This voice was like thick, black water. It broke over my head, intent on smothering, but I turned my head and breathed yet. His words wormed their way into my belly, burrowing with falsehoods and truths twined.
Catherine! Mary! Oh God, bring me Michael and his fires — Bring me -
“They will burn you three times. They will burn your body, your bones, and so, too, your ash. They will scatter you across water and none will remember. Each must fight their own way back to their own time — you cannot deliver them all.”
I closed my eyes as the black wet of him enveloped me, as the awful thing he was flowed over my shoulders and down my chest. This was not the worst — there had been worse and worse was yet to come, for I could feel (could indeed remember before I had been carried here) the hot lick of flame against my skin. The skin would bubble, the skin would burst, and there would be those who would remember. That old man had known me. Had known what I had done.
It was the angels, I told myself, who allowed me to reach my sword. It was the angels gave me strength to plunge the length of metal into that black belly and rip up, the way I had ripped into the cat.
It was Michael’s hands upon my own that burned holy fire down the length of my blade, into this putrid horror. His shriek pulled the world down around us in plumes of ash and smoke, the dust of bones and blood. Every person and every beast vanished from this realm as though they had never been. I felt them go — felt them leave his control as the holy light blazed through me. It was Catherine’s certain cell inside my mind that closed every awful door this foul creature meant to open, that locked him tight, if not forever. And it was Mary who did what needed doing, as she ever did, even knowing the paths it would open. Where a path had burned, others would certainly follow.
So, too, it was me in this instant, burning with God’s fire to consume this beast, this madness. The Maid, her pennant snapping in the warm uprush of fire. Blessed fire, consume me. Work through me.
I felt the heat of it now as I moved from this dreamworld and into my own. As that shadowed dread fell to pieces around me, golden flames shot upward against a French sky, enveloping my shoulders the way he had moments before. Galilei’s tent poles buckled into the cross that the fathers elevated so I might see. What would You have of me?
The girl screamed — You cannot! You cannot! — and it was her eyes I saw as my own, drowned in tears.
You cannot!
Where shall I be tonight?
I am not afraid. I hear the angels.
NO SLEEP FOR
THE JUST
BY WILLIAM MEIKLE
Augustus Seton was not the best of sailors and the short trip across the Forth in a stiff westerly was made worse by the remnants of last night’s ale rolling and tumbling in his guts. He’d much prefer to be back home sleeping it off, but the King had insisted and you don’t turn a Stewart down if you wanted your head to be still affixed to your shoulders afterwards.
“The monks think they are a law unto themselves,” James had said. They were in the King’s chamber in Linlithgow Palace, a draughty hole only made tolerable by warm mulled wine and a roaring fire that took up a whole wall of the room. “I have sent three excise men this past month. Not a one has returned. I will put up with much, but when it comes to taxes, my patience has grown thin. You will impress on them the seriousness of their situation. And if they will not see sense, put them to the sword.”
The sword in question had thrummed in its scabbard when Seton strapped it on as he left the Palace, but it fell quiet again in the tavern and gave him no further warnings. He thought the trip might be an uneventful one. But as the ferryboat brought them up to the island dock on Inchmalcolm, the weapon sent a burst of heat against his thigh and rattled in the scabbard. He put a hand on the hilt to quiet it, but it continued its activity as he stepped off the boat onto the stone jetty.
“Be sure to be ready before nightfall, sir!” the ferryman shouted at his back. “There’s a storm coming in.”
Seton turned to speak, only to see the ferry already pull away, the boatman rowing for all he was worth as if most eager to depart. Seton was left alone on the jetty and soon, as the ferry moved further off to be lost in the mist, there was no sound but the gentle lapping of water on stone.
The small village of thatched longhouses at this end of the island housed the workforce that served the Abbey. By Seton’s reckoning, there should be near a hundred people living in the cluster of dwellings on the shore. But if that was the case, there was no sign of them. This late in the year, there should at least be smoke from the hearths, but all the chimneys were quiet. He stood still, listening, hoping to hear anything that might tell him he wasn’t alone.
There was nothing — not the caw of a crow or chirp of a finch. And something else bothered him. There was no sign of any livestock: no cattle or sheep, nor any cats or dogs. It was as if all life had been lifted from the island, leaving it as empty as a tomb.
The sword thrummed at his thigh again, eager to be free. He gave in to the inevitable and drew it from the scabbard. In truth, despite his antipathy to the sword, and his disgust with himself over the bargain he had made so many years ago for its power, the feel of the weapon in his hand gave him a sense of security he would not have otherwise.
He walked off the jetty into the village, strode up to the nearest building, and rapped hard on the door with the hilt of his sword. The sound echoed around him but silence fell all too soon. No one answered his knock — not there, nor at the rest of the long houses that made up the small village. The largest building was the one furthest from the jetty, looking over a grassy track that led to the Abbey at the other end of the island. The door lay open, only darkness beyond. The sword sent a fresh burst of heat into his palm as he stepped over the threshold.
“Hello?” he shouted and immediately wished he had kept his mouth shut. The sound seemed to be stolen as soon as it left his throat, falling into the empty dark beyond. He took another step inside and his eyes slowly adjusted to the gloom. He had entered a tavern of sorts. Two long trestles dominated the floor space and two large barrels sat at the far end of the room. The thought of a jug of ale was enough to get Seton to step fully inside. The sword hummed a warning, but he ignored it and made for the ale barrels.
He only got halfway there before he had to stop, almost gagging as a foul stench of rotting fish assaulted his nose and throat, and brought watery tears to his eyes. He turned, looking for fresher air.
And then he heard it — a far-off, muffled chanting.
Rorate caeli desuper, et nubes pluant iustum.
He turned, a full circle, trying to pinpoint the source of the sound, but even as he did so, the chant sank away and everything fell quiet once more. He had a last, regretful, look at the ale barrels and went back outside, taking in huge gulps of air that tasted as sweet as any beer.
Something splashed, something big, down near the jetty. But again, the noise wasn’t repeated.
Bugger this for a lark.
He sheathed the sword. It sent a condemnatory burst of warmth all the way up his arm then fell quiet at his side. He turned his gaze to the far end of the island and the Abbey.
Mist hung over the highest towers, but he saw more than enough to recognize that it was a huge edifice, one of the oldest surviving in the country. Back in Linlithgow, the King had told Seton how much tax was drawn on a yearly basis from the island. He had found the figure impossibly high to believe at the time, but standing here on the island, it was all too clear that this was a place ripe for taxation. Or rather, it would be – if there were any people around to raise the money from. He strained to listen, expecting to hear more chanting when a breeze blew from the direction of the Abbey. He heard nothing … but he smelled rotting fish again, little more than a taint in the air but unmistakable.
The sword started to hum and complain, but went quiet again when he put a hand on the hilt. He knew from long experience not to ignore the warnings the weapon sent him. After all, wasn’t th
is exactly what he had asked for when he made his bargain with the Wee Man all those years ago? Power, fortune and glory. He’d got the first, but the other two continued to elude him. He suspected they always would, as long as he clung to his love for wild women and uisque.
The sword sent him another burst of heat, almost enough to bring pain.
“I’m going, I’m going,” he muttered, pulling himself out of his reverie and walking, faster now, along the path that ran down a ridge in the island’s middle, straight to the main door of the Abbey. There was no sound save the soft thud of his feet on the trampled grass and even the smell of fish had gone again by the time he reached the building.
He was about to rap on the door when the chant came again.
Rorate caeli desuper, et nubes pluant iustum.
He heard the words clearer this time, and translated them in his head.
Drop down dew ye heavens from above, and let the clouds rain on the Just One.
It wasn’t anything he knew, but then again, he had never been much of one for churching, so he didn’t think the chant in any way strange.
“Hello?” he shouted. Once again, the sound was stolen, deadened as it left his mouth. He rapped hard on the oak door with the sword hilt, hard enough to leave several small dents in the surface.
The chanting stopped and he waited for the door to be opened.
No one came.
He rapped even harder on the door, knocking chips and splinters from the oak. There was no reply. He put his shoulder against the wood and pushed, but there was no give in it, and it would take hours he could ill afford to hack and hew his way in. He started to walk around the northern extent of the building.
The grass was thicker here and the ground heavy underfoot. Soon, he was squelching through mud and cursing the monks for their intransigence. By the time he had reached the far corner of the building, he was not in the best of moods. His temper didn’t improve when the chanting started up again.
Rorate caeli desuper, et nubes pluant iustum.
Peccavimus, et facti sumus tamquam immundus nos, et cecidimus quasi folium universi.
The sing-song voices had taken on a different tone, one that sounded almost menacing. The sword thrummed at the same instant that Seton smelled rotting fish again, stronger this time.
What the hell is going on here?
There was a door set in the eastern wall of the Abbey, much smaller than the main one at the entrance. It was locked, but gave way readily enough to a couple of swift kicks and a heavy shoulder. He drew the sword as he entered the Abbey.
It had fallen quiet again. A short stone corridor opened out into the main body of the building. Thin light came in from the high windows, enough to show him that the place was completely empty. The smell of fish was even stronger here and he discovered why as he approached the altar.
A silver crucifix sat in the center of the stone. Affixed to the top of it, impaled, was the rotting head of a large cod, dead eyes staring straight at Seton. The chant started up, from everywhere and nowhere.
Rorate caeli desuper, et nubes pluant iustum.
Seton spun on his heel, sword raised. He was quite alone in the Abbey, even as the sing-song chant swelled and rose to fill the space with a throb and din that started to ache in his ears. He gagged as the smell got suddenly worse. The mouth of the cod fell open in what looked like a sardonic laugh.
Seton stepped forward, sword raised, meaning to sweep the foul thing to the ground. The noise swelled to a howling cacophony that he couldn’t ignore, a pain in his head and chest that threatened to crush him. The sword sent him a burst of strength, enough to get him staggering away down the aisle. He hit the main door at a run, with enough force to burst out through into the gray day.
The chant followed him all the way.
Drop down dew ye heavens from above, and let the clouds rain on the Just One.
It started to rain.
Seton turned, thinking to go back inside the Abbey. Although he had heard no sound, the heavy oak door was once again shut against his entry. He heard the chant, coming from a great distance.
Rorate caeli desuper, et nubes pluant iustum.
The rain got heavier. He chose discretion over valor and headed back across the island to the empty village, passing straight through and making for the jetty. By now, rain lashed against his face. He looked out over the Forth, peering, trying to see the far bank. All he could see was mist and rain. A large bell sat in a cradle at the end of the jetty. He rang it, long and hard, but either the ferryman couldn’t hear it, or, more likely, Seton thought, he chose not to answer.
Seton was completely soaked through by now and was surprised to see that the light was going from the sky. It would be dark soon. He rang the bell one last time then retreated to the nearest dwelling.
He had to kick in the door to gain entrance. The longhouse was basic, being little more than walls, a hearth and a bed of straw. But it was dry, and there was enough wood and twigs to get a fire going. Twenty minutes later, he sat, warming himself by a newly lit fire and, if not exactly cozy, was starting to feel more like his old self.
He could not shift the memory of what had happened in the Abbey. Even now, he felt the heft and weight of the building like a physical presence, brooding there on the far side of the island. Outside the cottage, a howling wind had got up, driving rain against the door and shutters, but even then, Seton imagined he could hear the chanting, rising and falling with the burgeoning storm.
Rorate caeli desuper, et nubes pluant iustum.
The sword bucked at his side and he felt fresh heat from it.
Something is coming.
He unsheathed the weapon, went to the door, and looked out.
Twelve codfish lay, hauled out on the jetty, barely fifteen feet away, each as long as a man and nearly twice as heavy. They all had their heads raised into the teeming rain and all had their jaws wide open. They sang. Even above the storm, Seton heard the chant rise up again.
Rorate caeli desuper, et nubes pluant iustum.
He took a deep breath and opened the door fully. He raised his weapon and called up a banishing spell. The sword flared, blue-white, lighting the whole length of the jetty.
The nearest codfish swelled and grew. It rose up, tall as a man. Its body morphed until it looked like a large, hefty, robed figure, a cowl covering its head. Seton ran forward, sword swinging. The weapon hissed through the rain and embedded itself in the thing’s head. The cowl fell back to show a face that was more fish than man. The cowled figure blazed, orange and yellow that stayed behind his eyelids when Seton blinked. The figure fell away, burning, into the rough water below the jetty, with a hiss that was clearly audible even above the wind. Before he could raise the sword again, the other codfish slid, silently, into the Forth, leaving Seton alone on the jetty.
He returned to the cottage, slammed the door shut and sat by the fire, breathless.
He stayed there for the longest time, until his heart stopped thudding and the tightness faded in his chest. The sword kept up an almost constant throb, but it was not unwelcome, reminding Seton that at least he was still alive and breathing.
He remembered another wet night, much like this one.
He was barely out of his teens, and had gone to the bar in Arbroath with his best friend Duncan in search of a good time. They had not found any women, but they found plenty of ale. Talk turned to what they might do with the rest of their lives and bravado more than judgement had caused Seton to shout, at the top of his voice:
“I would happily sell my soul to be able to bed any woman I choose!”
The bar went quiet.
An old man came over and pushed a new flagon of ale on them.
“Be careful what you wish for, lad. It might come true.”
One promise to a wee man in a tavern and Seton’s life was forever changed. He made a bargain, got a sword, and gained the power that came with it. He even got women, for a while. All that power had come at a cost,
of course.
But doesn’t everything?
Now that he had calmed, he realized he could hear it again — soft but already getting louder — the same chant, rising against the storm.
It’s coming from out on the jetty.
He couldn’t help himself. He went back to the door and looked out.
The figures had returned. They were no longer codfish. They stood tall like men, cowls obscuring their faces, arranged in two ranks, one of six, one of five. A shimmering blue light lit the length of the jetty, shimmering and swaying like the aurora of more northern climes. It came from the thing that was hauling itself out of the Forth.
It looked like nothing less than a huge, bloated codfish — but a fish that was near thirty feet long. It looked nearly translucent, where a codfish would have been scaled, and the blue light shone from a vast maw that gaped and pulsed as it drew itself up the jetty.
The chanting rose again, loud enough to completely drown out the storm.
Rorate caeli desuper, et nubes pluant iustum.
Peccavimus, et facti sumus tamquam immundus nos, et cecidimus quasi folium universi.
Seton was suddenly struck immobile. He wanted to turn and slam the door behind him. But the blue light surrounded him and held him as tight as if he’d been chained.
His legs started to obey other orders than his own. He stepped out into the storm.
The chanting immediately got louder and more urgent. He translated it in his mind, even as his throat started to articulate the sounds.
Drop down dew ye heavens from above, and let the clouds rain on the Just One.
As he stood finally in front of the fish, he knew what it wanted of him.
One of the twelve had been taken. A replacement was needed.
It is only just.
He was held rigid, locked inside by the power of the thing’s mind. The sword sent him a blast of heat at his side, which served to clear this thoughts somewhat, but did not loosen the hold the thing had on his body. When the fish moved away through the village, the cowled figures followed and Seton, held tight in a vise-like grip, fell in step at the rear.
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