knew herself, and it was no suitor who drew her to the moors each night. She had followed her, and by God how she regretted it every day since. She could still remember pulling on her boots in anger, and that anger was a regret that dwelled with her to this day. How dare she? How dare her sister do something without her? They did everything together. Everything! Tears had formed in the corners of her eyes, but she had brushed them away and set off after her sister. When she found her she was naked, her hair swirling around her like a cape of dark, concentric circles. She was unravelling before her eyes, entwining with something hidden in the darkness. ¡°Elsa¡­¡± Her sister turned, shock all over what remained of her face. Her eyeballs on exposed stalks as her skull peeled off her like an orange. ¡°You¡­ did this without me?¡± ¡°Inka!¡± Back then, the Gol had been less widespread. There were still villages, even towns. Wolf attacks were about as common as Gol attacks, which is to say not very. People had hope for a future without fear. It was a simpler time, then. Now, there were no wolves left. Even so, people know what the warning signs were when a Gol attacked. Wolf bites festered, but they did not make you grow extra bones or sprout distorted, fleshy wings. Her sister had taken a lover after all, and given it something more intimate than she had ever shared with her. ¡°Now we are different, now we are not the same. We are different, Elsa, how could you!?¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t mean to I¡¯m sorry.¡± Elsa flung her shredded arms around her sister, and Inka felt her body reciprocating the embrace, reaching out¡­ and placing her hands around her neck. The Gol had fled into the night, abandoning its prey to the new hunter. Inka wondered, now, if her sister felt betrayed by that, in her final moments. She had plunged Elsa down into the bog, peaty water hiding her tears as she struggled to hold down the thrashing, flailing mockery of a human being as it writhed and sobbed and gasped for air. It was what was waiting for her back home. The Gol-touched were burned, destroyed without mercy. She was only doing her duty. And who else was more suitable to carry out this task, than her twin? These were the lies she told herself over the years, but the truth was much darker. It was only a crime of passion, driven by an intense feeling of betrayal. The tears of her mother as she hugged her tight, the silent admiration of the village as she returned bloody and cold, her sister¡¯s mangled body in tow¡­ it hurt. It hurt like a knife wound even all these years later, even knowing there was no other way, no happy ending for her and her sister. Part of her wished that Elsa had confided in her, shared her injury with her, that they could have gone together into whatever new rebirth awaited them beyond humanity. But Elsa was even further away from her now, somewhere she could never reach. She only stayed another season before leaving to join the nunnery, unable to face the sadness in her mother¡¯s eyes. The gates of Palus Somni loomed before her. ¡°Hail Inka, welcome back!¡± the voice of Isidore the gatekeeper filtered down from a window above, and mechanically a small door opened to grant her entry. ¡°You look like you¡¯ve been through a rough time.¡± Her rusty-brown robes were stained with mud and tattered along the bottom. Only her dark woollen hood remained mostly unharmed. Over her shoulders lay a blanket, tied to her torso with thick rope. When making camp, it was large enough to create a shelter and thick enough to stop the rain. Most of the other nuns assumed it was part of her habit, but her many layers of variegated cloth were utilitarian in nature, not fashionable. She pulled her hood closer around her face to stave off the morning chill and stepped over the threshold. The walls were thick, and no grasping hands or voices from the past could assault her here. She dropped off her rabbits and the hare at the kitchens, where a nun she did not recognise was crying. She learnt from the cook that there had been an attack while she was gone, and one of the Etudes lay dead in the infirmary. She did not recognise the name. Many of the nuns did not know her face, and she was happy that way. She did not sleep in the dorter with the others, but instead made her way to the barn along the western wall. A short ladder led to her abode; a musty hayloft with a sweeping view over the monastery grounds. She sank her aching body into the rocking chair by the loading door, and watched the sisters begin to wake up and go about their everyday chores. She knew such things about this world that would put a fear into these girls, more than anything they have ever experienced inside the safety of these walls. Maybe one day she will tell them what they should really be afraid of. But for now, this was home. -- Canto VI - The Rookery The refectory could always be counted on as a place where you could feel at peace. Despite the religious nature of their day-to-day activities many of the Alucinari would tell you that breakfast, that short respite between prayers and chores, was an almost spiritual experience. The refectory hall became a whirlwind of contentment during mealtimes, untroubled chatter filling the rafters with memories and the telltale clamour of cutlery on china. The atmosphere tonight was a little more subdued, as Sophie and Claudia brought out pies and plates and platters of sweet-smelling treats, and everyone sat in silence as the Etudes gathered at the high table. This glorious old table was carved from a single slab of oak and sat, pride of place, on a slightly raised platform at one end of the hall. Usually reserved for guests, visiting dignitaries, teachers and the Mother Superior, today it acted as a mark of respect to grieving comrades. Compliments were given to the cooks and many oohs and aahs and wistful sighs were aimed at the pastries as they were distributed, and before much time had passed the wake had settled into a relaxed gathering, with small amounts of laughter littering the air. Abigail had set aside a chair in the center of the high table for Harriet, and cakes and sweets galore garnished her untouched plate. Her friends left little gifts on the seat of the chair, small bunches of flowers and handwritten letters she would never read. Overall, the mood was a happy one. No Gol had been sighted since the incident, which was unusual but welcome. Bellemorde was sat with Grace the Alchemist, talking fast and quick, probably about something unsuitable for the dinner table if judging by the looks of the women around them. Lydia was on her third tart. Hazel was laughing at some joke told by another Etude, perhaps the first time she had smiled since losing her friend. Sister Jenny was folding her napkin into little birds, still wearing her infirmary smock. She had not yet been discharged since the shock of finding Harriet¡¯s swinging corpse. Even Sister Amelia, the Nocturne, had appeared and left a small gift for Harriet. On closer inspection, it was a shiny, spherical stone of mossy green spirals. As the evening progressed the sisters ate their fill and chatted the evening away. All, that is, except Wille. She sat with her elbows on the table and her fists bunched up under her chin, her food untouched and cold. Before she died, Harriet had seen something. A letter, perhaps, in the archives, which told her something that had scared her so much she had hidden the contents away. She had been killed before she could continue her research. Into what? Wille sat up from the bench and pushed aside her plate. ¡°Excuse me¡­ I¡¯m not feeling very well.¡± By the time she had reached the outer hallway she was practically running. The rookery. That was what Harriet had written to remind herself of her hiding place. But where was that? She had no idea there was even a rookery at the abbey. She was running. Running up the night stairs and into the dormitory. She searched around until she saw the small door that led to the narrow attic stairs. She almost hit her head on the frame, and the staircase was dark and steep but thankfully short and she pushed open the heavy wooden door into the attic space above. She had made it to the Etude¡¯s sleeping quarters, a long shared dormitory that took up the entirety of the attic space of the main building. She only had limited time to search before the feast was over. If they caught her up here they would figure out in an instant why she was here, and she would have to explain about Harriet and the letters. She needed to be sure of her hunch before she made insinuations which could potentially be traumatising, or get her even further into trouble. Her hunch, that was, that Harriet had been murdered. Not by anyone in the monastery, no. Surely not. But that a Gol attacked her as she was investigating something that frightened her, something that rooted terror into her very core¡­ Was it perhaps possible that the Gol retained some residual intelligence enough to hunt a particular victim, perhaps one who was close to discovering a way to fight back against them? Her rational self told her that it was just a coincidence. She must have been investigating until late, and got caught outside. But why open the gate? Her final notes had mentioned the catacombs and talked about the secret being ¡®close¡¯. It seemed from the collected letters that the secret lay beneath, not out on the misty hills. It was so ingrained into the psyche of everyone who lived here; do not leave the monastery, do not go out after dark. So why did she try to leave? Harriet had been the first Sister she had met when she had joined the Alucinari. A small child of twelve, all tears and uncertain futures. Back then her hair had been long, and hid her face as she murmured her name. ¡°You¡¯re going to have to speak up dear, I can¡¯t hear you.¡± Harriet had said, as she remained poised with quill and ink ready to fill in the register with the new acolyte¡¯s details. ¡°It¡¯s Willow, miss.¡± Her pen scratched against the parchment. ¡°Willow, will-o-the-wisp, where there¡¯s a will there¡¯s always a way!¡± She had crooned as she swooped down and hugged the crying girl tightly. ¡°I heard about your parents. It¡¯s going to be all right now, you¡¯re safe here.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t want to be safe.¡± Already, the child was angry at this unfair world. ¡°I want my Papa.¡± Harriet had nodded, a wave of compassion falling over her face. ¡°We don¡¯t just do safety here at Palus Somni, little one. We do change. We all work hard for a better future, every one of us.¡± And Wille had worked for change. First, she changed herself. Off came the long, tangled mess of hair, gone where the dainty shoes of little girls, and her name was shortened. Where there was a Wille, there was a way. A new beginning, though the pain of the old life would linger for many years, like an old wound never to fully heal. She had never really interacted with Harriet again after that. She couldn¡¯t even remember the last time they had exchanged a greeting in the corridor, or talked about the weather over supper. She supposed now that this was because of Harriet¡¯s last obsession keeping her away from daily routines. Wille turned a corner in the dormitory and was faced with yet another long row of beds. Most were empty and slightly dusty, a memory of a time when Palus Somni was overflowing with supplicants. The remaining Etudes had spread themselves out among the empty space for increased privacy, though there was barely anything to mark whose was who. One pallet had been pushed up against the wall to make space for various stargazing equipment, telescopes and rotary starscapes. Another had been pulled together with its neighbour, making a comfortable double bed for the Sister in question to sleep in. A third was barely visible under several towering piles of books. Wille thought this might have been it, but the bookplates all read ¡®Hazel¡¯. Then she saw it, a bed at the very far end, the head against the flat wall of this section of attic. It was covered in flowers. Wille glanced out of the window to the right of the nightstand and saw below the distant shapes of people drifting out of the great hall. Time was almost up. She rummaged without mercy through the draws, in the baskets beneath the bed, under the covers and in the end chest. It had mostly been cleaned out of personal effects, and she found only folded clothes and the odd ledger book. Nothing at all that pointed her in the direction she was searching for. If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. She flopped down onto the bed with a large sigh, sending up petals and the odd feather. The air was filled with the scent of goose down and rose flower, with surprisingly little dust for such a large attic space. She breathed it in deeply and let the cosy blankets engulf her. Above her on the wooden beam a carving of a large raven stood recursant, its face looking back over its shoulder. She began to close her eyes and drift down into sleep. Soon, the others would find her and she would have even more punishments, but for now she would sleep. Her eyes snapped open and she pushed herself up off the bed. That was no raven, it was a rook. She had to stand on the mattress to reach it, but sure enough when she pushed it, it gave way, and she heard a small popping sound as one of the wooden panels on the wall behind the bed came loose. She had to slide the bed out of the way to access it, but sure enough it was a small door that was half the height of an average adult. She slipped through, and grabbed the legs of the bed to pull it back into place. Bunches of roses fell off the bed and rolled across the floor, but it was almost back into the same position as before. She didn¡¯t want followers. Down on her hands and knees she pulled herself through the gap, almost tripping over her long habit. The room she had entered was dim, lit by a few beams of light that fell through from a badly repaired length of ceiling. It was also very, very unused. Everything had a layer of dust so thick that any original colour was almost lost, and there were a lot of things in here. Paintings with holes in the canvas, broken furniture, chests stacked to the roof. Wille wiped the surface of an oil painting that was bigger than her, and had to cover her mouth to stop a coughing fit as her hand gradually revealed a long-forgotten face. It was a nun dressed in an old, now unfashionable habit. Her eyes were closed in dreaming prayer, and her hands were spread out in front of her in a gesture of supplication. Several scars criss-crossed her palms. Wille didn¡¯t recognise her. Other paintings were the same, portraits of old martyrs and Abbesses from times past, as well as a few landscapes of the moor in summer and one small frame containing the unfinished commission of a young gentleman. ¡°Oh! Look at this mess!¡± Wille almost jumped out of her skin as she heard the voice of Hazel from the other side of the wall, and immediately felt like she had to sneeze. She cupped her hand over her face and waited. ¡°It was that damn cat again, always in here.¡± She could hear the sound of someone angrily fluffing pillows and rearranging flowers. It was then that she noticed the path. Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness by now, and among the debris there wound a trail of smooth and dustless wood, as though someone had walked through here many times in the past. The nuns on the other side of the wall were busy talking, and did not hear the extra creaks of the floorboards as Wille made her way carefully into what she now thought of as the Rookery. She walked for longer than expected, all sense of direction lost. She passed over rooms and corridors, their contents just about visible if she put her eye to the cracks in the floorboards. At one point she heard someone singing from below, and when she pressed her eye to the gap she saw Lydia. She had stripped off the top half of her habit and was washing her body over the sink. Glistening droplets of water ran down her torso and wetted the top of her skirts as she washed away the dirt of the day. As she lathered the soap into her neck and shoulders, an island of soap bubbles slowly slid down her left breast. Lydria brushed it off absent-mindedly. Wille blushed, and looked away quickly, knocking over an empty frame in her haste. She thought she heard the humming pause, but she didn¡¯t stay long enough to know for sure. She kept walking, stepping over tins and tiles and up a rickety set of spiral stairs. Her head was full of unfocused ideas about bodies and breasts and secrets. So much so, that she didn¡¯t notice when it began to get darker until she had to squint to see the dust-free route. Panic shook her, but not for long. There was no place left to walk, a circular wall loomed in front of her. On her left was a bed. Or more accurately, a pile of carpets as high as her waist and covered in moth-eaten blankets and old pillows. Beside it, a repurposed barrel made for a table. She sighed with relief when she saw the candle and matches. She was in one of the towers, she could see that now in the flickering orange light. The south tower, perhaps. She wasn¡¯t sure. The window was covered with a faded pink taffeta curtain, which on closer inspection seemed to be an old repurposed shirt. It could be unbuttoned, if one wished to look outside. Above the carpet-bed was a long shelf, again made from repurposed items found around the attic. A long floorboard, nailed to the wall and covered in books. Not just any books, Wille saw to her delight, but diaries. She flicked open the first one. Property of Harriet DO NOT READ. Started All Old Pia¡¯s Day, February. She placed it back on the shelf until she found a more recent one. It was properly dark outside now, and she checked to make sure there were no gaps in the curtains that her candlelight might escape. The room was sealed, though a breeze came down from the trapdoor above. She was safe. Sorry, Harriet. She thought as she opened the most recent diary, curling up on the bed of carpets. But I have to know what happened to you.
Lore: The Five Orders The Alucinari church has a reputation for syncretism, allowing several conflicting paths to intermingle and coalesce into the greater religion as a whole. Such things are only considered proper to the Alucinari themselves, who rely heavily on individual dream interpretation for both dogma and heterodoxy. There are five ascetic orders at Palus Somni, each of whom have their own particular focus when following a monastic life. Etudes The Contemplatives. Etudes sleep together in a shared dormitory in the sprawling loft that runs between the various interconnecting roofs of Palus Somni. They are the most strictly celibate of all the orders, preferring the company of books to the distractions of family life. They wear a particular shade of dark cerulean blue but the exact reason why is hotly debated. Some say it symbolises the reflection of the sky on water, and thus the margins of our understanding and the reflection of our inferior intellect against the vast unknown of the cosmos. Others say it was revealed in a dream. Wherever the tradition came from, it has stuck, and the term ¡®Blue Etude¡¯ has become a lay epithet for someone bookish and academic. Orisons The Brethren. Orisons have individual, simple cells in the dorterhouse containing little more than a bed and a chair which they use both for sleeping and for worship. With the Alucinari emphasis on dreams, the bedroom becomes a sacred place of prayer and contemplation. They wear habits of traditional black and white, derisively called ¡®magpies¡¯ by both commoners and the other orders. They take upon their shoulders the priestly duties of a monastery, leading prayers and services and advising upon religious matters. Indomitable theologians, if you want to distract an Orison for a few hours just ask them how many Gol can dance on the head of a pin. Madrigals The Laysisters. Ordained layfolk who take orders and, either permanently or temporarily, live at the monastery. They may have families they intend to return to after a period of retreat, or they may wish to remain at Palus Somni but with less restrictions than the other orders. As such they tend to bring in a wealth of various talents, more than any other order, due to their eclectic mix and external training. They are the cooks, the farmers, the engineers, the brewers and the gardeners. Technically they are supposed to wear a brown hooded smock but many simply wear their lay clothes but in more earthy colours. They have a bunkhouse cottage opposite the gardens, set apart from the main building. Some Madrigals undertake professions which provide them with alternative lodging, such as the gatekeeper¡¯s loft or the barn. Nocturnes The Mystics. Rarely do Alucinari decide to walk the Nocturne path. It is not so much a choice, than a calling. Originally designated as the keepers of the holy relics, these ascetics know the secret keys that open the doors to deeper, more intimate knowledge of the universe and commune directly with the Dreaming Lord. It is not known where they sleep, or indeed how many Nocturnes currently reside at Palus Somni. Much to the consternation of the Etude registrars, as trying to get information out of a Nocturne is cryptic at best and incomprehensible at worst. They speak in riddles, making most interactions with them futile. It is assumed that they reside somewhere in the undercroft, and when spotted above ground they are usually sleeping. They wear a light grey with red accents, though do they perhaps wear white, which is merely dusty with age and stained with bog iron? Quodlibets The Myriad. Some nuns decide to follow more than one path, which is their prerogative. Most nuns are quodlibets to some extent, and doctors are considered quodlibets by default due to the nature of their work. They wear the colours of whichever orders they are a member of, or whatever comes to them in a dream. Hazel, the librarian, wears a small red bow in the style of the Nocturnes to remind her of her search for truth and while this technically makes her a quodlibet she tends to count herself among the Etudes. Some Quodlibets also worship other Gods or have a religious duty with local spirits. Among the general populace, to call someone a Quodlibet as an insult is to say they ¡®do as they please¡¯ and implies a lack of commitment. Canto VII - A Kiss for Claudia Wille was not the only person who was not excited by the prospect of a feast. Claudia had also slipped out early, and with a plate of food in each hand headed out across the grounds towards the barn. The ground was still wet, and her shoes slipped on the damp moss, leaving dark green footprints in her wake. ¡°Hello?¡± Her voice echoed as she stepped inside, avoiding the chickens and setting the plates down on a hay bale. ¡°Hello, Sister Inka?¡± There was a light upstairs in the loft, but no response. ¡°I brought you some dinner. I didn¡¯t want you to go hungry.¡± A creak and a muffled set of footsteps was her only response, until a hatch opened and a ladder appeared. Balancing the plates was tricky, but she made it to the top without spilling a drop. The atmosphere was not unfriendly. Candles flickered as the older woman sat in her rocking chair and gestured to a small table. ¡°Set them down girl, and let¡¯s talk. What is it you want?¡± ¡°Of course, I- what?¡± Claudia paused, the cutlery she had begun laying out still in her fingers. Inka gestured for her to continue. ¡°It¡¯s okay, I don¡¯t mind. But people don¡¯t come here unless they want something. It¡¯s okay to want things, but let¡¯s not bandy words. How can I help you?¡± ¡°Ah, well¡­¡± ¡°And eat your food.¡± ¡°Yes, Sister.¡± The two sat in silence for a while as they munched on honey tarts and poached pears. ¡°I just¡­ wanted to ask about the Gol. Is that okay?¡± Inka nodded. ¡°Can they¡­ become very small?¡± ¡°Hmm, how small? Drink.¡± She passed Claudia a small pitcher of malted milk. ¡°As small as a bug?¡± Inka yawned and stretched, her spine curving as her arms reached out to the ceiling. She was fit, as was befitting a woman who lived most of her life walking the moors, though her silhouette was hidden under the folds of her habit. It was too large for her, and was starting to show signs of wear and tear but she did not care to change it. ¡°Never seen one.¡± ¡°Oh. Good! I¡¯m so glad!¡± Claudia¡¯s eyes began to brighten. ¡°But it seems like you have.¡± It wasn¡¯t a question. It was a statement of fact, said with such gravity that Claudia felt a shiver from head to toe. ¡°Oh yes, my dear. You know what spiders look like. You¡¯ve seen the centipedes gathered under the chapel eves and the swarming beehives in the spring. You know the worms that squirm pitifully through their parahuman lives, underside the earth. You know an insect when you see it skittering, and this is no insect¡­ or you wouldn¡¯t be here, asking me, hmm?¡± Tears began to form in the corners of the young nun¡¯s eyes. ¡°So¡­ so you¡¯re saying¡­ they¡¯re inside the walls? How can I protect everyone if they can, if they can¡­¡± Inka didn¡¯t hesitate to reach out and place her hands on the young girl¡¯s shoulders. ¡°Listen to me. You are not alone, you are never alone. You do not have to face this by yourself. I have one more thing to say, hear me out before you start crying.¡± Claudia took a deep breath and took the other nun¡¯s hands in hers. They were coarse and calloused, working hands of the forest and moor. There was years of experience in these fingertips, and that felt comforting. ¡°Last night, I saw a deer. A shadow thing, not nearly as much deer as I would like it to be. Most of it was Golem.¡± She used the old, religious term for Gol. The Golem, the created and the mindless. But experience had betrayed the term, because they knew now that the Gol answered to no creator except the devil, and their minds were sharp and filled with violence. ¡°The animals are turning. One by one, they become more than they were before, and less than they ought to be. I saw it try to graze with stilted, withered arms grasping at the grass and pulling up clods of dirt. Human arms, no head. It did not know how to eat anymore, it just pulled and pulled at the same spot. It was¡­ harmless. Pitiful.¡± She did not mention the voices, or how it chased her across the forest floor. ¡°These bugs¡­ they are merely trying their best to remain themselves in a changing world. They are no concern, Gol-touched or not. It is harmless. Let it be.¡± Claudia was dumbstruck. Never had she considered that the Gol were once living creatures, or that perhaps a Gol was not a thing in itself but a curse, transferred across the ecosystem like a plague from one being to the next. Did this mean trees could be Gol? Could rocks or clouds become Gol? It is true that sometimes birds flew into the grounds to peck at the barley, birds who were somehow... wrong. She remembered last summer when she had seen a crow with two heads. Both were squabbling over something on the ground. When she got closer she saw that it was a cluster of dangling eyeballs, attached to one of the eye sockets. One of the heads was trying to protect its eyes from the other¡¯s hungry pecks. She spent the entire week in her cell after that, not even Wille could tempt her to come outside. She wasn¡¯t sure she could believe that the massive, shambling creatures that came out every night were anything other than demonic, but it was true that there were other changes happening in the world. Whether this was the fault of the Gol or not she wasn¡¯t sure, but Inka seemed calm enough about it and she began to feel foolish for bothering her with such baseless fears. ¡°Anyway, this is my observation. Believe it, or don¡¯t believe it, it is time for you to go back to the abbey. The sun sets.¡± ¡°Thank you, Sister Inka. I¡­ I will try not to worry, as you say.¡± She smiled meekly, and stood up to leave, brushing the straw off her apron. But as she did so Inka reached out and grabbed her arm, not unkindly but firmly. ¡°What is it you wish for most in the world?¡± ¡°H-huh? What do you mean?¡± ¡°I mean. What is your greatest desire, deep down inside? What do you dream of at night?¡± ¡°I¡­ I don¡¯t know. I just want to look after everyone. I just want to see people happy. That¡¯s all I ever wanted, even before I took orders. To have a family of my own¡­¡±This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version. ¡°So why didn¡¯t you?¡± Claudia knitted her eyebrows, nonplussed. ¡°I have all the family I need here. I have my wish already.¡± And with some polite goodbyes, she began walking back to the main building of Palus Somni. Inka watched the long shadow as it crossed the mossy grass, lit up a bright red with the setting sun. She wondered if she should have lied to the girl like that. Perhaps she should have told her that the walls, this haven, had nothing to do with why the Gol had not attacked. But the other nuns were not ready to hear that yet. If she had already seen one, what more was there to do? What harm was there in letting her believe in her safety one last time, this close to the end. They will know soon enough. And with that thought she turned down the wick of her lamp, made sure the curtains were securely fastened, and clambered into bed. --- By the time Claudia got back to her bedroom it was already starting to get dark. Hers was the last door at the far end of the Orison dormitory wing, and the corner room benefitted from not one but two large windows. Not that she used them, however. She had always been too scared to pull up the blackout blinds, even in the daytime. Just in case. That was how she lived: Just in case. Take extra care, just in case something happened. Don¡¯t speak, just in case she was wrong. Join the Alucinari, just in case Hell is real. Not that the Alucinari faith had a very clear idea of what Hell actually was. It existed, yes, but where and for what purpose were questions left debated by theologians. For a religion which focused so heavily on the revelatory nature of dreams, many scholars proposed that this meant nightmares were a glimpse into the inferno. Yet others argued that to say such things was blasphemy, that all dreams were sacred no matter the emotional impact. A nightmare was an ordeal, a form of ritual suffering which gave you the gifts you needed for greater spiritual growth. Claudia flopped down into the bed and sighed. Why was it all so complicated? Why did everything have to be so mysterious? Hell is real, Hell is a dream. Gol are natural, Gol are supernatural. There was still so much humanity didn¡¯t understand and the lack of any real clarity was maddening. The uncertainty of it all hit her senses like a migraine, reality was both dizzying and painful and nothing seemed to help except closing her eyes and pretending it didn¡¯t exist. The world was becoming smaller, closing in on itself as a rose closes its petals in the night-time. She imagined the landscape falling away to darkness, the moorlands crumbling away and leaving only the Abbey floating silently in the void. Even with such narrow horizons they still understood nothing, and death wouldn¡¯t leave them alone. She grabbed her pillow and screamed silently into it, hugging it tight around her face and letting her frustration flow freely. She just wanted to know what she needed to be scared of, was that so hard to ask? ¡°I just wish it all made sense.¡± She whispered to herself, muffled under the weight of feathers. There was a thud from the ceiling. Then, another. Stumbling footsteps in the dark. Claudia let her eyes peek over the edge of the pillow and looked up. A small smattering of dust landed on the bed beside her. It could have been an Etude, but their dormitory attic was not directly above them. So it was probably a rat, but rats didn¡¯t stomp, they skittered. Claudia felt a chill run up her spine and in a flash she pulled at her apron strings and threw off her habit. She unpinned her layered coronet with shaking hands, letting the pins prick her fingers on more than one occasion. Bundles of starched cloth fell to the floorboards and blood dripped on her undergown, dotting the muslin with little crimson berries. Her light blonde hair bunched up around her face in tight curls. When she was down to just her white smock and stockings, she went out into the hallway with a thumping heart. It was a journey she had made many times before, crossing the creaking floorboards to the room next door. The prohibition was in effect, though the full moon had since passed. For some reason, the Gol who rose when the moon was at its brightest were larger, and more intent on reaching the monastery. Claudia was aware of her tresspassess, but also aware of her limits. It would be no good at all if she left herself to have a panic attack alone, creating more noise than just a few simple steps down the hallway. ¡°Wille...?¡± She tapped softly on the door. No response. She pushed it open and felt her way to the bedside. There was zero light, but she knew her way around Wille¡¯s room quite well by now. she patted at the bedsheets, but they were empty and cold. ¡°Wille!?¡± She whispered, but nothing she touched was Wille, only wood and stone and glass. She crouched down and waved a hand under the bed. Nothing, her boots were gone too. She felt the tears start to gather on her eyelashes. Where could she be at such a late hour? She shook her head and stepped carefully back into her room, her heart full to bursting with worry. In her head, intrusive thoughts assailed her. Wille was dead, hanging on the tree with Harriet. Wille was dead, dead. There was no other choice; she had to tell someone. She made to step back out into the hallway but when her foot hit the floor there was a sharp pain and a wet, brittle squelch. She fell backwards onto the bed as the liquid seeped in between her toes and soaked it¡¯s way up through her stockings. Fumbling, she reached for the matches on her bedside table, no longer caring for the noise she made. It took her several attempts to successfully light a match, but when she finally got one to catch the scene was disappointing. It was just her room, ordinary and safe. There were no monsters, no footsteps. Her foot looked limp and forlorn, hanging off the edge of the bed. Her blood dripped onto the floor and she raised her head to see what bottle or glass she had stepped on in the dark. Her eyes were blurry with tears, and it took her a while to focus in the gloom. On the floor was an insect. It was a small thing. Slithering, like a tongue across the floor. Licking up the dust and tasting the cool boards of bitter wood. It had no visible eyes or face, just the smooth swell of pink-tinged tissue. It¡¯s carapace was damaged, the wound emitting a steady flow of rust-tinged plasma. Before her eyes the skin peeled back from each side, as though the creature beneath was too large for such a tight membrane. Specks of rusty fluid hit the floor, along with a greasy and more viscous ichor that filled the room with an acrid smell that burned her eyes and made her blink. There was a clicking sound from behind her, just above her head. She turned and raised her eyes to see another of the insects, this one larger than the one on the floor. It was about the size of her head and hung suspended from a thin trickle of slime. Inka was wrong, she thought. These are not bugs, oh God, these were not bugs at all. It stared back at her with a soulless, infant human face. Shattered into several symmetrical parts, linked together with exposed muscle and mucus. Pink flesh pulsated beneath it, pushing through the sockets as though it were a mask, and yet each of the facial segments moved with intention. The cheeks, the jaw, the forehead all moved themselves back in an impossible mechanical contortion, revealing a tongue that would look human if it wasn¡¯t for the thin, pointed tip which had hardened into bone. Claudia had time only to make half a gasp before it drilled into her, the face plates snapping around her head to hold her in place as the tongue snaked its way down her throat with a velocity that should have split her in half, but didn¡¯t. Claudia put her hands on either side of the creature, attempting to wrest it from her face, fully enveloped in insect-flesh. Her hands slid off of the oily surface in her feeble attempt to break free, and the grotesque kiss continued. Blind and deaf, she wrenched herself backwards off the bed, only to put her weight on her injured foot and stumble, slipping on a pool of her own blood. She instinctively reached out to grab something and to her surprise her hand found a firm purchase in the spongy body of yet another insect, the flesh of which immediately began to wrap itself around her arm. Had she been able to use her ears, she would have heard the increasingly frantic skittering. Had she been able to use her eyes, she would have seen that the monstrous creatures were now pouring into her room from every opening, from under the door, the mouseholes and the pipes across the ceiling. The bug she had grasped was no bug at all, but the clustered mixture of several insects, coalesced into a single towering entity attached to wall and ceiling. Tiny maggots writhed across her skin, falling from her hair and crawling under her nightgown. Chitinous worker-drones with large pincers burrowed themselves, one at a time, into her ears. A larger, spiked and limbless leech was boring its way through her bellybutton. Several strings of sticky, putrid excretions had began to build up, both on her body and in the room itself until she was suspended entirely in a cocoon of septic silk. Foamy bubbles dripped from her lips as the tongue-beast lashed inside her chest, cracking her ribs and distending her small frame in ways no living human could possibly endure. ...My insides feel funny¡­ Her last conscious thoughts flashed out from behind the abject terror that obscured her reasoning. Wille¡­ I hope... Outside in the hallways all was a quiet darkness. The rest of the dormitory slept on, undisturbed. Canto VIII - Echoes in the Dark Wednesday, 5th Peace after Lammas. 8:26 am. Nineteen bushels of winter maize. Six jars of pickled red cabbage. One demijohn of apple brandy. A copper of clove oil. I have no idea why she wants all that corn in her kitchen. I hope she does not intend to feed us porridge throughout the entire winter. By my calculations that would be too much to feed even a full priory, let alone the pitiful 30 or so souls we have left. ¡°Now now, Abigail.¡± She said to me. ¡°Do not fret so, it is for visitors. The monastery always provides for the hungry, and the winter months will bring them out.¡± I reminded her that we have not seen a single new face in several months, and the last was a corpse that Inka found on the road. She only smiled, and wagged her finger at me. No matter. Sophie can play her games of make-believe. I for one do not need variety in my meals, but the rest of our cohort may not be content with a mere single bottle of brandy. I rise at a quarter past four every morning, wash my face with maysoap and oil my hair. If it is a Tuesday or Friday I change my underdress for a new one, and take any soiled garments downstairs to wash. Today is Wednesday, so I leave it, but I do change the ribbon on my smock. The old one had begun to fray in the night, tiny spools of turquoise-tinted threads coming away in waves. Beyond saving. Useless for its purpose. I am forty years old. I used to think forty was ancient, a distant age I would always be walking towards but never quite reach. I was wrong. It is not old, and I did reach it. My height is five foot eight inches. I am not the tallest but I may be the second tallest, next to Elizabeth. My skin is brown and my hair is black. Lydia once asked if Hazel and I were related. I said it was unlikely as I knew my family tree quite thoroughly, and that she was a racist. She apologised but does not talk to me much anymore. I¡¯m glad. I am an Etude-turned-Madrigal. I like lists. I like functionality. I like words like ¡®tally¡¯ and ¡®inventory¡¯ and ¡®index¡¯. I listed everything in the library there was to list, and so now I list our provisions and other commodities, including materials and produce. Stock constantly changes, whereas books tend to stay the same, and so I am content. I dislike talking. But, I am attempting to make use of this notebook Sophie bought me for my birthday last month. She told me to take this book wherever I go and make an inventory of my own mind, some time for self-discovery. I think she does not understand me, but I will try. Here it goes: My favourite colours in order of importance from most to least are: Turquoise Brown White Blue Gold Orange Green Red Black Magenta I do not like magenta. Bellemorde once told me that it is not a real colour, only an invention of our own brains, primitive little things which are scared of reality. Light is a spectrum from ultraviolet to infrared, so any mixture of red and blue cannot happen in nature. To bridge the gap, our brains create an optical illusion of a colour that cannot exist. Magenta stops us from losing our minds. I resent it for that. The only other colour I cannot stand is black, for similar reasons. The darkness brings with it its own special brand of madness. Turquoise is the opposite. It is a real object, a semi-precious gemstone that is mined out in the west. You can hold it, feel it. It is real. I love turquoise. Mother Superior said that the gem is mined by Alucinari monks, who use it to dye their robes. Apparently they do not have orders like we do, all of them wear turquoise and prefer manual labour to the reflective lifestyle. She is so kind to me, and brought me back some of the dye when she returned from her last visit.
Thursday. 5th Peace after Lammas. 8:14 pm. I had to go down there again today. I hate the larder, such a dank and darkened place. I can barely see my hands in front of my eyes, and even when the torches are lit the yellow beeswax flame sucks all the colour out of everything. In every direction outside the circle of light is the subterranean blackness you can only get beneath the earth. I find it suffocating, I feel like a seed that has been planted. Buried in soil with the casks and bottles. How humiliating! When I see the light at the top of the stairs I walk faster, my shoots springing up through the earthen crust and rushing towards the sun, my lifegiving master. It seems that it is now my task to feed her. At the back of the larder is an arch, and through the arch is a hallway. Down the hallway is a door, and behind the door is a person. I was told not to talk to her. I do not know her name, only that she is a nun like us, doing penance. For what crime I do not know. Sophie did not know either, when I asked her about it. She has been down there for such a long time, I should ask Mother Superior about it when she returns. Surely nothing could be so bad as to warrant that hellish life, no light or fresh air for company. Her door is suspiciously plain. One thing I love about the Alucinari is we cover everything in art, not a single space is left plain. Palus somni is full of small protective charms painted into the margins and favoured saints carved above doorways. Even the bathroom tiles have years of religious graffiti littering the stalls, most of it simple prayers for happiness and love. But the larder door was plain, a thick mahogany with a single slot near the bottom for food and waste. Today was the first time she tried to talk to me. ¡°You are a different little mouse come to visit me, hmm? Yes yes yes. I knew the smell was wrong.¡± I heard her inhale deeply through her nose on the other side of the door, a rattling breath that felt like it must have drawn all of the air out of the room. ¡°Don¡¯t be shy, little mouse. Come closer, so I can see. Used to the dark by now, yes, but my eyes aren¡¯t what they once were.¡± I pushed the lightly spiced maize porridge through the gap and said nothing. I could hear her laughter follow me down the passage as I left. I¡¯m not going to think about her.
Monday. 8th Peace after Lammas. 5:47pm. We have been on speaking terms for several days now. She listens to me as I recite my lists to her, and in return I tell her about my friends and the outside world. She has a voracious appetite for knowledge; what is my favourite food, where is my bedroom, what are my duties, what time of year is it¡­ And, forgive me Sophie, I tell her. I take pity on this wretched creature, old and forgotten, a toothless tiger using the last of its strength on supper. I do not think she is any further danger, whatever her past. I tried to ask her once what it was that she did to end up in there. ¡°I asked, little mouse. I asked the wrong questions.¡± Her voice dribbled out through the grate. ¡°That¡¯s nonsense, people do not go to prison for asking questions. We are a tolerant order, why, even some of the northern monasteries are atheist!¡± I was sat cross-legged on the floor, by back against the cold stone of the outer cell wall. I always had immaculate posture, but something told me that the crone in the cage was more crooked. ¡°Maybe, maybe. But tell me, what do you know of our God?¡± ¡°God? The Dreamer?¡± ¡°That¡¯s right mouse, give me your list.¡± I thought for a second about how to encapsulate the whole of God into a list. ¡°God is both the dream and the Dreamer. But, that duality is meaningless in the face of their most powerful essence; love. All dualities are meaningless. God is neither the cover nor the page, but in the act of turning. They are not in the words, or in the gaps, but in the margins. An exegesis of their own tenets. The corollary to their own canon. An enigma in their own right, which is why we welcome questioning, because to question is to become God. We Alucinari have many varied hermeneutical orders, accordingly.¡±You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story. The crone nodded. I couldn¡¯t see it but I could hear the folding of aged cloth as her head bobbed, brittle threads snapping softly. I continued ¡°The Alucinari have many names for this enigma. The Dreamer, Eyes-Wide-Shut, Mahaurovacana, The Gaze, The One Who Takes The Peony, Shinyumeda, Crow¡¯s Milk, Bridge of Sighs, Ruler of the Yolk.¡± Once I got talking on a topic of interest, there was no way for me to stop. ¡°There are other gods, but this one is ours. They are not jealous, and their love is shared equally. For that is the beginning and the end of our faith; the love we share together.¡± I stopped to remove a curious spider from my lap, lifting it up by the thread of fine web and placing it gently on the stone floor. ¡°True, yes. Such a clever little mouse. The love we share is precious. And yet I languish here, far from the sight of God.¡± I watched the spider scurry under the door and into the darkness. ¡°Could you, just for a moment, only for a second of time, will you open this door for me?¡± There was a sweeping sound as of clothes dragged across dusty stone, and a faint slap of palm against rock. Grinding teeth behind the prison door. As sure as my own name, I knew that she had eaten the spider. I tumbled away from the door, landing on my back in my haste to lean away. I scrambled to my feet, picked up my lantern, and left. ¡°Good little mouse, please don¡¯t go. Little mouse, little mouse!¡± Her voice trailed after me down the corridor. ¡°Leave the light¡­¡± I don¡¯t care what Sophie says, I¡¯m not going down here again. She will have to find some other keeper.
Friday. First week of Mabon. 4:29pm. I haven¡¯t been back to the kitchens. Instead, I have been helping Sister Alana record her stars. She is naming them, little by little, and creating a map of the heavens. She says it is important work. I agree, though some of the other nuns find it pedantic and place little value in information they cannot immediately utilise. I disagree. Not only is it good list-making material (I have an entire record of the fourth quadrant now, sorted by light density, angle and distance), but Alana told me that many of the stars we see at night are different to the ones our predecessors saw. She showed me an old book, so large it covered the entire table, filled with drawings of the night sky. She was right; the stars were wrong. Like an upset chessboard, the pieces were all in the wrong places, or tipped over, or missing. There were no pictures which contained the moon, but Alana put this down to archaic preference. After all, the moon was not a star and astrologers had no need to note its constant, ever-present phases. We were interrupted by an Orison I didn¡¯t know very well, Jenny, asking if we had seen Sister Harriet anywhere. I had not seen her for a long time, since before I started in the kitchens. This was not uncommon, she was often absorbed in her research and did not socialise much. We let her use the telescope to search the grounds, but there was nothing of note that she could see from the south side. When we came down later for dinner Alana and I clutched at each other when we saw the commotion downstairs. Harriet was dead. It felt surreal, I don¡¯t remember the last time the monastery saw a fatal attack. I did not go out to see her, I already knew what a corpse looked like. Instead we both stayed behind and helped sophie put the dishes away. I did not have the stomach for dinner.
Saturday. First week of Mabon. 7:15pm. I did what I promised I wouldn¡¯t do, and went to see the crone in the cellar. What a godawful fool I am! I shall never forgive myself for this. Sophie was overworked, preparing this massive funerary feast while babysitting all of the grieving nuns who look up to her as some sort of mother figure. I took pity on her, and agreed to take one, Sister Claudia, with me to collect some ingredients. The poor girl is scared of her own shadow, I thought she would faint just from being in the dark! I took some dried fruits and honeyed figs on a plate for the crone, and left her to choose the items she wanted. I knew she wasn¡¯t expecting me, so I did not take the silence to mean anything at first. She was only sleeping, or meditating, or whatever it is you can do to flit between the two when you have spent half a century in the dark. but, not even the sound of the keys scraping the floor roused her, or the quiet creak of the ancient wooden grate sliding open. ¡°Hello?¡± My voice only echoed in the dark. She had never told me her actual name. ¡°Sister, are you awake?¡± Silence. No mottled and twisted hand came to take the plate. And then, fool that I am, I stood up and unlocked the door. At first, I wasn¡¯t sure if it was the right key. The ring only had two, one for the hatch, and one for the door itself. It was stiff, and the keyhole so old the metal had melted and buckled over the years, bloating up against the wood. But, it did turn, more¡¯s the pity, and here I am. When the door swung open it was as though light could not penetrate the cell. A darkness, kept away from light so long that like an aged wine had become purified and hard to dispel. But dispel it did, if only for a small circle before my lantern. I could see the straw on the floor that she so often threw out of the slot when she was angry, it smelt dank with mould and general stagnation. There were chains on the walls, and I was relieved to see that she was not kept in them. A cot against the back wall, small and miserable. Mouse bones in the corner. all of this, but no crone. ¡°Sister?¡± Sister? And there it was, the echo from before. Louder now, repeating my words back to me, from the corner by the door. I turned, and she walked into the light. It was me. Every detail, every fold of cloth. The wrinkles on my forehead and the way my hair fell straight. It was me, in every possible way. That witch, that disgusting old hag! She had been making her own list this whole time, a list just for me. She hunched over, and tilted her head to one side. It pained me to see my own body crumpled up in such a way. ¡°Hello little mouse, looking for me, yes?¡± I am not a slow woman. Far from it. I have lived through Gol attacks and worse. Questioning what I was seeing, wondering how this could be possible; that can wait. I know when to act and when to question, and this was a time of action not inertia. I bolted for the door, but she was faster. I slapped her - me - hard around the face, my entire strength poured into the blow. Her neck made a strange crunching sound as her face turned with the impact, but her lips only laughed. With her head still at an unnatural angle, she grabbed my hair and ripped it sharply back. I gasped so hard I lost the air from my lungs. I wasn¡¯t sure what happened next, but I felt a sharp pain in my belly and I collapsed to the floor on all fours. I think she must have punched me, and I vomited uncontrollably into the straw. That¡¯s when I heard it, the thud and click of the bolt hitting home. She had locked me inside, oh God, she had me trapped! I heard a series of muscular clicks and osseous crackling, muffled by the heavy wooden door, and knew that she was turning her head - my head! - back to face the front. I am blessed that I did not see it, but that sound will haunt me for the rest of my days. I waited for her to say something, anything, while I lay winded, my face hovering close above the pool of vomit. But I was no longer interesting to her, I had served my purpose. I couldn¡¯t even utter anything after her retreating footsteps, my lungs had not recovered. I was alone. I had my lantern, my diary, and the plate of dried fruits. I had picked them for her as a treat, something to soften the blow of hearing about Harriet¡¯s death. I suppose I should thank myself for my kindness. So here I am and here I remain, and I am not ashamed to admit that I cried.
Sunday. First week of Mabon. Time unknown. I work quickly when I need to. It only took me three hours of crying, screaming, door-hammering and denial to set up a plan. I swept the puke into the toilet (a moss-covered grate in the corner. Lovely.), checked myself for injuries (bruises only), and put the lamp on its lowest possible setting. I reckon I have about three days of light before I run out of oil. I rationed out the fruit for three days, just in case. If Sophie thought I had brought supplies to the crone yesterday, then she will be back to visit tomorrow. I have time. but I will keep these entries short, to conserve light.
Monday. First week of Mabon. Time unknown. I hate her. I hate her with all the fire of my being. That old crone knew what she was doing through and through. A few hours ago, who knew what time of the day or night it was, I heard footsteps. Undeniably it was Sophie¡¯s quick gait. Success! I had been worried that the crone would bring it herself, having taken on my duties. The hatch slid open, and the bundles of food and fresh linens was pushed inside. ¡°Sophie!¡± My lips were so dry the word cracked in the middle, harsh to my ears after a day of enforced silence. ¡°Let me out, oh please, it¡¯s Abigail!¡± ¡°Oh no, not today.¡± Her voice responded like a knife in the gut. ¡°I¡¯m not playing that little game, don¡¯t you try that one on me.¡± I couldn¡¯t say a word, the ability had left me. My willpower deflated, crushed beneath feet that looked just like mine. ¡°It is a cruel joke, you know. She¡¯s upstairs, I¡¯ve seen her, so let it be! I¡¯m tired of this constant mimicry. It¡¯s grown old, don¡¯t you think?¡± ¡°I¡¯ve¡­ said this before?¡± I knew what her answer would be before she said it, my stomach was already lead. ¡°What? Of course! It¡¯s been nothing but ¡®I¡¯m Abigail¡¯ and ¡®help let me out¡¯ for weeks now, it¡¯s wearing thin. Though I do admit, you have got her voice down perfectly.¡± And there it was, the death blow. ¡°No Sophie, Sophie please! My diary, I have my diary!¡± I rushed to show it to her in time, fumbling for the book through my tears. ¡°No.¡± This time, her voice was firm. ¡°I know she gave you that diary last time she came, the poor dear takes pity on you. Enough now. Good day, Saint Dosifea.¡± I could only listen as her footsteps faded. Please don¡¯t leave me in here. Please come back.
Day unknown. Week unknown. Time unknown. This imposter Dosifea sometimes brings me my meals, but she never speaks to me. The silence makes it worse. I scream at her until my throat is bloody, but she does not react. I think she gloats behind that veil of mine. The wick is getting low.
[From here onwards the final entries are unmarked. It is unclear where one ends and another begins] I ate the last of the candied figs today. Tasy, but I should have saved it. She does not get sweet stuff very often. By she, I mean, me. Oh God. The darkness keeps coming closer, but I cannot stand it. I don¡¯t want it to touch me. Here is a list of my favourite limbs, in order of how much I like them: [The list has been torn out] Why me Why is this pen so blunt I don care aobut her she RUINED my dress itchy hel Canto IX - No More Silence Wille sat high up in her hidden tower, her knees tucked under her and a moth-eaten blanket pulled up over her head. Spread out before her were several open notebooks, filled with the tight neat lettering of a dead woman. Each letter was equal to the one next to it in width, and was joined together with neat curls. Every final word ended with a carefully-blotted flourish. She glanced at the notes she had made. Her own handwriting was an unkempt, but readable, pile of spindly twigs. She tried hard not to compare. After all, there was no way she would win against the dead. Harriet¡¯s life was before her. Every line, every dot, was the last remaining record of her hopes and dreams. She handled it with reverence, turning the pages slowly and attentively. Every movement a ritual, every revealed page a blessing. She began reading where the previous entries left off, a week before the author¡¯s death. I do not know what came over me. It was so out of character, I can only hope that Hazel looks on me with the same respect as before. I needed more gifts for the Nocturnes. How was I to know that she was in charge of collecting Abigail¡¯s reports? I stood on the kitchen tiles, petrified, statue in the beam of her lamp. Arms filled with candied apples. I couldn¡¯t tell her about my research, not yet anyway, so I had to come up with some story about how much I crave sweet things. Now she keeps bringing me sweets! And I have to eat them or she will see through my story and ask more questions. I worry so much about my teeth, but I worry even more about lying to my friend. Wille scratched out a note with her pen. So, Harriet was stealing from the larder in order to bribe the Nocturnes. She turned the page. I haven¡¯t had a spare moment to walk through the gardens in so long, so I was overjoyed today when my research took me to the flowerbeds. Dahlias and vibrant purple crocuses! Not to mention our medicinal herbs; motherwort, meadowsweet, betony and clary sage. A wonderful autumn collection¡­ She skipped past the botanical reminisces, running her finger gently over the text, scanning with her fingertip until it found root in a promising sentence. The gardener Madrigal, Rosie, led me to the entrance. The Nocturne oubliette is well-hidden among the laurels that mark the edge between garden and farmland. A liminal space, suitable for their pastoral role between the margins. It was a tight fit, but not too rough and I was able to make it down in one piece¡­ The entry trailed off, and no more information on the Nocturne sanctuary was given in the following days. Her final accounts were tedious in their detailed account of everyday life. No subterranean wanderings, no revelations. The final entry however was short but noteworthy. The Orphan Moon is out tonight. It is time. If all goes well, I shall be back before dawn with proof. Wille scribbled these exact words down, and tore them out of her notebook. Carefully, she placed it up against the plain brick wall and pushed an old nail into the grouting, loosened with age, to hold it in place. Next to the pile of carpets in Harriet¡¯s secret study, she had stuck up across the wall several of the notes and letters that she had come across during her study of Harriet¡¯s belongings. First, she found a letter from William Montagu about his time spent working at Palus Somni, from years before it became an abbey. The owner, a man called Aloysius Mallory, was mining for a new mineral he had discovered called pearl iron. A new nail, and a new scrap of paper lead on from this one with a small line of twine. Harriet was researching pearl iron before she died, and came across a surprising secret, one she could not even articulate in her diaries. The thread continued: She visited the Nocturnes for more information, presumably because they live in the catacombs and may have come across it before. Then, she died. She was going somewhere that night, and didn¡¯t come home. The emotional enormity of the tragedy hit Wille full in the chest, crushing her back against the blankets - the blankets Harriet would have used. The place she would have sat, the candle she would have lit. She was inside someone else¡¯s home, an outsider who could barely even touch the complexity and lividity of another being¡¯s extinguished life. Her hands shook, and she wrapped them tightly around each other. But there was another thought. A creeping doubt. If Harriet had gone somewhere, then perhaps it was possible she had indeed left the monastery grounds, and gotten herself attacked by the Gol outside. She had broken in here for nothing, all trails led to the Gol. There was no murderer, beyond whatever intent lay in the heart of those wicked beasts, and nothing suspicious after all. Harriet had opened the gates, and stepped outside. In her heart of hearts, Wille had not thought this possible. Her body fell backwards into the bed of carpets, her hand flopping listlessly off the side. There was no point to any of this. Was this merely her response to grief, to try and find meaning in a meaningless world? Did all deaths need to have a reason, a purpose, for them to happen? Foolish, so foolish. She picked up the final sheaf of unread papers and held them close above the flickering candle flame, prepared to let the curiosity end and to put Harriet¡¯s cursed soul to rest. She would return in the morning, do her chores, and let life continue unimpeded by mystery. She turned her head to the side to watch the flame flicker, and the edges of the parchment began to blacken and curl. It was a long moment before she snatched it back. She just couldn¡¯t bring herself to sacrifice everything she knew so far only to stop now, never knowing the truth. At the very least, she could show it to Mother superior when she returned, there was no harm in that. There was only one way forward, one path by which she could justify the choices she had made so far: She was going to finish what Harriet started. Whatever it was, this pearl iron had cost her her life and she was not going to -could not - let that go to waste. She brought the letters closer to her face, and read on.This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. --- [A letter from William Montagu, accountant and cambist, to his husband Jonathan Vesey. Undated and unfinished.] Jonathan darling, I write to you in great distress. Since my last letter the relationship between myself and Mallory has deteriorated considerably. He is outright refusing to see me, for neither work nor recreation. All of my calculations have ground to a halt. Though it is not just me, he is not speaking to anyone. Not even his own son can secure his attention, and he slams the door in the face of whatever servant who dares disturb him. I dare not ask him about my wages for fear of his rage, and I think therefore I shall be shortly rejoining you in the city at last. Miss Mina is helping me pack my things, and is even baking me a winterberry pie to take back for you. The only thing I will miss about this desolate place is her cooking. We have grown rather close, the two of us, because, my darling, she has our very same affliction. That is, a penchant to covet the affection of our own dear sex. Her sweetheart is a flighty girl from the nearby village with hair like rye and a smile like strawberries. They are like cheese and chalk! Miss Mina is made of inky dark locks and a pallid, moonlight grin. She works the nightshift, as both the breakfast cook and the night watch and oftentimes when I wake up at night I hear her whistling to herself as she churns butter in the dark. I told her that she was like a nightjar, a beautiful creature who scorns the sun and keeps its rapturous song for the moon, but she only laughed and punched me harder than I would imagine possible with such spindly arms. She has told me some interesting details about the locale. Did you know that this whole area used to be a lake? It was drained in medieval times to provide fresh water to the city after the river became polluted. It never recovered, and now the marsh reigns. It was called Stillbeam Waters, due to it having very little movement and thus being the perfect place for moon viewing. Miss Mina told me this conspiratorially, but local legend has it that when the lake was drained, something was found underneath. This discovery has not stood the test of time, but the natives believe that a small shrine was built over it, and then a larger temple over that, and then a church, and that church became the main chapel attached to the Palus Somni mansion. It is fascinating how rumours grow and spread and affect the decisions we humans choose to make. Oh Jonathan, I miss you. I wish I could hear your voice, if only in writing. Have you not sent me even one letter? Is the postal service here really that dismal? I miss you, I miss you. There is one other reason that I flee the mansion, beyond the frayed nerves of my host. I found out the destination of these shipments I have been logging. The mysterious carts of metal and mortar that Mallory buys and which promptly disappear. They are not heading to the mine or the quarry - but here, right beneath our feet! The madman is digging his own grave, and I shan¡¯t let it become mine as well. He is tunnelling through the natural caves beneath these walls with a fervour all his own, and I have no doubt that he cares little for structural safety and more about his precious pearl iron. The effects of such an excavation are already showing, as beneath the northwesterly ramparts there is growing a crimson red lake as the spire sinks into the earth. The spring waters which I lauded so heavily before are now laced with a rusty pink and so I stick instead to preserved beverages to assuage my thirst. There is no hiding it anymore. Many of the servants have packed and left, only Miss Mina and I remain. The workers he has hired to extract this ore cover their bodies entirely in rags, and come up to the surface soaked bloody red to the bone. There is one man, who if my eyes do not deceive me, has taken to eating the oozing substance! So feverent is he to thrust the ore down his gullet that his hands are raw from digging, and his teeth have cracked where he has attempted to grind down the rocks. Miss Mina and I have done what triage we can, and have bound his mouth closed to try and alleviate his habit, but it seems to be having some kind of reaction, perhaps an allergy of some kind. His skin has become doughy and soft, as though filled with fluid, and he has had a remarkable tenacity in regards to pain. He does not seem to feel it, even when part of his fingerbone was exposed from his wounds. You wouldn¡¯t believe this Jonathan but when I was bringing the bandage around his mouth, he bit me! A grown man, and he bit me! His teeth were so covered in gritty pearl iron that I could not tell which was my own blood and which was stone. Not only that, but they were so heavily mangled from his habit that one of them stuck into the flesh of my hand and was inadvertently extracted when I snatched it away. I have dressed the wound twice since but it shows no signs of healing, an infection perhaps but nothing for you to worry about. In a day or two I shall be back in the city and we will have the good doctor take a look. I love you. [Letter from Jonathan Vesey to his husband, William Montagu. A note in Harriet¡¯s writing is attached: Seal intact, presumably unopened until now. The presence of William Montagu¡¯s letters at Palus Somni implies that they had not reached their intended destination, perhaps intercepted.] William, I have not heard from you in some months, I pray that everything is continuing smoothly in your new appointment? I must say, life is dreary without you around. The days are shorter yet the nights stretch into infinity. I feel like I spend half my waking hours in the dark, listening to the clocks ticking. I know I have written some very long letters recently so I will keep this one short. I know you have only a month left to go before you are due to return but I am coming to visit. No more silence, no more voices into darkness. I am coming and you cannot stop me. I fear that something but have gone so terribly wrong that you have not responded to me, some terrible disease perhaps or an accident. You would not leave me unanswered on purpose, I do not think. but after so long, the doubts, you know, the gnaw upon me. That is what I am - merely a discarded bone, fit only for dogs and graveyards. Oh, hear me! I am sorry my love, but I do get so terribly depressed not knowing. I have packed and the carriage is waiting. I will send this as I leave. I will be with you shortly, dearest. Wait for me. I love you. Yours in every blessing, Jonathan --- Canto X - Funerals and Fading Fears The morning stillness was broken by the echoing sound of the Central Tower bell. Deep and mournful, it carpeted the landscape with a sonorous sadness. The wandering gol had returned to their rest, sleeping wherever they happened to have been standing when the sun rose, and none of them stirred as the sorrowful tone swept over them. The sun¡¯s rays were warm and bright, casting away the misty morning shadows and thawing the dew-soaked stones of the spire. This particular bell was rung only for death knells, and it¡¯s muffled toll was considered necessary to quieten any restless new spirits. This was how Wille discovered that the rookery was located in the Central Tower, immediately below the belfry. The sudden noise set fire to her eardrums and she sat bolt upright on Harriet¡¯s old carpet bed, clutching her ears. She had slept for only a couple of hours, having been engrossed in diaries and letters, and so reality shuddered around her in tune with the reverberating chime. A rope she hadn¡¯t noticed before was bobbing slowly up and down; someone far below was performing their morning duties admirably. At that moment, she hated them. ¡°Damn.¡± It was also how she remembered, with a jolt of panic, what day it was. She staggered out into the attic, bringing with her a selection of papers from Harriet¡¯s collection. A spider crawled along her sleeve. The bell tolled again, but quieter this time now there was some distance between them. ¡°Damn!¡± The hidden panel was harder to remove from this side with the bed in the way. Luckily, the Etudes had already emptied out into the courtyard for the occasion. Wille hurtled down the attic, threw herself down the stairs and did not stop as she passed by her own quarters in her effort to be as minimally late as possible. She almost collided with Sister Jenny and Sister Beatrice, heading up the stairs. ¡°Ah! Sorry, Sisters.¡± Her voice trailed away with her footsteps, leaving them dazed by the encounter. Jenny had made it to the top of the stairs, at last, though her legs weren¡¯t what they used to be. Her walking cane tapped firmly on the floorboards as she walked towards the Orison dorterhouse, with Beatrice supporting her arm in silence. Ever since she had discovered Harriet¡¯s corpse, her body had not been the same. First came the fits, the conniptions that wracked her brain and sent her crying hysterically to the infirmary over and over. Sister Bellemorde was good to her, a kind doctor who despite her quirks had wanted to help her. She had given her a concoction so bitter it made her scrunch her eyes up and shiver whenever she had to take the red and sticky liquid, but it worked. Her nerves had calmed, and her breathing returned to normal. But things were still not right. something inside her had broken, and now sometimes her legs would give way and her hands would shake when she tried to grip anything tighter than a spoon. She had always had a frail disposition, and had used a cane since childhood, but this insipid weakness left her feeling drained and listless. Bellemorde had prescribed even more bitter medicine and had exhorted the benefits of exercise. To that end, when there was a layabed sister missing from the funeral preparations, she volunteered to fetch her. It¡¯s not like there was anything else she could do to help. ¡°Sister Claudia, are you awake?¡± She knocked softly on the bedroom door, trembling hands attempting feebly to make a clear sound. Her voice had lost that lilting, songlike quality she always used to have. Now, she was just tired. Beatrice said nothing. She took her vow of silence seriously, making no noise except the quiet rustle of cloth as she shifted Jenny¡¯s weight from one arm to the other. ¡°Sister? Are you there?¡± No response. Jenny stepped closer to put her ear to the wood, and gasped as her shoe touched something wet seeping out from beneath the bottom of the door. Bubbles popped when her foot distrubed them. There was a faint sound, like a wet and thorough scratching, coming from inside the room. ¡°Claudia, are you okay? I¡¯m coming in.¡± Beatrice helped her open the door, and both nuns gasped as it swung open to reveal the room¡¯s single occupant. ¡°Oh! Sisters! I¡¯m sorry I didn¡¯t hear you there, I was in my own little world.¡± It was Claudia, her sleeves rolled up and her long skirts tied up around her waist, exposing bloomers. There was water all over the floor, and from the rafters dripped yesterday¡¯s habit, smock and headscarves. Sunlight streamed in through the open window. ¡°I just needed to do a little spring cleaning before it started, what time is it?¡± She got back down on her hands and knees and resumed scrubbing the floorboards with a large, wiry brush. The scratching resumed, and bubbles popped on the bristles. ¡°Oh, Sister!¡± Jenny cried. ¡°We were all worried about you. The funeral has already started, the service is over.¡± Claudia sat up and looked out of the window. Sure enough, she could just about see a procession of sisters in their finest habits carrying a coffin over to the small graveyard at the edge of the easterly wall. A short-haired figure was running after them, out of breath. She smiled to think of what Wille would say when she found out she wasn¡¯t the only one late today. ¡°Oh dear, what happened to your dress?¡± Jenny¡¯s hand pulled out the corner of the hanging skirt, exposing the rips and tears all across the garment. Claudia smiled wider and turned to the two Sisters. The light glinted from stray bubbles floating near her face and her curly locks shined like the sun, an unexpected radiance of pure joy on a day of mourning. ¡°I met so many new friends last night. It was wonderful! A dream! Oh you should have seen them Jenny, so many bright new faces.¡± She grabbed her hands and pulled her close, hot breath against the sickly woman¡¯s ear as she whispered. ¡°I¡¯m free, Sister. Free as a bird. There is no more fear for me.¡± Beyond the window came the sound of someone wailing and the dull thuds of earth hitting casket. --- The day was warm and bright but, being a marsh, this meant little to the grounds of the nunnery. The moss stayed wet no matter the weather, though some areas were more cultivated than others. One of these places was the hillock on the lawn. A popular picnic spot, the moss here was less spongy and more grassy, and did not sink into mud when you sat on it. Morgan thought to herself that this was probably going to be the last sunny day of the year, and so they should make the most of it. She had led the class outside, and now everyone was busy erecting poles and arranging the canopy for the marquee. It wasn¡¯t the most airy of structures, it¡¯s intended purpose was as an awning for solemn liturgical events and so the fabric was a heavy crimson velvet, faded pink over time, and barely any light was able to seep in under the shade. It smelled of stale incense and the fluttering lives of moths. Morgan was not sure if moths had a smell, but if they did this would be it. As though someone had sprinkled a fine dust over the night sky, mixed with the metallic tang of electric lighting. Every great institution of higher theological learning must, by its nature, have great teachers who understand higher theology. Morgan was one such teacher. In a past life she had been a house tutor by trade, travelling from manor to manor teaching the offspring of the wealthy how to speak dead languages, but the problem with tutoring was you generally had time only to recite the books and none to read them. Not content with such nonsense she had packed her bags, said goodbye to her children, and moved herself to the monastery to live a life of celibate bliss. Life, however, was hard to escape. ¡°Mama, what about this one?¡± Morgan sighed and turned her attention away from setting up the blackboard. ¡°Rosie, darling, I told you not to call me that here. Yes, that will do.¡± She pointed to the blanket the young madrigal held out. ¡°But Ma-, uh, it just doesn¡¯t feel right calling you a Sister.¡± No matter how far you ran from life¡¯s responsibilities, they always caught up. Those, like Morgan, who thought that monastic life would be somehow free of worldly cares are time and again proved wrong by the vast amount of friars who care more about proper mead-making than contemplating the nature of the heavens. Who would have thought that all those years of parenting would have turned her into a role model? Even here, in this world-beyond-worlds, she remained a mother and a teacher, and books still retained their elusive qualities. This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version. The class sat in small semi-circles under the awning, rose-tinted sunlight filtering in through the fabric. Across the lawn came a running figure. ¡°Thank you all for coming, we are here today to discuss the nature of death under the gaze of the Dreamer in their glory.¡± Morgan gestured to the blackboard. ¡°There are no wrong answers, but maybe together we can synthesise some core beliefs we can all agree on. I am only here to facilitate, really this class will be led by yourselves. so may I suggest that for starters, we split into pairs and discuss?¡± The running figure descended upon the gathering, panting hard. ¡°Claudia!¡± ¡°Sorry we¡¯re late!¡± She gestured at two slower figures, one with a cane, trailing behind her. Her words came with pauses as she caught her breath. ¡°I slept in¡­ missed the funeral.¡± Her normally neat and tidy outfit was a mess, apron hastily slipped on and tied roughly at the side. ¡°Are you alright? You look rather bedraggled. Are you ill?¡± Morgan was looking at her askance. ¡°No no, I¡¯m fine, really! Better than ever!¡± Her smile was intense, and she sat herself down on a free cushion. When Beatrice and Jenny caught up Morgan gave them a questioning look, but neither could do more than shrug. None of them knew what had gotten Claudia, usually so demure and punctual, into such a mania. ¡°Well,¡± Morgan clapped her hands together. ¡°now we are all here let¡¯s discuss the topic at hand.¡± Rosie turned to her partner, a tall and angular Sister called Lin who had draped herself and her long black hair carefully over several cushions. ¡°You know, I don¡¯t think much of death.¡± ¡°Oh?¡± The Etude looked genuinely interested in her partner¡¯s indifferent attitude towards mortality. ¡°Well, you paint, right?¡± Lin nodded. She was indeed the resident artist. ¡°You create something out of nothing, you can change the form of shapes and colours. That¡¯s like planting, and watching the flowers grow and bloom. The bluebells and the daffodils, all different shades under the sun. They really do not stay for long, but the end of the flower is not the end of the plant. The roots remain, deep and undisturbed and ready to sprout again. I feel like we humans have these roots.¡± She paused, thinking to herself and tapping her finger on her cheek. ¡°Maybe communion within our dreams to the Godhead is a connection to these primordial roots.¡± Lin looked over the young gardener. Her hair was golden, kept up in bunches on either side of her face. Rosy cheeks betrayed her name, and on each knee was a green grass stain. She smiled and shook her head. ¡°Rosie, I do not paint to change reality, but to embrace it. There is no difference between the canvas and the final painting, the only distinction is time and effort. This is what makes us human, our desires enacted. The rest is merely circumstances.¡± Lin had transitioned into a woman, and later into a nun, at a very early age and regretted nothing. Rosie nodded eagerly. ¡°Then you¡¯re a mushroom!¡± Lin blinked, slowly, and stared at the girl. ¡°Come again?¡± ¡°A mushroom, you know? Kinda chewy and tasty¡­¡± ¡°I know what a mushroom is.¡± ¡°Right. Right! You¡¯re like¡­ a mycelial network. To any short-lived onlooker, you sprout and change just like any other creature. But you are older, much older, and you will most certainly outlive them, because there¡¯s no real way to kill you.¡± Lin nodded along to this suggestion of immortality, and Rosie continued. ¡°This is maybe what I mean by roots, human roots. Decay is merely perceived as such from the vantage point of our tiny lifespans.¡± ¡°Perhaps. Or perhaps you think about mushrooms just a little too much?¡± Their laughter carried over to the table next to them, which was more of a small bench which Sister Jenny was using to support herself while her classmate lounged across the uncovered grass and smoked. Magda placed her long pipe between her lips and sucked a single stream of skullcap and sage into her lungs. The taste was pleasant, savoury with a touch of mint, and she savoured it for a moment before expelling it in a long stream above her head. ¡°Sister Belle says that smoke can harm you.¡± Jenny teased from her bench. ¡°Sister Belle can say what she likes, she knows nothing.¡± Magda spoke with a strong southern accent, one that had not dimmed despite all her years at Palus Somni. ¡°Sister Belle only knows ¡®snip, snip¡¯ and ¡®stitch, stitch¡¯, she is nothing more than a physician of the body, whereas this...¡± She curled her fingers around in the trailing smoke. ¡°This is a physician made from embers and ether.¡± The smoke wound its way out of the tent and the two of them watched it float over to the buttressed tower on the far side of the abbey. ¡°Did you know Harriet well?¡± ¡°No. Did you?¡± ¡°No.¡± They gazed out in silence towards the tower as the hanging cloth fluttered, sending it in and out of their vision. ¡°You know, I think that¡¯s death.¡± Jenny pointed a shaking finger across the lawn. Magda said nothing, only tapped her pipe. ¡°Being stuck in there, no light or company. They might even be dead already, how would we know?¡± Magda shrugged, her loose robe falling from one shoulder. ¡°Does it matter? They have their job to do, and we have ours. Perhaps they like it there.¡± The tower was home to the inquisitors, a subsect of the faith present at every community. They were ritually sequestered, destined to study legal code in solitude until they were called upon to intercede in a dispute. Then and only then did they emerge, and use their full knowledge of the law to settle matters. Jenny¡¯s hands were shaking again, and she tipped a vial of medicine into her mouth with great difficulty. ¡°I¡¯m going to move into the infirmary permanently soon. Belle found me a wheelchair I could use, but this place is not very convenient, what with all the stairs. Stairs everywhere!¡± She smiled sadly. ¡°You know, I can read the future in the smoke.¡± Magda studied the art of augury, mostly with dreams but sometimes with physical objects. Entrails, livers, frogspawn and smoke. Many a young nun with troubles in love and life came to her for advice. Jenny nodded. Magda took a deep breath of pipesmoke and held it to the count of five, before tossing her head back and opening her mouth to let the curls and wisps escape at their own leisurely pace. She watched the smoke drift up to the tent ceiling. Jenny tried to follow her gaze but she could not see anything in the smoke that seemed like something more than what it was. It was also the case that her eyesight had been fading recently, and she found it difficult to focus. There was a long silence before Magda spoke again. ¡°There is nothing. The ether is not talking to me today, alas.¡± ¡°Oh, no matter. No news is, as they say, good news.¡± Jenny smiled, and the two of them went back to staring out across the lawn. Magda always had a look about her which was calm and composed. Her feathers could never be ruffled and her nonchalance was infective, often allowing her companions to feel a deep sense of relaxation in her presence. Though who knew her particularly well however would notice that her normal ease was disturbed. A slight crease beneath her eyes and a stiffness in her jaw, showing the eagle eyed onlooker that, perhaps, there was something unusual in the smoke that day. Meanwhile, across the tent Claudia was talking excitedly to Beatrice. Her wimple had shifted to one side and her light curls were spilling out over one side of her face. ¡°Oh Beatrice I feel like I can tell you anything, anything! I feel like I¡¯ve been reborn, my heart, it beats with such jubilation I can barely speak!¡± She stopped to catch her breath. Beatrice said nothing. Her vow of silence had not prepared her to deal with an excitable and erratic young woman and she found herself wondering if this was some sort of test. ¡°Beatrice!¡± Claudia grabbed her by the shoulders and leant in conspiratorially, her exhilaration fading to a whisper. ¡°I had such a wonderful dream last night. I don¡¯t really remember it that well, but I was in my room, and I think I was visited by God.¡± Beatrice inclined her head questioningly. ¡°Yes that¡¯s right, God! I don¡¯t really remember much but they gave me some kind of gift¡­¡± Her hand fell absent-mindedly to her belly. ¡°I wish I could remember what it was¡­ No matter. Today I feel like I can do anything, be anyone. And that¡¯s why¡­¡± She let go of the poor nun and clasped her hands together with feverish glee. ¡°I¡¯m going to tell Wille that I love her.¡± Beatrice raised her eyebrows. Trysts were not uncommon in a nunnery, and there was no explicit rule against it. Only the Etudes deferred to a rule of celibacy, due to their belief that societal relationships of all kinds was detrimental to the study and pursuit of academia. But if an Etude were to fall in love they could simply leave the order without scandal. So the prospect was not what surprised her, moreover it was seeing her normally quiet and shy friend become so emboldened. Perhaps it was true, and she had seen the face of God in a dream. ¡°I¡¯m going to tell her, as soon as I see her next, and if she will have me I will kiss her and kiss her again, until my lips are bruised with kissing.¡± Claudia threw herself back upon the grass, hugging her arms tightly and smiling with nervous energy. Her wimple fell off completely and her golden hair spilled out over the ground like a halo. ¡°Oh dear Dreamer¡­ As you once did for the Saints before us, grant me courage, grant me insight. Fill this vessel with your will, my Lord, and let me be a part of it.¡± The sun shone down through the clouds far above the convent, drying away the rain and casting a light on all the dark and lonely places. Canto XI - The Willow-Woven Basket ¡°Wake up.¡± A shudder ran through her body and her dreams warped and shifted beneath her feet as her mind raced to right itself under the incoming pressure of an unknown reality. ¡°Wake up!¡± Her vision swirled into a variety of blurry images, focused enough that she could just about make out a dark figure leaning over the bed. ¡°Father¡­?¡± Strong arms lifted her up along with all the blankets and her sleeping-bear. Cradled securely in her father¡¯s arms her head jostled from side to side as his long strides sent him running down the hallway. ¡°Father, where are you taking me?¡± ¡°Hush now Lee Lee.¡± She stopped asking, knowing she would get no response. Instead she focused on keeping her bear safely wrapped in her arms, as her father was doing for her. Velvet on one side, silk on the other, the bear had been a gift from her aunt in Germania and she cherished it like it was her own child. She had never seen her father like this before, normally he was a paragon of stoic, businesslike indifference. All the love a father can give, but no time for the games of little girls. His hair had fallen over his eyes in wild curls, obscuring the fear in them as he searched, room by room, for an escape. But every window looked out upon a sea of angry faces. He shouldered his way through a door at the end of the hall. Inside was a woman rocking a small infant at her bosom. ¡°Oh, oh Sir! The little babe is safe, thank the Lords. Please, help us! Sir!¡± Instinctually her hands reached for his shirt, the toddler nestled into her apron. ¡°Sir thank the gods you¡¯re here, please they mean to kill us! Please sir take us with you.¡± ¡°Father, look, it¡¯s Christopher! Hello Christopher.¡± The child did not look up. ¡°Father, can we take him with us?¡± ¡°The keys.¡± His voice was a monotone. ¡°The keys, yes yes¡­ The keys, here they are Sir.¡± The young woman fished around in her pockets, the motion setting the baby to crying, before holding out a large iron ring of servant¡¯s back-of-house keys. He took them without comment, and turned to leave. ¡°Sir, Sir, leave don¡¯t go! Don¡¯t leave us here, please Sir! Please, take us with you.¡± He smacked at her hands as they clung to his clothes. She wrapped her arms around his leg, tears soaking into the weave of his trousers. ¡°Please Sir, my baby¡­ I been in this house all my life, you little ¡®un is like my own, please Sir I beg of you, I be-¡± The kick hit her sharply in the mouth. Blood flew swiftly down from her nose and lip as she blubbered on the floor. He did not look back at her calls. ¡°But father, I like playing with Christopher!¡± But her protest went unheeded. Taking the servant¡¯s staircase he was able to get down to the ground floor without notice. the kitchens were empty. Some of the servants, he suspected, were outside in the mob. Others had fled. He put her down, covers and all, onto one of the long kitchen tables and set about pushing a large wooden dresser in front of the door. Radishes and bowls fell from their shelves as he struggled to push it into place before turning once again to his daughter. ¡°Now, listen to me.¡± She nodded. ¡°You must survive, no matter what.¡±He gestured to a large, disused oven. ¡°Climb in through the grate. Put your hand on the left wall and follow the tunnel to the end. Do not leave until it is daytime. Do you understand so far?¡± She bit her lip, mute. ¡°Lydia, I need you to tell me yes or no. Do you understand?¡± ¡°Yes.¡± ¡°Very good. When you emerge, you will see a convent in the distance. Go there, speak to the Mother Superior, and do not look back.¡± ¡°But-¡± ¡°Do you understand?¡± ¡°...Yes.¡± His hand patted her head tenderly. ¡°Good girl. Now, go.¡± He hoisted her off the table and pushed her in through the oven door. It was dark, and sooty, and smelt like burnt toast. But, sure enough, there was a grate at the back which was quite well oiled, and swung open without effort. ¡°You will be safe there.¡± His voice was muffled behind her. She jumped, and hit her head, when the thudding began. Hard pounding at the door. Her father closed the oven door behind her, and all was black and muffled. She crawled in through the grate, but could not bring herself to go any further. The tunnel was very small, it was true, perhaps once used by runner-dogs carrying messages to the front lines, but there may still be room for her father to come too? Her question was answered by the crashing sound of the dresser falling over, and the steady steps of big, oversized workboots on the tiles. There were some words spoken, but she couldn¡¯t hear what they said through the sound of the blood pounding in her ears. But she could make out her father, angry, shouting something. Another crash, and the oven shaked. The hearts of children are strong but at this point Lydia¡¯s courage ran out, and she fled down the tunnel - one hand on the left wall, another on her sleeping-bear - until she hit the end and cried and cried until she fell asleep with tears still on her cheeks. In the morning, she opened the hatch at the end of the tunnel and spent quite some time allowing her eyes to adjust to the sudden light. She was on the side of a small hillock, mossy and green with wildflowers aplenty. As he had promised, ahead of her and not two miles away perched the brooding stones of what she assumed must be the convent her father spoke of. She loved her father, though he could be very stern, but he was not here right now and so could not stop her from looking back. She turned, and saw her home in the distance. There was no longer a mob outside, but several figures moved around the grounds. If she squinted, she could see them moving things out of the house. Bags, furniture, the distant twinkle of a silver candelabra. Her gaze moved to the side, and she saw three figures hanging from the old oak. One was wearing a teal silk dress, like her mother used to wear. One was smaller than the others, but bigger than she was. Her brother had always teased her about that. The final figure was her father, no doubt about it.This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report. She had no more tears left. She turned her back on her home, and wandered slowly down the hill, her mind empty and numb. Two miles was a long walk for small legs, and she stood out like a sore thumb with her soot-stained nightgown - worth more than an average month¡¯s wages - and bare feet. A kindly matron tried to invite her inside, offering warm bread and a hearth, but Lydia had slapped her hand away and continued onwards down the muddy road. She must reach this convent (an unfamiliar word to her vocabulary), and she was not about to let anything stand between her and her father¡¯s dying wish. Her stomach rumbled. Later that evening, a nun who had been walking to evening mass noticed a small figure standing at the gates. Cold and bedraggled, Lydia was hurried into the main hall and several tall, imposing strangers talked above her head about what they should do with this poor, strange, temperamental child. The child spoke not a word until Mother superior arrived, and the nuns looked at each other in horror at the girl¡¯s story. The next day, word reached them that the nearby village of Ystre, which straddled the boundary between the marsh and the middle downs, had staged a rebellion against the local family who owned the local lime quarry and, more importantly, a large, gated estate. Gol attacks becoming more frequent, the villagers had repeatedly asked to be allowed sanctuary within the walls. One by one the villagers lost loved ones in the nightly attacks, and parents pleaded with the estate owners to let them inside, bearing in their clenched fists the bloodstained smocks of lost children. Their pleas were denied. Until eventually, they did not ask anymore. They took. They took Lydia¡¯s father, her mother, her brother and her home. The senior nuns sat in conference for many hours, debating the likelihood of further attacks. But dealings with the newly gated community of Ystre were cordial, and donations abundant. Religion, and most importantly, the guilt that followed murderers was their shield. Ashamed of their actions and writhing beneath the judgement of the glassy stares of the dead, the rioters turned to their faith for salvation. The nuns encouraged this, and for a while it was a time of plenty. Lydia was being fed by the grain from her own granary, though she did not know it. In time, contact with Ystre dwindled and eventually ceased, as it had with many other settlements in the area. The final contact they had with Ystre was a couple of years later, when a child carrying a bundle in a willow-weaved basket arrived on their doorstep. The same age as Lydia, but already taller than her, the newcomer was given to Lydia who was tasked with mentoring her in the ways of convent life. The bundle in the basket turned out to be a small and sickly baby, which despite their best efforts and tender ministrations did not survive long. ¡°My mama went missing, and my papa got sick and died, and now my sister died too - ow!¡± Lydia had pinched the girl hard on her arm. ¡°Ow! Lydia, stop! Please, Lydia that hurts!¡± ¡°Your mama and papa were murderers. I¡¯m glad they¡¯re dead and I hope you die too.¡± She said the words ¡®mama¡¯ and ¡®papa¡¯ as though they were curses, filled with vitriol and bile. Tears rolled down the new girl¡¯s cheeks and she struggled against her aggressor. ¡°Everyone says it was you who killed your sister.¡± ¡°What?¡± ¡°You should have looked after her better. She died because of you!¡± The girl stopped struggling as Lydia began to sing, a playground teasing song of her own invention: O fear, fear the girl called Willow! Wickedness had her filled with woe. She sent the baby to its casket, In a tiny willow-woven basket. It was a childish taunt, but one fuelled by trauma and unbridled hatred. Later that day, Lydia returned to her room to find that her sleeping-bear, who had accompanied her all these years, had gone missing. She had cried and screamed so loud that the matrons worried she would not stop at sundown, and would lure out the horrors of the dark. There was a long and frantic search and eventually the bear was found. Pieces of it, at least. Someone had taken a pair of scissors and cut methodically, and the toy was unsalvageable. ¡°SHE did it! Willow the wicked, Willow the wicked!¡± Lydia had shouted, spittle flying from her lips, and before anyone could stop them both girls were on the floor, bunches of each other''s hair in hand. All trust had been lost between the last two survivors of Ystre. --- Lydia was woken to the sound of hammering, close outside her window. She opened her bleary eyes to the darkened room, the morning dawn making thin beams from between the cracks in the shutters. There was no clock in her quarters, but by the ache in her body she could tell that she was due at least an hour more sleep. She pulled aside the covers and the woman next to her groaned in her sleep, bare shoulders pale and luminescent in the half-light. Lydia slipped out of bed, tied a robe around her nakedness and threw back the wooden shutters, scanning the grounds for the source of her interrupted sleep. A figure, half obscured by planks of wood, was constructing some kind of platform beneath the ever-looming wall. She narrowed her eyes. ¡°Mhm, Lee Lee, what time is it?¡± The woman in the bed had sat up when the light had hit her face. Motes of dust danced in the sunbeams around her nude figure, giving her a regal air of golden grace as the bedsheets draped themselves artfully over her thighs and hips. ¡°Time to see what all the fuss is about!¡± Lydia practically dragged her out of bed and into her clothes, down the stairs and into the courtyard. The source of the noise watched them approach. ¡°Sister Elizabeth, Sister Lydia, what a lovely sight this fine morning!¡± Elizabeth went to hold Lydia¡¯s hand, but she slapped it away. In public, they were nothing more than friends. ¡°Freya. Do you have any idea what time it is? What is it you are doing?¡± Her voice was dripping with venom but the bite missed its mark, Sister Freya was notoriously laid back and immune to Lydia¡¯s taunts. She lent over and put down her hammer, and the two of them could see various other tools arranged around her belt. ¡°Well you see now, it¡¯s like this. I do a fortnightly inspection of the walls. Make sure they¡¯re stable, fill in any cracks, you know?¡± Lydia only glowered in response. ¡°This wall here.¡± Sister Freya tapped the brick with her foot. ¡°It¡¯s going to break if we don¡¯t do something about it.¡± ¡°That¡¯s impossible, don¡¯t be absurd. These walls don¡¯t break, they have never broken! Check again.¡± ¡°Well that¡¯s what I¡¯m doing, Sister. Just because they never broke before don¡¯t mean they wont now. These walls don¡¯t break because I tend to them, not because they¡¯re invincible.¡± Freya flicked some of her greying hair back behind her ear and looked thoughtful for a moment. ¡°Still, this time we might need something better to hold ¡®em up.¡± ¡°Better?¡± Freya nodded. ¡°We got bricks, we got stone. Problem is we don¡¯t have any mortar. Some quicklime would do it, but¡­ we ran out of that nary a month past.¡± At the mention of lime Lydia¡¯s face went pale. There was plenty of lime nearby, back at her family¡¯s lime quarry in Ystre. She looked up at the wall, directly outside her window, and saw that the engineer was right. The stonework was buckled and warped, as though some great hand had squashed it down from above. She thought about the Gol she saw at night, the ones she teased and taunted and stood up against, moonclad and defiant under the banner of her faith. She thought about her father, who told her she would be safe here. The others were sheep. Stupid, whining little sheep who were scared of their own shadows and did not fully trust the divine protection they were afforded. She did. She believed. But now she was faced with the material consequences to her actions, and fate had decided that she was not untouchable after all. She thought these things for a moment, then dismissed them. She was, after all, Lydia. She would never let anything into her sanctuary. ¡°Freya, I know how to help you. There is a quarry near here, and kilns. Many of them. A good team of four¡­ no, five, would do it, given the weather.¡± Both Freya and Elizabeth looked at her, expectantly. ¡°We¡¯re going to leave Palus Somni.¡± There was a silence for a moment, and it was Elizabeth who reacted first. ¡°Lee-Lydia, what do you mean? Have you gone mad? We can¡¯t just leave, there are monsters out there!¡± She took her lover¡¯s hand in hers, and this time she did not protest, too lost in her grand plans. ¡°Lydia, no-one except Inka has gone beyond the walls in¡­ in¡­ decades! Maybe even a hundred years.¡± ¡°Then we stand at the end of a hundred years of fools!¡± ¡°Lydia¡­¡± ¡°No. I¡¯m sick of living, shut up inside. It¡¯s time to go out and claim back what is owed to us. But now...¡± Her voice softened, and a smile played over her lips. ¡°Now, it¡¯s time for breakfast.¡± Canto XII - The Quiet Space Between Breakfast was abuzz with the news that, for the first time in living memory, a delegation of nuns would leave Palus Somni. For all her grace Lydia was not a subtle person, and her voice carried across the breakfast hall all her thoughts and plans before Elizabeth could get her to lower her volume. She was enjoying the attention she was getting, and this alone was enough to secure the outing in her mind as something that was more than a mere idea. Whispers across the table called it a holy pilgrimage, a righteous expedition for the safety of the walls. Eyes widened and lips fluttered and all anyone could talk about was who would be the ones brave enough to venture outside. ¡°Well I for one shan¡¯t go.¡± Hazel said, her arms folded. Her grief had become muted since the funeral, or perhaps merely transformed. She was no longer desolate; she was angry. ¡°You¡¯re all insane. Has everyone forgotten what happened to Harriet so quickly? What¡¯s wrong with you all?¡± Beatrice, ever true to her vow of silence, nodded enthusiastically in agreement. A general sense of shame came over the table as various Sisters averted their gaze and shifted their attention suddenly to their plates. ¡°Seriously, I want to know. What rose-headed nonsense is this? Lydia, you are a gifted Sister. I never took you for a simpleton.¡± Lydia bristled at this. ¡°You let your personal feelings on this matter cloud your eyes, Hazel. You aren¡¯t the only person here who has lost a friend.¡± As she said these words, Lydia climbed up onto the bench and stood tall above the gathered nuns, her voice reaching even the furthest of ears. ¡°All of us will lose a friend, or our own lives, if the wall falls. I don¡¯t want others to have to go through that as well!¡± There was a general positive response to this statement, a few nods and muted claps. ¡°I will stake my own life on this, I swear by God and all that lies holy on this Earth - I will be first out that gate and last to return. But I can¡¯t do this alone, I need volunteers - martyrs - to help carry the load. Who will join me?¡± A silence followed. The sound of rustling as nervous feet shuffled under their smocks. Someone coughed. ¡°Anyone?¡± It was almost a full house, but no-one spoke up. She tried to make eye contact with every name she spoke. ¡°Beatrice? Abigail? Rosie? Alana?¡± Beatrice only shook her head furiously. Abigail did not look up from her plate, seemingly entranced by her porridge. Rosie only smiled weakly and shrugged. Alana looked incredulous that she would even ask. ¡°I¡¯ll go.¡± It was Lin, who managed to look graceful even when sitting on one of the old, rickety refectory benches. ¡°I mean, if you¡¯ll have me. Lime makes a wonderful white pigment I could use¡­¡± Lydia nodded her assent. ¡°Anyone is more than welcome, and we should have more than enough lime to spare. What about you, Inka? Your expertise will be sorely needed.¡± Eyes turned to the figure in the hallway. Inka stood alone, leaning against the doorframe, swallowing a bite of apple. ¡°No. I work alone.¡± Elizabeth raised her hand, though she was sitting immediately next to Lydia¡¯s makeshift pulpit. ¡°Of course I¡¯ll come and support you.¡± Next to put their name forward was Freya, who knew more than anyone the value of this mission. Wille declined the opportunity to spend any extra time with Lydia, and one by one various other nuns made their apologies, citing chores and duties that could not be ignored. ¡°Well, looks like this is it, then.¡± Lydia had stepped down from the bench and turned back to her own cold breakfast as the volunteers came over. Someone else also sat themselves down directly opposite her, hands on her chin and a playful smile on her lips. ¡°Claudia?¡± ¡°I¡¯m coming too.¡± ¡°I¡¯m not sure that would be wise, given your disposition dear.¡± Though Lydia could see that something was different about the girl. ¡°I want to go on an adventure. I have a calling!¡± But she could see from the looks on the faces around her that she was not convincing. ¡°Actually¡­ I had a dream that I would go.¡± ¡°Did you now.¡± It was barely a question, and Lydia¡¯s tone betrayed her skepticism. ¡°Oh yes, I did.¡± Claudia offered no more elucidation than a smile. Elizabeth turned to Lydia, her brow knitted. ¡°Lydia, if she really did dream it¡­¡±Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site. ¡°... Then who are we to stand against the word of God. Yes, yes, I know. Fine.¡± She flicked her eyes at Claudia half in a warning, half in bemusement. ¡°You can come. But you are not to wander off from the group, not for any reason.¡± Claudia patted her hands together in glee. Her hair was still dishevelled, and the convent was finally starting to notice that she had been ignoring her personal hygiene, as well as her sudden change in temperament. Where she was once painfully shy and retiring, Claudia now gave off such a strong, chaotic exuberance it was beginning to make others uncomfortable. Where once she was scared, she was now impulsive. Some assumed it was some kind of delayed grief, but the reality was no-one was really sure why this change had happened in her. At the very least, I could keep an eye on her if she tagged along. Lydia thought to herself. Better than leaving her back at Palus Somni, where any bad influence could get to her. Her eyes flickered to Wille. --- Alana left the breakfast hall with a scowl so deep it etched itself across her entire face. Her hair, neat and natural in a brushed-up bush of curls, was also scowling. It seemed to stand on end, perhaps become a little more angular, the shadows pronounced and deep. Her hair always reacted like this, recording every thought that went through her head. She was not angry at Lydia. It was true, leaving the safety of the walls with no experience of the outside world, let alone proper equipment and training, was ludicrous to her. It was like it was all some big game where these sisters could play the triumphant heroine. Did they know what was out there? She did. She saw it every night. No, she was not angry at Lydia. She was angry at the stars. ...Two by six in spaces never seen¡­ ¡°Shut up.¡± She could only hear them faintly during the day, a background murmur no louder than the wind in the garden. She thanked the almighty Dreamer for this gift. After a moment to quieten her mood, her scowl reverted to a softer, less intense frown. ...Original sunlight becomes welcome out here¡­ Most of it was gibberish. A mix of phrases, song and static that besieged her senses with every breath, night and day, never leaving her along with her thoughts. The only time they seemed to quieten was when she looked up at the stars. A great galactic hush would fall upon her, and it was just her and the cosmos. Each star would have something to say, and she could tune in and out with ease and as she let her gaze fall into the cracks between the points of light there was a silence, a deep and perpetual cold that even the voices couldn¡¯t penetrate. ...family had a visitor from out of town¡­ She had been to the doctor. Grace had taken a vial of blood and Bellemorde had sat with her and listened with her willowy intensity as she had described her symptoms. The conclusion they came to was that this was a gift from God. A sort of waking dream, a connection to the land of sleep which only a select few had access to. The last thing she wanted was to be chosen, though she had taken up her subsequent duties as astronomer without any great reluctance, as the telescope helped her focus on that quiet space between. When she opened the door to her observatory, a round room panelled entirely in glass that sat atop the tallest tower of the compound, Sister Amelia was standing behind it. ¡°Oh, Sister. What can I do for you?¡± Sister Amelia said nothing, only continued to play with the small golden orrery she held between her fingers. ¡°Don¡¯t touch that! It¡¯s delicate!¡± Alana snatched it out of the visitor¡¯s hand and placed it back on the shelf. When she turned around, Amelia was squatting on the floor, staring out through the misty glass to the grounds beneath her feet. She was crouched on her feet and hands, like some kind of animal. It was a disorienting experience for most who braved the long climb up to the observatory, but Amelia seemed to be in her element. Not even the cat came up this far. Seven hundred and eighty nine steps, and this woman has climbed every one just to play with her equipment. ¡°What did they say last night?¡± Alana sighed. Yet another nocturne come to ask her about the stars. Every day this week she had found another white-clad figure in her study, each one a different type of eccentric, asking her about her gift. ¡°I remember what they said exactly. Over and over again, they would not stop! I hated it, I felt I was going insane.¡± She grabbed books and papers and tidied them away with fits of furious energy. ¡°What did they say?¡± ¡°I couldn¡¯t sleep a wink. Not a wink! I could only lie there and listen to them drone and drone until all I could think about was horses.¡± Sister Amelia did not look up from her glass floor. ¡°I just wish, for once in my life, they would leave me alone. I don¡¯t want insight, I don¡¯t want gifts¡­ I just want to be left alone.¡± ¡°What did they say, Alana?¡± This surprised her, she did not know that this half-witted woman even knew her name. ¡°They said¡­ and I¡¯ll try and get it just right¡­ They said:¡± This is the church, and this is the bell. Fall deep and descend. The Wist is the red of the womb, and multitudes within. ¡°Wist?¡± The rosary wrapped around her wrist tinkled against the glass as, finally, the nocturne pulled her gaze away from the outside. ¡°I have no idea, but that¡¯s what they said. Not ¡®wish¡¯ or ¡®wrist¡¯, I¡¯m sure of it. Wist.¡± ¡°Wist.¡± Amelia repeated the word in her mouth, savouring the taste. ¡°Look, I had to listen to this all night. I know it was Wist.¡± Amelia rose, untangled her rosary, and began to mutter prayers. Alana watched as the Nocturne made no further attempt to acknowledge her existence and made her way back down the stairs, seemingly engrossed in her task. Some thanks I get. She thought to herself, and sat down hard in her chair, barely able to keep her eyes open. She could still hear the shuffling footsteps of Sister Amelia as she made her way downstairs. It was part of the way the tower was built, the spiral staircase trapped sound. She could hear someone coming when they were still five minutes away. She was used to the observatory, and half the floor being glass did not deter her. In fact, it came in quite useful, as she could see the entire grounds. Instead of covering the windows at night, she merely covered herself in a thick, impregnable fabric cloak and carried out her work as normal. She did not need light, she had the stars. On clear, moonlit nights she watched the Gol as they ambled about the moor, lumbering beasts of jagged limbs and sinew. On the night of Harriet¡¯s death the moon had been clear and full. An Orphan moon, so called because of the legend. The moon was an eye, looking for it¡¯s lost beloved. It looks out to space, and slowly turns its gaze to earth. Again and again it turns, looking for it¡¯s lover ...You¡¯re listening to Galaxy FM (Galaxy!) galactic radio with your host¡­ ¡°Shut up.¡± And with that, she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. Canto XIII - The Margins It was a rare night when the air was clear across the moor. There was no mist to blanket the hills, no gathering rainclouds on the horizon. Only the cold air of the early hours, crisp and fresh. The kind of air that made lungs ache with every icy intake, that conjured goosebumps across skin in shivers only the nocturnal could bear. A mound shifted. The Gol had been carefully curled against the daylight, motionless and seemingly inanimate. The moonbeams had awoken it, and now it stood slowly, straightening every limb and staring straight up at the moon. Around it, several other shapes stared upwards. Short, round, long, tall, jagged and confusing. Together, they stood silently in ceremonial rapture as the light of the waning moon kissed their faces and blessed them with life. As one, they began to walk in various directions. Tall ones walked with seemingly delicate steps but left the earth shuddering behind them. Stubby cadavers with bulbous eyes, pushing through the oversize sockets as though about to burst, shambled as though they were intoxicated with the moon reflected in their eyes. There was no uniformity in their appearances, each was a unique experiment of a warped and grotesque nature. No scientist would find a link between these beings, no single thread that tied them to an idea of ¡®species¡¯ beyond their obvious inclination to act as one under special circumstances. The mound Gol stood motionless for a moment, before unfurling its arms to the ground. For unfurl was what it did, unrolling it¡¯s flat and rubbery limbs from it¡¯s shoulders like the sails of a cursed ship. As the wind stirred the lifeless arms, they began to fill slowly with some unknown and dreadful form. Perhaps gas, perhaps liquid, but before long the translucent flatness had given way to a stretched turbidity of internal pressure. Otherwise it¡¯s body was unremarkable for a Gol. Humanoid legs, if you could call them that merely because it was bipedal. A squat, barely existent lump of a head that perched eyeless above a pale and limpid torso. It was fleshier than most, with no notable exposed bone or cartilage. Only a type of hard beak where one would expect a mouth. It was an infant. Created only recently, for a purpose no mortal mind could surmise. An enigma swaddled in blankets. It turned it¡¯s eyeless gaze towards a point on the horizon. In the gloom, an observer would be forgiven for thinking there was nothing there, but the darkness was more intense there. More certain. It took off at a run, arms trailing behind. It did not heed the terrain. Rocks and streams were nothing to it, and it sprinted as fast as the owl could fly towards the darkness. As they drew closer, the faint outlines of spires and steeples became clearer. It was a monastery, though one which was so wreathed in darkness that no light, not even a stray candle or reading lamp, was visible. They had no eyes but they could see the ground unfold beneath their feet, as though from some distant point above them. Closer now, the creature could see the walls, the gate, the intricate wooden gatehouse. And the figure standing outside. It was smaller than the Gol, and most definitely human. She stood with her arms deeply folded, no doubt feeling that cold night air. As the beast came up upon her she turned, and her face was clearly visible for a moment, frozen into a grimace of pure fear, the outline of the racing Gol reflected in her deep brown eyes. It was Harriet. Wille woke up panting, a cold sweat pouring off her brow. This wasn¡¯t the first time she had dreamed about this Gol, but it was the first time it had reached its goal. She wondered if it was revelationary. Was this the same Gol that had killed her? Or was her mind only filling the gaps, painting pictures where none could be found. She pulled off her bedclothes, soaked with sweat, and began to dress. As she left for breakfast however, she remembered a detail she hadn¡¯t noticed before. In the dream, the gate was closed. --- ¡°It¡¯s a slug.¡± The straw-haired nun nodded her head sagely at her companion¡¯s words, and remained silent. It was a slug. ¡°Do we kill it?¡± She shook her head, and after a moment¡¯s pause brought forth a bundle from her bag. She held it out gingerly to her assistant, a short-haired woman wearing large, oversized walking boots. The bag tinkled in her hand as she took it ¡°Nutshells.¡± ¡°Nutshells?¡± Wille was getting tired of the other nun¡¯s reticence. When she needed help, she barely said a word, but when she needed to concentrate she just wouldn¡¯t stop talking. Wille had signed up to help Rosie in the gardens indefinitely, which delighted the young madrigal immensely. She could see why. Not many people wanted to be the target of Rosie¡¯s incessant chattering about mushrooms, or her moments of strange, quiet intensity. Thus the rota was usually empty, leaving Sister Rosemary to her own devices in the garden, pottering through the herbs with her curly bunches (filled with twigs) like a giant mushroom herself. All she needed was for Rosie to somehow talk herself into leaving. She practically lived outside, she even had a small cot at the back of the shed that she used as a base. But so far, she was still insistently teaching her how to prevent a slug infestation in her own, halting way. Wille recalled Harriet¡¯s diary entry. The gardener Madrigal, Rosie, led me to the entrance. The Nocturne oubliette is well-hidden among the laurels that mark the edge between garden and farmland... If she could help it, she didn¡¯t want to ask Rosie outright about the location of the entrance. She didn¡¯t want anyone to know she was still investigating what was now considered to be a simple case of murder by monster. ¡°Wille!¡± She startled, dropping her trowel. She looked up to see Claudia leaning over her, eyes bright. ¡°Can we talk?¡±You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author. The two of them clambered under the branches of the weeping willow tree at the edge of the farmland. The canopy covered them completely, only letting in a small amount of the leaf-filtered greenish sunlight. It was shadowy and almost a little too cool, but a good spot for private conversations as there was just enough room for two people to crouch. It had not been easy to convince Rosie to let her take a break, or more precisely, it had not been easy to convince her that she was not invited. ¡°Claudia, is everything okay? I¡¯ve been worried about you.¡± Wille had been one of the first to notice her friend¡¯s strange behaviour. At first she had been delighted to see her come out of her shell, but as time went by it became clearer that there was something else behind the changed behaviour. Something that was a complete mystery to her. ¡°Oh everything¡¯s just fine, really, I just came to say a few things before I left.¡± ¡°Left? What do you mean, left?¡± ¡°Oh Wille, I¡¯m going on an adventure! A real adventure, I¡¯m going to bring you back so many new tales!¡± Claudia gestured expansively with her fingers wide, her eyes looking beyond the horizon at seemingly endless possibilities. ¡°Wait, you¡¯re going on this excursion with Lydia?¡± Wille couldn¡¯t believe her ears. Claudia nodded. ¡°I know, isn¡¯t it exciting?¡± ¡°Claudia, you¡­ What¡¯s gotten into you? I don¡¯t know how to talk to you anymore. This isn¡¯t like you.¡± Wille bit her lip and looked down at the grass. ¡°If you want to go then fine, I support you, but¡­ why didn¡¯t you talk to me about it?¡± ¡°Oh, like you haven¡¯t been sneaking around yourself these last few weeks! Like you didn¡¯t just get caught up investigating Harriet¡¯s death like it was some kind of murder.¡± Her tone wasn¡¯t angry, but it was still a shock to Wille¡¯s system to hear her talk this way. ¡°Wille, I looked for you. When I needed someone to turn to, you were nowhere to be found. I just sat in the kitchens and cried. You got so caught up in¡­ in this mess,¡± She waved her arm dismissively, ¡°that you didn¡¯t have time for me anymore. On nights I got scared, I knocked, but you were never there.¡± Wille thought about her nighttime wanderings with a new tinge of guilt. ¡°I¡­ I didn¡¯t know! I didn¡¯t want to get you into trouble. I didn¡¯t want to drag you down with me into this mad quest, because¡­ because all this time it feels like I¡¯ve just been chasing shadows.¡± She lent back against the rough bark of the tree and tried hard not to cry. ¡°I tried so hard to follow where I was being led. For so long I thought I was crying wolf. I wanted to be sure of things before I got you involved.¡± Claudia tilted her head to one side in sympathy, sending golden tresses tumbling over her face. ¡°Wille¡­ You know, even if it had been all some flight of fancy¡­ that I would have liked to have come with you. Let us fight these shadows together.¡± The two of them smiled at each other, and for the first time in forever Wille saw Claudia¡¯s face become serious. Claudia grasped at her stomach with her hand, wincing. ¡°Claudia? What¡¯s wrong?¡± ¡°I want to talk, and I just want you to listen. Just listen.¡± Wille nodded. ¡°I love you, Wille. More than that, more than anything. I love you. I want to kiss you, your arms and your cheeks and your hair. I want to breathe with you, caress you, talk with you long until the wee hours of the night, and maybe even make love to you.¡± Wille couldn¡¯t help it, she began to cry and wrapped her arms around Claudia in a giant hug. ¡°You fool, you silly fool. How can you say these things now, when we¡¯re more far apart than we¡¯ve ever been?¡± Someone in the distance called for Claudia. ¡°When I come back from the village, can we, perhaps, talk more about it?¡± ¡°Wait, you¡¯re leaving now?¡± Claudia stepped lightly to her feet as there were more shouts in the distance. Wille rose with her, and arm in arm they reluctantly let go of eachother. ¡°Yes. Promise me Wille, that when I return we can step out together, and talk about our future?¡± ¡°I promise. I¡¯ll be there waiting when you get back.¡± She wiped the tears from her eyes as the other nun ducked under the canopy. She watched her run across the grass towards the group gathered at the gate. She also saw Rosie, who with a group of other nuns had gathered nearby to say their farewells. This was all the opportunity she needed to enter the oubliette. It was not so hard to find, once she knew where to look. The hedgerows were bushy and untamed, but one part in particular was bushier than the others. Beneath it was a round iron trap door, which lifted easily at her touch while making the most awful of rusty screeches. Wille looked up, scared that someone may have heard her, but everyone was too intrigued with the opening of the gate, far away across the lawn. She could see the silhouette of Claudia¡¯s golden hair in the sun and felt a sudden surge of emotion. She shook it off. Inside the trapdoor was a round stone drop to nowhere, looking very much like an old well. The ladder was not a ladder as such, but handhelds had been made from removing some of the bricks in the wall. She took a deep breath, and stepped down into the dark. --- ¡°Claudia, really, where were you? Where¡¯s your bag?¡± Lydia asked disapprovingly. ¡°I¡¯m sorry Lydia, I was telling Wille I loved her.¡± ¡°You- What?¡± Lydia could only stand agog as the young nun took up her pack and began securing it. Lydia, Elizabeth and Lin were all in attendance. Freya arrived shortly afterwards, panting and waving as she pushed the cart. Each nun had been kitted out with a backpack of supplies; food, water, tinder, and first aid. The four-wheeled cart wasn¡¯t very impressive, but it could be pushed easily by one or two people when empty. When full, they were hoping that the five of them together would be enough to guide it home. Claudia, being one of the weaker members of the group, had been given the tent. ¡°Just in case, you never know. We should be safe if there¡¯s no light.¡± Freya had said, though no-one had believed her. It was a two hour walk to the village, and all things considered it should only be a six to eight hour trip altogether. They had plenty of time to make it back before sundown. ¡°Are we all set?¡± The group nodded. There were a few tears and a handful of songs from the nuns gathered to see them off. Sophie handed them a big bundle of dried meat for the journey, while others gave blessings and prayers. Rosie was there to make sure they understood how important lime was to reduce the acidity of soil, whereas Bellemorde implored them to look for high quality quicklime because, she said, it was harder to make it here without the appropriate kilns, and it was absolutely essential in corpse preservation. When they turned to leave there was a figure standing by the gate, their own backpack in hand. ¡°Isidore?¡± ¡°If I may, I¡¯m coming with you.¡± A voice that spoke with a pure tenor let the words drip from their tongue like honey. ¡°I, well, yes of course. The more the merrier!¡± Lydia said, looking a little flustered around the edges at this change of plan. Isidore was an odd one. They were the gatekeeper, and lived inside the gatehouse that sat above the main entryway in the outer walls. As such their job was rarely seen, existing as it did between the margins of the safe and the dangerous. This suited them perfectly. They were perfectly comfortable between the margins, and had forsaken the habit a few years ago once they were no longer fully comfortable committing to the idea of themselves as a woman. Rather than leave to join the itinerant friars they had stayed, somewhat, with one foot in and one foot out, a decision they had not regretted since. They wore a man¡¯s tailored waistcoat and trousers, white shirt buttoned right up to the top. But their hair was long and bobbed, a sheath of grey-blonde tangly strands that looked forever tousled in a charming, roguish sort of way. Isidore threw their pack onto the cart, and in silence helped with the pushing. The first few steps beyond the boundaries of their sanctuary were the hardest, and each of the six felt the hair rise on the back of their necks, as though something were about to jump out at them. But nothing did, and each step became easier than the last until eventually the abbey was a small point behind them, growing smaller with every step. Cradled in the valley with thickets of purple heather, the abbey of Palus Somni looked for all the world like the eye of a sleeping beast, it only had but to blink to bring it all crashing down. Canto XIV - Primordial Pilgrims Wille fell flat on her back. The last rungs of the ladder had been caked in slime mould, leaving her with hands plastered in green ooze. Lying winded on the mud and muck that covered the floor, she let herself catch her breath as she watched the small disc of sunlight high above her. She could just about make out the late autumn clouds and the faint glimmer of green leaves, a world away. Her arms ached from the climb so she didn¡¯t mind the cool mud that soothed her tired muscles. Her dress was beyond saving, anyway. Her bag and supplies were safe, if a little splattered, and that¡¯s all that mattered. She had seen Nocturnes around the grounds, but it had been a long time since she had actually spoken to one. It was hard to believe anyone lived down here, though she supposed that the catacombs weaved their way throughout the grounds and the nunnery walls, and there were probably more palatable entrances. She thought of the rookery, hidden behind a loose panel, and wondered how many other similar places contained the hidden eyes of wandering Nocturnes. She got to her feet and made her way through the arched doorway, her hand against the left wall to guide her through the dark. She may have passed several connecting corridors, but there was no way to tell. She would stick to the left, and if it led nowhere, return and stick to the right. The tunnels were not empty. A cool breeze joined her as she moved through the underpassage, rustling her hair and making her shiver. Every so often she would trip on an exposed root, pushing its way up through the ancient flagstones. There was scuttling in the dark, but she was not afraid of rats. It was too damp for spiders, mostly, and when the first spindly webs caught her around the face she was overjoyed. Where there were spiders, there were people. Sure enough, the leftmost passage began to dry out, as though thawing itself from a long hibernation. It became a living tunnel. Even in the dark, she could feel the texture change on the stones beneath her fingers from slick and grimy to smooth and dry. She no longer tripped over tree roots, and the scuttling of small creatures had been replaced by the flickering sputter of an ensconced torch. Still too far ahead to light her way, but she almost skipped joyfully into the small room it lit. By her calculations, she was somewhere under the infirmary wing, though it was hard to tell for sure. ¡°Excuse me, is there anyone here?¡± The chamber was small, but the walls were tall and her voice echoed up the long, square chimney above her. There were several doors in the walls which ascended up into the distance. Some of them did not align with any landing, and she wondered how anyone reached them. A stone staircase wound its way up the tower, pausing only where the masonry had fallen away with age. She noticed now that the corners of the room were littered with old stones, dusty and white with efflorescence. They were some kind of sandstone, different and much more ancient than the imported black brickwork of the monastery above. Some of these stones were bigger than her, and she shuddered at the thought of being squashed by this crumbling ruin. ¡°Hello?¡± Every so often along the wall there was an indent, some large and others small, where an object had been carefully placed. Each one was free from dust, though open to the air. Carefully looked after, she surmised. There were books as large and as heavy as tombstones, necklaces of tarnished gold, devices of intricate carved staves but of unknown origin. One smaller alcove contained a shrunken head, its lips pursed in an everlasting grimace, hair long and luscious and trailing down from its plinth in plaits and curls. She put her hand against the wall to steady herself as she lent in to peer at an old, withered hand and gasped when she left behind a bloody red handprint. Pearl iron. What she had taken to be condensation along the walls had been pearl iron, seeping through the gaps and coating her hand as she passed. She looked down at her feet. Her large walking boots and the hem of her dress had been stained crimson. She had been walking through red-wrought tunnels, dripping with cruor, only the darkness had spared her the sight. A somewhat terrifying thought, it made her hand quiver uncontrollably. This was her first time actually encountering the substance mined by old Lord Mallory that had terrified his accountant so. A voice from behind her made her jump. ¡°Ah yes, so you found the claw of the catechism, eh?¡± She turned, mortified to have been caught unawares. She hadn¡¯t seen anyone in the room before, but now what she had taken to be another pile of stone moved, and she saw that it was not sandstone at all, but the dusty folds of a many-layered Nocturne habit. ¡°A singular relic, to be sure. Look closely, child, and see that each finger is not made of skin and bone, but of pulp and vellum.¡± Wille looked back at the hand, and saw that it was true. What she had taken to be mummified flesh were rolls of finely inscribed paper. ¡°A painful process it was for the poor sister, yes yes. But worth it, for she could read her life away with every peel of her skin. Many secrets, so sad. Oh but, forgive me child, I didn''t mean to frighten you. Sometimes I like to come down here, and meditate in the ruins of the departed temple. Didn¡¯t expect to see any new faces down here, eheheh.¡± The figure rose, unfolding itself into a human shape. Her hair was long and matted, white for the most part but tinged with grey and brown. Like an old tabby cat, Wille thought to herself. Despite the wear and tear and general scruffiness of her appearance, her clothes possessed no telltale splatters of pearl iron. She had never seen this woman before, not in the refectory or even at mass. ¡°I am Sister Caprimulgus. How can I help an Orison such as yourself? Are you lost, little magpie?¡± Magpie. It was a word she hadn¡¯t heard in a long time. Archaic now, it was a slightly derogatory word for an Orison, referring to their black and white habit. She thought, however, that the older woman meant it kindly. ¡°No, actually, I¡¯m here visiting.¡± She said, unsure of how much to reveal straight away. ¡°You called this place the, um, the deserted temple? Not the oubliette?¡± ¡°The departed temple. This is just one part of our oubliette, and one of many temples.¡± ¡°Ah, I see. It¡¯s so old. I said, it¡¯s so old.¡± The old nun seemed to have trouble hearing her, and shuffled over to Wille with a hand cupped around her ear. She was almost half her size. ¡°Not our oldest, oh no. I can show you?¡± ¡°Please.¡± Wille wasn¡¯t sure where she was being led, but Caprimulgus seemed excited to take her somewhere. She had grabbed her by the hand and led her now to one of the many heavy-set doors. For an older woman, she had a surprising amount of strength in her arms, and she pushed open the thick door with ease. ¡°Come, come, this way! Eheheh.¡± The door led to a well-lit natural pathway. No bricks or carven stones, the only human touch was the sconces containing the torches which lit their way. Stalactites and stalagmites of white crystal mingled with clusters of reddish mineral formations. Rubies, perhaps, or garnets. Caprimulgus pulled her along almost too fast for her legs to follow. ¡°This is the ruins of the older church. No, no,¡± She wagged her finger back at Wille, as though she had said something, ¡°Older even than that. And there are others still older, beneath this one. Yes, yes, eheheh. Older than the stones.¡± By now the red and white covered every surface of the cave walls, which she noticed were opening up into a larger cavern. The furthest parts were wreathed in darkness, but she wasn¡¯t sure how the torches, small as they were, were lighting up so much of the visible grotto. It was as though there was a light emanating from the walls themselves, a hidden hue that contrasted with the orange flames as they flickered across the many-surfaced crystals. In the centre lay a lake, still as stone and delicate, as though a single touch would shatter the surface. Surrounding it lay many crystalline rocks, some as tall as a person. The light reflected in its surface was dull, as though sucked out of the room and drowned among the tranquil waters. Caught between the subtle luminescence of the cave and the golden torchlight, it looked like a sea of rust-tinged blood.Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings. ¡°Ahh, the church! See?¡± The old woman turned to Wille for reassurance. ¡°I see. It¡¯s beautiful, truely. I¡¯ve never seen anything like it before.¡± ¡°Oh but you have. Don¡¯t you remember, child? Take a closer look.¡± Wille walked up to the edge of the pool. It was smaller than she first thought, but deeper. The ruby waters reflected her face perfectly, without a single ripple to distort her features. There was mud on her cheek, but otherwise she didn¡¯t look as worse for wear as she expected. The lake has a strange, intoxicating quality. As though it was both still, and yet moving with a frantic energy just beneath the surface. She felt like if she put her hand in, the current would snatch her away, drag her down, down until there was nothing, not even her. Without realising it, she had extended her hand out to touch the surface. The corresponding ripple that emanated out from her fingertip jolted her out of her reverie, but when she brought it back to her face the tip was red. ¡°Remember now?¡± Caprimulgus¡¯ words echoed around the chamber. ¡°Wait, this is pearl iron?¡± ¡°Pah! Pearl iron, pearl iron. No my child, this is the blood of the sleeping God. Ieklos Phobetor!¡± Wille was not sure if that was an epithet, or a curse. It was certainly not a title she had heard before to refer to the Dreamer. ¡°Many of our order come here to end their journeys, do you see?¡± For the first time Wille looked closer at her surroundings, and gasped. The rocks crowding the edges of the lake were humanoid. No, not just humanoid. Human. Calcified nuns with hands clasped in prayer, down on their knees and facing the pool. Some were wearing visible rosaries and robes with fairly recent designs (monastic traditions, being what they were, rarely had a need to follow modern fashions and yet still, every hundred or so years, it still happened). All across their bodies were tiny crystals. Without thinking, Wille licked the red stain from her fingertip. It was salty, with a hint of iron. ¡°This lake, it¡¯s filled with mineral salt deposits filtered through the pearl iron. These people, they came here¡­ and turned to stone.¡± She said it aloud more for her own sake than for the elderly sister¡¯s, who merely nodded as though what she had said was the most normal thing in the world. Some of the figures had lost many of their defining features. Clasped hands became outcroppings, heads became featureless boulders. Closer to the edge of the water the rocks were smooth and formless, with many millennia of wear reducing the body to nothing. Some of the oldest casts, she was sure, looked distinctly less-than-human. Ancient, primordial worshippers had congregated here long before there was any kind of organised church. ¡°Is this what you have come for? Do you wish to end your journey, child?¡± ¡°Wha- oh! No, not at all! Actually, I came to ask¡­ Did you by any chance meet an Etude recently, Sister Harriet?¡± ¡°Harriet, Harriet¡­ Yes, yes, I did not meet with her, but I think Mischa may have. Mischa!¡± She called out, though Wille doubted anyone could hear her from down here. She began to leave the chamber and Wille scurried after her, wondering absent-mindedly if the rocks that crunched beneath her feet were once bones. They had left via a different exit, one she hadn¡¯t noticed before, and at some point the walls fell away on each side. Caprimulgus soldiered on ahead, unmoved, and it was only out of fear of losing sight of her did Wille step out onto the old stone bridge across the abyss. ¡°Mischa!¡± Caprimulgus¡¯ voice echoed across impossible depths. In the distance, Wille could see the distant shadows of other bridges far above and below. The colour of the rock beneath her feet was only a shade lighter than the darkness surrounding it, and she feared that at any moment she could step out into nothing and fall. The Nocturne¡¯s white habit stood out as a shining beacon ahead of her, and so she followed close at her heels. It felt like an age had passed before they approached a doorway, cut into a sheer cliff face of black basalt. Inside were more stairs, but as they climbed they seemed to move from the age of primitive stone-carvers to the iron-wrought railings of later ages, on again to the masonry and architecture of a medieval castle. She felt that rather than moving through space she had been travelling through time, layers of the ages stacked one on top of the other. When they finally opened the door at the head of the stairs, it was almost cosy. A fire burned in the grate in this wooden-vaulted room, not much larger than a lord¡¯s bedroom. For a bedroom it was, and in the centre stood a richly canopied four poster bed, laden with silks and satins of intricate brocade. The room was otherwise bare, expect for the many hundreds of guttering white candles strewn about the floor. Wax coated the bottoms of the curtains and blankets that trailed out along the floor, and every so often around the base of the wooden frame there lay a silver censer that exuded a dense and bitter smoke. Wille had no idea how this bed did not go up in flames. ¡°Mischa! Wake up my dear, you have a visitor here to talk to you about the Angol.¡± ¡°Uh, actually¡­¡± Wille began, but was interrupted by a high-pitched voice, youthful and nasal, coming from within the drapes. ¡°The Angol? Is that what thou¡¯rt in search of? Pray, is that why thou hast wend thy way to this hypogeal carcern?¡± Sister Mischa spoke in a dialect so archaic, Wille could barely understand her. ¡°Actually I came to talk about Harriet, Sister.¡± There was no time for a theology lesson. ¡°Ahh, hmm.¡± Both Mischa and Caprimulgus hemmed and hawed at this, as though uncertain of how to simplify matters. Then, as though explaining birth to a baby, Caprimulgus continued. ¡°Child, when Sister Harriet came to us, she sought answers about the Angol. She asked us about the blood of God and¡­¡± A wistful look came over her face, ¡°I do believe she will shortly, if she has not already, ascended to become an Angol herself.¡± ¡°Sister Harriet is dead. She was killed, shortly after visiting you down here.¡± Wille had to stop herself from coughing, the smoke from the incense burnt her nose and throat. ¡°Nay, that is not possible. I did accompany her, and climb¡¯d to the surface at vespers. I believe it not!¡± Mischa¡¯s piercing soprano reached its zenith as surprise and doubt crept into her voice. ¡°Let me look at thee.¡± Caprimulgus pulled at a silken rope at the edge of the bed, and the curtains slowly parted. Seated in the centre of a hoard of pillows was sister Mischa. A red veil covered her face and hair, though the fabric was sheer and beneath its folds Wille could just about make out a long, elegant outline. Tassels of golden thread hung at the fringes. Her habit - if it was a habit, and not a nightgown - was of white lace, which tugged at her figure and at some point became one with the bedsheets. The red-veiled face scrutinized her. ¡°Thy tongue is true. So, she hath died.¡± Mischa seemed to deflate, pushing herself deeper into the covers as her wails filled the chamber with sorrowful song. ¡°Oh, hush hush now! There there!¡± Caprimulgus clambered onto the bed and wrapped the crying nun in a comforting embrace, and motioned for Wille to join them. The keening cries weren¡¯t going to stop anytime soon, so Wille gently lifted the covers to one side and slipped into the bed, Mischa nested between the two of them. The bed was incredibly soft and she sank into it so quickly she thought for a moment she was back in the grotto and had fallen into the lake. Her head slipped under the surface. Beneath the blankets, all sound seemed to stop. The cries were muffled through layers of feather down. A claw-like hand grasped her arm, tenderly, its fingers elongated and skeletal, and she could hear the voice of Mischa clearly in her ear though the distant howling did not seem to stop. ¡°What thou seeketh is no longer here. Hear me, tidfara, o wanderer whose time hath come. Pilgrim, seek now the mortal body of she who is slain, lest all her dreams cometh to naught and the night turn only to ruin. Her journey hath ended, but you can continue the meeting.¡± "The meeting?" Wille felt hot breath on her face, and realised she had been screwing her eyes shut. She opened them, and moaned with realisation. What she had taken for elongated features were beastlike, a narrow snout of stretched skin ending with a small and tapering mouth of knotted teeth. It spoke now, in that high-pitched voice in a language long-forgotten. ¡°Efyngelic is us.¡± We are the same. Some part of her brain knew this is what it was trying to tell her, this primordial fiend that existed outside of its own time, encroaching into the future with the horrors of the past. The first Gol. Wille screamed and thrashed at the blankets, trying desperately to break free of them, but the more she pulled the more there were, until finally the covers came free and she pulled her head back into the light - so bright - of the room. Gulping for air, sweat poured from her brow as her eyes adjusted to the sudden light, and she saw Caprimulgus and Mischa - normal, human Mischa - gazing at her with interest. A dream, perhaps, and nothing more. The cruel tricks of a smothered brain, unable to bring enough oxygen when weighted down by feathers. Perhaps there was something in the incense. ¡°I-I¡¯m sorry. I have to go.¡± She pulled herself free of the bedsheets, untangling her booted feet. ¡°Prithee be careful, tidfara. We will meet again when the hour is right. Mind my words, and seek thee hence the mortal remains.¡± Mischa said, before closing her curtains and disappearing into the gloom. Caprimulgus guided her up a flight of stairs, humming to herself cheerfully as though unaware of anything strange that might have happened. They came out near the large bathroom, the one where Claudia had first seen those strange insects, from a panel in the wall that Wille had never suspected hid a secret path. She turned the taps now, and stripped off her muck-covered clothes to the sound of the copper pipes clunking and banging. She would be grateful to soak her body, to lie suspended in the steamy water and forget all about the abhorrent lake of blood at the centre of the earth. Canto XV - The Dream Eater ¡°Hnnngh.¡± Claudia heaved over the dry stone wall as another round of spasms made her vomit into the bushes. Behind her, the gathered nuns looked on in sympathy, or pretended to be very interested in the scenery. ¡°I told you bringing her would be a bad idea,¡± Lydia hissed under her breath. ¡°We¡¯re losing time because Miss I-dreamt-I-would-come can¡¯t keep her breakfast down for longer than fifteen minutes.¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t say we should bring her, don¡¯t pin this on me!¡± Elizabeth snapped back. The two of them hadn¡¯t been talking much since they had left the convent, when Lydia had introduced Elizabeth to Isidore as a ¡®friend¡¯. Around them the speckled fronds of pampas grass waved in the noon breeze, sending small tufts of soft seedlings into the air around the band of Sisters as they waited. Tufts of sedge framed by thistles grew from the gaps where parts of the wall had eroded into the marsh. On both sides the road was framed by water. So far, Isidore had seen several pond skaters, damselflies darting from bank to bank, a couple of red-banded grasshoppers and one large water beetle. There had also been some kind of spider, bloated and swollen, dragging its leaking abdomen across the verge with several stubby legs that had a remarkable resemblance to human fingers. Gol-touched and pitiable. Isidore had squashed it beneath their heel without a second thought. ¡°There, there, just let it out.¡± They placed a comforting hand upon Claudia¡¯s quivering shoulder, and watched as the water below the bushes was gradually infused with a sickly shade of spew. There were maggots in the water here, writhing under the surface. Some dead fish, perhaps, was lurking beneath. ¡°Oh, what¡¯s happening to me¡­¡± There was a pause as she gagged, but nothing further came up. She had a hand on her belly, swollen and hard to the touch. ¡°I don¡¯t know what I ate for this to happen. My stomach hurts so.¡± ¡°Let¡¯s pop you on the cart for now, and maybe we will find something to settle your belly at Ystre.¡± The village was visible now, not half a mile away. It crawled up the back of a small hill, cobbled roads leaving grey streaks between the houses down into the valley. ¡°Well I¡¯m not pushing her.¡± Elizabeth said, and strode on ahead, leaving her side of the cart untended. Isidore took her place, and together with Lydia they trundled onwards. ¡°I don¡¯t like this.¡± Lin said. Her long dark hair flicked at her ankles as she paced behind the cart with Freya. ¡°It¡¯s too quiet.¡± ¡°Well it¡¯s mostly marshland, what kind of noise were you expecting?¡± Freya responded. ¡°It¡¯s not that, it¡¯s the¡­¡± She waved a long fingered hand at the surrounding landscape, ¡°...The flavour. It¡¯s not right. The colours are off.¡± Freya looked at her askance. ¡°You don¡¯t get it, I mean, there are Gol out here, yes?¡± ¡°Yes.¡± ¡°And they stick close by to the outskirts of human settlements?¡± ¡°True.¡± ¡°So where are they?¡± For a while there was only the sound of crickets and the creak of cartwheels before Freya spoke. ¡°Sleepin¡¯, I guess. Maybe in the water. They don¡¯t like the sun, not a bit, so why should they be out here for all our eyes to see? It¡¯s deeper than you think.¡± Lin was staring out across the flats, brows furrowed. The pools of water that dappled the landscape were still and stagnant as the procession began to pass the outer farmhouses of Ystre. Doors hung from their hinges, some shattered but others merely rotting back into the marsh. Moss crept up the timber frames, turning the once-lacquered wood a sodden green. Thatch that was once golden and vivid was now brown and waterlogged, flecked with pale spots of mildew. Without realising it the group had stopped their conversations, a singular instinct telling them to stay small, stay quiet. Only the sound of the cart marked their passage yet even that seemed to have become muffled, as though the wheels remembered the streets in the same way as wood remembered the axe. The hush was broken by Claudia, who was oblivious to all of this, the atmosphere remaining impenetrable to her as she kept to herself in her own little world. ¡°Look! That cloud is like a little kitty! Do you see it, Lydia? Do you see it?¡± ¡°I see it.¡± Lydia replied, sotto voce, not looking at either cloud or Claudia. ¡°Oh, it looks just like Smidgeon.¡± She said wistfully, her mind filled with the kitchen cat. She was spread out on the cart, one hand still resting lightly near her stomach, the other dangling over the edge as the others pushed the cart up the steep and narrow street. ¡°We should keep quiet, there could be Gol sheltering in these houses.¡± Freya reminded them in a whisper. ¡°When we get to the refinery we can relax a little.¡± ¡°Why?¡± Claudia asked, but Freya only put a finger on her lips. The rest of the journey was made in silence. When the cart came to rest, the reason they were able to speak more freely became clear. ¡°It was a fire.¡± Freya explained, as she kicked at a charred block of wood, it¡¯s original purpose unidentifiable. ¡°The buildings were all thatched, so shelter isn¡¯t likely.¡± She spoke the truth. At the far edge of the village, where the top of the hill flattened out, was the complex of buildings that made up the old miner¡¯s above ground headquarters. Each was roofless, the barley thatch long since burned to nothing. There was still the bitter taste of ash upon the air. ¡°You don¡¯t think we will find any bodies, do you?¡± Asked Elizabeth, hand on her rosary. ¡°Oh how horrid, I should hope not!¡± Lin scrunched up her nose at the thought. ¡°Fret not. It was a long time ago, any exposed remains would be long-since scavenged.¡± Lydia, responded, her voice amplified into echoes as she peered down into a disused well. ¡°Either way, before we start searching we should have lunch. It¡¯s going to be a long afternoon.¡± ¡°Agreed.¡± Freya nodded, and began to distribute neatly folded wax paper bundles of still-warm potato bread and dried meat. Sophie the cook had stayed up late to cure and smoke the thin slices of pork just for their journey, imbuing it with mouthwatering hints of rosemary and sage. The others back at the convent would be eating it fresh, in a meaty broth of similar flavours with potato bread for dipping. Such a bounty was rare. Usually it was a single rabbit or water fowl, strung out as tiny chunks in a watery stew that would last all week. Boar were rarely found this close to the marsh and as such the taste was intoxicating. ¡°May the Dreamer bless this simple gift, that it should nourish the souls of the departed.¡± The words of the prayer drifted through the village as Lin and Elizabeth sacrificed a little of their meal to honour the spirits of the village dead, kneeling in the ashen dirt before a makeshift altar of stones. While they carried out these last rites, Freya and Lydia began searching the houses for telltale signs of pre-processed quicklime while Isidore took Claudia with them to the quarry. From the top of the hill they could see the white cliffs of excavated limestone leading down to a lake. Most of the tunnels were now underwater, but a few on the far side could be entered from dry land. ¡°It must have flooded while there were still people living here. See, there¡¯s a boat.¡± Isidore pointed to the little craft, big enough barely for the two of them, that had been tethered near the bank. The rope was frayed with age but held it strong, the tarred hull holding itself true. After a quick test of weight, Isidore motioned for Claudia to join them. As Isidore¡¯s careful strokes sent them skimming across the water towards the mineshafts, dragonflies banded in green and turquoise followed the boat.The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings. ¡°Do you like insects, Izzy?¡± ¡°Hmm?¡± ¡°I see you looking at them. Do they bother you?¡± ¡°Not at all. I find them magnificent.¡± Claudia let a smile drift across her face. ¡°I don¡¯t see you around much.¡± She said, after a moment of silence. ¡°I keep to myself. Rather, I haven¡¯t taken orders, so I¡¯m not really allowed within the grounds except on business.¡± ¡°Do you see a lot of Gol from the gatehouse?¡± ¡°Yes.¡± They did not offer any further comment, and Claudia did not push it until they reached the shore. ¡°Have you ever seen a Gol-touched bug?¡± She asked while Isidore dragged the boat up the shingle. There was a cave mouth ahead, dark and foreboding with a tongue of rusty iron rails running from the beach straight into the hillside depths. Wooden supports framed the entrance, but did not look very sturdy now. Claudia was taking all this in when she realised Isidore looked suddenly serious. ¡°Why do you ask? Is this something you¡¯ve come across? Tell me, Claudia.¡± ¡°I¡¯ve seen one, or two. In the bathroom. In the larder. I used to be scared of them, but¡­ Not anymore.¡± Isidore was close to her now, their eyes distracted, searching, peering into her own with intensity. ¡°Did you ever let them touch you? Have you been bitten?¡± Claudia met their gaze with a self-possessed ease far from the mannerisms of the sickly girl she had been on the trip so far. ¡°Would it scare you if I had been?¡± ¡°Certainly, as all those who come in contact with a Gol lose their humanity. you have heard the tales, I¡¯m sure.¡± Isidore looked now at the way the young woman comported herself. Even beneath the heavy fabrics of her habit it was clear that she was holding herself stiffly, her shoulders taught and arms curled inwards. Isidore¡¯s face shifted to one of sympathy. ¡°You can tell me, you know. I can help.¡± ¡°A kind offer. But really Izzy, I¡¯m fine.¡± Claudia patted the gatekeeper on the shoulder. ¡°Shall we?¡± The mine was surprisingly well-kept for such an old tunnel. The floor was smooth and free of debris, though their lanterns cast little light and the gloom remained impenetrable. ¡°What is it we¡¯re looking for?¡± Claudia¡¯s voice echoed down the corridor. ¡°Lime powder. This whole tunnel is made out of limestone, but it¡¯ll be easier to find some already extracted. Freya and the others are gathering quicklime from the houses, but if it¡¯s been improperly stored then we might need to make our own. I can¡¯t say that those ruins would have offered much protection from the rain, so let¡¯s get as much as we can.¡± Sure enough, not far into the passage there was a borehole where larger chunks had been excavated, leaving mounds of powdered limestone on the floor. They were able to fill three large, hessian flour bags between the two of them and carry them back to the beach. The boat sat low in the water as Isidore carefully paddled them back across the water, though there were a few times when a shift in weight let on water, and Claudia¡¯s skirts were wet through by the time they got to shore. There was no-one else at the cart. ¡°Lydia! Freya! Eliz-¡± Isidore¡¯s hand shot out and covered Claudia¡¯s mouth. ¡°Quiet. What do you think you¡¯re doing?¡± But before she could reply there came a rustling from one of the houses, as though some large-sized creature were waking from its slumber. Isidore brandished a long, silver-inlaid knife that seemed to appear out of nowhere. ¡°Peace, peace. It¡¯s only me.¡± Lin unfurled herself from the doorway, hands raised. ¡°Where are the others?¡± Isidore asked, lowering the blade. ¡°This way, quickly. Bring the rope. Oh please hurry!¡± They followed her into the cottage, the back wall of which had fallen in, making for an easy entrance to the second floor of the house next door, which could be reached via wooden planks. ¡°I didn¡¯t know you had a knife, Izzy.¡± Claudia asked, as though their brisk pace was the most normal thing in the world. ¡°It¡¯s a dirk. I always carry it. Hush.¡± Lin gestured for them to follow closely. Beneath their feet there came a clack, clack. ¡°This was a storage house, but we couldn¡¯t find a way in from the street. The door wouldn¡¯t budge. Turns out, it was blocked by this enormous Gol! And we woke it with our banging! Oh Isidore, please, I¡¯m so afraid. No powder could be worth this. I was able to get out because I¡¯m so tall, but the others have barricaded themselves in the back room.¡± They could hear it now, a quiet sobbing from the floor below. A familiar, human sound behind the clack. ¡°This way.¡± Lin led them down the corridor, and to a hole in the floor. Below they could see the rest of the party, huddled together in the chamber below. ¡°Oh thank the Lord you¡¯re finally here. Quickly now, the rope!¡± Lydia was the first to leap into action while the others seemed unresponsive, numb with shock. Elizabeth tied a sling and helped Freya climb into it, and it wasn¡¯t long before everyone was standing safely on the second floor. ¡°Freya, what¡¯s wrong?¡± Isidore asked her. Freya, who had been cradling her arm in front of her, held it out for inspection. She had removed the sleeve and imprinted on the skin of her forearm was unmistakably the angular, haphazard tooth marks from a Gol. Clack, clack. ¡°You were bitten? How badly? Did it break the skin?¡± Freya nodded, her eyes squeezed shut in pain. A trickle of red ran down her arm and off the end of her finger, disappearing somewhere between the floorboards. ¡°I-I think it¡¯s broken. It bit me so hard! Ah, it hurts!¡± She sucked air between her teeth and winced. ¡°Izzy, what are you doing?¡± At Claudia¡¯s words the room turned to face the gatekeeper, who was holding aloft their gilded knife, silver flashing in the dim light. Their face was set in stone. ¡°You heard her. She¡¯s been contaminated. At the very least we need to take the arm off.¡± With a quick, no-nonsense movement Lydia pushed the knife down to Isidore¡¯s side. ¡°We have a doctor waiting at home. We will be back at Palus Somni before nightfall. No arguments, do you understand?¡± Isidore nodded, but their face kept the same dour expression. As they made their way back to the cart, Lydia stayed behind. She could see its face through the cracks in the floorboards. It¡¯s sleepy features, shallow and morbid, were small compared to its mouth. Slablike teeth were set into a terrifying grin, and it snapped them together with that grisly clack, such as pebbles knapping flint. It did not notice her. At some point, it looked like someone had attempted to bind its mouth closed with bandages, which had since broken and fluttered aimlessly around its head. As she watched, it reached into a barrel with it¡¯s broken, hand-like stump and pulled out a scraping of red rock, pushing it mindlessly into its toothy maw. The sound of those grinding teeth filled the room with a crumbling clamour. It put its paw back in the barrel, but found nothing more to eat. Pitiful, she thought. It had been more interested in eating its fill than in the humans, but had moved like lightning to guard it¡¯s precious crimson treasure. She had felt a malicious joy in taking it¡¯s meal from it, though a part of her felt bad that Freya had suffered so for her mischief. She spat on its head. It looked up at her with its doughy face, and for a moment the grinding stopped. Good, she thought. Let it see me. Let it see the faith it can never penetrate. ¡°You want this, hmm?¡± She held up a nugget of the pearl iron between thumb and forefinger. She had poured the rest out the window, but it did not need to know that. The Gol watched it intently, silently, its eyes moving with it. It reached its arms up, but they were small and stubby and did come anywhere near the ceiling. ¡°Well, too bad! It¡¯s mine now.¡± And she stuck out her tongue with childish glee. The beast¡¯s features were blank, perhaps it didn¡¯t understand after all. That only made her angry, and she spat on it again before turning on her heel in disdain. ¡°Lydia, what took you? We have to go, it¡¯s getting late already.¡± Elizabeth said while securing the last of the bags in place. The cart was laden with both their spoils and with Freya, who found herself too weak to walk. Claudia had given up her place on the cart, but was too ill to push, so the majority of the work was down to Lydia, Elizabeth and Lin. It was not yet dark, but their accident had cost them valuable time and the sun was almost setting. ¡°Did you hear that?¡± ¡°Hear what?¡± ¡°Like a crash, coming from the village.¡± They stopped the cart and looked back. Though they hadn¡¯t gotten far, the evening fen fog was creeping in, and they could only make out the barest of outlines of the village towers. ¡°Let¡¯s just keep walking.¡± But as they made their way back down the narrow road it became clearer that something was wrong. ¡°Look! There, did you see that?¡± Elizabeth grabbed Lydia by the shoulder and pointed behind them. Surely enough, on the road back to the village there was a vaguely humanoid shadow. ¡°So, we¡¯re being followed.¡± Isidore muttered. ¡°It¡¯s the fog no doubt, it¡¯s blocking the sunlight earlier than expected. Let¡¯s move!¡± They picked up the pace and even Claudia helped them push the cart. The shadow behind them didn¡¯t seem to get any closer, but the fog was also getting thicker. Now it had broken it¡¯s way outside the building they could see it more clearly. The rock-eating gol was almost as wide as it was tall, with short arms that ended in stumps stained red. It might have been a trick of the light, but Lin was sure she could see the light reflecting from those giant teeth. A disembodied smile following them through the fog. Canto XVI - Hide and Seek The hem of her habit billowed around her ankles as she paced up and down outside the abbey, not heeding the chill mist that was beginning to seep into her bones. The sun had dipped beneath the western hills a good hour ago, leaving them only with the deep blue gloaming of an early winter¡¯s night. ¡°Where are they¡­¡± ¡°Do not fret so, Hazel. They will be back soon.¡± Alana put a reassuring arm out to stop the Etude¡¯s anxious march. She had been following her with a blanket, and finally caught her in its warm embrace. ¡°Put this on, there you go. They may have had to shelter somewhere until morning.¡± ¡°Something¡¯s happened to them, I know it.¡± ¡°No, you don¡¯t. I don¡¯t see any Gol stirring yet, they are probably fine wherever they are.¡± ¡°I just¡­¡± Tears formed at the sides of her eyes, thick and fast. ¡°I just don¡¯t want to wake up in the morning and see them all h-hanging there, not again.¡± Before she could say another word she was wrapped in warmth by the astrologer, her arms strong but gentle as they enveloped her in kindness. ¡°That isn¡¯t going to happen. I know it.¡± ...We¡¯re almost home, look! There¡¯s the gate... Sometimes, just sometimes, it wasn¡¯t so bad to hear the voices. It wasn¡¯t often they brought good news, or in fact any decipherable news at all, but as Elizabeth¡¯s familiar voice filtered through her subconscious she felt a deep relief come over her. It was only a moment after the two of them sank into the silence of the embrace that the sound of distant creaking came from the road. Beatrice gesticulated silently at them both, waving her lantern. ¡°See? Here they come now.¡± But as the cart drew closer so did the mood. Hearts beating firmly in chests wrapped tight against the cold, a nervousness shared with the nuns in the convent. ¡°What is it, what happened? Oh my Lord, Freya! Quick! Get her inside, we can unload the lime tomorrow.¡± ¡°No.¡± Freya, feverish, waved her hand weakly as she was pulled off the cart. ¡°We have to bring it in now. That thing will eat it.¡± ¡°Eat it?¡± Alana was puzzled, but as one the nuns turned to the road and saw, nestled far away in the fog, what could have been the figure of a person, if they did not already know that no human could cast such a monstrous silhouette. Years of training took over, and in absolute silence save for the creaking of the cartwheels the nuns pushed the cart inside, doused their lanterns and locked the gate. Only once they were all inside did they dare to make more sound than the shallowest of breaths, even Freya seemed to hold her moans until the door was safely locked and barred. ¡°Come, Isidore. I don¡¯t feel comfortable returning you to the guest house with that¡­ thing¡­ out there. We will find you somewhere to stay in the dormitory for tonight.¡± Lydia said, in a whisper barely audible. ¡°Thank you, Sister.¡± The two of them walked out into the darkness and disappeared. There was scarcely any light filtering through the cracks in the shuttered windows, certainly not enough for someone unfamiliar with the place to find their way around comfortably, but the inhabitants knew every twist and turn of the endless corridors and so it was little issue for Elizabeth and Lin to escort the injured Freya to the infirmary. When the Gol were abroad, the darkness was only ever their friend. ¡°I see. I see. What an unfortunate business indeed.¡± These were Sister Bellemorde¡¯s first words when she was woken by the imploring hands of the terrified Sisters, their hurried explanations that tripped and turned over each other somehow making sense to the doctor. ¡°Isidore said that once you get bit, there¡¯s no hope, that you might as well die.¡± Lin said, smoothing her hair over and over with anxious fingers. ¡°Isidore is not a doctor,¡± was all that Belle would say in return as she ran her slender hands over the wound. Her tall frame bore down around her patient, bent double with a willowy flexibility that betrayed many years of stooping over the production of delicate tinctures, as though her entire body was an infusion of wispy wood in water. ¡°Tea?¡± Lin jumped. She hadn¡¯t noticed the doctor¡¯s assistant, Sister Grace, as she approached them both with steaming cups. Grace was the living opposite of Belle. Where her mentor was tall and full of arboreal movement, Grace was short, stubby, and with a delicate quality not unlike a plucked petal. She spoke little, moved little, and smiled little owing to the scar tissue that ran across her lower jaw. Lin was very fond of her own floor-length black hair, which she kept untethered and brushed for one hour every morning. Belle¡¯s hair had a pinkish tinge, product of many years of chemical tinkering, whereas Grace¡¯s hair was a thin and raggedy brown. Overall, Lin thought she was a rather unlikeable character. She had no art in her, no spark to drive forth life and creativity, no alluring qualities that would unmask any original thought. She merely did what Belle told her to do, which to Lin was no real life at all. She took the cup, and passed the other to Elizabeth, and before she had taken the first sip Grace had disappeared back to wherever she had been before. Out of the picture, out of mind. ¡°She will be fine, perhaps.¡± Sister Belle said, as she pulled the last of the gauze over the wound. The room smelled strongly of comfrey and bergamot, the oils of which the bandages had previously been soaked in. ¡°Perhaps?¡± Elizabeth asked. The tea had emboldened her. ¡°Bone knitter.¡± ¡°I¡¯m sorry?¡± ¡°This.¡± Belle gestured around the room. ¡°The smell. It¡¯s the bone knitter plant.¡± ¡°Oh? What does that do?¡± ¡°Knits bones. And flesh. Teeth, too, if you¡¯re lucky. But if you¡¯re unlucky, it kills you. This one,¡± She gestured to Freya, who was already dozing soundly, ¡°needs to knit back her skin swiftly. We can¡¯t afford to wait for the wound to close. So, yes; perhaps.¡± ¡°But surely,¡± began Lin, ¡°If it were a fox bite, she would not need it to close up so quickly? Is there something about the Gol which is contagious?¡± ¡°If there were, this would not be how I would want to find out. Off with you now, my patients are sleeping.¡± The two of them hadn¡¯t noticed before now, but the infirmary was not empty. On a bed at the end of the hall, draped in sheer curtains, was Jenny. Her face almost unrecognizable in sleep, deep lines creasing sunken cheeks with shadows. Without her wimple to cover it they caught a glimpse of silver-white hair before Belle steered them outside with a chiding hand. In the shadows, Grace watched them leave. Out of the picture, out of mind. --- Everything felt normal inside, so simply ordinary that Isidore half thought that they might have hallucinated the events of the trip altogether. Between their fingers they could still feel the chalky grit of the limestone powder, anchoring them back to reality. Their whole body moved with the weary slowness that could only come from a day of hard toil. Each step was leaden with a keen exhaustion that had previously been ignored, but now the adrenaline was fading and with it any resilience that had been keeping them going. Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more. ¡°You can sleep here for the night, there should be fresh linen on the table.¡± Lydia pointed them to a small room at the end of the Orison wing before shutting the door gently. As she turned back to the corridor she noticed one of the doors stood ajar. The door to Wille¡¯s room. Lydia swooped into the chamber and her thoughts became an angry hiss, boiling and roiling in her head as plumes of hot kettle-steam. The day had dragged her from road to rock and back again, and there was to be no respite for the weary this night. Where is she? That girl, I swear¡­ She barely heard the march of her shoes on the stone as she took her umbrage with her down the stairs in short, sharp steps. The Gol be damned, she thought with her chin held high, let them hear all they like. She snatched a lantern from its alcove. Let them see. It wasn¡¯t her fault if she needed the light to bring back a lost Sister. If anything, it was Wille¡¯s for not following the rules in the first place. The first place she checked was the main bathroom. Silent save for the dripping of a leaky tap, the lamplight cast a greenish glow from the tiles. Empty. It was the same in the refectory, no furtive hands prepared midnight snacks or stole sips of summer spirits from ice-cooled urns. As she took herself on a tour of the abbey her anger eased, her body lost it¡¯s tension and her steps lightened. It was just a game, hide-and-seek through all the halls and landings and secret hidden stairs. She began looking in more unlikely places; cupboards, the gaps behind curtains and the hollow spaces under trestle tables. Concealed doors were rediscovered, behind grand bookshelves or moveable wooden panels. She felt herself revitalise, her girlishness restored, indulging in a youthful playfulness she hadn¡¯t allowed herself to feel since the Ystre lynching. Her responsibilities turned to amusement, and any worry that Wille might actually be missing dissipated. She was in the main chapel when she saw it. A shadow, barely more than a wisp in the gloom, had flitted across the stained glass window panes from outside. Inside, the glass paintings of eminent saints filled the floor with a motley of red and purple patterns, spread by the faint moonlight. Ancient deeds of long-dead anchorites played out once more on the tiles and warped themselves across the wooden pews. Lydia had been watching the faces on the floor when the hue was interrupted by a silhouette passing the window. ¡°Well now, someone¡¯s in trouble.¡± She grinned to herself as she made her way to the side entrance. She couldn¡¯t help but look towards the iron gate, and sure enough, the rock-chewing Gol was standing there in the distance. It¡¯s eyes were upon her, and she took a moment to rummage in her pocket for the last piece of pearl iron and hold it up. Its eyes widened along with its smile as the rock glinted red in the moonlight. ¡°You want this, hmm? Well, fetch!¡± With a single swing she threw the stone away, deeper into the grounds where it landed with a thud among the laurels. The Gol did not move, only it¡¯s eyes turned to stare at the place where it landed with a look of such longing, Lydia had to laugh. She followed it¡¯s gaze and saw beyond the bushes a dark figure. One with short hair and an oversized habit, bending down over something at the very edge of the garden, beneath the wall. ¡°Found you!¡± She said playfully, not yet returned to her normal Wille-hating self, as she marched up behind her. ¡°What do you have to say for yourself? There¡¯s no getting out of it this time, you¡¯ll be on latrine duty for-¡± But her sentence was left unfinished. Her mouth fell open with pure shock, and she forgot to breath. It was Wille, standing there, up to her elbows in grave dirt. She had turned to face her, wiping her sweaty brow with one arm. Lydia¡¯s gaze travelled down, taking in her muddy smock and her hands stained black with soil. Behind her lay an abyss where there should have been earth, a mound of which lay to one side. A pointy-tipped shovel stood at the bottom of the hole next to a dirty, six-by-two wooden casket. ¡°Lydia, I can explain.¡± Lydia¡¯s hand whipped up almost beyond her control, slapping her hard around the face and sending her sprawling backwards into the grave. She hit the casket with a hollow thud. ¡°What is this, what are you doing? Heavens, is there no end to your depravity?¡± If she had stopped a moment - and she didn¡¯t - to feel the full extent of her feelings in all their formidable intensity, she might have noticed - but she didn¡¯t - that her face was drenched in salt-spattered streams, a trickling river delta, branches like an old oak cascading down her cheeks and chin. Something, somewhere, had changed. Inside she knew this, that whatever relationship she had with Wille, even if that relationship was one of cruel intensity and bitter edges, was forever finished. A rivalry returned could be sweeter still than honeycomb, with depths more intoxicating than even the richest of teas brewed from such bitter leaves as love. ¡°Listen. Listen to me! Lydia, stop!¡± Wille turned her back to protect herself from the rain of fists and kicks that battered her face and hands. She knelt down besides the wood and placed her shovel in the gap between the lid and the box. ¡°What are you doing? Oh my good Lord, no.¡± Lydia stopped her onslaught, stepping back as though polluted by what her eyes were witnessing. ¡°The Noctunes,¡± Wille panted, ¡°They told me to seek Harriet¡¯s mortal remains. They called her an Angol. Trust me, Lydia, for once in your life. I¡¯m begging you, listen to me. Mischa said that all will become clear if we just examine the body.¡± These last few words came out in gasps as the lid came free with one final, determined heave. Both Orisons stood in silence for a moment as the dust cleared. They might have expected some cloud of gaseous grave smog, or a cloud of flies to rise a whirl around them, but none of these things happened. The lid swung open as though it was the most natural thing in the world for it to do, revealing the body within. Two antlers sat astride it¡¯s head, big doe eyes gazing, death-stuck, into realms unknown. Its body was not bloated, the meat had been gone for some time. Apart from the head, which seemed almost preserved in lifelike taxidermy, only the bones remained. It was a deer corpse. Pristine. Not even Gol-touched. Wille tried to remember the last time they ate venison, confusion and fear rising as she realised: Harriet isn¡¯t here. She was, even after death, still missing. Before she could say anything, do anything, a hand grabbed her by the hair - not too unkindly, but firmly - and pulled her backwards in such a way that she could not help but follow, clambering back up the incline to the surface. ¡°Lydia, where are you¡­¡± But one look on her face told her she would not get an answer. Only the smarting of her cheek and the grip of firm fingers in her hair made her feel anything beyond the numbing truths that rattled in her skull. Harriet was still missing. She didn¡¯t even protest when Lydia led her down through the undercroft hall where they kept the moth-eaten altar cloths, through the vats of sanctified wine towards a wall of stout, cobweb-covered barrels. ¡°What are we doing here?¡± Wille didn¡¯t even feel like resisting, so sure was she that the presence of the deer carcass only served to prove her actions justified. Lydia knocked once, twice, upon a casket to the left and the lid of it opened outwards, hinged and handled like a door. Beyond it lay a short, sharp drop and an ice-block floor dusted with rime. Wille found herself shoved inside, her knees hitting the ice with a jolt of fresh pain. ¡°H-hey, Lydia!¡± The barrel door was closed once more, high enough that she couldn¡¯t quite reach it without standing, though as her knees were still recovering from the shock this kept her from trying. She simply laid there in the dark, pain throbbing through her entire body, as the force of the impact kept her sliding ever so slightly across the ice. ¡°You will wait here until the Inquisition deigns to speak with you, or your trial is convened.¡± ¡°The Inquisition? Trial? What are you babbling about? They don¡¯t come out of their tower for nothing.¡± Lydia¡¯s muffled voice became shrill. ¡°Nothing? A Sister is killed, and one of our own digs up and desecrates her body. Is this a game to you? This is not nothing.¡± ¡°Lydia, I didn¡¯t put that there! Don¡¯t you see? I was right about-¡± ¡°Enough of this. I wash my hands of you, Willow. The Inquisition will deal with you from now on.¡± Wille heard footsteps turning away from the barrel. ¡°Oh, and one more thing. Don¡¯t stray too far from the door.¡± Wille had only just managed to stand, hoping to batter her hands raw at the wood of the cask, when her heel slipped from under her. She fell down in a tumble of skirts, grasping at the blocks which were, thankfully, uneven and jutting out into several easy handholds. The warmth of her hand made them slippery with fresh melt, and with greatest of care she felt around with the foot that had failed her. Nothing, only a sheer edge where the ice suddenly stopped. It was the same across that entire side of the cell. What had once been a small insulated room for storing ice throughout the summer, perhaps so some long-dead Lordling could have chilled wine as his whims demanded, had fallen through into the caverns below. With a chill that sent a shiver down her spine, not entirely due to the frost, Wille remembered the lake of blood. ¡°Lydia?¡± No response. She made her way painstakingly to the entrance, her hands only reaching the bottom of the wood, and tapped. ¡°Lydia, are you there?¡± She slammed her hand into the timber with such strength she was sure she was waking the whole abbey. ¡°Lydia!¡± No response. In the gloom of the undercroft, where her muffled shouts mingled only with dust, a single insect crawled up the side of the barrel. Half legs, half flesh. Slithering, like a tongue across the wood. Canto XVII - Saint Francesca of the Inquisition The shared silence was broken by a single knock at the door. Teacups were halted in their ascent from saucer to lip, suspended in the air by slender fingers. ¡°Judith. Judith. Did I not tell you?¡± A mellifluous voice, clear as a bell and twice as sharp. ¡°You did tell me, Inquisitor.¡± ¡°And did I not say, did I not?¡± ¡°You did say.¡± ¡°Ha! Well, well. I wonder what is needed of us.¡± ¡°Shall I, Inquisitor?¡± A nod, simple and refined. The teacup reached its destination and the figure in the chair took a small sip as her companion shuffled to the door. The red and black robed nun took a moment to locate the ring of keys, and when she lifted them from the hook a thread of old spider webs stuck to the metal. For a moment, neither was sure if the lock would actually open, but after a hard twist with both hands the bolt slid home with a smooth, solid click. The hinges were stiff, and though regularly oiled they did not open gracefully. The door itself was larger than average, twice the average height and decorated with embellished golden mullions. Lydia stood to attention as it swung inwards before her. As always, she was immaculate. No hint of the night¡¯s activities, or her subsequent inability to get even a single wink of sleep, showed on her face. Facing her, Sister Judith stood inside the sun room with the morning light framing her with dappled golden beams, gesturing her to enter. Lydia stepped inside, and was possibly the first outsider to do so in several decades. The room was unseasonably warm. Humid even, but not the point of becoming unpleasant. Around the domed ceiling grew trellised plants, ivies and spindly roses, that filled the chamber with sweet scent. Every wall was a window, and every window was garlanded with blooms. The ceiling itself was more than two stories high, and metal circular staircases wound their way to various apertures and platforms. ¡°It has been a long time since we have entertained anyone from the monastery proper. Do you seek counsel, Sister?¡± It was the figure in the wicker chair who spoke. A sheer mesh veil obscured half her face, fastened beneath a small priest¡¯s hat. The lips that moved in time to these words were a perfect red. ¡°Yes, Sister. Your help is sorely needed, this past month has just been one nightmare after another, I...¡± The seated woman held up a hand and Lydia¡¯s speech drifted to a halt. ¡°Tea?¡± ¡°I¡¯m sorry?¡± ¡°I said: Tea? It means: Would you like some tea?¡± Her crimson lips formed the words slowly, with a dripping condescension hovering as a smile at the edges. Lydia cleared her throat, and clasped her hands at her waist much as Sister Judith was doing behind her. ¡°Yes, Sister. Thank you. Tea would be appreciated.¡± The woman nodded to Judith, who scurried forwards with her strange shuffling gait. With practised ease she poured the water - still hot - over the leaves. ¡°You know the second pour of the day is always the best. The temperature of the water is important, and I first prefer a bitter cup.¡± The veiled nun moved her hands as though in ceremony, placing cubes of sugar into each cup. She did not ask Lydia if she wanted sugar. ¡°My first cup uses boiling water, to perfect that bitterness. In a few minutes, the water is the perfect temperature for a long brew of sweet jasmine.¡± Judith had finished pouring, and had returned to her seat - a small, dimpled velvet footstool - on the opposite side to the table. She motioned for Lydia to help herself to a cup, and pointed her to her own footstool. It was uncomfortably low, making her look up into the shadowed eyes of her haughty conversation partner. It was a battle of superiority, and she was losing. ¡°You know, many of us see this tower as rather dreary, you can¡¯t tell from the outside just how light and airy it is in here.¡± Lydia began. ¡°There was a massacre.¡± ¡°Beg pardon?¡± ¡°In this tower. A massacre.¡± She was doing it again, repeating her words in that nauseatingly slow voice as though talking to a toddler. ¡°Many moons ago, just after Palus Somni had been sold to the Alucinari. When the first Mother Superior arrived here to collect the final documents she was expecting a welcoming party. She was met only with a trail of blood leading to the Lord¡¯s orangery tower. As it happened, one of the maids had gone mad. Maid, uh¡­¡± ¡°Maid Mina.¡± Judith added. ¡°Maid Mina. She killed the Lord Mallory at his desk. Knife straight through the throat, his head was almost completely severed by the force of her fishknife through the gullet. Some of the other servants, too, had been killed. An accountant, I think, and a visitor from the city. It made the headlines across the country.¡± ¡°Gosh.¡± ¡°Indeed. As you can see, it was necessary right from our inception to maintain an inquisitorial branch of the covenant. There was no national police force back then, and the Bow Street Runners wouldn¡¯t come out so far from the city. The Church kept their own investigators, and it was one of my predecessors who detained Maid Mina and punished her accordingly.¡± She paused to put down her teacup. The light filtered through her veil but revealed nothing of the upper part of her face. Thick bunches of dark brown hair girdled her face with a well-kempt softness, while her silken dress shon with hues of red and green, ringed with gold. A far cry from even the most stylish of cotton habits in Lydia¡¯s collection. ¡°I am Saint Francesca of the Inquisition, but you,¡± She paused to let the honeyed command sink in, extending an ivory pale hand, ¡°can call me Cesca.¡± Lydia took it, and was about to reply with her own introduction when the proffered hand grew tight around her fingers, manicured nails digging into her skin. ¡°What do you mean by ¡®this past month¡¯?¡± Her grip remained firm, and she used this as leverage to draw the Orison closer to her seat.This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. ¡°I¡¯m not sure I understand, Sister.¡± Lydia was unsure what term of address to use for her. She had never met a canonized Alucinari in the flesh before. Were Saints also Sisters? Either way, Cesca did not seem to mind. ¡°You said yourself, ¡®this past month has just been one nightmare after another.¡¯ Why has it taken you so long to contact us?¡± She let go of her hand with a smile, a smile that said that nothing had happened, that her hand was perfectly fine. A smile that said if she contended that, she would lose. Lydia looked down at her palm and saw that the indents from the fingernails had broken the skin. ¡°Sister Cesca, I have been working hard to maintain order in this convent. It was going well. I had it under control, until yesterday.¡± ¡°Oh? Forgive me, I did not realise the Mother Superior now dressed as such.¡± She twisted her fingers in the air, gesturing to Lydia¡¯s habit with a curl on her lip. It was an obvious trap, but the cage was already closing. ¡°I am not the Mother Superior. She is away on business, and left me in charge.¡± ¡°You are not the Mother Superior.¡± Cesca repeated these words in her slow, condescending way. ¡°Yes, that¡¯s right. You are not the Mother Superior, and you should have come to me the moment that Etude was killed.¡± Lydia wasn¡¯t even surprised that she knew about that. The two denizens of the tower were supplied with food and clothing, their every need seen to. It was only to be expected that they were provided with news, too. She made a mental note to find out who brought them their meals. ¡°Now tell me, what have you done.¡± Cesca¡¯s tone, laced with the pseudo-cadence of maternal concern, made her feel like she was the one on trial. ¡°I have locked an acolyte in the old ice house.¡± ¡°I see.¡± ¡°She was caught defiling a grave.¡± ¡°Oh my.¡± Lydia paused, sensing a certain hostility from her hosts as they sat, impassive, listening to her tale. ¡°Is this not something you can help with? This is cause for alarm, is it not?¡± In a flash Cesca clasped the arms of her chair with a grip so strong the wood creaked under her fingers, betraying the ferocity beneath her calm exterior. Then it was gone, and she was back to her demure self with no hint of the fire that raged beneath her breast. ¡°I¡¯m sure we could make time to examine your little gravedigger. Judith, remind me?¡± ¡°The penalty for sacrilegious acts is highest only to one other; two hundred and eight lashes, Inquisitor.¡± Judith intoned from memory. ¡°Indeed. But what, pray, is the punishment for unsanctioned witchcraft?¡± ¡°Witchcraft practised as part of any external divine or profane influence is to be tolerated, except in an instance where it brings the practitioner into disobedience with the Alucinari charter. Then the penalties will be enacted-¡± ¡°Wait,¡± Lydia attended to cut in. ¡°-one level above what would normally be sufficient.¡± Judith finished. ¡°So you see, Sister,¡± Cesca turned her face to Lydia with a smile, ¡°she will be disciplined to the highest extent of the law. She will face our greatest punishment.¡± ¡°Wille is not a witch, Sister, she is only-¡± Lydia swallowed. ¡°She digs up the graves of the murdered at midnight. It is witchcraft, is it not, Judith?¡± ¡°Yes Inquisitor. The Book of Eight Laws specifies that the tampering of bodies, both living and dead, is considered witchcraft as, in this case, the corpse cannot consent to the moving of their remains beyond the grave. To violate the accord of the dead is to violate a law of nature, thus making it witchcraft.¡± The room was still for a moment as Lydia gathered herself enough to ask the question she was sure she would not like the answer to. ¡°Please remind me, I am not as well read in legal theory, what is the greatest punishment we can give?¡± ¡°Why Sister, look around you. We enshrine it, we bless it, for it is our saviour from Sin. Do you see it? Glory be!¡± She gestured to the largest of all the stained window frescoes. It depicted a man, his eyes fixed upwards upon the moon, as flames licked up his tattered habit. His hands were bound on either side to a T-shaped wooden stake. ¡°Yes, yes. We will burn the witch. From ice to ash she will go, and it will be glorious.¡± ¡°Sister. Inquisitor. With all due respect, I must object. We cannot kill her, I do not want her dead! She¡¯s¡­ We grew up together. I wished only to settle this dispute appropriately, and within-¡± Cesca held up her hand. ¡°This is the law, and it shall be followed. But first, we should really be talking about your own punishment.¡± ¡°My what?¡± ¡°Judith?¡± Cesca ran a hand through her hair in exasperation. ¡°Not immediately notifying the inquisition of a tragedy. Taking on the authorities of a Mother Superior without due procedure. Impersonating a Mother superior.¡± ¡°Given the circumstances, and given your graciousness in seeking us out, we will be lenient. Judith?¡± ¡°Yes, Inquisitor. The mildest punishment for insurrection is to be branded, the brand must portray a suitable scene from the tales of the saints.¡± ¡°What? No, I didn¡¯t, I don¡¯t¡­¡± Lydia¡¯s view of the room warped and bent as though sinking under water, washed out and distorted. It took her a moment to realise she was crying, with tears so thick she could barely see through them. She couldn¡¯t remember the last time she cried. She couldn¡¯t remember anything, and as the tears weaved their way through her fingers and cascaded down her arms her head began to feel light. It did not come as a surprise to the two Inquisitors when she slumped to the floor in a faint. It was almost as though they had been expecting it. ¡°Put her on the couch, will you?¡± Cesca stepped over Lydia¡¯s prone figure, her gown sweeping the floor. In the time it took Judith to pick up the Orison and lay her to rest inside the tower, Cesca had left. She had a mighty stride for one so cloistered, taking two steps at a time and moving at such a pace that Judith with her scurrying gait was left far behind her. She left the tower and marched across the lawn as though she did this every day, quite unlike someone who hadn¡¯t been out under the naked rays of the sun in many years. It was a group, gathered by the wall, who she made towards. ¡°Sisters. Good morning. I am Inquisitor Francesca, and I am in charge until the Mother Superior returns. You may call me Cesca, and this is my assistant the Lawyer Judith.¡± She gestured behind her to the struggling figure, before returning her hand firmly to her hip, her inner fire giving her a righteous presence that extended further than her physical body. ¡°Sister Cesca¡­I was not expecting anyone to be leaving the tower anytime soon. You are welcome, of course. And you are right on time.¡± It was Magda who spoke first, her words partially obfuscated by the grinding sound from behind her. ¡°Indeed? How exciting. On time for what?¡± ¡°To see the wall come down.¡± As was her custom, Magda had been on her morning walk around the perimeter. It was a chance to smoke, and explore her own mind and the previous night¡¯s dreams without any interference. A time to recharge, only this time it was broken by the noise of rock being milled into gravel. ¡°It hasn¡¯t been here long, but it doesn¡¯t seem to mind the sun. Come.¡± Isidore was already up on the wall, looking down on the creature from between the merlons. It was the flat-headed Gol from the village, using it¡¯s gigantic slablike teeth to chew a path through the wall. ¡°But does the sun not bother it?¡± ¡°Yes, but it doesn¡¯t seem to mind. Something¡¯s got it riled up. Look at it¡¯s head.¡± The broad cranium was covered now in weeping pustules, as though experiencing severe burns. ¡°Fascinating.¡± Cesca said. ¡°Worrying, more like. At this rate, it¡¯ll be through the wall in hours. Maybe a day at most,¡± Isidore replied, ¡°That trip - the quicklime - all for nothing! We thought we were bringing back safety, but we may have just saved time and brought the wall down ourselves.¡± Beneath their feet the Gol continued it¡¯s relentless chewing, paying them no heed, a mushy mixture of grit and saliva dripping from either side of its mouth. Canto XVIII - Here Comes the Arm Cesca quickly cemented herself as leader, judge and spiritual head of the convent. Her promotion from distant face in the tower to acting Mother Superior came as a surprise to all, but nothing was half as shocking as learning about Wille¡¯s trespass. The presence of the daytime Gol, too, was no comfort. No attempt was made by Cesca to control the information, as she seemed to thrive on the discord and chaos that now whirled around the inquisition, her vulpine smile the eye of the storm. She had moved from the tower into Mother Superior¡¯s quarters, forsaking her place of previous confinement but taking with her the various potted plants, some drapes, tea sets and a red velvet chaise lounge. Though surrounded with more opulence than the previous spartan tenant, Cesca demanded that everyone only call her by name, and never call her ¡®Saint¡¯ or ¡®Inquisitor¡¯. Only Judith used the latter, and the former was generally considered a source of great confusion. None had ever met a living Saint before, and yet the process was not unheard of. The question on every lip was what did she do to come beautified, but none dared to ask it. Cesca listened. She cared. She was attentive and kind and seemed genuinely interested in the personal affairs and woes of the individual Sisters who came to her for help. Though despite these attempts to ingratiate her way into the hearts of all, there still remained a barrier between herself and the others. A barrier born of disparity, and power. ¡°But I don¡¯t understand!¡± ¡°You will understand. That¡¯s what the lashes are for, to help you learn.¡± Cesca stirred her tea idly before tapping the spoon on the saucer as Morgan, crying, is led away by Judith towards the main quad. Cesca had been adamant that none of her punishments would occur behind closed doors, ¡°for accountability¡¯s sake¡± she¡¯d said. ¡°Could you explain your rationale? I thought that, though she was indeed a little lax that perhaps¡­ I mean, twenty lashes¡­¡± Lydia put emphasis on the twenty, her hand pulling at an errant bandage, but try as she might she had not been able to sway any of Cesca¡¯s rulings for the entire evening. She was an immovable rock, and even Lydia¡¯s best-laid plans were merely pebbles clattering against the solid stone. She sat to her left-hand side, mostly in silence, to all appearances the eager pupil as the inquisitors taught her the law though her intent had been to sway their decisions towards clemency. But Cesca was a rock, and it didn¡¯t take long before whispers began regarding Lydia¡¯s involvement. ¡°My dear, she was a teacher. Her job was to teach, and to teach correctly. She was not merely lax, she was derelict in her duty. None of you are aware of the true extent of the arm, nor of the function of the foot. In all this, there must be order, and in order; justice.¡± The creak of the door hinge indicated they were no longer alone. ¡°You wanted to see me, Sisters?¡± Inka stepped into the room, her grey hair loose around her shoulders and her hem still damp from her latest journey. Behind her, Judith slipped inside and took up her position once more as scribe. ¡°Ah, yes. Sister Inka, is that so? Tell me, in your wanderings - very brave, might I add - when was the last time you successfully hunted deer?¡± Lydia¡¯s ears pricked up. She shifted in her seat to face the elder nun, but winced as a twinge of pain shot through her torso. Wrapped in gauze, she had still been able to dress herself immaculately and not a single wrapping could be seen peeking out from beneath the high necked habit she had chosen. ¡°Deer? Let¡¯s see¡­ I brought one back not three weeks ago. A fine girl, not a touch of Gol about her.¡± ¡°I see. And what then did you do with it?¡± ¡°I took it straight to the kitchen. Sophie was over the moon, and Abigail took it for salting. It came out well, with a fine and woody taste.¡± ¡°Ah, so, you ate the saltmeat? Judith, write this down.¡± Cesca motioned to her amanuensis, whose quill filled the room with brisk and nimble scratches. ¡°You may go, Sister, thank you. Next we have the delicate matter of the friends and aids of our own little pretender. Judith, be a dear and fetch Sister Elizabeth.¡± ¡°Wait.¡± Lydia called out before she could stop herself. ¡°Leave Elizabeth out of this.¡± The smirk on Cesca¡¯s face was almost dancing with delight as she turned to her latest conquest, eager to see her slip up and land herself with even more punishment. ¡°Whatever is mete out for Elizabeth, give it to me. I will take her place.¡± ¡°Really, you? And what makes you think you have the authority to order such a thing, hmm?¡± ¡°Sister Cesca, I am an Orison. Canon law is my specialty. The Summer Charters clearly state that a single adherent, if they are ordained, can stand in place of a follower from the same sect. It¡¯s a little-known charter, but one every Sister here knows: It was written by our own Mother Superior.¡± Cesca¡¯s brow furrowed and she made a simple, curt motion with her fingers that made Judith rummage around in her books with great intensity, pages flicking with well-practised speed, before giving her mentor a solemn nod. Cesca drummed her fingers on the arm of her chair in agitation. ¡°You would do all that, just to protect your friend?¡± ¡°She¡¯s not my friend. She¡¯s my lover.¡± Lydia knew one thing for certain; she would cede no further ground to Cesca. The inquisitor¡¯s ruby lip curled into the faintest hint of a sneer and she turned her eyes to Judith, who met her gaze without comment. When she turned back to Lydia, she was smiling again. ¡°Very well, our little painted magpie. Fetch us tea and meet us in the courtyard. There we will decide what new burdens you will carry upon your shoulders.¡± - She walked slowly to the refectory, each step a potential agony. The bandages beneath her dress ran from her torso, down her thighs and even around the soles of her feet. She was a walking tapestry, a testament to the miracles of Saint Rediron, scion of the roiling blood. Across her hips stretched the battle where Saint Rediron, then known simply as Sister Angela, drove back the waters by boiling the ground where they stood, thus sinking the ships that contained heretics intent on pillaging the first church. Trailing up and over her stomach was the grand tower where she sequestered herself, never to step foot again upon the ground she loved so much. Each arm boasted a series of cameos depicting her early life and birth. It wasn¡¯t overly detailed work, but Lin¡¯s expertise with a brush lent itself well to the fine-tipped poker. ¡°Oh my, you smell delicious!¡± Sophie¡¯s cheerful voice called out when she opened the kitchen door. ¡°What is that, ginger? Garlic?¡± ¡°Ginger, mustard, and onion. Sister Grace said it would help keep the inflammation down. She requires refreshments.¡± Lydia didn¡¯t even want to say her name anymore. Cesca. The very sound brought her some inner distress, a great anger or sadness, she wasn¡¯t sure which. ¡°Very well, she is keeping me busy that¡¯s for sure. Now, where did I put - ah!¡± In a twist of skirts and aprons Sophie bounced up a small stepladder, stretching her arm to reach a hanging caddy of dried rose tea. ¡°Sister¡­¡± Lydia began. ¡°Hmm?¡±Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more. ¡°Do you have any more of that saltmeat? The venison you sent over for our trip?¡± Beneath the bandage on her left hand, a thin trail of bloody exudate wept into her lap. She had been clenching her fists without noticing, and relaxed them now. ¡°Sure thing sweetie, it¡¯s in the barrel by the stairs.¡± She twisted off the salt-encrusted lid, the cask reminding her of Wille in the ice house. She would have to go get her, and apologise, but first she needed to see it for herself. The salt lay in waves like snow across the plains, the meat looked like the craggy trunks of fallen trees peeking out of the frost. Each piece she found was examined closely and placed to one side. The salt got into her wounds and made her fingers sting awfully. She found what she was looking for about halfway down the barrel. A sliver of meat, dark and lean, with a small amount of skin still attached. On that skin was a rounded shard of clear keratin. It was, undoubtedly, a human fingernail. Sophie came into the alcove bearing a steaming cup. ¡°What¡¯s wrong? You look pale. Have some tea?¡± The rose-coloured liquid looked bloody in the candlelight, a ferrous concoction bristling with steam and heat. She swatted it away, sending the cup smashing against the floor. ¡°Wha-¡± Sophie began, but Lydia pushed past her in a jumble of skirts and trailing bandages. Out in the refectory a few nuns with bowls in hand had already arrived for the evening meal, a rich and meaty borscht with carrots and chunks of pickled beetroot. Lydia ran past the forming line, knocking the ladle from Magda¡¯s hand just as she was about to pour. ¡°Lydia? What¡¯s with you?¡± Before she could finish the sentence the kettle was on the floor, spilling soup the colour of pearl iron across the floorboards, splattering dresses and staining shoes. Nuns leapt aside as the steaming tide advanced across the room. ¡°Lydia!¡± ¡°Don¡¯t eat anything she cooks for you!¡± There was a manic gleam to her eyes as she pointed the ladle at Sophie, who was standing at the kitchen entrance with a shattered cup in her hands. ¡°Stay away from me, Sophie, don¡¯t take another step!¡± Magda went to put a hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged her off. Instead, she folded her arms across her chest. ¡°Lydia, what has gotten into you? You know none of us agreed with what happened, we¡¯re on your side.¡± ¡°This isn¡¯t about Cesca, this is about her.¡± As she spat out the words she felt a stab of pain along her side. Her dressings were starting to unravel, and she must have appeared quite the sight. Her bun had come undone and loose hair fell over her shoulders. She didn¡¯t think anyone had ever seen her with her hair down before. She saw people glance to the bandages trailing in the steaming pink soup, their eyes moving to her own with a look of pity that told her she was not being understood. ¡°You don¡¯t get it, don¡¯t eat the food! It¡¯s Harriet, she¡¯s here, you¡¯re eating her!¡± Only echoes answered her. Someone turned and walked towards a mop standing against a wall in the far corner. Another left, turning right towards the infirmary, sneaking furtive glances back at her which told her everything she needed to know about their motives. They were not listening to her. ¡°I¡¯m not mad, I¡¯m not, you have to listen to me - No! No, go away!¡± Sophie had taken a step into the room, concern written over her face. Was that also a look of triumph, hidden beneath? She couldn¡¯t tell. Before anyone could return with the doctor, and before Sophie could twist the final knife into her reputation, she fled, trailing borscht across the corridors. ¡°Lydia! Look at you. Disgraceful. Where is the tea?¡± ¡°No.¡± ¡°I¡¯m¡­ I¡¯m sorry?¡± ¡°No!¡± She had run all the way to the central courtyard, where anyone with more sadistic, or perhaps compassionate, sensibilities had gathered at the sound of the dinner bell instead of in the refectory. Morgan was kneeling on a makeshift scaffold, sobbing quietly and awaiting her lashes with the skin of her back exposed while her daughter looked on. Judith had changed her outfit into an almost stereotypical executioner¡¯s garb of dark, slotted hood and bare chest, a cruel-looking knotted flogger in her gloved hand. Lydia could have laughed at the sight of it all, like something from a history book, if it wasn¡¯t for the situation. Still, she felt a smile tug at her lips when she saw Judith¡¯s legs, manacled together in black iron chains. Her own shuffling gait which made her steps so agonisingly slow was due to some punishment of her own, no doubt something contrived by Cesca to keep her under her thumb, paired with promises of some future release. It was like some cruel tableau, everyone was fixed in their positions as though actor or audience. And behind it all that ever-present sound, the sound of grinding teeth against the wall. ¡°Lydia, what has gotten into you? And you were doing so well.¡± Cesca¡¯s drawl floated over the courtyard as Lydia began walking towards the gate. ¡°Sister Wille was right about something. I would rather die than stay another moment with you freaks!¡± ¡°I beg your pardon? Lydia, come here at once.¡± ¡°I said, I would rather die than stay another mo-¡± And then the wall broke. Shrill screams mixed with the sound of bricks hitting the spongy earth as a face appeared in the newly formed hole. The walls were thick, but the creature¡¯s teeth had been filed down almost to nothing, it¡¯s once slab-like smile now only a show of gums and hollow gullet. Lydia turned towards it as the courtyard emptied. ¡°Everyone, inside!¡± Morgan was crying more than she had at the flogging block, and even Judith looked panicked beneath her mask as her hobbling made her the last one to reach sanctuary. Last, but for Lydia. ¡°You¡¯re all fools, look! Don¡¯t you see?¡± She turned to the nuns in the doorway and pointed back at the Gol. It stood still on the other side of the wall, lips flapping in rhythmic succession. Slowly, it placed a bloody-red stump of a hand inside the hole, reaching out towards the laurel grove where it¡¯s beloved iron lay. It tried to pull itself through but it¡¯s arms only slapped impotently against the brick. ¡°It can¡¯t fit through such a small hole.¡± ¡°Lydia please, don¡¯t encourage it.¡± Morgan stammered. ¡°What, are you scared it¡¯s going to stare you to death? Get some wood, fetch Freya, and let¡¯s board it up.¡± ¡°Lydia¡­¡± The gol had been pushing its head through the gap, straining against the brick and mortar until it seemed to bulge outwards. Without teeth to hold it together it seemed like its head was made of mush, no skull to stop it folding over itself in its desperation. With a plop, the head fell into the grounds of Palus Somni, bouncing once before coming to a rest in the grass. No-one spoke a word. There was a hush so quiet, not even the wind would whisper. Then, with a loud click of the latch closing, Cesca pulled the door closed. ¡°Cesca!? But she¡¯s still out there!¡± Morgan put her hand to her mouth. ¡°We will open it for her, if she wishes.¡± Cesca said, but she was already turning the key in the lock. For her part, Lydia did not even look back at the sound of the door closing. She had scooped up a rock from one of the many that lined the path, and hurled it with both hands at the head. A direct hit, the globulous mass wobbled and deflated slightly at the impact. ¡°You degenerates, you ate her! Sinners, all of you! You lack the faith. I will show you how a real Alucinari behaves.¡± ¡°Lydia!¡± It was Elizabeth, her voice muffled by the glass of the second floor window. She had arrived at supper only to find Abigail angrily scrubbing the floor, while Sophie told her a short account of what Lydia had done. Rushing upstairs, she had only found her cell empty. ¡°Elizabeth! You have to leave, you have to get out of here. Don¡¯t trust anyone! They are rotten, they are evil.¡± Her shouts carried to every ear in the monastery and another rock smacked against the decapitated Gol. ¡°Yes, evil. Do you hear me? You ate her, you heathens! Take that! Not so tough now, are you?¡± Her third throw must have hit a weak spot, or else the rock she chose had a sharper edge than the others, as the membrane holding the head together ruptured. Bright red pearl iron paste oozed out from the opening, as well as something more solid and twig-like. A skeletal hand, raised to the sky, emerged from the head cavity, pulling itself free of the rusty mucous like a newborn breaking through the amniotic sac. It glistened in the late afternoon light, twinkling and faceted. Each individual bone had been turned to crimson crystal, as though baked to gemstone in a kiln of hot flesh. ¡°Lydia!¡± Elizabeth screamed and pounded her fists against the glass. It was over before she had a chance to call again. The newborn arm snaked across the grass with lightning speed. The trail of fluid left in its wake sprouted more crystals, forming one long bone leading back to the head sack, now deflated as further bones came forth. New, shiny, unbroken teeth came next. The humanoid skull was grossly inflated, a pendulous sphere of knobbled, brittle bone and calcified sinew. It creaked like an old tree, joints popping and snapping as though they were about to break. I know that face¡­ The arm had caught her up in its giant hand, pulling her in closer to the rising, gore-dripping jaws. The mouth opened. She batted her fists against the teeth, but this time they did not turn to putty beneath her blows. They remained, shining and strong, as her arms flailed piteously against the crystalline enamel. She could no longer rip and tear and trust her way through the nightmare, and as they closed upon her skull her screams mingled with those of Elizabeth, leaving the Abbey wreathed in sound. Canto XIX - The Road It had become a ritual at this point. Barely a blip on the emotional radar. Sister Sophie thought this was probably a good thing, as she brought down the cleaver with a thunk, separating a new chunk of meat from Harriet¡¯s left arm. The freshly-thawed flesh parted easily, and the bone didn¡¯t even splinter as it split into two. ¡°Here you go, cupcake.¡± A slither of meat was passed down to the waiting cat as it brushed itself against her legs in a quiver-tailed display of feline supplication. The Lydia issue had sorted itself out, much to her relief. though it was a shame to see such good meat go to waste. The newly born crystal giant had not released Lydia for one moment since squashing her head like a grape. She still hung from its jaws, even as it slept. It had taken her to the patch of laurel bushes in the gardens and curled up to rest, so far expressing no further intent to attack the abbey further. The wall, however, was beyond saving, and the damaged section had fallen in the night, leaving a clear path for anyone - and anything - to make its way inside. There wasn¡¯t much of her left now. This arm would be the last of it. The venison has been good, yes, but Harriet herself had been the one to plant the idea. ¡°We need more protein.¡± She had said, as she and Abigail had poured over the itinerary in the summer. ¡°Our daily fare is lacking, if Inka can¡¯t bring us more game then we¡¯re going to need an alternative source. Beans, perhaps?¡± ¡°We only have dried beans. They may grow, but it¡¯s not likely.¡± Sophie had replied. It was true, the rehydrated bean stock didn¡¯t take over the summer, the soil was too marshy for a decent yield, and so she began to look at other choices. At first it was rats. Ever present, the larder thieves went from pest to provender with the help of a few traps. Doves, too, weren¡¯t so hard to procure. But when elderly Sister Amy died of her illness on midsummer¡¯s day it wasn¡¯t hard to gain access to the body. It is a myth, oft repeated, that older flesh is sinewy and tough, but Sophie discovered that this was not the case. A long and slow broil made even the toughest of meats tender, plus the flavour was exceptionally strong, and the leftover bones made for a delicious broth. The larder looked overflowing to anyone not directly involved, but as Abigail was very fond of telling her: Stocks were falling rapidly. Time had seen the more popular ingredients fall into shortage. Meat had to be used within a year before it spoiled, and as the hunts were turning up more meagre fare there was less to go around. Even in the last two weeks some strange variety of insect had burrowed it¡¯s way into the flour sacks, rendering half of them inedible and littered with small cocoons. Sister Harriet was being of great service to her fellow acolytes, even from beyond the grave. Sophie was sure she would have wanted it that way. She only hoped that there would be enough left of Lydia to salvage. When the meat had been placed in the smoker she turned to the second chore of the morning. Pre-cured strips of prime thigh jerky were wrapped in wax paper and placed in a woven hand basket. A boule of white rye flecked with peppercorns shortly joined it, as well as a small jar of butter, some dried pears and a flask of apple brandy. ¡°You¡¯re late.¡± ¡°Am I?¡± Sophie looked down at her apron as though the shapes and stains could tell her the time. ¡°So I am. Apologies my dear. Here, take this.¡± Elizabeth took the basket with thanks. The rest of her belongings were securely fastened in a travellers knapsack across her back. She had left her habit and wimple neatly folded upon the bed in her old cell. Her clothes now were a simple farmer¡¯s smock, kerchief and stockings. Basket in one hand, walking stick in the other, she set off towards the gaggle of girls guarding the front door. ¡°Elizabeth, please. Why won''t you reconsider?¡± ¡°Out of my way, Hazel.¡± The librarian had spread her arms out across the entryway, a plaintive look on her face. ¡°Lydia, she¡­ She was delirious. You know that, Bellemorde said it herself. Her wounds had been festering, she hadn¡¯t been taking care of them properly.¡± ¡°That¡¯s not like her.¡± ¡°Even so.¡± ¡°It¡¯s not, I tell you! I know her. I¡­ knew her. She told me to leave, and I¡¯m leaving. You can¡¯t stop me, I¡¯ve already renounced my vows.¡± ¡°Elizabeth¡­¡± ¡°It¡¯s not like I haven¡¯t been out before, you know.¡± ¡°I know.¡± It was Inka who chimed in this time. ¡°I have the key for the main door, but before-¡± ¡°Give it to me!¡± ¡°...But before I do so, you and me need to take a little walk. Girls, give us some privacy.¡± Hazel was practically dragged away by the other blue-robed Etudes, but she allowed herself to be dragged. When it was just Inka and Elizabeth, the old nun handed her a small, smooth and grey object. ¡°It¡¯s a stone? What for?¡± ¡°Look at it again.¡± She did, and as she turned it in her fingers she saw that it was a hagstone. A hole ran straight through the middle, naturally formed from the boring lives of little molluscs. ¡°When they come for you - and they will - use this stone to set your mind adrift. They are attracted to thought. If you know yourself, they will know you too. Focus on the hole, fill it with Elizabeth. Fill it with her fear, her sadness, her aches and woes. If you do not, they will fill themselves with you instead.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know if I can.¡± ¡°You will. Or, you won''t, and then you won¡¯t care. Practice during the daylight, while you walk. Push your mind away from you until you are nothing but road and trees and clouds,¡± She closed Elizabeth¡¯s fingers over the stone with her own, holding it there for a long moment. ¡°You are leaving us and our order, so you go now not as my sister, but as a friend nonetheless. Goodbye, Elizabeth.¡± ¡°Thank you, Sister Inka. Goodbye.¡±Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit. She took the proffered key and unlocked the ancient door, stepping out into the rainy haze. For a long time, Isidore watched her walk down the straight road towards Ystre, her figure slowly becoming more and more indistinct as the drizzle obscured the fens. ¡°You can come in, you know.¡± The door to their chamber opened, and Claudia stepped into the room. ¡°How did you know I was there?¡± ¡°I know every creak and groan of these old walls. Or at least, I used to.¡± They turned away from the window, gesturing for the nun to sit. The room had no partitions and lounge, kitchen and sleeping quarters all rolled themselves into one. Beneath the floor lay the large iron gate that separated them from the profane world. Isidore¡¯s garret was filled with the type of furniture that had no use anywhere else, which also happened to include those chairs which were from mismatched sets, but also the comfiest. Claudia carefully sank herself in a burgundy armchair seemingly made of an endless amount of stuffing and cushions. ¡°With the wall in its current state, I don¡¯t know anymore. God, Claudia, your hair. You look such a state. Weren¡¯t you scared coming out here?¡± ¡°No.¡± ¡°I thought the sisters had shut themselves inside while that beast walks the grounds.¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t tell them I was coming to visit.¡± ¡°Ah.¡± ¡°The truth is,¡± Claudia sat forward in her chair, a pained expression on her face. ¡°I need to find where they¡¯ve hidden Wille. It¡¯s urgent.¡± ¡°And you thought, if I knew, that I would just tell you?¡± Claudia nodded. ¡°Well, it¡¯s true I have little love for Cesca. She focuses far too much on internal affairs, when her talents are better off put to use against the Gol. Heresy? Bah! She would have more luck looking for the real heretics, the ones who set this scourge upon us. She needs to speak to the Nocturnes. They know something about all this, I¡¯m sure of it.¡± Isidore had walked the length of the long, rectangular room and was rummaging around in a dresser near their bed. Claudia nodded again, patiently. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, I got carried away. She¡¯s not here.¡± Claudia sighed and flung herself back into the cushions. ¡°Isidore, I¡¯ve looked everywhere. Every single nook and cranny. Even the hidden places they think I don¡¯t know about. I know she¡¯s in trouble, so I thought maybe she was sent somewhere outside the abbey proper.¡± ¡°She¡¯s probably not far off. Have you tried asking Cesca? Head up, please.¡± They had returned from the dresser with a silver-handled hairbrush, and began attempting to tame the tangled head of hair which Claudia had been neglecting now for quite some time. ¡°One cannot simply ask Cesca. She will have you flogged for speaking to her at the wrong time of day, then flogged again for daring to suppose an answer. Besides, it was Lydia who detained Wille, and Lydia¡¯s dead.¡± ¡°Poor Lydia.¡± Isidore said, their sincerity falling away like water on a swan¡¯s wing. There was a pause, broken only by the swift sound of the brush. It ran smoothly through her hair now that the major knots had been detangled, and Isidore¡¯s deft fingers began separating out strands ready for plaiting. ¡°Are you feeling any better now? You were throwing up an entire lake back in Ystre.¡± ¡°Better, thank you. The sickness has passed, and it won''t be long now before...¡± She touched her belly with a gentle hand, still large and bloated beneath her habit. Isidore noticed that the skin on her fingers looked shrivelled and pale. ¡°Who was it? Elizabeth? No, otherwise you would be much more distraught. Lin?¡± Claudia shook her head. ¡°No, neither of them.¡± Isidore finished the two long plaits that sat on either side of her head and walked around to kneel in front of the chair. ¡°You know, Grace collects a variety of herbs, some of which can be used to flush the body of any¡­ Impurities.¡± They said in a quiet voice. Claudia only shook her head more, plaits bouncing from side to side. ¡°I should go back.¡± She said, her face serious. ¡°I¡¯ll walk you.¡± The two of them returned to the monastery in the drizzle, the short walk enough to cake their shoes with mud. When Isidore turned back towards the gatehouse however, they noticed a shadow standing out on the moor. ¡°Back so soon?¡± They called, but the figure didn¡¯t respond. ¡°I¡¯ll leave the door on the latch, come up when you¡¯re ready and get warm.¡± They went upstairs and threw another log onto the embers, muddy shoes drying on the hearth. It wasn¡¯t long before they heard the creak of boots upon the stairs. The careful steps a person takes when entering a house for the first time. ¡°Come on in, the water¡¯s hot.¡± Isidore didn¡¯t hear the latch, but the old door leaves a scuff upon the boards whenever it opens, the wood long since grooved to accommodate. They heard the scuff, and turned. ¡°Elizabeth?¡± The door stood open, but there was no-one there. The stairwell was narrow and dark but not so dark that it could hide a person. It was, without a doubt, empty. That night Isidore dreamt of walking. There was a road, they knew, but not one they could see. An invisible line drawn in the air that they found difficult to deviate from. They followed it over grasslands and over sand, across the sea and through the forests. The wind whipped at their traveller¡¯s cloak and snow sent cold flakes against their skin, leaving droplet dapples against the ruddy red of their cold-bitten cheeks. It was winter, it was spring. How many seasons they journeyed through was unclear, time was only there when it wanted to be. In the end they sat on the hillside beside the clear waters of the lake, as round and as smooth as a mirror, reflecting the stars and the clouds. ¡°It¡¯s a bright moon tonight.¡± The shepherdess said. She had joined them, arm in arm, legs curled to one side as her sheep grazed nearby. Isidore had no way of knowing how long she had been there. ¡°I don¡¯t see it.¡± ¡°I know.¡± She smiled and kissed their cheek. Her lips were rough and chapped from the wind and her face smelled faintly of sheep fat. The country kiss of a working girl. Isidore kissed her back, their palm fitting smoothly into the groove of her cheek. She tasted sweet, her tongue soft against theirs, leaving them with the lingering scent of cider and strawberries. Isidore was sure that if they let go they would both go tumbling down into the lake, the hillside turned and spun beneath them. They parted - too soon - and looked out together towards the lake. Their chests were rising and falling simultaneously. Rabbit hearted lovers nestled in the grass. ¡°You know you have to follow the road.¡± In their mind the invisible ribbon stretched ahead of them, leading down into the lake. ¡°But I can¡¯t go any further.¡± She didn¡¯t seem to hear them, too busy buttoning up her dress. Isidore couldn¡¯t remember taking off their clothes, but saw shirts and undergarments now strewn at their entangled feet. ¡°I can¡¯t swim.¡± The shepherdess reached out her hands and pushed, gently, but it sent them reeling backwards without purchase. The stars streamed overhead as they turned in the air. Just as they were about to hit the cold water of the lake, they woke. That morning they saw shapes out on the moor. Squat, pudgy round fleeces soaked in dew. The sheep were grazing their way outward, growing distant with every mouthful. Using a pocket spyglass, Isidore scanned the herd for any sign of a shepherd. Only the flock remained, but they almost dropped the glass with a start when one of the beasts raised its bedraggled head to stare back at the abbey. A sheep with a strangely human face.
From left to right: Bellemorde, Wille, Beatrice, Alana, Lin Hazel, Isidore, Inka, Rosie, Claudia Morgan, Caprimulgus, Magda, Harriet, Lydia, Smigeon the kitchen cat. Canto XX - Chrysalis ¡°Get the girl.¡± ¡°At once, Inquisitor.¡± Judith¡¯s ankles clinked under her skirts as her chains shifted into the shuffled gait she used to walk. Cesca followed at a more leisurely pace. The tatter tree was no more. The tree had come down after many a furtive daylight trip beyond the safe confines of the building. It had been sad to see such an old tradition fall, Rosie had even cried, but Cesca was adamant that there was poetic justice in the gesture. The same wood which had borne the body of Sister Harriet will now bear that of her defiler. The trunk, split and carved into a cross-shaped wooden stake, now stood in the same courtyard where Lydia met her end. The twigs and branches, still filled with colourful ribbons, lay in a pile at the base, ready to be doused in oil and set alight. Anyone who cared to glance at Cesca would already see the fires reflected in her eyes. As it was, very few dared to meet her gaze. She watched as her aide counted the barrels, as per Lydia¡¯s instructions, and gently opened the concealed door. There was a short pause, through which she tapped her feet impatiently. ¡°What is it, Judith? Hurry up.¡± ¡°Inquisitor¡­ She¡¯s gone.¡± ¡°Gone? Move aside.¡± She barely gave her a moment before shoving Judith angrily out of the doorframe. Inside, all was a congealed darkness. It wasn¡¯t until Judith passed her the lantern that she saw the ice, the hole, and the disturbing lack of Wille. ¡°Hm. How disappointing. We let her stew for too long, now all our fun is spoilt.¡± Cesca pouted. ¡°It is not too late, inquisitor. Look.¡± She pointed to what looked like mud upon the ice, which on closer inspection revealed itself to be chilled mounds of reddish pearl iron. Something had disturbed it, sending a smear of crimson across the frozen floor towards what was left of the rightmost wall. More pearl iron was seeping between the brickwork, and a clear handprint was firmly planted upon the stone. Someone had removed their habit, ripped it into strips, and tied it around one of the metal struts protruding from the rubble. The makeshift rope trailed down into the darkness. ¡°Well, well. I¡¯m very much looking forward to meeting this girl.¡± ¡°There is no way she could have survived that fall, rope or no!¡± ¡°Have a little faith, Judith. No good cat would give up on it¡¯s dinner, just because the mouse has found it¡¯s hole.¡± Cesca planned to make her announcement that evening, but supper was cancelled. Too many Gol had been spotted entering the grounds, elongated shadows of sinew and bone. Sophie instead delivered to every cell and dormitory a small, meaty pie, each one adorned with the initials of the intended recipient. A pile of hot pies was left at the entrance to the undercroft, as no-one really knew where the Nocturnes lived still. Needless to say, the stack was gone by morning. The Etude attic was now full and every bed was taken. The Madrigal bunkhouse had been deemed unsafe, and so the brown-clad women now vied for space in what was once the most generous of the dorms. ¡°Why are we here?¡± Cesca beamed her serpentine smile at the girls she had assembled, dressed in their nightgowns, as their candles flickered in the darkness at the bottom of the stairs. She passed each girl a bundle of thin tapers and a box of matches, speaking to them all as she went down the line. ¡°The five of you have been good to me since my emergence. I thank you. Now, it is your turn to do a favour for me.¡± Cesca gestured with her candelabra to the small wooden door around the side from the bottom of the staircase. ¡°This hatch leads to the undercroft proper. I need you to get me that girl. Wille. Find her, and bring her to me by morning.¡± Sister Beatrice simply nodded her silent assent. Lin still looked confused, and in her drowsy state had to fight off a yawn. Magda, usually so languid, looked more alert at night than she ever did in daylight. Sister Hazel was suffering the most, her bleary eyes barely peeking out beneath her lacey nightcap. And finally, there was Claudia. Whether it was conceit or just pure cruelty that made Cesca place her in the party tasked with bringing her girlfriend back to her death was unclear. Either way, Claudia was immune to such manipulations. She stood idly behind the others with a dreamy look on her face, eyes closed and smile tilted upwards. She would find Wille, either by herself or with the others¡¯ help, it did not bother her. ¡°Well, what are you waiting for?¡± With this final farewell from Cesca ringing in their ears the group made their way, in single file, down the winding stairs. ¡°Ugh, what a pain. Still, perhaps this means we¡¯re in her good books?¡± Hazel asked no-one in particular. Beatrice turned her candlelit face towards her and nodded in silent assent. ¡°We better find her though. Imagine if we came back empty handed.¡± Lin added with a shudder. The stairwell was narrow and steep, but the corridor they came onto was broad enough for three to walk abreast. There were sconces too, still filled with oil, and they lit them with their tapers as they progressed. The dim light revealed grey stone walls which seemed to stretch on forever, with only the occasional step or side door to break the monotony. Once, they saw a round patch of greyish light, filtering down from some vent up high. ¡°Wille?¡± Magda called into one of the rooms, but it was empty. Beatrice shook her head and closed the door of another. After a time the corridor widened into a larger hallway, pillars shooting upwards and getting lost in the dark. ¡°Magda, how is Sister Freya doing?¡± Lin asked, her voice echoing. Almost an hour had passed since they descended, with no sign of life beyond themselves. The group had huddled together in instinctual habit. ¡°Why do you want to know?¡± Magda had taken it upon herself to use one of the matches to light her long pipe. The bitter smell of nettle and cindered sage enveloped her in the gloom. ¡°Well, excuse me. I only wanted to know if she was feeling any better.¡± ¡°I just find it odd that you would care, that¡¯s all. Being the inquisitor¡¯s little lapdog, and all.¡± Lin grabbed her arm and spun the woman round to face her. ¡°Lapdog? Lapdog? You¡¯re one to talk. If I hadn¡¯t have done poor sister Lydia¡¯s tattoos, do you really think she would have let me off the hook? Do you know what happens when you say no to Cesca? Obviously you do, otherwise you wouldn¡¯t be down here, scrabbling around in the dark.¡± ¡°Ah, so it was for selfish reasons you branded the poor girl. That makes it all the better, I suppose.¡± She blew the sarcasm into the air along with her smoke. ¡°You can¡¯t judge me, Magda.¡±You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author. ¡°True. Only an inquisitor could do such a thing.¡± There was baited breath as Lin¡¯s eyes went wide with anger, her hair almost standing on end in rage, and when it seemed as though she were about to slap her the moment was broken by the sound of Claudia puking against a wall. ¡°Oh my dear, you know you didn¡¯t have to come. Cesca would have understood.¡± Hazel put a protective arm across her back as the girl clutched at her side and wiped her mouth on her sleeve. ¡°Really, we should get you back to bed, with a nice- Oh! Oh Claudia!¡± There were maggots in the spew. Writhing, slick with acid and trails of red blood. Their little bodies mingled together and formed a clotted mass in the centre, smelling faintly of offal. ¡°Oh dear,¡± was all she said, as she lifted her hand out towards them. Hazel slapped it away. ¡°Claudia, no! Sisters, we have to get her back. This isn¡¯t normal.¡± Beatrice nodded. Lin and Magda shelved their differences. ¡°Fine,¡± Lin said, flicking her long hair behind her. ¡°Let¡¯s return. We can follow the sconces back the way we came.¡± ¡°But¡­ Which ones?¡± Hazel asked. Behind her stretched the lit pillars of the cavernous room, leading back to the corridor they first entered. In front of them, further sconces had been lit, leading them deeper. ¡°Huh. Well, I guess we¡¯ve found our Wille. Beatrice, help me take Claudia back. Unless you two think you¡¯ll need help with her?¡± Sister Magda asked, putting out her pipe against the wall. Hazel and Lin shook their heads in unison. ¡°We should be fine, she¡¯s been down here for days now. She must be starving. We can handle her.¡± The flames led the two of them forwards beyond the pillared room, while the others practically dragged Claudia between them back the way they came. ¡°What are we going to tell Cesca?¡± True to her vows, Beatrice only shrugged. ¡°Wille¡­¡± Claudia murmured, almost silently, as her head lolled to one side. ¡°Hush now dearie.¡± Magda said as she hooked an arm around the girl¡¯s legs to lift her up a step. They had wasted away to nothing, so thin beneath her skirts that she could barely feel them. The fabric was heavier than whatever muscle was still left to her. She checked her face. Despite being deathly pale, she was still awake, and her blue eyes didn¡¯t flinch as a single maggot wrapped its way around her eyelashes. When did that get there? Magda thought, but decided to keep quiet about it. She could already sense that Beatrice was near her limit. The silent nun was shaking as she supported Claudia¡¯s right arm, sending tremors through her body which Magda could feel even on her side. ¡°Not far now, we¡¯ll have to- Hey!¡± Claudia pulled herself free of her caretakers with a surprising amount of strength, flopping against the wall like a ragdoll. She rolled her body into a standing position, fingers splayed as she reached her hands up towards the ceiling. They had stopped beneath the small disc of moonlight. Magda could see it now, faintly above them. ¡°Well, I suppose we can rest a moment.¡± She turned towards Sister Beatrice and lowered her voice, scrabbling in her pockets for her smoking pouch. ¡°Honestly, what is wrong with her? Is she sick or just demented? You think she came along to-¡± ¡°Nest.¡± Claudia finished, perhaps unintentionally, as the babbling continued regardless of the conversation. ¡°Nest, nest.¡± Beatrice tugged on Magda¡¯s sleeve. ¡°Hey, hold on, I¡¯m trying to light up.¡± But the tugging continued. The match flame flickered and went out before she could use it. ¡°Listen, stop.¡± Magda looked up in agitation. Beatrice''s face was a mask of fear, a haunting visage of gaping mouth and wide eyes - wider even than Madga had thought possible. Sister Beatrice raised her hand and pointed straight ahead, to a place behind Magda, and in those distended orbs she saw reflected a scene so unsettling that her mind refused to make sense of it until she turned, with deliberate slowness, to see for herself. Claudia¡¯s stomach had burst. The skin which flapped open against her midriff was as thin as paper, more delicate even than the cotton of her habit. Where it had collapsed inwards her spine was visible, pink-tinted and with several fused vertebrae above her pelvis, elongated but free of it¡¯s final constraints it twisted out and down, taking with it several branch-like structures, thick lumbar nerves that rooted themselves with ease into the stonework floor. And that floor was moving. Writhing, squirming, tangling before their eyes into something - no, some things - with an insectoid skitter but distinctly fleshly visage. Still emerging from deep within her guts poured the maggots with their bulging white bodies, several dormant pupae, and the newly-hatched adult insects displaying rust-tinged carapaces. Beneath the viscera small legs scraped against the stone, and the mass seemed to drone with an incessant and growing buzzing sound that made the entire corridor vibrate. Beatrice has never broken her vows, not in the several years she had been a sister, but she broke them now. Her scream was no more a voice than the wind, so strong was her terror that she had no choice but to give way to the gale inside her. Like a command, that barely human screech ordered Magda to join it, the two of them screaming in unison and clutching at each other¡¯s clothes with hands that dropped their candlesticks, hands that shook and turned white with tension. From out of Claudia¡¯s habit flopped a large, globular mass hanging pendulously from her chest, spewing a foul smelling pus. Then another, and another. Six drooping teats discharging an ambrosia eagerly lapped up by her spawn, their curled proboscises flicking quickly in and out at the milky fluid. Some used their lips, from their tiny human mouths, to suck at the nipples. In a second the spell was broken, their legs unrooted themselves, and the two human sisters ran screaming back down the corridor in the dark. ¡°Ah¡­¡± Claudia¡¯s mouth formed a small sound, not unlike a sigh, as she brought her tendril-like arms up and around her face, the muscle and bone shooting upwards towards the moonlight in a mess of neurons and teats. --- On the surface, the dawn chorus had started early. Inka was a knife, a knife with a bucket wandering to the well with no purpose. The grounds of Palus Somni had gained several new Gol since the wall had been breached, though never more than a couple at a time. They wandered aimlessly, dragging their bones through the mud. The rock-eating Gol had since left, taking Lydia with it. Back to Ystre, she presumed. Perhaps once things calm down, she will go retrieve her. There was an unfamiliar sound coming from the well. A moaning, perhaps of wind caught in the tunnel, breathing between the bricks and mortar. Inka paused to listen with her bucket resting on the brickwork. Knives did not ponder the wind, however, and so she decided once more to remove any telic sincerity from her actions before she attracted trouble. She reached over the well to place the bucket on its tether. It was sudden, a wisp against her cheek, blowing her hood off her face and sending strands of greyish hair flying. She felt the shock first, long before any pain. Adrenaline works well that way, and for a moment - one which felt like minutes, yet lasted only seconds - she was able to watch as the long tube of blood-streaked meat which had burst from the well flailed upwards into the sky. Pink coils of neural tissue began anchoring it to the ground around her. She could see now that the tube was a face, elongated and passed through such a narrow confinement, only to emerge on the far side a twisted mockery of human likeness. Inka bit her lip to stop herself crying out, but found that her body was shaking so badly that she ended up biting her tongue and drawing blood. What¡¯s wrong with me? Stealthily walking backwards, low to the ground, she moved to pull her hood back over her face but for some reason it didn¡¯t move. Her arm was gone. Removed from the impact from the emerging underground beast, all that remained to her was a ragged lump of shattered bone near her shoulder. Her blood coated the grass, and she knew then why she faltered, why her limbs shook so, and why for the life of her she couldn¡¯t stop being a human. The looming face which once belonged to Sister Claudia turned to her position. Her eyes filled with a new mother¡¯s hunger, twin coronet horns rampant upon her brow. ¡°No! Get away!¡± Stop it, knives don¡¯t talk. ¡°Help me!¡± Clear your mind. Clear it, wipe it clean. Now. Now, now! She screwed up her eyes as the Gol lunged, and her body became warm. The beast was screaming, and at the same time her skin seemed to emanate heat. It took a moment for her to realise that the warmth came from the newly risen sun. The neurons began to release their grip on the earth as the flesh-beast scrunched up it¡¯s face in confusion and agony, lashing the ground and disappearing back down the hole it came from. Her last thought, before the darkness overtook her, was that someone would have to board up that well. Canto XXI - The Lord of Everything Under When Wille finally came to, she was sure that she was dead. The entire left side of her body throbbed in a way that told her it was broken. One of her lower ribs grated against its neighbour whenever she took a breath, a rhythmic and unwanted sound that confirmed her worst suspicions. Her legs wouldn¡¯t move, and the side of her head felt heavy. It had been a terrible idea. Not simply below average, or even bad. This idea had been unsalvageably stupid. She thought this, and other self-deprecating thoughts, as the world around her came into focus, revealing itself to her senses one at a time. Her left eye was swollen shut, and she could barely keep her right eye open for more than a few seconds, the light was so bright. She was sure that it was actually dim, a few candles guttering in their holders perhaps, but she was so unused to the light that her eye stung with the effort. The reason for the heavy feeling on her cheek became known to her. Gravity, just as it took her tears sideways away from her sore eyes, so too did it hold her face down upon some surface. She tried to move one of her arms, and a sharp pain tore up through her side. It told her what she needed to know however; she was sitting, head down upon some sort of table, and her ribs were much worse than she thought. The movement had disturbed something bound against her torso and a thin trickle of bitter, herbal smelling liquid seeped out from beneath, disappearing into the folds of her dress. ¡°Sister Wille? Ah good, you¡¯re awake.¡± She couldn¡¯t see the speaker, but she recognised the voice. She tried to respond but her mouth wouldn¡¯t cooperate, her tongue tripping over her teeth and only making a grunt. ¡°Hush hush, there there. Drink up and you will feel better, yes.¡± A hand tipped her face upwards slightly, and a thin trickle of warm tea, sweetened with honey, entered her mouth. She swallowed. The only other alternative was to drown. She became more aware of other sounds in the room, and the unmistakable smell of hot, roasted meats and vegetables. Lips smacking, the chink of cutlery on plates, and the background crackle of a log fireplace filled the room. She opened her eye a little more - one still refused to open - but her tablemate was sitting to her left and she could only see the remaining, empty, seats that lay to her right. She tried to lift her head, but it was still too much effort. ¡°Careful now, you don¡¯t want to exert yourself, eheheh. It will come back, in time. The tea will help.¡± ¡°I remember falling.¡± Wille said, her lips moving almost on their own accord. Her words were small, but audible. ¡°Yes, yes. You fell very far.¡± ¡°Did my rope help break my fall?¡± How she knew that Sister Caprimulgus could answer this, she did not know. Perhaps it was just the tea talking. ¡°Not at all. It would have killed you, either way. Had I not been watching.¡± ¡°Thank you.¡± She didn¡¯t know how simply watching was able to save her life. ¡°You brought me here?¡± ¡°I did. Here, let me.¡± The old Nocturne reached out from behind her and helped her into a more comfortable sitting position. Her head swam, and when the room finally came into focus she saw Caprimulgus setting the table. It was a long old mahogany work of art, fit to seat twelve or more guests and Wille¡¯s chair was directly in the centre. The chairs tucked around it were of various shapes, sizes and designs but each and every one seemed fit for a prince. A great dish of burnished bronze was placed before her, with knives and forks to match in ascending order of size and use. She had no idea which one she should use first, or even if she could eat in this state. Wille tried to wave the old nun away, when she attempted to fix a large burgundy napkin around her neck. ¡°Leave the girl alone, Mina. Can¡¯t you see she¡¯s shook?¡± The deeper voice came from the other side of the table, the side she had not seen yet. Wille turned her head slowly, painfully, to the left. ¡°Some food will do her good, my lord.¡± ¡°Undoubtedly, but she will eat in good time. Quit your fussing, and call the others.¡± The man who spoke was no man at all. He had been addressed as lord, and although Wille had never met a lord she was sure they did not look like this. Where his jowls met his whiskers there perched a set of hairy, arachnidian pedipalps that brushed his emaciated face with tremorous strokes. His eyes were hard to make out, but the two magnified nodules that covered most of the top half of his face reflected the light in such a haphazard way she was convinced they were convex and multi-faceted, more like a fly¡¯s than a spider¡¯s. An oversized dark coat covered the rest of his body, except for one bony arm, which held aloft a big brass spoon that looked similar to the ones set before her. This he rapped impatiently against his plate, calling ¡°Hurry, hurry!¡± as Sister Caprimulgus made her way around the table. Overall he gave such an impression of ill-temper and aristocratic bad manners that Wille hardly questioned his appearance. Even so, her instinctual response was one of revulsion, and she tried in vain to push herself back from the table she shared with this creature. Her legs clinked as she shuffled them, and she realised that she was not paralysed after all - numerous loops of thin bronze chain twisted up and down her legs, tying her firmly to an iron ring bolted to the floor. ¡°It¡¯s for your own good, dearie. You¡¯ll see.¡± Caprimulgus said as she raised her arm to ring a small, delicate dinner bell. The chimes were high pitched and resonant, cascading out beyond the confines of the stone-walled dining room and into the network of corridors that branched out from their location. Before the reverberation had time to dissipate there came the sound of footsteps in the hallway. At least four doors adjoined this room, and two of them now opened. Several Gol of varying shapes and sizes made their way over to the table, attracted by the ring of the bell. One had to stoop so low to enter that its two heads - skulls, in all but name - scraped against the floor. The two long skulls made up the majority of its body mass, stretched humanoid shapes with a smattering of muscle to keep it upright. The reason for the varying chairs became clear as it settled itself into a humongous throne to her right, its leftmost head inhaling her scent with gaping nostrils, curious about this human girl, and sending her hair flying when it exhaled. Wille tried and failed to struggle free once more as more and more Gol came to the table. One of the figures that sat down was the red-veiled Sister Mischa, looking distinctly human next to a tangled bundle of silken cloth, beneath which peeked a pair of glittering pale eyes. To her right sat another nun she had seen before but wasn¡¯t overly familiar with, all dressed in turquoise and carrying a small, well-worn journal. Caprimulgus rang her bell again, and the last two doors opened. Plates appeared beneath shining silver cloches, borne by more figures dressed in rags which obscured their features. Gol, she assumed, by the variety of comportments and the hinted intricacies of anatomy. One of them placed a silver dome before her, removing it with as much flourish as was possible with whatever misshapen hand resided beneath those folds. ¡°I had them dress for the occasion, so as not to frighten our guest more than necessary.¡± Wille heard Caprimulgus say to the two heads on her right before settling herself at her left. The plate before her held a mouth watering assortment of cooked meats, vegetables and gravy garnished with fresh blackberries and tiny sprigs of holly. Wille stared at her plate so long she caught the attention of the spider-man. ¡°Eat first, then we talk. Eat, girl! You¡¯ll find nothing unsavory here.¡± Wille watched as a thin trickle of gravy slopped down his prodigious chin and was painfully aware that she had not eaten in many days. She was not sure how long she had spent in the icehouse but her stomach in no way let her even consider skipping this meal, even if she dined with the devil himself. She made an attempt to lunge at the big brass spoon, fumbled it in her weakened state, and sent it falling to the floor with a clatter. ¡°Eheheh, oh dear oh dear. Here, let me dearie.¡± Caprimulgus took up the spoon, wiped it carefully on her habit (which Wille was not convinced was any less dirty than the floor), and began to feed her mouthfuls of the most succulent tastes Wille had eaten in a very long time. The spider was right, the food was excellent. Wille looked around at her fellow diners and found them all enjoying similar fine dishes, varying in ingredients but all of them sumptuously presented. The mode of ingestion, too, varied from Gol to Gol but she did not want to look too long at any of these methods lest her stomach lose what nourishment it had only so recently gained.If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. ¡°The larder has been feeding much more than the population of the convent for many years. Or I suppose you could say, it has been feeding the convent quite adequately, eheheh.¡± Caprimulgus confided, filling the spoon with a mouthful of tender braised pork before continuing in a hushed whisper. ¡°We don¡¯t use any of that Sophie¡¯s provender, so you need not worry.¡± ¡°What?¡± ¡°Nothing, eat now.¡± Before long, she regained enough strength to pick up her own spoon, and by the time another servant Gol came bearing a glazed fruit tart she was tucking in with her own strength. When the plates were cleared and goblets refilled, some of the Gol left their seats, though to her disappointment the two-headed creature stayed, its oversized, glassy stare boring into her body from only a few inches away while it¡¯s other head slurped at a pitcher of wine. ¡°So. Mina tells me that the inquisition has been let out of their tower.¡± It wasn¡¯t a question, yet the spider watched her intently as his pedipalps unconsciously groomed his whiskers. ¡°I suppose you know who I am.¡± ¡°Aloysius Mallory.¡± Wille said, her voice quiet. ¡°The very same. Yes, good. You¡¯re not as stupid as you look.¡± The Gol to her right whinnied and shook one of its heads. ¡°You¡¯ll shut that mouth of yours, Montague. I said what I said.¡± Lord Mallory brandished a chicken bone towards it with a macilent hand. ¡°Now listen tight and listen fast, all of you, for no good can come of dawdling. I am getting old, and my voice isn¡¯t what it once was. I bet you¡¯re wondering, child, at all this. What a sorry state of affairs we have found ourselves in, hmm?¡± Wille nodded, before finding her voice. ¡°We can help you. If you came with me, we have a doctor, she has helped others who have been touched...¡± Mallory¡¯s cackling laughter interrupted her, along with a few titters and snorts from assembled guests. ¡°Help us?¡± He rasped. ¡°Ha! Did you hear that Mina? I take it back, you are an imbecile. Child, whoever your good doctor has helped is long gone, as are we. As are all of us. This is not a place of honour, there is nothing here worth returning to the light, but it is a place of love. Yes, love can be salvaged here. An affection long past that lingers, poisoning, tainting all it touches. You too, if you¡¯re lucky - though your beloved Church will see to it that you never see the light of day.¡± Caprimulgus - or Mina, to Lord Mallory - gently turned Wille¡¯s face away from him with her fingertips, giving him a reprimanding stare as she did so. She seemed younger, somewhat, and less decrepit than her usual appearance. ¡°Sister Wille, pay an old man no mind.¡± ¡°What does he mean, a place of love?¡± She asked, and the entire table seemed to lean closer as Caprimulgus began to talk. ¡°In the beginning, there was a lake.¡± She began. ¡°And in that lake there fell a star, wandering. Lost, never to be found. It found us, however, and turned the lake to blood. It was dying, you see, its journey had been long and fruitless as it searched for others of its kind. It did not choose to come here any more than we did, but exhaustion had compelled it, and so with the last remnants of its strength it set up a beacon, in the hopes that it would be found. It did not expect for earthly creatures to follow the shooting star, nor did it expect them to drain the entire lake just to meet it. We humans are a curious species, curious but ultimately compassionate. We forgive quickly, and forget much too soon. For stars are not for us to process, and though this creature cared for us in turn - perhaps, even grew to love us - it could not sustain in safety prolonged contact with our species. Our world and its world were too incompatible, separated by dimensions and geometry and other unknowable forces. The ground around began to change as its essence seeped into the earth. Our bodies, too, became infected the longer we stayed in proximity to it. In despair the creature reached out to us in the only way it knew how; through our thoughts.¡± Wille thought of the Alucinari tenets, of the importance of dream interpretation to the worship of the dreaming God. ¡°So, it became the Dreamer?¡± ¡°The very same. The Alucinari were not the first to worship it, but they were the first to rediscover the location of the body after many centuries of the Mallory family hiding it away from humanity, at our own request.¡± ¡°Pah!¡± Mallory interjected. ¡°Some God, some God indeed that cannot do anything but harm that which it touches. We were nothing but ants beneath its gaze. Ants it wanted to love and coddle, yes, but when does that ever work out for the lesser creature, hmm? It only ended up crushing us with its overpowered affections. We were the best - the best I tell you! - at cryptography, me and my boy. And look what it did to me.¡± He spread four of his arms wide in example. ¡°Cryptography? You mean, like the study of code-breaking?¡± Wille asked. ¡°Code-breaking? Ha! Good heavens, no. Cryptography, the study of crypts, and how to make them. The Mallory family have been creating your crypts, your mausoleums, and your booby-trapped dungeons for generations. This here is some of my finest work.¡± He gestured to the room, and by extension to the undercroft and all its underground towers and bridges and labyrinthine passageways. His chest, though long since turned to thorax, seemed to puff up with pride. ¡°Once you go in, you will never find your way out again. Not without a guide.¡± ¡°So what are you saying, that the Gol are us - humans, once, who were touched by God?¡± ¡°Some are.¡± Caprimulgus replied. ¡°Some are not. Some were once trees, or rocks, or buildings of stone and mortar. Some are phantasms, conjured by our own imagination - our own desires made manifest. They may look frightening, but they cannot hurt you without your permission. You see the more the Dreamer tried to help us, the more it misinterpreted. If we wished for a good harvest, the crops would warp under the weight of thick ears of corn, ears which wept and cried like babes beneath the scythe. When we asked for prophecy we woke up aged, only to turn to dust upon the morning sun. If we prayed for mercy, it gave us death. Aloysius here was so intent on casting his webs, thinking maybe that he would be the one clever enough to subdue the beast, yet it still caught him in his own grasp, the single-minded buffoon.¡± Lord Mallory ignored the insult. Wille had the feeling it was one he had heard many times before. ¡°Now you see why we had you bound. I apologise, my dear, but we had no idea how you would react to us. Here.¡± She fiddled with something on the floor before reaching over and marking Wille¡¯s collar with two daubs of fresh pearl iron residue. The red cross stood out spectacularly against the dusty white. Caprimulgus smiled, and Wille was certain now that it was no mere trick of the light. She was de-aging, returning to a more youthful countenance of a woman somewhere around her early thirties. ¡°You¡¯re a Nocturne now.¡± Wille regarded her clothes for the first time. Tattered and worn, they hadn¡¯t been changed since before the funeral. The layer of dust and pearl iron had left their usually black exterior faded and pinkish, unrecognizable as a uniform of the order of Orisons. ¡°But this plan, with the labyrinths, it hasn¡¯t worked, has it? We need to warn everyone, we need to move the convent far away from here!¡± Caprimulgus and Mallory shared a glance, before the older nun responded. ¡°Sister, the Alucinari were not invited here to begin with. We turned them away, time and time again but they would not have it. Eventually they sent a young disciple, a troubled girl who did not take no for an answer, to vouch for them in blood. She killed the Lord, his servants too, and set the operation up anew under the direct auspices of the church. Such a rotten apple I have never met before or since, than Sister Francesca.¡± Her face scrunched up into a scowl, and with that anger also came age, and before her final words were said she had returned to the same cackling old lady Wille had met beneath the abbey. ¡°I took vows, and tended to the denizens of this place, the castle under. The Dreamer would not let them die, of course, not them nor you nor any other, eheheh.¡± Wille glanced around the table at the remaining Gol. The one with the two oversized faces was wearing two pairs of tweed trousers, intertwined where the previous owner¡¯s bodies had fused. Another was peeking shyly out from one of the doors, a maid¡¯s bonnet fastened clearly to it¡¯s twisted hoglike head. ¡°But that makes no sense. How then did Harriet die? Why was she not saved?¡± ¡°Did you find her body, child?¡± ¡°No, I¡­ No, it was already gone.¡± ¡°Then unless it is desecrated, I¡¯m sure she will be alright.¡± Caprimulgus placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, which despite its intent still made her jump. Mallory had left the conversation by way of sleep, his head bobbing with the rise and fall of his chest, eyes lidded in a transparent film. ¡°Stay. With us, down here. You won''t regret it, you know. Others are already on their way, you will be reunited soon.¡± Wille shook her head, but couldn¡¯t stifle the yawn that crept up on her. ¡°I have to get back. I have to. I can¡¯t just abandon everyone, they need to know they have a choice.¡± ¡°Very well.¡± Caprimulgus looked sad, but didn¡¯t comment more. Even after being unchained, she barely had the ability to stand by her own power. It was a long way back to the surface, and every step of the two headed Gol almost jolted her out of her reverie. She was draped across its back, arms around its twin necks as it bore her carefully through the maze to the outside world. In her half-asleep state she thought she saw a creature, red and beating at the heart of Palus Somni. The heavy-lidded eyes that covered its body regarded her with an intense and ardent tenderness, a desire unlike any she had encountered before resonated inside her bosom. She hugged it tightly between the shaking footsteps of the gol called Montague, covering it with kisses. When they reached the surface the sun was low on the horizon and the air hit the bare parts of her skin with a deep and icy chill that told her winter was close at hand. Her feet began to drag along the frosted grass and, looking down, she saw her own legs visible through the now-translucent Gol. It was weakening, legs buckling with the effort as it struggled against the sunlight. Dismounting, and thanking both of the heads, she turned to see the walls of Palus Somni in the distance. It would be a day, perhaps longer, before she made it back with her body - full of warm food but aching with exertion - in its current condition. She wondered if the labyrinth was designed intentionally to lead people away from the estate. When she looked back the creature had faded, only to dissipate completely in the rays of the morning sun, the two faces half turned towards each other. Canto XXII – Conventional Habits ¡°She¡¯s doing well, by the way.¡± ¡°What?¡± Lin looked around at her companion, who up until that moment had been silent. ¡°Sister Freya. Her fever broke, and now she keeps talking about the wall. She¡¯s more upset about her masonry failing than about her arm.¡± Hazel replied. ¡°Her arm¡¯s not better?¡± ¡°No,¡± she shook her head sadly, ¡°Belle thinks she may have anaemia, it does not fester but it does not heal either. She keeps finding bits of rock in the wound, little globes of pearl iron that push themselves out onto the sheets and stain the linen. She¡¯s like an oyster.¡± Hazel was silent, thankful that it was dark enough to hide the repulsion on her face. ¡°She wants her to stay at the infirmary until she improves, but Freya is just¡­ I don¡¯t know. When I visited her last, she seemed so agitated. The wall is all she cared about. She wasn¡¯t interested in seeing me at all, even when I read aloud her favourite parables.¡± The torches had led them to a spiralling passage of unidentifiable igneous rock, the surface of which was smooth like glass and reflected the flames with a quality akin to syrup, as though the light were honey, slowly dripping from a darkened spoon. The pearl iron didn¡¯t take to it, and ran cleanly down the surface to pile into clumps along the edges of the floor. There was more of it now, red and ichorous, scenting the room with rust and tinting the perimeter of the light with a growing crimson stain. The doors here were narrower, older, and made entirely of dark studded metal. Sometimes they would pass an open door frame graced with only a pair of twisted hinges, the door itself long since gone. It was at one of these doorways that the tapered torches stopped. ¡°Wille?¡± The two of them called into the room. The sound echoed, though in a muffled way, as though swaddled by dust and time. There was light here, but dim and far away, as though lower than the level of the door. The space within was deeper than expected, and as their eyes adjusted they saw a semicircular room lined with the ancient skeletons of once-padded chairs. The decrepit remains of what would have been quite an impressive amphitheatre, for performances long since lost. High windows were installed on the far side, though they looked out only onto bedrock. ¡°Incredible... ¡° Hazel whispered, her librarian heart stirring. ¡°I knew some parts of Palus Somni had sunk, but was this ever really above ground? What do you think, Lin? We are so deep it is not possible, surely?¡± ¡°Perhaps we are not so far down as we thought- Ah!¡± The sudden sound made them both jump, all differences forgotten as the two of them clung to each other. Down on the stage, a single bolt turned in a slow circle on the boards. ¡°Come on out Wille, we know you¡¯re here!¡± Hazel shouted, extracting herself from her companion with an air of indignation. ¡°Here,¡± her echo responded. ¡°Hide all you want but you can¡¯t stay there forever.¡± ¡°Forever,¡± replied the room. Lin ran a finger over the wall nearest her, examining the flecks of metallic dust and the trails of moist lichen that clung to her fingertip. Where her finger had disturbed the residue there lay patterns, intricate and colourful. ¡°There¡¯s a painting under here. Hazel, help me up.¡± Hazel wrapped her arms around her friend¡¯s calves to keep her steady as she perched upon the frame of one of the chairs, using fistfuls of habit to gently wipe away the muck. Her long hair bobbed to and fro with the movement of her arms. ¡°Should we be doing this? I don¡¯t like it here. It gives me the creeps.¡± Hazel was clinging to her legs now, her face nestled between the other Sister¡¯s knees as she stared out across the auditorium with wide, frightened eyes. The torchlight did not extend far into the room, and only a small portion of the stage was lit. ¡°Just a little longer.¡± The sound of Lin¡¯s sleeves wiping against the wall was delusive, sending echoes out around the curved room in such a way that it felt like every surface was rasping under strain of scouring. The room reflected itself, became itself, and after a while she felt like she could see them both reflected on the far side of the theatre. A shadow of a girl, holding up another, as she painted long brush strokes on the wall with arms too long for comfort. Hazel looked up at Lin, just to make sure, but there was nothing out of the ordinary. Just her eyes making sense of shadows in the dark. When she looked back, there was a third shadow. ¡°Lin.¡± ¡°Just a bit more¡­ There, done. Wow, it¡¯s¡­¡± She stepped down ¡°Lin, do you see that?¡± ¡°Yes, I see it. It¡¯s incredible. Breathtaking.¡± ¡°No, not the picture, that. Her.¡± Hazel pointed out across the room, where the shadow stood unmoving. ¡°It¡¯s just Wille. But Hazel please you have to see this.¡± She grabbed the librarian¡¯s hand and twirled her around to face the newly uncovered fresco. ¡°Call to her Lin, please, I can¡¯t. I am all made of shivers.¡± She avoided looking at the wall, her gaze still fixed upon the unmoving figure. A growing resentment towards her companion had nestled itself high in her chest. ¡°Wille! Wille! We¡¯ve come to take you back. Don¡¯t be scared now, come, see this beautiful painting! Look, Hazel, see how it flows? Such purposeful strokes.¡± Hazel allowed herself a glance up at the wall, and then another. Her animosity turned to bemusement. The canvas was blank. There was no fresco, no painting, only thin dribbles of pearl iron newly forming at the seam between the wall and ceiling, the rest having been rubbed into the wall by Lin¡¯s careful mopping. The metallic sheen was smooth and reflective, a crimson quicksilver mirror that showed Lin¡¯s ecstatic face, Hazel¡¯s knitted brows, and behind them the shadowy form of a nun they both recognised.If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. ¡°It can¡¯t be.¡± ¡°Mother Superior?¡± ¡°Mother!¡± Lin turned with reckless abandon and flung herself off of the chair towards their missing mentor, only to stop, and stare, her turn now to be confused. An immense and intumescent blob burnished with dust and oozing clear fluid stood across the hall from them. It¡¯s head was almost cleanly cleft in two, formed around the golden handle of a common convent candlestick. The Gol peeled itself past the stage, through the chairs and towards the girls on a myriad of tiny, scuttling legs that looked as though any single one of them should buckle under the weight of that bloated body. As it moved closer Hazel noticed that the rear end was stationary, fixed in place on the stage by layers of sludge, while the rest of the body extruded itself like some monstrous caterpillar. It wore, if it could even be said to wear anything, the remains of a Mother Superior¡¯s hood and cowl between the folds of its neck and jowl. ¡°Mother?¡± ¡°No, don¡¯t touch it! Lin, stop!¡± Lin ran to its side, but stopped short of placing her hand upon the sticky, heaving mass. ¡°Oh Mother, Mother, is it really you?¡± The cloven face, three eyes blinking, turned towards her. ¡°Ahh¡­ Little Lin. Is that really you?¡± It said. The low-spoken words were gaseous, wispy things made entirely of air and nothing of breath. ¡°Mother, what happened to you?¡± ¡°Lin, get away from it! What are you doing?¡± Hazel looked on in disgust as her companion hugged the giant face tight against her bosom. ¡°You poor, poor girl. Oh my poor girl.¡± One of the withered legs reached out and clasped her shoulder with wiry ferocity. ¡°Tell me, my child¡­ Are these dark times over? I hope that one day¡­ One day¡­ All this will end, and those of us so persuaded will cast aside the temptations of nightmares, and we will walk freely once again, untroubled by¡­ By¡­¡± The creature had difficulty enunciating through blistered and bloated lips, which did not move in time with its speech, and yet it still persevered, driven by a desire to be heard after such a long time alone. ¡°Has¡­ Has my convent prospered? Have my charges become the righteous acolytes I hoped they might be? Perhaps you could tell me¡­ Tell me, oh...¡± But she couldn¡¯t finish her sentence, the weight of her tongue was too great. She only stared expectantly, with three eyes yearning wide, at the two terrified girls. Every laboured inhalation, wheezing through her exposed and enlarged lungs, marked the seconds that passed. ¡°I¡¯m so sorry, I¡¯m so sorry. It hasn¡¯t¡­ It¡¯s not... ¡± Lin began, but the pressure of that gaze was too great for her to bear. ¡°Yes¡­ Yes, Mother. Our ordeal is over, we have won. The Gol are no more, and the convent thrives. The harvest was great and we will eat well this winter. We are waiting for you on the surface.¡± She was a bad liar, but whatever faculties of reason the Mother Superior once possessed had long since withered away. ¡°Oh! Oh. What a relief. Yes, to know I did not suffer so for nothing. Thanks be¡­ Praise be¡­ Only, you must be wary. There is one who did¡­ Oh! Augh!¡± But she did not get to finish her sentence. Two strong hands grasped the candlestick buried in her forehead and pulled. ¡°Hazel no, what are you doing?¡± Lin hugged her matron all the harder. ¡°Lin, you have to snap out of it!¡± Hazel put her foot against one of the cheeks to brace herself, pulling with all her might, until the metal stick came free with a sickly squirt of pus and bile that drenched the two girls. ¡°Uagh! Augh! Help me! It hurts so!¡± ¡°Don¡¯t listen to it!¡± With an overhand strike she smacked the candlestick down upon its forehead, sending one side of the head snapping forwards with a sickening crunch. The Gol writhed from side to side in it¡¯s agony, sending Lin flying backwards into Hazel. ¡°Help me, I am done! Oh! Oh, my child!¡± Her final words slurred as the stream of ichor set free by the blow eventually bubbled out into nothing, spurting without vigour as the old body deflated onto the floor with stunted legs twitching. It was a long time before the two of them felt able to move, bundled together on the floor where they had fallen. ¡°Why did you do that? Hazel, why? We could have helped her, we could have, we could have¡­¡± Wretched sobs interrupted her and she pressed her face into her hands to cover the grief that threatened to overwhelm her. Hazel put her arms around her gingerly, unsure if the touch would be welcome. ¡°That was not her. Mother left the monastery, I was there. I waved at her as she passed under the gatehouse. I¡¯m sorry, Lin, really I am, but we have to go. There could be more down here. Come on.¡± She pulled the girl upright without much difficulty, though she felt limp in her arms. ¡°Come on now, there we go.¡± She said, as she guided her gently towards the door. ¡°But, the painting!¡± ¡°Hush now, it is only a mirror, nothing more.¡± But Lin was not listening, her eyes lingered on her reflection and her steps came to a halt. Hazel could see them both reflected there, and the stage behind them, and upon the stage the body of the Gol seemed human, though she knew in reality the body was monstrous. ¡°It¡¯s a topsy-turvy mirror, that¡¯s for sure! Please Lin, we need to go now.¡± She said, but Lin was still engrossed and took no notice of her. ¡°Do you see us? Lord, how peculiar. It¡¯s almost as if¡­¡± Her thoughts trailed away as she placed her forehead against the metallic glass, her breath steaming on the cool surface. Hazel tried to tug her away, but stopped when from outside the room there came the sound of a distant voice, growing nearer and more frantic. ¡°Don¡¯t you gesture to me like that, Beatrice, I am one hundred percent sure we did not come this way before.¡± There was a silence, presumably as the speaker listened to Sister Beatrice¡¯s hands. ¡°Well, then, we shouldn¡¯t have run then. Let¡¯s just go back in time and tell ourselves that, shall we? Dreamer have mercy. Look, there¡¯s a light.¡± ¡°Oh thank goodness, it¡¯s the others. Magda! Claudia! We¡¯re in here!¡± Hazel called, only to receive a silent reply. The footsteps stopped, and a whisper carried on the wind. ¡°...Did you hear that noise? What was that?¡± ¡°Magda, it¡¯s us! We¡¯re here!¡± Hazel called. Lin was still fixated upon the mirror and hadn¡¯t shown any reaction to their presence. Her eyes lay wide upon the glass, pressed so close as to be touching, reflecting in intimate detail the capillaries in her sclera and the blossoms of her iris. Outside in the corridor there was a sound like someone blowing out a candle as a pair of shadows peeked around the doorway. Hazel met their eyes with a sigh of relief, but before she could say a word the two nuns clambered back into the hallway, their slippers scuffing the floor in their hurry to retreat. Magda covered both her mouth and that of her companion with quivering hands, drawing them both slowly away from the door. ¡°Magda, what¡¯s wrong with you? Beatrice?¡± As she took a step forward, the two of them fled. ¡°Stop! Don¡¯t go that way, that¡¯s the wrong way!¡± She sighed, and turned back to Sister Lin, who had finally extracted her attention away from the walls. ¡°I don¡¯t get it, Lin. What is with them? Do you think they saw the Gol, and panicked?¡± ¡°We should find them before they get too lost.¡± Hazel nodded. It was the most sensible thing Lin had said all night. As they left the room, the earth-stained mirrors that lined the auditorium reflected their shapes from a myriad of different angles; two misshapen beasts, Gol-touched mutations, trailing out and into the corridor. Behind them, the body of an older woman, her face set in serene sleep as it lay half crushed beneath a single brass candlestick. Canto XXIII - Fall From Grace The room was still, a silent enclave within the bounds of the infirmary, the only sound being the steady drip of the tap as it hit the surface of the water. Sister Grace, the singular assistant to the doctor, lay unmoving in the bath, watching the stillness spread into ripples with every drop. As the steam rose it took with it the scent of spruce sap and juniper berries, coating the chrome tiles with a sweetly-smelling dew. Her body was weighted prone beneath a veil of conifer branches and needle-like leaves, fir cones floating and melted sap dotting the surface. It was medicinal. The sugar compounds in the sap produced a potent antibacterial salve, while the pine needle oil was, without refinement, anti-inflammatory by nature. The berries were just for perfume. She closed her eyes and let the warm liquid caress her, the subtle movements of her heartbeat sending shivers of tickling branches over her abdomen. The pulse in her veins drawing the water ever closer, shifting the foliage to the beat of the drum, merging her skin with the trees. Her chin had that peculiar scar which made other, less repentant, nuns giggle behind their hands to each other when she passed them in the dining hall. The triangular cut trailed down her neck, and the patch of skin around it was discoloured on one side, lighter than the rest of her face. It was always itchy, a burning sensation that alluded to nerve damage. Her constant scratching was also something the other nuns found humorous. The baths helped, though, and in this room nothing and no-one could reach her. Someone outside began to scream. A dull sound, muffled by tiled stone and locked doors, but one that still somehow made it into her sanctum. She sank slowly into the water until her ears were covered, drowning out the noise. She had been there when the wall came down. She had been present when Harriet was swinging from the tatter tree, red beads straining at her neck. She had seen Cesca flog her victims and noticed the malicious glee that sparked across her smile. She had watched and waited, disregarded by all. Even Doctor Belle was often unaware that she was in the same room as she conducted her experiments. Sometimes, Grace would sit somewhere and wait to see how long it took until someone noticed her. She once spent the entire day sitting in an alcove in the cloister, observing. She discovered who was sleeping with whom, which nuns were caught out after hours, and all sorts of secrets, the kind that friends mention amongst themselves with knowing glances and hushed tones. She didn¡¯t have to ask, information simply came to her. People¡¯s private conversations were only private if they thought they were alone, and as most people did not see her as a person then she was not worth being careful around. They instead completely disregarded her existence. She had learnt, over years of taunts and jests at her expense, to become as unobtrusive as possible. The result was that she knew her tormentors better than they knew themselves. The scream grew in intensity as the bathroom door swung open, and Sister Belle bounded into the room with her loping, long-legged gait. She pounced upon a pile of towels and left, the closing of the door returning the room to relative silence. Grace¡¯s head was barely visible above the lip of the clawfoot tub, and her body was camouflaged by the forest. She wasn¡¯t sure if Grace even knew the bath was occupied. Out of sight, out of mind. It had been this way for as long as she could remember, but there was a time, once, when she was vibrant. She could feel it, nestled deep in long-forgotten memories, a girl who had been colourful and gay. Someone clever and abrasive, not the dull-witted creature she felt like now. Once, some of the older nuns were entertaining the younger generation with an incident that happened when they were still postulants. A stray dog had somehow wandered into the courtyard and was chasing everyone, barking and snarling. ¡°No, no, it wasn¡¯t snarling. It was just being playful. You remember, Sister, it was only a puppy.¡± The group had become quiet at this new information, staring at her with exasperation and curiosity. Later, Mother Superior had taken her aside and explained that what she had done was inappropriate, that lying was something to be done skillfully or not at all. If she was to make up tales, she should do so in a way which was not offensive. Grace had nodded, and responded simply that the dog¡¯s fur had been merled, with swatches of white and gray interrupting the browns and blacks. A villager came and took the dog away, with apologies, though it came back twice that year before it was trained. ¡°Enough now, Grace,¡± was all she had said. ¡°Enough now.¡± She wondered about that dog now as she lay back in the bath. It was probably gone where all the villagers had gone, somewhere not here. But it had been mottled, like her, with patches of odd coloured hide and she wondered if, indeed, this was not a real memory, that perhaps the dog had died and she was its reincarnation. She had prayed for dreams, for revelation regarding the link between her and the dog and all the other snippets of strange memories that came to her, but there was nothing. Unlike the others, she could not remember ever having had even a single dream. ¡°Grace! Grace! Where¡¯s that gauze?¡± She heard Belle call, proving her suspicions that the good doctor had no idea where she was. Emerging from the branches she let the air dry her before climbing back into her habit. The buttons on her blouse slipped between her fingers more than once as she tried to hold them in place. She always had difficulty grasping the small things. Out in the hallway the screaming had subsided, replaced with an ongoing, murmuring moan that trickled through the corridors and reverberated around the great infirmary hall. She walked the entire length of the place with the gauze in her arms before she found Belle, deep in conversation with someone at the entrance. The door was held firmly ajar, letting only her head, sat upon that long, looping neck of hers, peek out at the visitor. ¡°Yes, yes. A real shame it is.¡± The doctor drawled. ¡°And you¡¯re quite sure?¡± ¡°Quite sure, yes. Certain, in fact. Her condition is only getting worse. No visitors. Not today, nor tomorrow.¡± The door was shut without any further explanation, sending a small flurry of snowflakes into the room. Grace imagined the indignation on Cesca¡¯s face, the furrowed brows of her assistant whose name she could never recall, out in the cold with their noses against the wood. There was a silence on the other side of the door which she knew was them debating whether or not they should knock again, followed by unhurried footsteps once they realised it was futile to argue with the doctor. ¡°What have you got there?¡± ¡°The gauze,¡± and then again after a moment had passed with Belle looking blankly, ¡°The gauze you asked for.¡± ¡°Huh.¡± She didn¡¯t seem to remember, and instead skipped past with that willowy gait of hers back towards the populated side of the ward. Grace followed. Sister Inka lay slumped against a tower of pillows, her grey hair plastered against her face with sweat and streaks of rusty brown. Blood, perhaps, or mud. Either way it did not matter, it was her job to clean it up. She popped some hand towels into a basin of rapidly-cooling water while Belle examined the patient¡¯s arm. All the other beds were empty except one, where privacy was granted with a long white curtain. ¡°Healing well, I see. Good.¡± Her long fingers traced the sutures across the skin, deep seams of thread that wrapped around her arm, tiny stitches made with a careful hand. Inka winced and shuddered, the movement sending her limp arm clattering into the bedside instruments.This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. ¡°Oh dear now, there you go,¡± Belle said as she tucked the arm back under the covers, ¡°You¡¯ll get the feeling back, sooner or later.¡± She stood up tall for a moment to adjust her rose-tinted hair, bringing stray strands back under control. Grace was in awe of how tall she could be when she wasn¡¯t stooped over, though sure enough once the errant wisps had been found and tied back, her frame retracted into its usual hunched state. ¡°See to her, will you? I must check on our little rock-girl.¡± Grace nodded and watched the good doctor leave through the door to the private surgery. A few small pebbles were brushed into the room with its closing, plus a not negligible amount of fine grey sand. She shrugged, and turned her attention back to her basin. The water was far too cold, and so she began walking to the faucet on the far side of the room. Inka clasped her arm as she passed, preventing her from going any further. She started, unused to being the target of such sudden attention. The movement must have cost her, she could see the lines of pain across her face. ¡°How long have you known?¡± Each word was ground out through gritted teeth. ¡°Not long. A while. It¡¯s hard to say.¡± In the bed behind the curtain, something cawed. A rattled, drawn-out gasp that resembled a bird¡¯s call in only the slightest of ways. ¡°I lost my arm.¡± ¡°You did.¡± ¡°I lost my arm, but now it¡¯s back.¡± ¡°Yes.¡± Grace nodded. She knew that Belle tended to keep her research to herself, but she had never asked her to swear secrecy, so she saw no harm in being honest. The cawing became louder and more insistent, so she extracted her arm carefully from Inka¡¯s grasp (an easy task, given her frailty) and continued on her way. She walked past the faucet however, and instead opened a cupboard and removed a large, stoppered bottle with a dessert spoon tied to its side with ribbon. The glass was red with rust, the liquid inside thick and pungent. Not blood, or at least not the blood that flowed in human veins. This was the blood of the earth. Grace pulled open the curtains ever so slightly, just enough so that the patient within could extend her reedy neck out towards the pearl iron tincture. She dipped the spoon into it like molasses, twisting it up and out and holding it aloft for a second before its beak snapped at the spoon with greedy gulps, sending droplets of crimson spattering over the sheets. It was clear this had happened many times before, as what was once white linen had become a distinct mottle of pink and brown. The protruding larynx moved up and down its neck as it suckled on the mixture, while newborn eyes lidded in a thin layer of white film looked at nothing in particular. It¡¯s beak, if it were indeed a beak, was crowned with yellowing enamel and chipped in such a way that there seemed to be several different slabs all merged into one. Inka began to moan. ¡°One moment. Please wait.¡± Grace said in her usual featureless tone. It did not seem to bother her that her sleeves were becoming pink with mixed iron and spittle. It wasn¡¯t long before the beast sank back down into its bed, and the curtain closed. ¡°Who is that?¡± ¡°Sister Jenny.¡± ¡°Why?¡± This was the only thing she could think to ask. The ¡®how¡¯ seemed clear enough, what with the amount of pearl iron she had supposedly been fed. ¡°I don¡¯t really know. You¡¯ll have to ask Sister Belle, when she returns. She says it¡¯s all a part of her research.¡± As though on cue, there was a large thud from the surgery, followed by another, as though of a hammer hitting stone. A small trickle of mortar fell in a dusty swirl from the lintel. ¡°Whose?¡± Inka asked, looking at her arm. ¡°Um. I don¡¯t know if I should¡­¡± Grace was wincing with every strike of the hammer. ¡°Who?¡± ¡°It¡¯s Sister Harriet¡¯s. Belle sent me to fetch it from the refectory, she said it was all arranged. We¡¯re helping people get better. Don¡¯t you feel better?¡± There was a nervous edge to her voice, a yearning for validation that threatened to unleash such a terrible inner turmoil if this part of her constructed world came crashing down. Inka, for her part, was observing. Not merely looking, or seeing, or staring. She was using her skills as a hunter to break down her surroundings in a way no other could. She saw the sand on the floor and the avian shadow behind the curtain, but most importantly she saw Grace. No-one ever looked at Grace. She saw the mottled skin on her chin and the extending scar. She saw her hands on the end of her pink-tinged sleeves. One was darker than the other. She didn¡¯t need to look at her own to know it was the same for her. Grace blinked, and her left eye was brown and her right eye was green. ¡°I know what she did to you. How far she¡¯s gone, and how far she will go. You are just a doll to her.¡± It was hard to maintain such a flow of words, but luckily she didn¡¯t have to. Grace was already crying. ¡°But where can I go? What can I do? This is my life, she holds it in her hands and all she has to do is squeeze.¡± ¡°Come.¡± It was not a command, nor question either. A proposal, suggesting a future unknown. Grace nodded. Wiping the tears from her cheeks she walked out of the room without another word, returning shortly with wheelchair in hand. It was the better of the two they possessed, the one that did not squeak. --- Bellemorde¡¯s hair was in her face again, and with both arms deep into the craggy mess that was Sister Freya there was no way to fix it. She blew at the errant strands out of the corner of her mouth, but they refused to budge, drifting slightly but settling once again in the same places as before. ¡°I have to fix it. I can¡¯t be lettin¡¯ it fall.¡± ¡°Shush.¡± She was up to her elbows in the cement-like gritty pulp, her hands grasping for the prize. A beating heart made of stone. She could feel it, could almost reach it, but the pulsating organ kept slipping through her fingers and embedding itself deeper into the wall. Sister Freya, ever the engineer, was making manifest her desires by integrating herself with the masonry. Her legs had long since disappeared, their mass repurposed to brick up half the windows in the surgery. Every hole was a threat, every crack a potential devastation, and so Freya¡¯s body plugged and sealed and filled its way across the room in ever more intricate spirals of rock formations and crystalline fractals. The room was alive. Belle has been tracking the heart for some time now. At first she had assumed that it would lie close to the calcified remains of the chest cavity, but as Freya had spread herself so too had the walls, and the only thing she found inside the ribcage was a doorknob. Freya - or at least, her remaining facial features - looked down at her from the ceiling, her eyes dribbling with sandy mineral tears. ¡°Please, doc, you gotta let me go. I¡¯m fine, honestly. It¡¯s just a flesh wound, the cat has scratched me worse before.¡± Every time she opened her mouth, which stretched across the entire opening of the western window frame, particles of rock and mortar would already be clamouring at the edges ready to fill in the gap again. ¡°Hush now.¡± She had no time to talk to the walls. Beneath her feet the floor thumped to the gentle rhythm of a human heartbeat. ¡°Grace? Grace?¡± She extracted herself and peeled off the rubber gloves, caked in stone, slamming them down upon the table. The cavity she had made was already repairing itself. Exposed to the air, her hands felt raw. Her skin was scrubbed pink from the rock and they stung when she rubbed them together. ¡°Grace! My word girl, where are you?¡± She brushed away the creeping tendrils of gravel that had taken root against the door and swung it open, surveying the infirmary. Grace had disappeared, along with Sister Inka. In the corner, something cawed. ¡°Oh well at least you''re still here. Whatever would we do without you, hmm?¡± Belle cooed as she flung back the curtains. The mattress had been gutted, goose down flurried into the air with the draft of the curtains. Jenny sat, bloated, within the hole in the bed, her beady eyes fixed on Belle. The pale membrane on one had popped open, whereas the other still stayed mercifully shut. ¡°Growing, are we? Oh, what¡¯s this?¡± Belle cocked her head as the sight of the bulge between her patient¡¯s legs. ¡°What have you got there? Let me see¡­¡± Her fingertips only had a moment to brush against the egg before Jenny launched herself at the good doctor, beak pecking furiously with a singular driven instinct. Whether it was maternal in nature or merely automatic, a pathetic parody of the memory of birds, Belle did not know. She would have liked to have studied the phenomenon further, but alas, such a thing would require a brain, and hers was now sliding its way down the gullet of the protective parent. Outside, the snow began to fall thick and fast. Canto XXIV – This Too Will Burn It was just after nightfall when the first one joined her. A short and stunted twig that may once have been part of some larger creature, its emaciated body struggling to keep up with her stride. Wille could have crushed it with a single step, but didn¡¯t. She let it follow her, its uneven gait tracing an irregular pattern in the snow. Then she was joined by another. A mare of good stature but rotten around the edges, her head hung down lifeless between her legs. She walked backwards, knees disjointed, as the emerging legs of her foal twitched and fronds of long eponychium twisted around her tail. One by one more and more Gol of various misshapen shapes and sizes joined her in monstrous procession. The dream eating Gol was there with its grinding, slablike teeth, though it had changed somewhat since leaving the monastery with Lydia in its jaws. A pair of slender arms now hugged the torso, and a second set of eyes had appeared, blinking, in the tear ducts of the first. Some of its teeth had gained holes, and as they gnashed together the wind whistled through them. Four legs, not two, made it move with a resolute trot and the quadruple eyes regarded Wille with an inscrutable emotion, one repressed or simply left unsaid. The parade of Gol followed their leader to the gates of Palus Somni under the shining gaze of the full Orphan Moon. Wille was surprised to see that their utility had returned, as the holes in the walls had been patched, quite thoroughly it seemed, by a grey stone she didn¡¯t recognise through the haze of slowly falling snowflakes. A grey stone that, had she stared for longer than a glance, she may have noticed was ever so slightly pulsating, carrying a faint flow of movement inside the molten rock. Larger and less recogniseable Gol had joined her as the night darkened. Bone-skin constructs so full of bile that they left a trail of vitriolic splatter with every step, that walked awkwardly with backs hunched because to stand would set them at risk of tumbling, so tall were they that gravity had become their enemy. They could cross the wall with a single bound, and yet they waited with her with sycophantic smiles, legs tucked beneath them, as she stepped up and pulled the cord that rang the gatehouse bell. No immediate answer led her to ring again, the exertion pulling taut against her bruised ribs and making her gasp and bite her lip to keep from crying out. She could hear the creak of floorboards above her and knew that Isidore was awake. Most likely, they were staring out the window at the mass of Gol outside, unsure of who or what was ringing their bell. ¡°Isi-¡± But her voice caught in her throat. She tried again. ¡°Isidore! It¡¯s me!¡± ¡°Isidore! It¡¯s me!¡± Said a voice that was her voice that came from behind her. Soon several cries of ¡°Isidore!¡± and ¡°It¡¯s me!¡± rang out as feet stamped and heads swayed, some more discernible than others. The floorboards creaked towards the stairs, until a curly-haired head appeared out of the side door with a look that said they had very quickly progressed through several stages of grief and were now approaching, if not acceptance, then a serenity that can only be found under an extreme amount of duress. ¡°Wille. You¡¯re back.¡± Isidore said in a flat voice. ¡°Listen to me Isidore, I know what this looks like, but-¡± ¡°You have no idea what this looks like.¡± The sharp edge to their voice took her off-guard, just for a moment. She wrapped her hands around the cold metal bars of the gate to stop herself from falling over. The walk had been more of a burden than she¡¯d anticipated, and something was oozing out of her dressing and down her left hip. Inside her chest, behind the beating of her heart, something seemed to grate and whirr just barely inside the bounds of conscious hearing. ¡°Well, yes, of course. But please hear me out, these creatures¡­ Oh! Where to begin! These creatures are not at fault here, they - and us - are influenced by forces we can barely comprehend. Beneath the monastery there is a lake, and in the lake is a being we call the Dreamer-¡± ¡°Heresy!¡± ¡°I¡¯m serious, Isidore. I¡¯ve seen it. I¡¯ve met it.¡± Isidore grimaced at these words, their mouth set in a hard line as flakes of snow caught in their hair. ¡°It means us no harm, it just doesn¡¯t¡­ coagulate well with our world. It needs to go home. Will you help me?¡± Isidore no longer looked angry, but they still didn¡¯t answer her. ¡°I can leave them outside until I can explain to the others. They wont hurt you, so please let me in.¡± Isidore took a large iron key from their waistcoat pocket and took a step towards the smaller door set within the larger gate, twisted it in the lock, and swung it open. Wille stepped inside and made a halting motion towards the gathered Gol, who cocked their heads or hunkered down on their limbs in understanding as she turned away from them and began walking up the snow-dappled lawn towards Palus Somni. Isidore was sobbing now, thick tears rolling down their face, hot rivers against their cold-blushed cheeks. ¡°It¡¯s happening again. Dreamer, forgive me, it¡¯s happening again.¡± They muttered to themselves in the doorway, unfollowing. ¡°Hm?¡± Wille turned back. ¡°Just like before. The girl, the Gol, the heresy.¡± They spat this last word, spittle mingling with tears and snow. ¡°Do you have no thought in you at all? You think they will just tell you the truth, that they are the victims, so you can come back here and bring the plague with you? You trust every monster you meet? You are a stupid, foolish girl, made of fantasies and simple-mindedness. You and Harriet alike.¡± They took their dirk out from where it had been hidden in the shadow of the doorframe. ¡°Harriet? Isidore, what-¡± And in an instant, they rushed. The stab was quick, and true, but not deep. A thrust of fury, not of intent. The blow that followed, however, was deliberate and the handle of the knife sent her to oblivion. Isidore lowered her carefully to the ground, cradling her close. ¡°Not again.¡± The words were ragged with sobs, tears falling from their lips and eyes. ¡°Not again.¡±If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it. --- ¡°...Are you awake? Ahh, yes. There you go. Hello. My name is Saint Francesca, but you can call me Cesca. My, you did lead us a merry chase. No no no, no, hush now. Don¡¯t struggle. It will only tighten the knots. Sister Judith is an expert, you know. So you wouldn¡¯t want to make it any worse than it has to be.¡± The feeling in her chest, that grating and whirring, was going round and round in her ears like the buzzing of some awful hive. When she opened her eyes, and after the fuzz and mist cleared, she saw a kindly but unfamiliar face in front of her. Kindly like a matron, not kindly like a friend. It took a while for her words to come into focus, but when they did she looked down at her body and saw the ropes and chains. Thick hessian cords normally used for bellringing, fortified by the same chains used to fence off plots of herbs. Everyday objects, turned rotten with criminal intent. Isidore¡¯s knife poked out from between her ribs, almost in the exact spot where her dressings were thickest. Her frock was stained red from the site of the puncture down to her feet. So much for luck, she thought. Oil ran into her mouth and she almost choked on the taste, acrid and strong, while piles of finely chopped branches lay at her feet, festooned with ribbons. Cesca¡¯s tatter-tree stake had finally found a use. Beneath the knife her wound writhed. She couldn¡¯t tell if it was her imagination but the twitching sensation seemed real enough. Muscles contracting and loosening in tidal swells beneath her bosom as the moon loomed overhead. The writhing was interrupted by another, more sinister, sensation. The touch of fingers on her forehead, gently stroking her hair where it lay curled and lank across her face. Cesca smiled at her with wide red lips and stepped back, down off the creaking platform, while intoning some meaningless prayer. There was a commotion at the gate as Isidore ran a flaming torch over the iron, sending Gol scattering backwards from where they had gathered. ¡°Get away! Back, back!¡± Before long they were back, fingers and tendrils curling around the bars while several sets of vacant eyes gazed at her from outside the ring of light. Cesca took no notice, only took a torch from a woman behind her. It was just the four of them. Wille assumed the rest of the abbey hadn¡¯t been notified of her return and now slept on, unaware of the scene in the courtyard or the Gol at the gates. She thought about Claudia, somewhere inside and waiting for her. The windows felt hollow when she looked up at them. It was hard to remember this place as where she had grown up. She had slept every night of her life behind those windows and now the glass was empty and dark. Gods, her side was throbbing terribly. No pain anymore, just the ever-present shudder. She thought about what was about to happen, but with a certain sense of detachment. It was unreal, these past few days had been so far beyond belief that she couldn¡¯t bring herself to care. She had looked into the soul of a God and returned forever changed. Let them bring their fire, their ropes and knives. Let them say their prayers and bow their heads and clasp their hands in supplication to a force that recognises them not. They can try their hardest to contain and control, to force and to govern. It was absurd, really, how much they sought for power in all the wrong places. Their cries mere mewlings before the coming storm, plaintive wails that betrayed their inner insecurities. Such pitiable, such miserable ones. So sorry a state of affairs would never arise if given the chance for true compassion. She did not know how she knew this, but it rang in her ears to the beat of the blood as flecks of boiling fat hissed and frothed in the flames. --- When the first of the flames had licked up the tatter-tree stake Isidore had turned away, put their back against the blaze and faced out onto the wild. But the fire was reflected in every eye on every Gol that lurked out there in the darkness, and though they didn¡¯t want to see it, it was unavoidable. So they had closed their eyes and crouched, hugging their knees as the flames spluttered and popped with every falling snowflake. The screaming started soon after, and even with their head squeezed tight between their arms they could still hear the muffled shrieks, followed soon by the stench of burnt hair and charred meat, still on the bone. The Gol at the gates did not react to seeing their leader burnt at the stake. They only watched, unmoving. As though they were waiting for something to happen, Isidore thought as they finally raised their head. The light from the bonfire behind them cast their shadow long and steep across the grass and out through the gate, joining itself to that mass of darkness beyond the walls. They stood, uncertainly, and turned at last towards Sister Wille. It was hard to make her out, but there was indeed a dark shape at the centre of the writhing flames. She couldn¡¯t hear it clearly over the roar but Cesca was laughing and prancing around, giddy with adrenaline and clapping her hands like a young girl with a new toy. Judith remained silent, ever the good servant, but the fire in her eyes was more than just a reflection. ¡°Isn¡¯t it glorious?¡± Cesca shouted over the roar. Isidore supposed it was aimed at them, but the Inquisitor was already lost once again in her own reverie, twirling around and bowing before the fire in acts of delirious worship. For a fleeting moment, Isidore wondered if they had done the right thing. There were monsters outside, yes, but what was this euphoric dance of pain and terror if not some other kind of demon? They shuddered. No matter. It was done, and the convent would be safe. Cesca was a question for another time. Cesca danced, and inside the flames the dark shape danced alongside her. The flickering of the fire made the lump of flesh at its core seem to flutter and twist, the edges becoming indistinct in the blaze. The flurries of snow added to the effect, warping in the heat and sending sparks flying high into the late night sky. Then Isidore saw it. A shadow in the core began to unfurl, to twist and wind itself out and upwards only to burst out of the fire and onto the courtyard. A pulsating mass of muscle, charred black and shedding soot as it snaked out across the floor towards them. Isidore took a step back, and another, back onto the grass but the being only extended so far. It hacked and coughed, Isidore supposed that was what it was doing at least, because it shuddered with effort and eventually spat out the dirk which clattered gracelessly against the cobble. Cesca had stopped dancing. The wood of the stake cracked and popped as it buckled under the weight of the being now stood there. The ropes had long since burned to nothing, but the chains had remained, and they now swung with red-hot intensity around the newly-born Gol as it broke itself free. One arm, now monstrously engorged, remained tethered to a block of wood, while the other reached to pull itself out of the flames. The wooden platform buckled as it stood, beastial legs disjointed and splayed while it¡¯s body reared out of the fire and into the snow-speckled night. Wille¡¯s head had elongated, her face becoming a canine snout that tapered into a ragged point. The burnt skin was starting to shed, draping her new face in a burnt-black curtain that fell down her back in an unruly mane. With a single, strong bound she leapt from the fire trailing smoke, gigantic claws tearing streaks down the wall of the monastery as she clambered for purchase. Settling on the roof with her paws against the balustrades, she howled into the night and thick plumes of acrid smoke bellowed up from her burning abdomen and out through her wide-split mouth. It was a sound like no other Isidore had ever heard. It was the sound not of pain, nor fear, but purpose. A call to action that reverberated the world and set the Gol at the gates to movement. Despite all her cruelty it cannot be said that Saint Francesca was not an intelligent woman, for she and her aide had already fled, leaving Isidore alone as sacrifice. A snowdrift had already formed around the ice-cold dirk when they lifted it up off the floor. A smart blade, simple and strong. From the rooftop, the Wille-beast glared at her with sparkling eyes as fiery cruror dripped from her maw. The front of the building was already showing signs of fire damage as the flames consumed whatever fuel they could find, igniting the ivy and the wooden window frames. ¡°Come, Golem.¡± Isidore cried, their words snatched by the wind. They held their dirk - their small, useless dirk - in the ready position. Behind them the front gates buckled and snapped as hoards of skeletal hands tore at the metal. ¡°You will find no fear here.¡± Canto XXV - The Wille and the Wisp Isidore had lost sight of the Will-beast, but they could hear it. A deep guttural growl out there in the storm that ebbed and flowed with every haggard breath. The crack and crunch of sinews snapping crisp with frost came from every direction: The Gol were on the move. ¡°Back! Stay back!¡± They said as they swung their dirk at any shadow that showed itself. The snow was falling thick and fast and visibility was low, though gaps in the clouds occasionally let a beam of moonlight illuminate the ragged spires. Behind the white the fire still burned, giving it a sickly yellow aura, like the thin yolk of some terrible, gigantic egg. Isidore gasped as a skeletal body brushed against their thigh in the gloom. A dog, once. Perhaps it had been loved. Now it moved with singular fixation towards the abbey with tongue outstretched, a chitinous protrusion that buzzed and hummed in harmony with some hidden song. ¡°Get away!¡± Isidore swung their dirk but the canine Gol ignored them, stepping aside slightly to avoid the blow and giving Isidore a sideways glance, but otherwise paying no attention to the human in its path. The shadows, too, were moving in procession past them. Isidore ran after them, knife at the ready, but even the slowest and most bulbous of beasts gained incredible celerity when threatened, rising and ducking to avoid their blows. The hits that did meet their targets were deflected by bone and carapace with minimal damage, leaving only scrapes and fleeting sparks. High above them there was a distant smash and the tinkling of multicolour glass hitting cobble. One of the stained-glass windows had burst in the heat, fire licking out from within. The night swelled yellow as a gout of flame tore through the air above, and Isidore caught a clear glimpse of the Wille-beast. It set its sights on them with eyes all too human, blood vessels bursting red and keen, dilated pupils. Claws sank into stone with the ease of a plough through earth as the Wille-beast leapt, furrowing the walls with deep grooves ready for the sowing flames. Isidore parried the first swipe, and the second, but the third took them off-guard and they landed several meters away with a thud. They hadn¡¯t expected a third arm, runty and weak and yet still able to land such a blow. It only drove home the consequences were they to receive a direct hit from one of the more developed paws. The Wille-beast approached through air peppered black and white with soot and snow, a black smog billowing from its mouth where the embers still burned. It seemed distracted somewhat, drooping ears pricking and head askance, the tilt sending melted waves of fat and hair across the distorted face. It was an opportunity best not wasted. With two hands on the hilt, Isidore rushed, point gleaming, into the chest. Macilent arms made of nothing more than tendons and nerves embraced them, squeezed them until their eyes bulged and they thought they might never take another breath. The impact sent the Wille-beast backwards, forcing its paws to scrape a rut in the snow, revealing blood beneath. Blood? No. That¡¯s not blood. No time for thoughts. Isidore pushed and felt the blade scrape against rib cage, a sickening sound that scratched at their eardrums. The beast wheezed, sending flakes of soot into the air and coating Isidore in a fine film of ashen grey. Its arms relaxed just enough for Isidore to drop down, dragging the knife with all their body weight and cutting a gash from sternum to pelvis. It was shallow, but efficient. The Wille-beast howled, clawing at its chest in pain and surprise. The knife was stuck, there was some bone or ligament blocking the way, or perhaps the blade had bent itself in some awkward manner that left it forever lodged inside the hip. Isidore let it go, and instead pushed their fingers into the bottom of the wound and pulled. The charred epidermis peeled off easily, skinning the beast¡¯s left leg as Isidore hurdled forwards, their mind focused on the unlatched door to the main hall. They ran for it, strips of skin fluttering from their bunched hands, but the ground had other ideas. For a moment their vision shook, their feet didn¡¯t want to find their footing and they fell sideways onto the white-coated flagstones. The scuffed snow was tinged pink, as the earth turned slowly into pearl iron. Beneath their fingers the molten rock bubbled to the surface, and when they examined their legs they were stained bloody from the knees down. The world shook, sending sheets of snow down from the roof that sizzled and sputtered when it fell through the flames. The path split before them, falling lazily away to one side as bloody muck pushed itself up through the crust of stone and soil. The Wille-beast, guts wrapping around its abdomen as it padded erratically towards them, was undeterred by the commotion. Driven berserk with the pain, it advanced. Even when the earth shifted and it caught a foreleg in the cracks, it carried on, tearing the scant tendons and leaving the leg behind. It moaned, stumbling and pitching from side to side as it used its good arm and the boney stump of the other to drag itself forward. Isidore would have been faster. They would have outrun it, easily, or perhaps returned and finished their prey. They would have fished their dirk out from inside the beast and dashed its brains out on the stone. They would have, could have, might have even succeeded had not Clauda chosen this moment to make her appearance. From the fissures a tendril emerged, white and thin and endless. It was followed by another, and another, until the ground seemed to writhe with iridescent trees, synapses sending signals of growth and danger. The Wille-beast whimpered as the tendrils enveloped it in a fine tissue, thin threads of gossamer fibers that gathered into bunches and made Isidore¡¯s clothes cinder and char where they landed. Steep towers of impossibly thick neurons distended the gardens, sending them rolling and warping until the walls were a wave. From their zenith spread smaller offshoots that linked to one another, creating a net of flesh beneath the sky that looked all the while as though it were smiling. The network spread across the ground, covering everything it touched in neurostatic constructs. From between the cracks came several of Claudia¡¯s small, insectoid children. ¡°Get off! Leave me alone!¡± Isidore brushed fervently at the probing veins as it tried to incorporate them. ¡°Stop it! No!¡± Their words turned into sobs as their body was squeezed into submission, their legs strapped tight between a tendril and the emerging brain. The fibulae were the first bones to break, followed immediately by the tibia. The salty taste of pearl iron filled their mouth as they screamed, until consciousness became an unreasonable demand. --- A silver-solid haze lay over the world, coating it in opulent layers of argent cloud that seemed to glow from within with fresh sunlight. It felt soft against her buttocks as she sat upon the ground, legs crossed and fully nude. She felt oddly scrawny in this cotton-padded corridor, as though her flesh was somehow a hard anomaly. It should be softer, and meld itself gently into the fog until she too was made entirely of gossamer down. Beneath the mist she could see covered candlesticks on tables, faint patterns of rugs over the floorboards. She was somewhere in the main building, leading up to the Orison dormitory. A shadow crossed her line of sight, a person, also naked, walking down an intersecting corridor with a head of long light curls. ¡°Claudia!¡± She scrambled to her feet, tripping in her haste to chase after this most welcome vision. The spectre stopped and turned her head. ¡°Wille! Oh Wille, what took you so long?¡± She gathered her up in a hug so long and so tight she thought the two of them might meld together. She traced her fingers down her back, her other hand clasping her hair with unabashed passion.If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. ¡°I missed you. I missed you so much. Oh Claudia, the things I¡¯ve seen. You know, don¡¯t you?¡± Claudia nodded against her neck, eyelashes tickling her bare skin as she blinked back tears. ¡°I know.¡± ¡°I¡¯m sorry I couldn¡¯t come sooner. I wasn¡¯t there for you, and now...¡± ¡°And now we¡¯re here. Together. We¡¯re here and it¡¯s all going to be fine.¡± Claudia finished the sentence with a smile. She pulled her head out of the embrace and kissed her lightly on the nose. Then the cheek, moving her lips down her face and peppering her jawline with kisses. Dainty and gentle, but Wille was neither of these things. Scooping Claudia off the ground she kissed her back, fully and eagerly, on the mouth again and again until her lips felt bruised and tender. She kissed down to her neck, her breasts, her stomach and her labia. She left small bite marks on both her thighs as Claudia giggled and ran her gentle fingers through her hair. She could smell the cinders and burnt flesh only as some faint and fading memory, every curve and sway taking her further away from that place, that time, leaving her with only contented sighs and stolen glances. Together as one, they sank into the clouds. --- ¡°Inquisitor, please! I beg you.¡± Judith panted. Her chains had rubbed her ankles raw with the effort of keeping up with her mistress. The prim clack-clack of Cesca¡¯s shoes upon the stone was rhythmic and unending. She had ignored the flames and the cries of fear from the few remaining nuns, instead focusing on a singular goal: To climb. They were several flights higher than the rampaging Gol, and when Judith looked out she could see indistinct skeletal shapes far below in the moonlight. Every so often a white tendril would wave past the windows, snaking its way around the monastery. Beneath her feet the stones felt hot. The top of the corridor was a black haze of slowly gathering smoke. ¡°Inquisitor, please! It¡¯s not safe here.¡± Cesca came to a halt, her vestments swirling wildly with the sudden stop. She turned a clear ninety degrees and began to ascend yet another set of spiral stairs, these ones steep and narrow. Judith had no idea how there could be so many staircases. As she followed, the building began to lilt, as though sinking on one side. Their ascent was no longer straight upwards, and the distant sound of mortar cracking could be felt as reverberations within the wall. ¡°Inquisitor!¡± Judith could only watch as the hem of her turquoise robe disappeared up the stairs with a flick and a rustle. When she finally caught up - pulling each manacled leg painfully up every individual step - the sight took what remained of her breath away. They were at the top of the tallest bell tower, the shining bronze bowl hanging above them reflecting a panorama of flames and destruction. Around it was curled one of several of the thick white stalks that made up the new body of Sister Claudia. The monastery was, indeed, sinking. Pools of crimson tar were congealing around the foundations, spreading outwards in rings of ever-deepening scarlet sludge. The Gol that still walked were dipped in red from head to toe as the pearl iron coated everything in rust. As though reflecting the growing lake, the full Orphan moon hung low and red on the horizon. ¡°Well, well. I wasn¡¯t expecting to get here so soon. No matter, can¡¯t be helped.¡± The sing-song voice of Saint Francesca cut through the long night as strong as any bell, leaving her lips like an arrow. It found its mark in Judith. ¡°What do you mean, Inquisitor? What can¡¯t be helped?¡± Judith asked while clinging to the wall for safety. The parapet had fallen away, leaving the belfry exposed and her feet mere inches from the edge. The snow buffeted her face and bare skin mercilessly, though Cesca stood seemingly unaffected. ¡°It¡¯s time, my dear Judith.¡± ¡°Inquisitor?¡± ¡°It¡¯s time to embrace the unholy, so that we may be reborn.¡± She spun suddenly on her heel to face the terrified nun. ¡°We must stop them, they are ruining it all. If they succeed in freeing the Dreamer then all this will come to nothing, do you understand? Do you?¡± Judith was shaking all over, mute and mindless. Cesca put on her best condescending tone. ¡°We have to become Gol, my dear. We have to defend this place, so that our experiments may continue. We cannot let it find its way home.¡± ¡°No!¡± This was louder than Cesca expected from her normally subservient maid. ¡°I-I won¡¯t let you!¡± Judith was standing tall, her normally hunched shoulders straight, mouth set in a grim line. Cesca¡¯s face melted into a tender mask of compassion as she surveyed the girl. She nodded, coming to some hidden conclusion. ¡°You¡¯re right. You won¡¯t.¡± And with one strong push Cesca shoved her aide off the edge of the tower. With a wide-eyed stare she fell, straight down and into the lake with a short scream and distant splash. The crimson mire swallowed her, and she did not surface. No amount of thrashing could stop her chains from dragging her down, down, to a lakebed so deep and ancient she never reached it alive. Cesca was the perfect painting of a woman in mourning, her button-like mouth downturned and her eyes half closed, thick lashes about to be wet with tears. It took only a moment for a sadistic smile to break through this veneer, and the Inquisitor was back. ¡°Contamination! Defilement! This world has been connected. Seeped in tarnished glory! Saint Francesca of the Alucinari will do her duty, and slay the beasts that walk the Earth. No matter what it takes! Saint Francesca understands the true cost of sacrifice.¡± And with that, she ripped with cruel strokes from long-nailed fingers into the flesh-clad vine that wrapped around the tower. It bled out onto the floor, great globs of pearl iron surging out of the opened artery. She knelt down, opened her mouth wide, and drank. The salty taste of the iron made her gag, the gravelly texture cracked her teeth and fresh blood mixed with the brackish ooze. The iron kept flowing, spurting fountains painting her a bright red. Trapped in a cocoon of darkening scarlet she swallowed as much of the substance as she could, greedily lapping up her sins. She kept drinking even when she heard the howl, if it could really be called such. It was more of a rumble than a true noise, felt deep within her bones and far out into the stars. A drone that went further than any single buzz or hum. The building was moving. From around the side of the tower came the face of the Wille-beast, reconstructed in neuron and tendon. White and red and chitinous, it glowed in the moonlight and carved a path through the falling snow with nimble grace. What was once burnt had been rebuilt, and where it had been flayed there now lay a coating of brick and mortar. A second face, eyes closed and features at rest, sat upon her forehead. Cesca had gone still. A droplet of blood had appeared on her back, growing in size until the dry sheath of her body was discarded. The blood bubble hung in the air as the beast eyed it wearily. A nose, and then an eye, formed upon the surface. One by one the features so recently discarded displayed themselves in rotund intensity across the face of the floating boil. A mouth, cut vertically, let out a screeching laugh of triumph. The victory was short lived, however. The Claudia-Wille hybrid advanced upon the Inquisitor and, with a single deft movement that expanded its maw so far that it blocked out the sky, ate her whole. Trickles of blood mixed with pearl iron ran from between the newly wrought teeth as the beast snapped and swallowed, digesting its prey. By now, the building was half submerged in the growing lake, and what was not drowned was aflame. Another lurch sent the infirmary - and all its myriad horrors - under the surface, as though the weight of what had been done there was too much for it to bear. As the hybrid beast howled again, something began to bubble to the surface. Something that loved us very, very much. Something old, and something lonely. As one, each of the Gol turned towards the lake to watch it rise. Sister Caprimulgus, somehow unscathed, danced with passion before the churning mass of ichorous flow, her bare feet tracing red and sticky steps upon the grass. So too were the eyes of the great beast drawn to the lake, and so it did not notice as the sun began to rise. Dawn in the valley was always a tremendous sight, as the surrounding hills blocked the light until the sun was ready to ascend. It was often unexpected, which meant that the worst was over quite quickly. As the beast thrashed in sudden agony the lake began to simmer and boil, clouds of red steam floating through the air as the snow, too, began to dissipate. Frothing waves of blood rose upwards in a fated attempt to escape, hissing as it made contact with the fire, dousing the flames and sending red sparks flying. When it was over, the red lake was gone. Returned once again to the caverns where it lay dreaming. The Gol had faded, though a few still lingered just at the edge of sight. As the light flooded the world the night¡¯s events became dim. Out in the forest, a deer who once had six legs learnt to walk on four. A lamb that before could only scream taught itself to bleat. As the marsh woke up anew the traces of the old world sat light upon the air. A small patch of rust in the dirt, a charred twist of metal on the grass, and in the morning sky the faint, lingering shadow of a giant with two faces. Epilogue ¡°Bye, Mother!¡± The chorus of voices called out in unison. A gaggle of girls in newly-pressed habits stood in a line, waving their handkerchiefs at the retreating figure. ¡°Bye, Sisters! Be good!¡± Mother Superior was already sweating in the hot summer sun, her little briefcase tucked under one arm while the other held a simple lace parasol. She dabbed at her face with her sleeve, chattering to herself with an ¡°Oh my,¡± and a ¡°Deary me!¡± whenever a stray thought hit her. Insects hummed in the verges, their song merging with the sound of grass swaying in the breeze. Above her a kestrel wheeled (¡°Goodness!¡±), while out on the marsh the chattering of warblers filled the air with life. It was hard to believe that just last night, let another one of those Golems had been spotted just outside the gate. Sister Harriet had tried to describe it to her, but Mother Superior had waived her off - life was, she thought, too short to dwell in horror. Be that as it may, she still had her duty to keep, and so she sweated her way down to the gatehouse where Isidore waited on her. ¡°Ahh, Sister Izzie! Or is it Brother Izzie, now?¡± ¡°Neither, Mother. Just Isidore.¡± ¡°Right right, yes I see. Marvellous! Quite, quite.¡± By now Isidore was used to the older woman¡¯s constant mutterings. It was like the birdsong from the marsh; an ever-present melody that one grew accustomed to. When they had first moved here from the city, the intense, rural darkness of a night without streetlamps had unnerved them, as had the dawn chorus which woke them every morning. ¡°Please Mother, won¡¯t you have some tea before you go? It¡¯s ice-cold.¡± The two of them sat in the gatehouse with the windows wide open, gazing out over the marshlands in silence. Relative silence. Mother Superior¡¯s idea of a quiet moment was to hum a little hymn. Between them on the table was a large, golden candlestick. ¡°Are you worried, Izzie?¡± ¡°Oh Mother, it was the most terrifying thing I had ever seen. I had no idea they would come this close. It was just stood there, staring right at me. I couldn¡¯t breathe. Do you have to go out there?¡± Mother Superior nodded. ¡°Why? Please don¡¯t leave us, Mother. We need you. Lydia is an imbecile who couldn¡¯t supervise her way out of a barrel. You just know she¡¯s going to get ahead of herself.¡± Isidore had dropped to the floor by her feet and wrapped their arms around her knees in supplication. ¡°I hear you, my dear. I really do.¡± She took a long sip of iced tea. ¡°But everything is happening as it¡¯s supposed to. Just a tad early, according to calculations.¡± Isidore looked at her askance until the old nun slid her briefcase over. ¡°It¡¯s all in there, Izzie my dear. I¡¯m not supposed to share it, not just yet, but¡­ I trust you. You¡¯re a very intelligent young thing. I wouldn¡¯t want you to be worried.¡± Twenty minutes later Mother Superior had a candlestick lodged in the front of her head. Isidore had cried until darkness, tore at their hair and wept fitfully in the corner of the room. Once the bell tolled for Silence, they had carried the body over to the gardens and tossed it into the old well. The briefcase they kept, and they would pour over it in many weeks to come. Our experiments have taken an unexpected turn, they had said. The red lake rises soon. It wasn¡¯t until months later, when Sister Harriet had come babbling to the gates with a parade of Gol behind her, that Isidore had understood these words. ¡°The church exists to protect these¡­ These friends of ours. I shan¡¯t call them ¡®Gol¡¯, Isidore.¡± Harriet had said, twirling her red-beaded rosary in one hand. ¡°They are not something other, they are us. Do they really look like monsters to you?¡± Isidore kept her talking until sunrise, when just like that her procession of protectors faded away in the morning light. She put up a struggle, but ultimately, she was alone. It took several hours of painstaking work with shears and branches and rocks to make the wound look like it had come from a Gol. Isidore had even used their own teeth to bite and tear, ineffectually, at the tendons in her chest to simulate what they thought an attack might look like. It was then when they found the cascade of ribs upon ribs, growing haphazardly, slowly yet almost visibly. They stopped and spat and vomited and washed their body until no trace remained of Harriet¡¯s blood upon them, and yet the nightmares continued - of transforming, of turning into something beastly and cancerous. In their dreams they would look up from biting Harriet to find that they were merely eating grass, their body mutated into a bloated ovine creature, where instead of wool soft lumps of flesh grew all over their body, weighing them down until it grew to cover their vision. In some, they were shorn of their flesh in a painful yet precise process where they were hung up by a single back leg, hanging from the tatter-tree as the fat and meat was reaped from their body. A jolly table of feasting faces would accompany this, as their tender flesh was seared and served to a laughing host who ate them without compunction, until nothing remained but bone.This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience. --- Isidore woke screaming. Every night brought that same dream, and every morning it had the same effect. They sat up, wet with sweat and shivering, their fingers curling into the shirt on their chest as though clasping the skirts of their mother. Just a bad dream. With pains they lifted one leg, and then the other, off the side of the bed. They shuffled round to the end and leant into their chair. The wheels creaked as they set their weight on it. A moment later and they were tying back their hair - now long, thin and grey - into a ponytail. The fire had kept alight throughout the night and despite the weather, so that was one less chore to do. They heaped a spoonful of dried leaves into a small canteen and set it out to boil. Before long they had a steaming cup of tea to sip as they sat by the door of the hut, surveying Palus Somni. The marsh is not kind to abandoned places, and the stones were thick with slime molds and wet-furred mosses. It was not safe to venture too far into the confines of the old building. The shards of glass and shattered wood made a fall dangerous, and the terrain was not suited to a wheelchair. Besides, it was still sinking. Slowly, to be sure, but Isidore had lived here long enough now to know when even a single brick went missing. ¡°Ha! Get!¡± Suddenly they threw the canteen at a shadow on the ground. It bounced harmlessly off the spongy earth as the shadow skittered away into the ruins, while the exertion only made Isidore start a coughing fit. Behind their hacking they heard the mocking gurgles of a child. They had never succeeded in harming one, though they tried. Oh yes, they tried. Traps and tricks and knives and flame. In the early days, when their legs were newly healed, they had retained some movement in them and had stalked the children throughout the night. Spectral infants that seemed helpless, lying exposed on the ground in corners and crevices, that jumped and ran with the speed of an adult when startled. It was only when caught that they revealed their true nature; that of the bilious, squirming mass of flesh and carapace that writhed in their hands in muscular spasms, all while emitting that singular buzzing drone. On a few occasions, though more often than they would like, Isidore had caught sight of the parents. Two nuns, one with dark hair and one with light, walking side by side with hands clasped as a train of small children wandered behind them. At these times it seemed even the walls had returned, that they could peer through the ghostly corpse of the monastery itself, thriving somewhere beyond this world. ¡°Come back,¡± Isidore had called, ¡°Don¡¯t leave me here! Claudia, Sister, come back!¡± But morning would always come and bring with it the knowledge that they did indeed live, if living is what you could call it. Nothing much had been saved from that night, but the gatehouse being so far away had been mercifully untouched. They had lived there for many years before it became unsafe to stay in any longer. Now, sat in the shadow of their small bog-hut, they found themselves recalling the documents in the briefcase. The ones they had barely understood at the time, the ones with star charts and charcoal sketches of the moon in different phases. ...and so with the last remnants of its strength it set up a beacon, in the hopes that it would be found... The lake lay somewhere deep beneath their feet, denatured and frail, unable to break through the surface in the face of our most powerful star. It had called out for aid, and one day that aid will arrive, but until then this world had Isidore. ¡°Hello there! I say, good morning old fellow!¡± Came the cheery cry from down the trail. A few minutes later there stood a tall, middle-aged man in a cotton shirt and leather chaps. Isidore narrowed their eyes at the belt of tools that lay slung across their shoulder. ¡°An archaeologist? In these parts?¡± ¡°No, no my friend. Like my father before me, I am a cryptographer.¡± ¡°Your father?¡± ¡°Indeed, yes. He told me his family came from these parts. Estranged from my grandfather, he was, poor chap. They never did speak before he¡­ Well.¡± The newcomer sat with his silence. ¡°What is your name, friend?¡± Isidore asked. ¡°Oscar. Oscar Mallory the Second, at your service. My Grandfather Aloysius owned a mansion in these parts, later sold to some cult.¡± Oscar shrugged as though to say he knew no more about it, before his eyes lit up. ¡°But I do believe I have finally found it! The ruins of our ancestral home. You are the groundskeeper here, are you not?¡± ¡°Something like that.¡± Replied Isidore, grimacing and wheeling themselves back into the hut. ¡°Ahh, to think! A Mallory, back in his rightful seat! My father told me never to come back here. He said the ground was cursed. What a fool I was to believe him. I cannot wait to see what intricate work lies beneath the surface here - Did I mention my grandfather was a cryptographer? - Yes, indeed, this,¡± and with a big breath he turned and faced the rotting remains of his family¡¯s legacy, ¡°...This is God¡¯s country.¡± ¡°Your father was a wise man.¡± Mumbled Isidore from the hut as they rummaged around in the old travelling chest by the window. ¡°Aha! Here you are... My old friend.¡± They withdrew a long, pointed dirk, still as sharp as the day it was smelted, and placed it carefully under the blanket that covered their broken, withered legs. Their arms were strong yet, and they knew, more than anyone, that the cost of sanity was owed in blood.