The description had turned odd once more, to say the least. “I see. And all these people in your communities--if you keep yourselves so secret that none of us have ever heard of you – where do your new members come from? How do you recruit them? If you believe every good person is a member, what is the special mission of those who join? Are you warriors? Penitents? Do you care for the sick rejected from their societies?”
“We perform all those functions, as required by the times. Our unique calling is to combat the special kind of cursed life that afflicts those with the plague of undeath. Their affliction simply makes literal, in their flesh, the cursed kind of life embraced by so many. A life of mindless hunger and violence, with no concern for others. So our members patrol the countryside secretly, usually at night, tending to the final rites of any who have succumbed to this abominable, hateful kind of living death. Usually, we can keep the plague under control this way, and only a very few die in each generation. But we are not God or His holy angels. Sometimes our vigilance is not enough, and the plague grows too strong and spreads too fast. Then we can only withdraw within our walls and let the army and the civil authorities deal with it their way. When they are done, our surviving members move into the devastated areas and find any children orphaned by the plague. Usually there are many, whose parents’ last act was to lift them on to a tree branch, or stuff them into some animal’s den, or cram them into a garret, while they fought and died at the monsters’ hands. We take these children and raise them, and they become the next generation of our community.”
“But the army is coming this way. Won’t they destroy your monastery, as they have the towns and villages in the area?” Radovan asked.
“This has never happened in the history of our monastery. The stones of this building were laid down before Caesar, and it will outlast any petty tyrant in our land. But we must respect our agreement with them, if we are to receive their special protection. We have agreed never to take in and harbor people from the plague-ridden area once the army has been called in. We must submit to their authority. As long as we do, they will bypass the monastery. That is why you cannot stay with us after tonight. My brothers and sisters out on patrol have told me that the army will not be here before tomorrow afternoon. In the morning you must leave, so the community can be safe. I assume you are trying to move west, to the end of the valley?”
“Yes, and then over the mountains, we hope,” Dante said.
Adam nodded. “It is another job of our monks to guide people over the mountains when they try to escape. There is a little-known pass that every brother and sister knows well. Those from the outside seldom find it, or if they do, they forget the way and cannot find it a second time when they come looking for it. It is dangerous for the monk who serves as a guide, since once outside the monastery he can be killed by the troops, just like the villagers are. But it must be done for charity’s sake. It is part of the blessed death, to show others the way.”
Adam turned to Bogdana, Dante, and Radovan, and addressed each of them in turn. “My daughter, you are great with child. And you, from Italy, you seem marked in a special way, for some special purpose, the details of which I cannot intuit, but I feel it strongly, nonetheless. And you, a soldier come to us from the army, you seem pure of heart, a pentitent who fights for the weak, sometimes even for the unworthy. You are not three random refugees, I think, so I will accompany you myself. I had a premonition some special group would come before I grew too old to make the trip, so I must welcome the task as a special honor from God.”
Adam stood, along with the three of them. He called over two young monks--one man and one woman. “My young brother and sister here will show you to your rooms. I must go now and prepare for the journey. This will require much prayer and clarity of mind. The dead, and those who would exterminate them, are more powerful and relentless than ever. Good night to you all.”
Dante and Radovan bowed slightly to him, while Bogdana gave a surprisingly graceful curtsy. Just as her gentleness and grace had been apparent, even in the calloused hands she had placed on his eyes, so too this woman’s beauty could always shine through her rough exterior, Dante thought.
Dante felt a strange elation over Brother Adam’s belief he might have some important work yet to produce. There might be some heroic deed yet to do, whether for the memory of Beatrice, or – he blushed to think it – for the roughhewn beauty whom he had now sworn allegiance to, and whom he knew he was growing to love. His blush turned into a bracing, shivering chill when he thought he might even do this great thing – whatever it was – for the God of this “blessed death.” What a morbid but uplifting concept adopted by these strange, seemingly heretical monks, hidden deep in the woods of this bizarre backwater of the world. He looked up at the stars depicted on the ceiling, and wondered if Brother Adam’s estimate of the monastery’s age was anywhere near accurate. If it were – and stranger things had been known to happen – then those jewels had glinted down on someone standing in this spot when Christ was alive, just as they now sparkled above him. Dante smiled, thinking how their artist had achieved such unexpected immortality.
Chapter 12
The infernal hurricane that never rests
Hurtles the spirits onward in its rapine;
Whirling them round, and smiting, it molests them.
Dante, Inferno, 5.31-33
The four of them left the monastery early, before the sun was even up. The monks gave them back their two horses, along with two of their own – a black one for Bogdana and a white one for Adam – so Bogdana no longer rode behind Dante. As unfamiliar and disconcerting as her sitting behind him had been at first, he stole glances at her now, and felt less sure of himself without her being so near.
They rode over the drawbridge and back on to the road leading up the valley. As the sun came up behind them, the wind picked up, and the temperature dropped suddenly, from that of a cool spring morning to the first blast of winter in late November. Dante looked ahead and saw a flock of starlings shoot up in front of them, wheeling first to the right then to the left, increasing their speed to flee from the rising windstorm. The wind started picking things up off the forest floor, even tearing branches off trees. Their faces stung as the flying leaves and sticks pelted and cut them. Their progress slowed to a near halt, as the horses bucked and snorted, terrified by the sudden, violent change. Dante looked back to see the sun pressed between the jagged line of the horizon and a black, roiling ceiling of clouds that seemed intent on pressing it back down.
“What’s happening?” Dante asked.
“Storms come up quickly in the spring,” Radovan shouted.
“Yes, but not usually like this,” Adam said. “This seems quite out of the ordinary. It’s so dark, and the wind so powerful, overwhelming us and our animals. We should find some shelter, quickly.”
Dante looked about, trying to see anything between the swaying trees and swirling debris. One tree snapped and fell over right by them. “There!” he said, pointing off to the right. “I think I see a light!”
“Yes,” Radovan said. “Let’s go.”
With difficulty, they worked to get their horses through the woods. After a few steps, they could see there was a small cottage among the trees. The constant raging and howling of the storm was now punctuated by an irregular, slamming sound, as the door of the cottage swung open all the way, smashing into the wall of the building, then swung back when the wind shifted in its frenzied assault. The door didn’t slam shut, but stopped three-quarters of the way closed, as though it were hitting against something keeping it from closing all the way, then a second later it would swing back and slam back into the wall.
They dismounted and dragged the animals closer. Near the cottage there was a simple lean-to built between a large boulder and a tree. It was open on one side, and whatever animals it was meant to house were not there. Just some typical farm implements – shovels, spades, wooden buckets -- within. The structure was not quite big enough
for their four horses, but they would have to try to tie the animals in there and hope they didn’t escape. Dante’s horse was on the end, with its side pressed up against the boulder. Sticks continued to hit the wall and roof of the structure, and the wind’s howling was fierce and unnaturally high-pitched, but Dante thought the animal might stay, now that it was at least partly protected from the storm’s fury. He’d had it some time, and like many such animals it was more trustworthy than most people. Dante patted its head before backing out between it and the large, white horse Adam had been riding. “Easy, friend,” he said. “I need you to stay here. I’ll be back soon.”
Leaving the makeshift stable, the four of them approached the cottage. Dante noticed Bogdana had picked up a short-handled shovel from the stable. Through the flying debris, he could see the light coming from the cottage’s window and partly open door. As they got closer, Radovan suddenly raised his left hand to stop them. He drew his sword.
Dante drew his weapon as well. He looked closer, squinting and raising his left hand to try and protect his eyes. The door couldn’t close all the way because two motionless, human legs were sticking out through the doorway. He heard the familiar moaning. It rose in volume and pitch, cutting above the sound of the storm, as it grew into a howl of hunger and rage – and this time, Dante thought, of infinite, sleepless sadness.
Chapter 13
I understood that unto such a torment
The carnal malefactors were condemned,
Who reason subjugate to appetite.
Dante, Inferno, 5.37-39
They hung there for a moment, as another tree was uprooted and crashed down nearby. Then, though it hardly seemed possible, the wind increased to the point that they were swaying, and had to lean into it in order to remain standing. Tears streamed down Dante’s face as the wind stung him, worse than anything he’d ever felt before. Even his tears seemed to scald unnaturally, mixing with the windblown debris into rivulets that burned and tore more than they cleansed. He squinted, and thought that even fighting the dead was preferable to this relentless, remorseless assault, against which their bodies seemed insubstantial and wholly inadequate.
Radovan looked to Adam, who nodded. They moved closer to the cottage with faltering steps, planting each foot then pausing before moving the other one. Dante was behind them, with Bogdana slightly ahead of him. He could still see only the bottom half of the body, though now he could see there was a good deal of blood splattered on it, and on the doorframe as well. He saw Radovan survey whatever was inside the cottage, then turn back to them and motion to follow him.
Dante entered the cottage last, stepping over the dead man. The handle of a knife stuck out of his left eye. His right eye was eternally open; it still seemed filled with hate for whoever had done this to him. His mouth and beard were covered with gore. He had been a broad man, dressed in the furs of a hunter or trapper.
Inside the cottage, Dante found himself in a fairly large room, by the standards of such a building, though the ceiling was low. He wondered how the man had been able to live there and move about comfortably. There was a fireplace to the left and a rough table made of dark wood in the middle of the room. To the right was another door, presumably to a second room. It had a chest, a chair, and another table pushed up against it. A fire was dying in the hearth, while a candle burned with more vigor on the table.
The candle cast its light up into the face of a young woman seated at the table. She was wrapped in a coarse, brown blanket, which had several darker splotches on it. From the way she held it wrapped tightly about herself, and the glimpses of her legs and shoulders when she moved, it looked as though she were naked underneath it. Her face had no color, not even her lips, though her eyes were red with blood around the dark, brown irises, and even darker pupils. Her black hair was matted to her face and streaked with more dried blood. Dante saw her hand was bloody, too, when she reached up to brush her hair out of her face, before she pulled it back under the cover of the blanket. She was not as taut and compact as Bogdana, but her features looked finer, more elegant, if somewhat fuller. She had probably been quite beautiful before all this.
She watched them, then blinked slowly and wetly. Her breathing was a labored wheezing that could be heard over the moaning, which came from the other room.
“You’re hurt,” Dante said. “Can we help you?”
As soon as he spoke, the door to the other room shook violently, as a storm of blows pounded it from the other side. The moaning increased to a roar of hate Dante imagined almost sounded like jealousy.
The woman at the table drew herself up slightly, though the movement seemed to cause her pain. “Pavel!” she said in a hoarse shout. “Stop! Be still!” Given what he had seen so far of the dead, and their general incomprehension, Dante thought it quite remarkable the pounding did stop at this command, and the roar diminished to a steady and slightly wounded-sounding moan.
The woman turned her attention back to him. “I’ve been bitten badly,” she said. “I’m afraid there’s nothing you can do for me.”
“Is that your husband in the other room?” Radovan asked.
“Oh, no,” she said, tilting her head down to indicate the body in the doorway. “That’s my husband.”
“Then who’s in the other room?” Dante asked.
“My sister’s husband,” she said, watching them steadily and wheezing between her short answers.
“And where’s your sister?” Dante continued.
She frowned. “How should I know? They live… lived way on the other side of the valley, by the river. He had a mill there. Only one nearby. Very successful. Quite wealthy.”
Dante looked at his companions, then back at the woman. He tried to understand the situation. “You had to kill your husband and brother-in-law when they got the plague and attacked you?”
She shook her head. “No, no. It was a bit more complicated than that. My sister’s husband was still alive when he visited yesterday.”
“He came to warn you of the plague?”
Her bloodless lips curled. “Please, stranger, I don’t think I have much longer. Don’t make me waste what breath I have explaining the obvious. He was here because my husband was not.” Her sickly smile turned into a wet, bubbling sort of chuckle. “Though I suppose he did have my well-being in mind, so long as it meant making him feel good as well.”
The chuckle changed into full-on laughter, then hideously transformed into deep, barking coughs and retching. The heaving bent her over the table. She repeatedly banged her head on it as the spasms wracked her whole body. She lurched forward, then drew up slightly, as her body tried to expel its diseased fluids one moment, then the next it tried desperately to get breath and life back into her drained, broken frame. When the convulsions finally stopped, she remained facedown on the table. Dante thought she might be dead already. He was bothered by the fact he didn’t know whether that would make him feel sad or relieved. When she finally lifted herself up, there was a puddle of bloody spit and bile left on the table, and for a second, a long, pink thread stretched from the table to her glistening mouth, before she licked her lips, spat, and then wiped her face on the blanket.
Her eyes shined darkly, like holes filled with ink. They were so wet and red Dante could barely look at them, for fear they would ooze out all over her cheeks, draining what was left of her into a pool of mortality and sadness. At the same time, he knew he couldn’t take his gaze from them.
“I didn’t know I’d think that was all so funny, now, at the end,” she continued. “But I suppose it is. My husband walked in on us. And he most definitely was not alive when he did. It’s funny. The dead usually make so much noise, you can hear them coming. Well, it’s probably my fault. I was making a good bit of noise, too.” She started to laugh again, but managed to hold it in check this time, lest the convulsions finished her completely.
She pulled herself up and shrugged. “Well, even if he had been alive and snuck up on us, Pavel and I would st
ill both be dead now, I suppose. My husband was a big man--a hunter. Very strong, very angry, very violent. Pavel was on top, so he got him first. Got him from behind. Tore his neck open with his teeth. Blood all over me.” She ran her fingers through her long hair, pausing and tugging when they caught on the knots of dried blood. “I’m sure most of this is his. It gave me a chance to get away. I got a knife, but he was on me before I could stab him. Bit me twice. Horrible, burning pain, into my heart, down to my stomach. My big, disgusting, dead husband tearing my breast off with his teeth, making me as dead and loathsome as he was.”
Her eyes had dried a little, and she sighed. “I finally stuck the knife in his eye. I barricaded poor Pavel in the bedroom. I sat down here to die. And then you showed up. I suppose you should go now.”
Bogdana moved slightly away from the men. “Did you have children?” she asked quietly, looking up and around, as though trying to figure out if there were an attic or loft, or possibly some of the orphans Brother Adam had described.
“What? Oh, no, I didn’t. He blamed me for it, of course.” She shrugged. “He was probably right. I never got pregnant, even when my Pavel started visiting me, so I suppose it was me. But it’s not like it was my fault. I would’ve borne children, if that was what was meant to be. But it wasn’t. If God wanted me to be a different way, He could’ve made me a different way, couldn’t He?”
“But some things were your fault, weren’t they?” Adam said.
Dante thought he had an odd tone, accusing and soothing in equal measure, but it seemed to have no calming effect on the woman, nor to make her aware of any guilt. She spat on the table. Dante thought it looked more black than red this time.
Valley of the Dead (The Truth Behind Dante's Inferno) Page 7