by Allen Werner
No one questioned Sinibaldus’ command to herd the lot into the makeshift corral reserved for sacrifices. With eager smiles, they paraded inside the pen, hugging and congratulating one another as they went, whispering their desire to be the one the King chose.
And then there was a sigh of lament as Sinibaldus unlocked the gate and asked Renée to come out first. The King shut the gate behind him and the women all crowded closer to the split-rail fencing to witness the trial they would all have to endure. They all still hoped to get a turn, be tested.
No one was sure what was going to happen next, so everyone watched in wonder. This was to be a historical marker in their evolution as a people.
Renée was beautiful. She had bathed and combed her long black hair. She was wearing a stunning, rather revealing black gown she had stolen from a traveler she killed a few years back. She hardly ever wore the gown, never much call to do so. Today was special.
Sinibaldus led Renée to the altar where the decomposing body of his mother lay naked now. Sinibaldus had commanded the corpse not be dressed or treated today.
The giant turned Renée around and presented her to the people who had gathered in the cave to watch. He began to fondle Renée, softly caressing her shoulders, running his fingers gently down her back, over her hips. He lifted her arm and kissed the bandage covering the finger she had injured earlier. She smiled at him. Sinibaldus came up on her shoulders and pulled at the straps of the black dress until they snapped. The gown fell around her ankles. Goosebumps formed on her white skin, her radiance glowing in the torchlight. She trembled with excitement.
The giant’s long arms and enormous hands reached all the way around her from either side and gripped her breasts.
Renée was in heaven. Her knees got weak and her head fell to one side. She closed her eyes and rolled her shoulders as he continued to caress her, touching her everywhere. ‘The world is watching.’
Renée had been taken by Sinibaldus at least a dozen times before but never with everyone watching. His hot breath was crawling over her neck and down her back. One hand, one finger, found its way down between her legs for a quick moment and then went away. Violently the giant spun her around. He bent her naked body over the altar, her face hovering proudly over the head of the dead queen. Claire stank but Renée didn’t care. ‘I’m going to be Queen now. I’m taking your place.’
Snap! The surprising pop echoed throughout the entire cave and there was a simultaneous gasp that followed. No one could believe what they just witnessed. Sinibaldus had placed his strong left knee on Renée’s lower back, somewhere near her ass, and pulled the top half of her body up towards him. He had cracked her spine.
With urgency and determination, his powder blue eyes alight and red, still holding Renée’s lifeless body over the altar, Sinibaldus produced a knife, one of the ceremonial knives used to kill ravens. He cut Renée’s throat and the woman’s blood rained down on the corpse and altar.
The women collected inside the pen began screaming in horror as some rattled the bars of the cage and others slunk back further in the shadows hoping not to be seen.
The priests, the ones most devoted to Sinibaldus and still uncertain whether this ploy, this ritual would work, ordered other priests and priestesses to take charge of the room and control the disorderly crowd.
There wasn’t a soul in The Living Pool who had not witnessed human sacrifice before, it was not unusual but this was one of their own. Renée was loved and respected by many. She had family in the covens. Everyone looked at the other women gathered in the sacrificial pen and realized their fate if Renée’s blood failed to pacify the gods and revive the dead queen.
The ritual failed. The blood stopped pumping out of Renée’s limp body. Sinibaldus dropped her on the stone floor without a care. He fell on the altar and tightly embraced Claire’s bloody corpse, hollering at the Eternals to send her back to him. They would not listen.
Marcel, being the High Priest and Second in command, ordered the cave cleared, all except the other sacrifices in the corral. There was a lot of division among the cave-dwellers now. Those with family in the kennel cried out boldly, begging, demanding their loved ones be released immediately. These and other protestors were forcibly escorted out.
Once there was order in The Living Pool again, the loyal members of Sinibaldus’ entourage gathered around him and waited.
The giant slowly rose from the altar, leaving Claire’s body where it lay. He was covered in blood now as he turned slowly to face them. His expression was stern and demented, cold and heartless. No one was going to refute a single word the King said, not now.
“Blood is the key to life. Repeat after me. Blood is the key to life.”
Hesitant at first, they formed a choir and repeated after him, “Blood is the key to life.”
“We shall sacrifice and keep sacrificing women, giving the Queen all the blood she requires to escape from hell. This ritual will continue until she returns to us and the prophesied children are born.”
No one blinked or spoke a word against it although every single one of them shared their revulsion silently.
“Marcel, have the area around the altar cleansed at once. Remove Renée. See that no one disturbs the Queen’s body.” Sinibaldus peered down at his clothing, the blood covering his black cloak. “I shall wash and change and we will do this again.” With long, determined strides, the giant left. They all heard him whispering to himself. “Pas assez de sang.” Not enough blood.
Like his mother before him, Sinibaldus was on the run, fleeing the only home he had ever known. The deposed King wandered away from all the caves that were familiar to him, not wanting to be near anyone who would recognize him. But he was a giant, an albino giant. ‘Where can I possibly go and blend in?’
His urgent, lonely steps led him deeper and deeper into the shadows of the forest valley near the River Arve. There he hid, tending to his wounds, employing all his wizardly skill and knowledge of herbs and roots to recover. He purposefully starved himself, going five straight days without ingesting food, drinking only occasionally from the river. He determined that this was a time for fasting, mourning and preparation.
As he once did to the sweet Christian people of Chamonix, raiding their filthy village with a militia of hot-blooded priests and priestesses, raping and ravaging, burning buildings to the ground, he would now do to the people of The Living Pool. He had no army this time but he did not need one. The retribution was going to be cold and calculating, as much about fear and apprehension as it was about breaking heads. ‘They will be terrified to go to bed at night.’
Still not fully healed, his fast completed, Sinibaldus returned to The Living Pool region. Once there, under the cover of night, he crept into several holes, raping and murdering everyone he came across. Starved and hungry from his five day fast, he gnawed like an animal upon their dead flesh, consuming meat and organs from their bodies, drinking blood from their veins and hearts. When a search party went out and located the random murder scenes, they found a foreboding message painted on the walls of every cave in blood. ‘The King’s Revenge.’
The exacting continued for a month until Sinibaldus became expressly ill from all the raw human meat he was consuming. The covens had also begun unifying and setting traps for him. It was becoming increasingly difficult to locate and attack his prey. It was time to move on.
Colorless, hopeless and vomiting continuously, consumed by his hatred for all things human and religious, Christian and Pagan alike, Sinibaldus left The Living Pool region and began to scavenge the most remote tracks of land in western Europe, hunting and foraging, assaulting and raping, doing a thousand evils to unsuspecting villagers and vagabonds. He pitied no one.
Portentously, his murderous rampage on the continent left a bizarre and lasting impression that wove itself into folklore. In no time at all, zealous troubadours were singing about him, parents whispered tales about his evils at night beside campfires to frighten children and enter
tain travelers. It was most astonishing. Blanc Fantôme, became a thing of legend. Sinibaldus was infamous and a price was placed on his head by lords, barons and princes everywhere.
Wholly unaware of his notorious and contemporary reputation among the civilized, Sinibaldus continued to raid and pillage with pointless abandon, eventually pressing south into Italy where he eventually found his way to a cave in Cumae.
Then everything changed.
Chapter 26 – Herophile’s Gift
As antediluvian diviners were forced to do during the days of Yisrael’s old kings, seers and clairvoyants of medieval times retreated into the wilderness, to the niches and enclaves of the mountains. It was believed that the activities of these purported descendants of Cathars were worthy of death. Catholicism bitterly pursued sorcerers and sorceresses, accusing them of dealings in the black arts, séances, necromancy, orgies, bloodlettings and human sacrifice. Relying heavily upon the antiquated teachings of Exodus 22:18, ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live,’ the determination for what actually constituted witchcraft and sorcery was generally left to the discretion of corrupt officials. Priests, bishops, lords and barons, were given a great deal of latitude in this arena. They wielded inordinate power already and now with the threat of heresy and the devil’s craft added to their arsenal, they could act on slights and grudges with impunity. Anyone they accused of being a sorcerer or conjurer was considered guilty. The only way the individual could prove their innocence was to endure nearly impossible human trials or suffer exorbitantly painful tortures. The number of injustices that occurred during this period were immeasurable and women bore the brunt of it. The patriarchal system of the Church and secular kingdoms of Europe made it nearly impossible for decent women to resist the domineering, lustful advances of their superiors. They had to capitulate to avoid undue woe.
Despite all these threats and the myriad conversions to Catholicism, the pagan lore remained entrenched in the hearts of the citizenry. Superstitions and curiosities of nature persisted. The same people who dutifully sat at Mass one day, praying to Christ with penitent hearts, would be out in the fields the next, seeking priestesses and healers to combat their very real fears and afflictions. It seemed to most commoners that the Pope was more concerned with his stained-glass windows, silver-plated crucifixes, the selling of indulgences and dull Latin rituals, than with them and their daily needs. The culls of the earth were wholly untouched by his eminence’s warmth.
Crones, as they were often referred, although a cranky and emaciated sort, living austerely, isolated from civilization, tended to know more about everything happening in the world than most people. In fact, they often saw what was transpiring in various communities and in the personal lives of the seekers, then they did themselves. It was eerie to stand in their presence. The crones communicated otherworldly and this higher knowledge instilled both fear and reverence. The crones also tended to choose their words circumspectly when speaking to their adherents. While never withholding the truth, they delivered it in a manner palatable and uplifting, positive and nurturing, even when they had to speak of death and famine.
The people sought relief. The crones gave them this, direction and encouragement, elevating words to free them from their newborn anxieties concerning the damning dogma of limbo and hades.
The Sibyl of Cumae was such a one as these.
No one was sure how old Herophile truly was. They didn’t know when she arrived or how she came to be living in the cave. As far as everyone knew, ancient Herophile had always been.
There was of course a foolish sort, who, in private, suspected that there had been several variations of the prophetess occupying the cave at Cumae, claiming it was impossible for any one woman to have endured all these years, century after century. None of these braggarts, however, were ever bold enough to question the Sybil outright, keeping their criticisms to themselves. Everyone feared Herophile’s powers far more than the threats of hellfire preached to them by the Church.
Herophile lived above Cumae, the narrow doorway to her remote cave rumored to be one of the many mouths of hell. No one was permitted to enter the cave and those that tried, never left again.
Herophile met with her visitors on the edge of the opening, they standing or seated several yards beneath her on stone and sand.
Blanc Fantôme, his enormous pale-skinned body modestly covered in crudely stitched fox pelts, his skin blistered and scarred, drifted the European continent without purpose. He had long lost count of the souls that chanced his path and met their fate. Age and sex mattered not to him. He was immune to pity, never once granting anyone mercy, taking full advantage of all, a vendetta aimed squarely at the heart of humanity. ‘Mon souhait. Ma faҫon.’
With a host of conjuring spells in his repertoire, and a masterful knowledge of herbs, roots and minerals, Sinibaldus formulated potions and elixirs that tested the very limits of his mortal flesh, some of them strengthening his ability to do supernatural acts while others drained him of his precious life force. He had no idea how long he could go on like this and he didn’t care. Some days he was a god, able to march for hours, lifting enormous boulders and leveling trees with a fist. He could rundown conies, wrestle bears and snatch sprinting deer in midstride. On other days, he could barely move, vomiting and shitting his insides out. It was a compelling war of passion that drove him nearly mad, experimenting constantly with his own metabolism and health.
His diet, beside the medicinal concoctions he ingested, consisted almost entirely of insects, salamanders and chewy green lizards, mostly eaten raw. He did have a taste for ibex and would occasionally seek one out when desiring a heartier meal.
During his lonely journeys, the giant would occasionally cross paths with an Imperial patrol or a retinue of men-at-arms. When the swords had been flashed and the arrows nocked, Sinibaldus would charge into the fray imagining it to be his final day on earth. He would expire in a blaze of glory, finally traveling to the land of the dead where he would be reunited with Claire. He had given up hope of ever bringing her back to this world. ‘Today is the day the forces pitted against me shall be too numerous and I will fail.’
Sadly, for him, he was always wrong. Despite his weaknesses and maladies, countless injuries, even when he was sick-to-death and could hardly stand, his enemies died to a man or retreated. The survivors, or cowards, as Sinibaldus referred to them, ran home with more tall tales to embellish the already burgeoning legend of Blanc Fantôme.
Herophile awoke suddenly from a frightful dream. She tossed and turned all night on her stone bed, the spirits murmuring tirelessly about a legend, a warrior, a demon headed her way. With eyes still closed, the old crone pitched her head as if her hearing were equal to her sight. There was a great disturbance, a movement of dark energy bearing down on her. She was sensitive to dark energy, accustomed to ghostly winds rising from beneath her, poisoning the air with wicked thought. The whispers were correct and wise to have awoken her. This one was different, very different. It was encased in rotting flesh, roaming the earth, reeking of sin, walking on two legs, its unholy steps directed at her door.
“Sinibaldus,” a refrain of whispers hissed and harmonized. “Be wary of this one, Herophile. Sinibaldus. Sinibaldus.”
Bent over wretched-like, her dried up breasts uncovered and lying against her chest, a skimpy lion cloth of leather covering her lower waist, the aged crone hobbled over to a tall clay pedestal whose top had begun to glow with a silvery light. She peered down in the basin. In it sat a thick motionless pool of radiant quicksilver.
Herophile trained her eyes on the shiny liquid for several minutes. “Speak to me,” she quietly intoned. “Speak to me.”
Ghostly faces and chalky outlines moved over the surface and disturbed the mercury, tiny bubbles emerging from within and popping. As each bubble burst, a new voice emerged, soft and haunting, some of them women, some of them men, and some of them children. Within seconds the bubbles grew larger and louder. “He has raped us. He
has killed us. We hate him. Do not trust him. Spawn. Spawn. Murderer.”
Herophile’s long face grew even longer as her dirty brown eyes widened. Her attention to the quicksilver intensified. She placed her arthritic hands on either side of the bowl and her thin hips started gyrating as if ready to make love to the pedestal.
“What shall be done with the spawn?’ She asked.
“Gift him,” the whispers agreed. “Gift him.”
Gasping and trembling as if her emaciated body had climaxed, fully satisfied by some stupendous lover, Herophile left off the awkward gyrating of her hips and relaxed. She withdrew her gaze from the burbling quicksilver while maintaining her pressing hold on the pedestal for balance. She was leaving the cave now. She closed her eyes and drifted away from the pedestal, her mind and her memory traveling to the aphotic realm where all her riches lay in store. The treasury, her treasury, had a soul of its own and was located thousands of miles beneath the loam of the earth in a chasm constrained on all sides by great darkness and pressure. No human being could ever withstand or endure such a place, a place where the tension between time and gravity met.
In human terms, there was no one wealthier than the Sybil of Cumae. Since time immortal, everyone from kings to farmers, queens to blacksmiths, had sought her out for advice and counsel, all reciprocating her knowledge with generous gifts, anything they could afford to part with. And although one might be inclined to think that it was the royals who provided her with the best treasures, it was oftentimes the lowly who unwittingly presented her with fabled items whose value and power they failed to recognize.
Herophile metaphysically ranged the utter blackness of the treasury with purpose. She never went there without purpose. The soul placed within that great darkness embraced her and they walked together. With faith and patience, they knew a third would soon join them. It would take time but if their hearts were pure and their intent true, one particular object in the treasury would be drawn to the moment by the numinous influences of the universe and rise. It would illuminate itself and volunteer to return to the land of the living. And then it did. A single crystal, the size of a large man’s fist, an object possessing an energy all its own, lifted from the wilderness.