by Cory Barclay
The church was located in the center of town, easily accessible for all. It was one of the grandest structures in Bedburg, and had a huge, golden cross fixated on its pure-white gable, and a stained-glass front door.
People of all sorts attended Mass: old women trying to find answers for their sickly children; starving farmers; worried soldiers. Usually, Bishop Solomon ran the morning Mass. He was an old, Roman Catholic parish leader who gave enthralling sermons, issued indulgences, and gave confessions to the congregation. But today, a young man—no more than twenty years old—took his place.
The priest was Father Dieter Nicolaus. He had short-cropped hair, a black cassock, and a friendly, smiling face. His sermons were delivered in a calm demeanor, without the spitfire rhetoric or flying hand gestures that were trademarks of Bishop Solomon.
After saying opening prayers, Father Nicolaus gave a sermon about the evils of false prophets—such as Martin Luther—and of the murder from the day before.
“Remember, brothers and sisters, Satan comes to us in many forms—hidden, as he were, in the dark fur of a cowardly beast. A killer. A creature of the night, fueled by black magic. The poor girl from yesterday has been identified as a good, pious Catholic. Don’t let her terrible death falter your belief in God. Let it strengthen your resolve. For He is everywhere.”
The priest put his hands on the pulpit in front of him and cleared his throat. “The Protestant devil seeks to destroy good Catholics by any means necessary. In this case, he’s sent us a terrible message: Believe in our evil teachings, or a horrible death will befall you. But do not fear, brothers and sisters. We will fight on, we will find this beast, and we will defeat him. God will show us the way. We will find our way through this tragedy, as we have before, and we will prosper in His glory!”
With his final proclamation, the congregation cheered and hollered. The speech seemed to give the scared townsfolk a renewed sense of faith. The smart priest had managed to link the murder of a young girl with the supposed tyrannies of Protestant practices. Georg wondered if the Lutherans and Calvinists spouted similar ideas—that the werewolf was an instrument of God, sent to punish the Catholics for their choice of faith.
After his sermon, Father Nicolaus shook the hands of his people, and then Georg walked up to him. “A riveting sermon, Father Nicolaus.”
“Thank you, my son.”
Georg was somewhat irked by a man half his age calling him son, but he let it go. “I was wondering if I might have a quick word?” he asked. “Nightmares have haunted me for too long, and I was hoping you could help me.”
“Absolutely,” the priest said. “Come to the confessional.”
Georg followed Father Nicolaus to the back of the nave, and entered the booth. “Bless me father, for I have sinned,” he began.
“How long has it been since your last confession?”
“Four months.”
“And what would you like to confess?”
“I’ve killed many people in the name of God—innocent people. It has made me weary and detached from my faith. My family is gone. Can God still love me after all I’ve done?”
After a short moment of silence, the priest spoke. “A crisis of faith is common in every man, my son. Remember that God is everywhere, and He loves everyone. Obedience and perseverance are cornerstones of our faith. If you repent, He will forgive. The war you fight is a war on God, and you fight on the side of the righteous. Never forget that.”
Georg nodded and let the words mull over. He was told to recite the Hail Mary prayer ten times, and then he thanked the priest and left the church.
CHAPTER THREE
DIETER
Father Dieter Nicolaus clasped his hands behind his back and watched as Georg Sieghart left the church. Then he turned and noticed a woman dressed in a habit and veil standing next to him. The nun was a middle-aged woman with a stern face. Her hands were folded near her stomach, and she was frowning beneath her white veil.
“Sister Salome,” Dieter said, bowing to the nun.
“Father.” The nun kept her eyes on Georg Sieghart as the big man walked through the stained-glass doorway, out into the sunny morning.
“I hope that man returns to Mass. He is a troubled man, with a troubled soul,” Dieter said.
“A common sight in these troubling days,” Sister Salome added.
“Indeed.” Dieter stroked his chin, and faced Salome. “But he has a different air about him than most. He is not anxious, just conflicted. I’d like to learn more about Georg Sieghart. Where does he come from? What are his ambitions?”
“Do you believe he’s a threat to the congregation, Father?”
Dieter was shaking his head before Sister Salome finished her sentence. “No, no, nothing like that. But I know every person who attends Mass—from the innkeeper to the tailor’s son—yet I know nothing of him.”
Sister Salome bowed and stared at the tiled floor. “I will find out what I can, Father.”
The nun shuffled away toward the back of the nave, and disappeared down a hallway. Dieter followed her down the hallway, walked past her, and came to a large, oaken door. He knocked on the thick door, and a voice from inside said, “Come.”
Inside, an elderly man with a sagging face and feathery, white hair around the crown of his head sat behind an elegant table. The man wore a purple sash over his black cassock, and a large cross hung from his neck. He scribbled on parchment, and didn’t bother to look up from his desk as Dieter entered.
When no introduction was forthcoming, Dieter said, “Your Grace, I would like to speak with you.”
“So what’s keeping you?” the old man asked, still writing.
“It is about my sermon—”
“A very eloquent sermon.”
“W-well, thank you, but it was quite uncomfortable, too.”
Bishop Solomon sighed and finally looked up at the priest. His eyes were graying, his back was hunched, and his cheekbones were leathery and pocked from age. “What was uncomfortable about it? You aren’t there to hold the hands of the people. In times such as these, it takes some words of distress to stir the townsfolk.”
Dieter rubbed his temples. “I suppose this was different because I’ve paired tragedy against those we disagree with. It doesn’t seem right.”
Bishop Solomon snorted and said, “It is very right, my son. This attack was surely the work of Protestant monsters. Do you not find it odd that the killing comes just as the Cologne War slows to a crawl?”
The bishop stood from his chair. The bones in his body creaked as he came to his feet. Resting one hand on his table for support, he said, “We are winning this war, Dieter, and our enemies are trying to propagandize this tragedy to justify their own perverse, heretical agenda.”
Dieter couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Does this man truly believe that?
The priest cleared his throat and tried to find the right words. They came a moment later. “But do you really think a werewolf is the source of this girl’s death? Has anyone ever seen one of these monsters?”
“I’ve seen the bodies of the victims, Dieter, and not just this girl’s. No man could have inflicted such terrible wounds, by God’s mercy.” The bishop made the sign of the cross in the air. “And there have been witnesses, trials, executions. Yes, I very much believe that there is devilry at work here. And it is not your job to doubt . . .” the bishop trailed off, and then stared straight at Dieter with his piercing gray eyes. “Tell me, do you believe in God?”
Dieter scrunched his face. “Of course, Father. What kind of question—”
“And have you seen him before? In the flesh?”
Dieter opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it when he noticed Bishop Solomon’s scowl.
“Well, what’s your answer, Dieter?” the bishop asked. He didn’t wait for a reply, but instead raised a finger to the sky. “Your job is to relay God’s message to the laymen, and to offer guidance. Don’t forget that.”
Dieter wanted
to say something—to argue—but he bit his tongue. He thought that comparing werewolves to God in the way Bishop Solomon had was a fallacy. But he also knew better than to argue with his superior.
The bishop waved off Dieter with a skeletal hand, and then he sat back down. He picked up his quill and looked down at his parchment. “Go to the market and feed the poor, my son. Clear your mind of this, and please don’t come back with this nonsense again. Despite your vanity, you will preach the sermons that God wishes you to.”
You mean the sermons that you wish me to. Dieter clenched his jaw and stared at the top of Bishop Solomon’s head. Anger welled inside, but he managed to say, “Yes, Father.” Then he spun on his heels and left the chamber. He went to the altar at the back of the nave, gave a short prayer, and then stormed past the pews and out of the church.
Outside in the cool morning, Dieter’s frustration quickly subsided. Though the bishop’s words stung—comparing Dieter’s skepticism about the werewolf with a lack of faith—he was a man of the cloth, and not one to hold grudges.
Perhaps the bishop is right—do not doubt what you do not know. Dieter wanted to know the identity and motivations of the Beast of Bedburg just as much as anyone. He hoped those things would eventually come to light, but knew he needed to be patient in the meantime.
As the Bible taught that God worked in mysterious ways, it also taught that Satan was perverse—he brought evil and monsters into the world, and drove men mad with lust and depravity. The killings around Bedburg and Cologne over the last few years were proof of that. The entire war between the Catholics and Protestants was proof of that.
So much senseless death, Dieter thought. And for what?
As he ruminated, Dieter made his way from the church, down a small hill, and headed toward the heart of Bedburg. The sun seared the early morning fog and its rays burst through the clouds. Dieter marveled at the grand sight. Smiling, he passed by several tradesmen and farmers, and nodded to each one of them. Most of them returned with a nod of their own.
Dieter felt great satisfaction in his familiarity with the people of Bedburg. But as he made his way into the center marketplace of town, he saw someone whom he did not recognize.
While the farmers were setting up their tents of grain and fruits and vegetables, and the tradesmen set up their wares, and the butchers shouted their prices for their fresh meats, she stood out from all of them.
She was a beautiful girl in a pristine white gown, with curly hair the color of the sun, and fair skin that made her look angelic. She carried herself with grace and elegance, and Dieter stopped moving when he laid eyes on her. In a place full of dirty peasants—hands blackened from hard labor, tunics crusted with week-old filth—she seemed so out of place. She was a diamond in a field of coal, and Dieter was shocked that he’d never seen her before.
The girl skipped over to a fruit vendor and looked into a crate of apples, then rummaged through the crate, squeezing each one. Dieter felt the urge—the desire—to speak with her. As a shy priest and a man of God, he couldn’t ever remember feeling that need before. And it happened so fast.
Dieter found himself walking in her direction before his mind realized what it was doing. He couldn’t control his legs. His robe swept the dirty ground as he neared her, and he almost tripped over his own feet.
Once beside her, he cleared his throat. “H-hello, young lady.”
The girl faced him. She smiled and had big, sad eyes. Dimples formed on her cheeks as she smiled, and Dieter’s heart could have stopped right then and there.
“Good day, Father,” she said, and curtsied.
“May I?” Dieter motioned toward the apple she held. His hands fidgeted as he reached out.
The girl was slightly taken aback, but then she nodded. “Of course.”
Dieter felt the apple and stared into her blue eyes. She was probably no more than sixteen years of age. “You don’t want this one,” he said, and placed the apple back in the crate. He poked around for a moment and found two apples that felt firm. He handed them to the girl and said, “These two will do,” and smiled. “They’re just ripe enough.”
“Thank you,” she said. Her hand grazed Dieter’s as she took the apples, and the hair on the priest’s arm stood on edge. “You are very adept at apple-picking.”
Dieter felt his face turn as red as the fruit he’d just handed over. “Er, well, I must be . . . for my vocation,” he stammered, and immediately felt stupid for saying it. Then he gained his composure and cleared his throat again. “In fact, I was just about to go feed the less fortunate. Would you like to accompany me?”
The girl raised her eyebrows. “What a coincidence. I was just headed to do the same.”
Dieter paid for the apples for the girl, and then the two walked to a grain-seller and bought two loaves of brown bread. They walked toward the southern outskirts of town, side by side.
“My name is Dieter Nicolaus,” the priest said as they walked down the muddy road.
The girl held folds of her white dress in her hands, so the edges wouldn’t drag in the dirt. “I’m Sybil Griswold,” she said with a shy smile. “Pleased to meet you, Father Nicolaus.”
Coming to the edge of town, Dieter and Sybil saw poor and homeless citizens gathering for their morning soup-and-bread routine. The southern end of town—near the farmlands—was where the unluckiest people in Bedburg stayed: the homeless, the mind-addled, the weak, and the decrepit.
When the poor folk saw a girl in a white gown and a man in a black cassock headed in their direction, with food in their hands, it must have seemed like a miracle. Dieter and Sybil were immediately swarmed and surrounded by tens of groaning, aching townsfolk. They all reached out and tried to touch and take the food, but Dieter organized them into a line. He was used to this process, and it made his heart and soul swell whenever he could help the people. Of course, he’d never done so with a beautiful angel by his side.
Within minutes, the food was all gone, and the poor folk dispersed. While handing out the bread, however, Dieter learned much about Sybil.
She was the daughter of a well-to-do farmer, living just outside town. “Not far from where we are, in fact,” she’d said. Dieter could hardly believe it, seeing as that she looked like a queen’s daughter.
She was also sixteen years old—as he’d guessed—four years younger than he.
“Why have I never seen you in church before?” Dieter asked as he handed out the last chunks of bread. “I would surely recognize your face.”
Sybil looked to the ground. “My father doesn’t attend church, so I don’t either. We’re usually working the land while Mass takes place. Today he let me go into town for a treat because this season has been good to us.”
“Even on holidays? Specials occasions?”
Sybil shrugged.
Dieter frowned. “Does your father work you hard?”
Sybil had a blank look on her face. “Not any harder than the other boys and girls.”
“And boys?”
Sybil glanced at Dieter. “What of them?”
“A pretty girl like you—you must have them lining up at your door.”
Sybil shook her head profusely and blushed. “No, no, father doesn’t allow that,” she said, turning away.
Dieter stared at Sybil with a stern look in his eye. He decided that he would have to meet her father. He could tell that Sybil felt uncomfortable talking about him, and Dieter wanted to find out why. Not that it was any of his business, but he felt compelled, for some reason.
After handing out blessings to the poverty-stricken folk, Dieter offered to walk Sybil home. He didn’t want her walking alone, and her farm wasn’t far from town. She accepted, and before long they were in the grassy, hilly countryside.
Sybil’s estate was huge, and standing outside the front door of her house was a middle-aged man with his arms crossed over his chest, looking quite displeased.
CHAPTER FOUR
SYBIL
Peter Griswold
frowned and said, “Go inside, Sybil.” He was a stout man with a deep voice. His skin was dark and leathery from years of laboring in the sun. He was also missing his left hand.
“But father—”
“Inside, young lady.”
Sybil groaned and stormed past her father. She looked over her shoulder and took one last glance at Father Nicolaus before disappearing into the house.
The interior of the house was built of stone and wood. Besides the main cooking room, there were four separate chambers: two small rooms where Sybil and her younger brother slept, Peter’s larger quarters, and a small washroom.
Sybil’s brother, Hugo, poked his head out from behind his door. “Are you in trouble, Beele?” he asked. He was an irreparably shy eleven-year-old, with a shaggy head of brown hair and big, almond-shaped eyes.
Sybil faced him and smiled warmly. “No, Hue, everything is fine.” Despite his nervousness, Sybil loved the boy more than anyone else in the world.
When she heard muffled voices coming from outside, she crept up to the front door and put her ear to the wood. Sybil knew her father was a stern man, and she hoped Peter wouldn’t be too hard on the priest. Father Nicolaus seemed like a kind, gentle soul.
“What do you think you’re doing, priest?” she heard her father say.
“Sir, it’s not safe for a girl to walk home alone. You should know that. Have you not heard of yesterday’s murder? A girl younger than your daughter was found dead, not far from here,” Father Nicolaus said.
Murder? Sybil thought. Her heart started to race. She knew she lived a sheltered life, But how have I not heard of such a thing?
“I will take care of my daughter,” Peter said.
“You can’t protect her when you aren’t with her,” Father Nicolaus snapped. A long pause followed. “Look, sir, I am a man of God,” the priest began again, calmly. “We fed the poor and I walked her home. There was no ill intent.” Another pause, and then, “Are you a man of God, sir?”