Hallowed Horror

by Mark Tufo

  The priest pivoted on a heel and stormed off into the shadows, leaving me to the hands of the priests that had restrained Louis earlier. The robed men grabbed me, their features concealed by the low, oversized cowls, and drug me to my chambers. The door slammed shut and I could hear the bolt slide into place, locking me inside.

  For at least an hour I stayed there on my knees praying. I heard no voice from God. I had no visit from the Lord. I was alone. Whatever strength I did have, I used it to stand and faced my meager writing desk. The doubt that Lucifer had instilled in me was growing like a virus. I had to fend it off. I took steps toward the desk and felt sick.

  “Oh God, help me!”

  I let me head fall into my hands and wept. Not just for myself but for those that would die because I would fight for Isabel. Having shed enough tears, I lift my head and pushed past doubt to tend to my duty.

  I AM YOU - MARCIEL

  My quill rested against the papyrus and I took in a deep breath, letting it out slowly to clear my thoughts and mind before I began to document the events. I decided to begin with the family history of Isabel. As the words were etched into the parchment, the syllables were whispered around me and lifted into the air toward Heaven. I used angelic script so that no mortal could happen upon the book and read the sacred text. My fingers would arc each beautiful scripted letter in my very own hand.

  Where it was necessary, I would also sketch out scenes on one or two pages. The face of Isabel was there now, staring back at me. Charcoal stained finger gently brushed the shading along her chin and high cheek bones as I reminisced at how beautiful she once was when I had first laid eyes upon her. The transformation happened so fast. She was already so petite that any slight variation in her weight showed more pronounced in her small heart shaped face. Even her hair, once shiny and healthy was ratted and clumped against her scalp. Forcing back the tears I continued my documentation of the past week in as much detail as he could.

  Isabel Agustus born unto noble blood to Blanca Alphonsa, Queen of France and King Louis VIII, son and successor of Philip II (Philip Agustus) in the year of our Lord, twelve hundred and twenty five.

  I stopped and stared at the words as I wrote them. My hand was possessed with its own life, documenting the events that I had gone through. My words would become permanent scripture in the Great Book and this was an honor that was reserved for only God’s few chosen. As much as I wanted to smile with the accomplishment, I was brought down again that I could feel any such joy when Isabel was suffering – and suffering now – as I sat here.

  With all the events that had transpired documented, I stood up and replaced the book into its hiding spot then pushed the bed back against the wall. I faced my room once more and decided that I would clean it. Cleaning it would help me sort through some things and organize my thoughts.

  I picked up the plates and dumped the rotting food then used an old rag to clean off what little furniture I had left. I went to my desk and started to set the papers in a neat stack when there was a knock at my door. A smile came to my face as I recognized the soft rapping as Father Dulante’s.

  There was a small jingling of keys and then the sound of the lock being opened. When I opened the door, I saw him standing there with a small candle in his hand and a basket of what I assumed was food from the delicious smell. A knowing smile crossed my lips and I opened the door a little more to let him in.

  “You deviant” I whispered, “disobeying Father Raphael and sneaking me food and breaking me out of my prison?”

  Father Dulante laughed at my accusation then set the basket of bread and cheeses on the table before setting a carafe of wine down beside it. I handed him a clean cloth to wash his hands. Pulling out a chair, I sat down across from him and took the bread graciously.

  The candle that he brought made a nice centerpiece as we talked well into the night. Father Dulante told me that both he and Louis were conspiring to move Isabel back into Louis’ own castle so that she could be safe from Father Raphael. It was a delicate situation. Even though she was still Louis’ sister, Isabel was a servant of God and escaped marriage only by convincing the Pope that she would give her life to her servitude.

  That meant that she belonged to the church to some unspoken degree. If Father Raphael had the Pope’s ear as well as we suspected this could lead to something we were not prepared for.

  The two of us were silent for several long minutes and Father Dulante stood up to leave. I felt a sudden rush of panic and I admit that I did not want to be left alone here. I grabbed his arm quickly before I realized what I had done and Father Dulante’s eyes grew worried.

  “What is it, Marciel?” he asked.

  “I – I need to show you something.” I whispered.

  The tone of my voice must’ve alerted him because he turned to look over his shoulder to be sure there was no one at the door and moved in closer toward me so that we could whisper.

  “Marco, there is something you should know” I began, “it will not be easy for you but you’re the only one I trust.”

  Father Dulante was taken aback by my familiar use of his first name and nodded while placing his hands on either of my arms. He looked directly into my eyes as he spoke, emphasizing his sincerity.

  “You can tell me anything” he said softly, “not only as a priest but as your friend.”

  I wanted to break down right there but I just smiled in relief and led him toward my bed and pulled it out. I handed him the book and sat down on the bed. It had all the answers in it. Everything and anything I had been through since my arrival on earth he would know it because I had the power to reveal the words to him even though they were written in angelic script.

  Father Dulante began to read and once he got deep within the first paragraph, found he needed to sit down though he never lifted his eyes off the pages. His jaw went slack and his hand covered his mouth while holding the large book’s cover in the other hand. I saw the tears fall from his eyes and I could feel the emotion overtaking him as he was exposed to what was written in such sacred text.

  I dared not go to him. Not yet. I needed to see whether he would accept it or call it heresy. Some mortals did not take things as easy as you would think. Some were so overwhelmed that they knew how to do nothing else but to lash out. Their minds could not comprehend what I was revealing in a single moment, to Father Dulante and I could only have faith that that his could. And pray he would not feed me to the wolves.

  The centerpiece candle was burning down to the wick when Father Dulante finished. He took in a deep, shaky, breath and lifted his wet, puffy eyes to me. I knew what he was searching for. Some sort of confirmation that I was indeed the angelic being I claimed to be. Here I was standing before him as a human. No wings, no heavenly halo. Just a man, same as he.

  He tore his eyes from me and looked to the table where the jug sat that the Lord had praised me on. His hands gingerly reached for it, pulling it closer to his chest. Very gently, he lifted it to eye level and studied the scene I’d carved into it before turning to me again.

  “Is this…the piece of work that the Lord complimented you on?” he asked.

  “Yes.” I said.

  “The Lord…touched this with his own hands?”

  “Yes.” I said again. “Sitting in the same seat you are in now, we shared the water together and talked as you and I do, now.”

  He brought the jug to his lips and closed his eyes, kissing it, reverently. I was filled with empathy for him. I wanted to comfort him but I could not. I was losing my faith and it had been so long since I’d seen my Lord that I felt a bit resentful toward him.

  Lowering my head I stared down at the floor while Father Dulante took it all in. I had very little to offer him besides that book and secretly I was hoping that he would not ask me for anything else.

  “I will help you. What do you need of me?” he said, breaking from his thoughts.

  “I need you to know that this book is here in the event” I paused, lifting m
y eyes to meet his again, “in the event that something happens to me.”

  He didn’t believe what I said, I could tell by the look in his eyes, and then it dawned on him, suddenly. He knew I was afraid, and that there was something worthy of my fear. He hadn’t pieced it together entirely, yet and I wasn’t going to fill him in.

  “Have you told –“

  “I haven’t told anyone else.” I broke in.

  He nodded and looked back down at the book, running his fingers over the lettering and the leather binding. I could tell that he was afraid, too. He had every reason to be. I knew that this would get much worse before it got better. The problem was that I had no idea what Isabel had to do with any of this. What would God and Lucifer need with this mortal woman? And why was I chosen?

  They were answers I may never get but I was not going to have all I’d done be in vain. If I died, then my words would be protected. The events would be documented and perhaps one day would serve as answers.

  I found the strength to stand up and I walked to where Father Dulante sat. Crouching before him so that he and I were eye to eye, I lay my hand on his shoulder and whispered quietly to him.

  “I’m afraid that the knowledge I’ve given to you could be dangerous. Maybe even endanger your life.” I explained. “You must know this before you take on such a burden.”

  “I will take up any cross for my Lord.” Father Dulante said with no hesitation in his voice.

  I admired him even more right there. He did not ask why. He did not question the motives. He just wanted to serve the Lord and if his life was to be used or sacrificed for that cause then he was willing to lay it down.

  I felt a weight lifted off my shoulders to know that I was not alone in this. No matter what happened, I would not be forgotten. The feeling of camaraderie I felt with him was strong; he was my friend. I was fond of many people that I met on my journey but this was different. I trusted him with my secrets and my life.

  I could tell that he felt the same way and I embraced him in a brotherly hug. I had not felt the touch of another in this way since the Lord came to me and I realized I was not only struggling with my faith, I was lonely. I had no contact with my brothers in Heaven, no more long talks with the Lord, no songs to fill my soul like the ones of angels. The choir that Father Dulante led was, as I mentioned before, the closest thing to it.

  “We must act fast” I said quietly as I pulled from his embrace, “I do not know how much time we have left or.. I have left.”

  The words seemed to really trouble him as I spoke them. His eyes studied me for a long moment before nodding and lowering his voice to a barely audible whisper.

  “I will converse with Louis and we will devise a way for us all to meet together. You formulate a plan and we’ll help you execute it.”

  He sighed and looked around again and the worry caused his brow to crease again. He was looking much older these days as I’m sure we all were.

  “You were right, Marciel. There is danger here. There is evil in the house of the Lord.”

  “We will fight it, Marco” I said, “together.”

  He smiled and I returned it just the same before we both walked to the door. He slipped a copy of the key to my room into my hand then held up a spare with a wink then stood outside my door as I closed it. I could hear him lock it and quickly disappear down the hall.

  I went back to my desk turning it over, then using the sealing wax to adhere my key to the bottom I pressed the metal into before adding more seal just to be safe. I wasn’t sure for how long or how well it would hold up but it was the only place I could think of at the time. Setting the desk upright again, I neatly arranged the papers to their original position and then sat down. I had to think of a plan. They were counting on me, and so was Isabel. I didn’t even want to think of what would happen if my plan failed.

  It had been days since I knelt down and prayed. I looked over at the jug that Father Dulante was holding earlier. The emotion that filled him as he touched the item that the Lord had touched not even a week ago played once more in my mind. I wanted to feel like that again.

  I stood up and walked over to the table and picked up the jug, running my thumb over the etched, wooden scene. Closing my eyes I brought it to my chest and held it like a dying child. All I could feel was loss. I was slipping away from Heaven a little further every day. I couldn’t help but wonder if I would remember anything I once knew. Already my memory of Heaven dwindled until most of my memories were consumed with the mortal life I had been living for the past few years.

  NOVEMBER 8, 1226: MIRIAM’S INTERLUDE

  Miriam ran through her mother’s chambers, giggling as she chased her Kitten, Pierre. The long-haired, white feline meow’d and lead her through the maze of clawed feet beneath tables and chairs while the two played. Skittering over rugs and regaining their footing over polished marble floors, the duo stopped at the distant sound of heavy footfalls approaching. Pierre’s hair bristled and outward and down his spine, causing it to arch and contract, and with a low, quiet hiss he began to retreat into the shadowed corner behind the furniture.

  Miriam’s hazel eyes grew larger at the sound, which grew ever-louder and shook the brass hardware of the door. Each stomp of booted heel felt heavier and heavier with evident hostility laced through the cadence. Miriam’s mother, Anjolie, was just coming out of her dressing room when she, too, heard it. The sound caused the small, nimble woman to freeze before reacting instantaneously. Without hesitation she grabbed her cloak and tossed it over the chaise where Miriam huddled, revealing to the small girl the look of panic rising in the otherwise calm and serene woman.

  Falling to her knees, Anjolie looked her daughter squarely in the eyes, “Miriam!” She demanded her daughter’s attention.

  Miriam had never heard a harsh word out of her mother and was suddenly in full attention, dragging her gaze from the door that seemed to grow larger and larger as the sound of the boots thumped closer.

  “Do not make a sound.” Miriam’s eyes began to fill with tears but her mother sought to ease her without losing the importance of her directions.

  “No matter what you hear, you remain silent. Do you hear mommy?”

  Still frozen in fear, Miriam remained silent. Anjolie, growing desperate and out of time nudged her daughter with push of her tiny shoulder, rousing her back to the sound of her voice, “Promise, Miriam!”

  Miriam’s heart was beating so fast and she was starting to tremble, but she looked into her mother’s eyes and nodded. Even in the moment of impending danger, her mother smiled warmly at her. The strands of her mother’s chocolate hair fell to the floor, shielding the light for a moment. Anjolie pulled her daughter’s small hand to her lips, kissing it gently before pushing the little girl back further. Miriam crept backwards until her back hit the cool wall and her leg tickled at the sensation of Pierre’s fur. Anjolie’s face disappeared and the hem of her cloak replaced the light, leaving Miriam and Pierre in darkness.

  When Anjolie stood, her fingers tightened around the rosary strung around her neck, then turned and faced the door. The thunderous sound of footfalls came to an abrupt stop outside the door just as the wood cracked and splintered around the edges. The force of the blow from the other side was so powerful, the oak bowed in the center before bursting inward. The hinges gave way, leaving the broken wood to hang limply to the side.

  The stern visage of the Duke broke through the ranks of the men staring accusingly at her, breaking the short-lived silence with his announcement, “The King is dead.”

  Anjolie cried out and began to fall to her knees in disbelief, “No!”

  She didn’t understand. Her King, her lover was dead? She had no time to process the first announcement before the second fell upon her ears.

  “We are ordered by the Queen to take you into custody for the murder of the King and treason against her Majesty!” The Duke snarled at her before his arm jutted out and he pointed at her. “Sieze her! Bring her to Lord Augusti
ne’s prison holding for questioning.”

  Anjolie struggled against the hands of the men, “No!”

  It was useless, she knew. No one would believe her.

  As the Duke turned, he made his way back through the opening ranks of men before speaking over his shoulder, “Find her daughter Miriam. She is to be taken out of the Kingdom, exiled into Corsican’s Orphanage.”

  Anjolie screamed out in protest again, trying to rip free of her captors. Corsican’s Orphanage was prison full of sickness, travesty and the short lived lives of the children condemned to its walls. The men drug her from the chambers and began marching her down the hall to her fate, while the others stormed down toward the Nursemaid’s chambers.

  In the commotion, Perla had rushed toward Anjolie’s chambers through the secret entrance but came too late. The men were already there. She stood trembling in the dark, hidden hallway waiting for the men to leave. When there was silence, the woman pushed open the door and held her breath hoping that there was no one waiting. She squeezed through the small opening one leg at a time before looking around, and seeing no one, fell to her knees calling out in a whisper for Miriam.

  “Mon petite!” Perla knew that Miriam liked to hide beneath the furniture. She looked under the grand couch with its frilly skirt.

  There was no sign of Miriam, so she crawled further but she was so afraid the men would come back, causing her panic to pour out into her voice, “S'il vous plait! Come to me!”

  Miriam’s muffled cry finally reached Perla’s ears and she gasped, rushing toward the chaise lounge, flipping Anjolie’s cloak away from the floor. Peering down, she saw the frightened face of the little girl she’d raised since infancy flush with fright. Tear stained cheeks were matted with her hair and the soft fur of Pierre who she clutched in her chubby little hands. Perla let out a sigh of relief and waved for her to come.

  “Quickly, mon petite!” She reached in and grabbed the girl’s arm, sliding her under the chaise and into her arms.