In the end, there was only one way to find out. With strong, smooth strokes, she began to swim.
•••
Josh Reynolds is a freelance writer of moderate skill and exceptional confidence. He has written a bit and some of it was even published. For money. By real people. His work has appeared in anthologies such as Cthulhu Unbound 2 from Permuted Press and Specters in Coal Dust from Woodland Press, as well as in magazines such as Innsmouth Free Press and Bards and Sages Quarterly.
Feel free to stop by his blog, http://joshuamreynolds.blogspot.com/, and cast aspersions on his character or to give him money.
Dark Epistle
By Jim Blackstone
I pressed the skull to my stomach. I only looked down once to investigate it again, while I fled for my life, and only because my fingers had slipped into what I can only imagine to be ocular orifices that should not have been there. The skull was demonic to the core, triangular, and as black as the darkness beyond the stars.
Forgive me. In my haste to start this letter again, I have begun in the wrong place. Each day, I run, hide. Like a rabbit in winter, desperate for sustenance, I sense the proximity of those who hunt me. I know that my time is scarce.
Yet, I will try for the port of Tyre, or for the crossroads at Constantinople, or for escape to undetermined lands far safer than home.
First, however, I will do my duty. I have to report.
•
It was never my intention to wander so deeply into darkness. I could say the same about so many things: I never intended to live in a blighted wilderness on the edge of the Holy Land; I never intended to join a suspicious religious order of knights; and I never intended to fall in love with a woman – “Abide even as I,” said the Apostle Paul to the unwed, and such was my sacred aim. Then the Pope involved himself.
I write these words that, through blasphemy, truths might be revealed. The Western World needs to know those secrets rising covertly from the Orient and invading, through stealth, the lands of my nativity. All must know of the conspiracies, political manipulations, usurpations, demoniacal plots, and the hidden fight for survival, the silent war that we are on the verge of losing. Indeed, the first draft of this letter, I had addressed to the Holy See in Rome, the Church Father himself. Yet, I fear that if I do not change my account – offer truth in the lingua franca of my people – that these things unspoken and unspeakable, which may have been known by the Ante-Nicene Fathers and to some who came later, might continue to slumber in dark Vatican vaults, whilst a greater shadow seethes westward across Europe.
Born Jacques de Ronnay, I was a spy from the womb. I watched by mother sin and my father do worse. I am witness to the wickedness of siblings, neighbours, even regal authorities. I heard the words, “Thou shalt not kill,” and then learned of murders and strifes uncountable. “Thou shalt bear no false witness,” said the sheriff in my district, who then chose his words carefully and hid truth whenever he thought appropriate. I felt myself an outsider. I dedicated myself quickly to the labours of Heaven.
My father was a man of distinguished honour who fought in holy wars across the Mediterranean. From my youth, I heard endless tales of conquest, the bloody dispatch of the heathen. I, too, would one day follow my forbears and travel far, to kill the evil Saracen hordes and carry back the booty of honest endeavour (or what I called in my heart of hearts, ‘honest hypocrisy’). I would serve the Holy Host.
My agreement to this duty, covertly amended by my desire to really serve the Creator of Heaven and Earth according to His dictates and teachings, sustained my quest to enter into holy orders and the reception of sacraments consecrated to those who would be the greatest servants in the Church, even the administrators and leaders.
Yet, my hope to become a priest was thwarted by complications owing to erroneous physical competitiveness with certain brothers in the seminary – errare humanum est. The words did not serve as excuse enough. Father Soissons banished me on a mission to Rome, I went in the company of the Lady de Siverey, who would visit the Pope. When attacked by brigands beneath the Alps, I beat them off, splashing the red fluid of the wicked over the Lady’s cart. She told me not to apologize. She said that I had performed my calling. What really happened was this: I fell in love with the young widow in that very moment, though three tiny dots of enemy blood speckled her cheek like a constellation of heavenly winks.
In the Holy City, I made my honourable desires known. I was informed that our Papal Father was in need of a confessor on a trip to Avignon in Arles. My deeds and sacred longing were again brought to his attention, along with descriptions of my birthright and heritage. He summoned me. Prostrate, I swore my undying and unquestionable allegiance to him, making sure to clarify my aspiration to stand as far from the sword, and from the women of the world, as possible. I sought more sacred endowments. Perhaps I sinned in my request.
In the middle of the night, I was awakened and directed to visit Pope Nicholas IV himself, for a special assignment.
But this is all history.
For the greater part of a year, Our Church Father would not release me from my penance for lifting the sword against fellow Christians. I begged forgiveness for my selfishness: “Thy will be done, and not mine.” At length, I was pardoned. Immediately, I would receive ordination to higher office.
There was an order in which St. Bernard himself had endorsed the sustaining of an array of knights whose particular obligation was the protection of all pilgrims and crusaders from all parts of Europe and throughout the Holy Land. Having captured the Temple in Jerusalem, they called themselves the “Knights Templar”.
Yet, like my fathers before me, their activities were in question. After Saint Bernard’s edict, the Knights of the Temple quickly became the wealthiest branch of the Church: They did not pay taxes. They did not even pay tithes to Rome. No royal hand could touch them.
And now Rome was feeling a tearing pain that, again, is unimportant for me to belabour here. Nor do I need to explain the rift and scandals, the disputations between Church Doctors – I fear these terrible issues do not matter, not with the secrets I have uncovered: There are far more foul things in the earth than any of the quarrels of men. You must know. All must know. Or, I am certain, all will perish.
•
Quickly, papers were drawn up: recommendations, the highest praise, lists of experience and sacrifices – lies to which I was forced by the holiest and most perfect of all living men to admit as truths, that I might fulfill my mission.
I was admitted as a novice into the Knights Templar. It was a humiliating and dehumanizing initiation, full of boisterous humour. Did I flinch? Never. I was doing all – I would sacrifice anything! – to serve Him on High and wash myself clean of the blood and sins of this generation. Whatever horrors and atrocities that I beheld and in which I participated, I knew my real purpose. It was a sacred secret. And I would report to my Father, the Pope, personally.
My first crossing of the Mediterranean, I fear, shall be my last. The visions that I have uncovered are too dark, far deeper than the mysteries that the Cardinals expected me to uncover, so vast in their empty depth, in fact, that I suspect that the Pope already knows. I do not think that any who were aware of my mission imagined that I would really see. It is a true miracle that I am not completely blind. After the horrors which I must confess to you? It is a wonder that I still live.
There we were, upon the boats that would bring our black-and-white banner to Moorish shores. I remember viewing the stone faces of older brothers, their bone-white or brown or black habits, with red crosses flapping hard and loudly in a mean sea breeze, intent on pressing us away from the beach. I remember the coast all aglitter, prepared for our arrival: pikes to spear European knights, scimitars, oriflammes, halberds, and a wall of shielded men, madness in their blackened eyes.
There was a great stink – that familiar smell of the corpses that the Crusaders had hung from captured city walls to be picked by crows and riddled by ants a
nd maggots, warning all infidels that Christians were present and would not be denied their death-dealing victories. Such a rot carried on the Mediterranean wind. The foetor choked my nostrils as I saw the off-coloured bodies.
•
In Acre, I saw her.
From a staircase, the Lady de Siverey peered on me with eyes so majestically black and painted, she looked like the most beautiful of Egyptian infidels. A shadow roiled inside of me. I wanted to flee, like Joseph in the House of Potiphar. But she remembered me.
“Jacques de Ronnay, you have come to the Temple as a Knight of that holy order. You have reached the Holy Land at last.”
I felt that she had the power to see into my mind and soul. I felt it, but I did not believe it. Not until now.
With these words, de Siverey offered her hand to be kissed. Yet Knights Templar, by their monkish rule, are not allowed to touch or kiss even their mother or sister.,
To avoid slighting this lady, who clearly had important ties with Rome, I bowed, lowering my forehead near to her signet in righteous esteem. Even so, the brother with me frowned at this impertinence.
She laughed. Perhaps she was mocking me, but all I heard was music to my heart. I heard the whisper of the Adversary in my mind, telling me that I might run away from divine ordinations and live happily ever after with this gorgeous female. I rose and retreated.
De Siverey smiled at me, her head to one side, her hair spilling and casting a lovely spell over me. In her eyes, the colour of deep Frankish woodlands, I thought I saw understanding and admiration. Mine must have shown a bit of shame, much adoration, and a determination to live every moment of my life as I was meant.
I did not see her again for more than sixteen months. Also, I left Acre but not the fiendishly hot countryside. I was transferred to a small garrison overseeing vineyards outside Acre.
•
There was a great peace between the Templars and the Sultan. There were so many different tales told. Forsooth, the Knights of the Temple were experiencing a sort of heaven on earth. The uneasy peace allowed them the time to cultivate their vast vineyards and olive groves, and rebuild their battered fortresses, even as their share of the Holy Land slowly and inevitably shrank under the encroachment of the Infidel.
There was also incredible evil. The sins rumoured to the Pope were true, for I was witness to much fraternizing with the Infidel and infernal compromises. I was expected to participate and mandated by the Church itself to do whatever pleased the Commanders.
And this I did. And to this day I regret it all, for it led me toward the horrible hidden mysteries and sciences discovered and kept by Judean and Saracen mystics.
•
I learned that certain Knights of the Temple resided close to the Sultan’s dignitaries. Their friendships disturbed me. More than once, I was reminded that the primary task of the Knights Templar was to provide safe passage to Christian holy sites; the Saracen and Jew sought the same: Jerusalem was sacred to them, too.
The topics made me ill. How could my “brothers” in the Order speak as if Saracens knew of the Bible? How had their hearts lost sight of real sacred callings, to promote the Church Visible until that great and dreadful Day of the Lord when the King of Kings would come again to rule all – even the infidel – on the Earth? I could not understand. Nor would I, until I discovered the depths of their evil gaze.
•
In Acre, I was brought, as a servant most trusted in the Order, to the house of Grand Master Guillaume de Beaujeu. His rooms in the commandery were small and houses himself and his staff.
The Grand Master expressed interest in my history. First, he praised me for my acts in the Order; then he referred to fictionalized aspects provided by Papal letters. He asked me questions. I gave prepared answers. Then his eyes seemed amused.
It was as if he knew the truth behind my mission, but that the game was only getting started.
I wish I had trusted my instincts. I might have fled and been happy with my delusions of simple hypocrisy in the world.
“Brother Jacques de Ronnay,” he said, “What do you know of true religion?”
“Grand Master, I am a humble slave and would rather be the lowliest doorman at Heaven’s Gate than spend a moment out of His service.”
“But what do you know?”
I did not understand his inquiries. Did he wish me to begin at Creation and tell from memory all that I could from the Bible, as little as I knew?
I began, with humble voice, in Latin, “In principio creavit deus caelum et terram,” before the old warrior held up his hand.
“Do you believe, Brother de Ronnay, that God knew all things from the beginning?”
“Yes.”
“That he taught many of his greatest secrets to our father Adam in the Garden of Eden?”
“Of course.”
“And that he has taught the same, through angels and other ministers, throughout the centuries to other important individuals, seers and revelators, such as John the Beloved?”
“Certainly. Praised be His name.” I felt like slapping a hand over my mouth – in my devotion, I had spoken almost like an Arab, who so quickly attributed all to Allah: I had heard plenty of their mumblings in the street. Their devotion is unquestionable, mirroring my own. I could see how time among these people had disturbed the Grand Master’s mind, for I felt it disturbing mine own.
“Yet, the Bible does not record a single holy sacrament,” said the Grand Master.
Chills rolled over my back. I was sure I had heard blasphemy. I could only say, “My lord?” for he seemed more regal and less holy to my instincts.
He smiled at me. “You know the Holy Writ?”
Ah, I thought. This is a test. “I study as a meager disciple. I learn all that I can. Will you teach me, Grand Master?”
“Where does it tell us the words to be used in the Baptismal prayer?”
I opened my mouth. The answer failed to come forth. He wanted me to quote scripture, yet I could not – not for this quest. I had forgotten the words for the baptismal rite, for the Templars, being monks, were not allowed to raise children over the font.
“Do not fret, Brother de Ronnay. None of the sacramental acts are given specifically within that sacred collection. My purpose in turning your attention to these facts is to assure you that, while all truth has been revealed since the beginning, not all has been handed down ... to the lowliest of servants. Yet, we of the Order are obligated to protect these same ancient secrets! What do you know of Jericho?”
“I know,” I thought about it, with astonishment regarding the implications he inferred, “I know only what the Book tells us.”
“The City of Jericho existed before the Children of Israel came into this land from Egypt. Do you agree? Search your training.”
“I do agree, Grand Master.”
“The City of Jericho was old, with Sodom and Gomorrah, before Lot and Abraham arrived from Haran and Ur. Search your memories of these accounts. Will you not confirm what I have said?”
I could find no disagreement with his words and stated as much.
“Jericho was built on a town formed in the desert over a village built of wood and brick, over a desert hamlet constructed by ancients so old and forgotten that ...”
His wide eyes had fallen with the weight of his knowledge and listed away from me along with his words.
“Yes, Grand Master?” I prodded, after a minute of silence in which I heard his staff slipping and moving around us like snakes under grass, privy to these blasphemies. I could not abide that sound. “Grand Master?”
He did not look at me. His tone dropped. “I have sent four on missions to discover the secrets beneath Jericho. You see the box on the table against the wall?”
I looked and saw an ornate construction, wicker woven, lined in exquisite brass and touched with gold.
“It is filled with trinkets from the street: cheap jewelry typically sold to pilgrims on their way home from Mecca, easily scooped
out. Beneath, you will find a bottom that can be removed if you press hard upon the far left corner. In the cavity beneath, you will find on papyrus the copy of a map. This map reveals an entrance found by a certain servant of the Lord.”
I bowed.
As I followed his instructions, he said, “None who have gone before you have returned. You must know, Brother de Ronnay, that I am confident of your discovery. I have ... read fragments of texts testifying of those present in Palestine before the Flood of Noah washed the Earth clean of all evil.”
I was shaken. “What shall I do?” I said when I held the scroll in my hand. I felt that I was, at last, reaching the heart of the mystery that the Pope wanted me to reveal to him. With this final mission, I would learn the reason for all concern, all Templar blasphemies, and the true goal of Knights. I suspected that I knew enough already, but going to Jericho would provide me ... with – Oh, if only I had not gone! If only I did not know!
Forgive me. I will compose myself.
The Grand Master leaned forward and answered my question: “Bring me a skull.”
I left with a detachment of turcopoles, native mercenaries working for the Order, who would be required for only one part of his orchestration: They would distract all eyes and ears while I traveled with a small contingent of black-robed Templar sergeants already present in the city.
Along the way, I thought of Grand Master de Beaujeu’s final warnings. None of the previous brethren had returned. I had detected the faintest hint that some might have lived and that the possibility of their continued mortality was of greater concern to the Grand Master than the possibility of their terrible demise. I recall thinking that he seemed to mumble some words to the effect that the Knights of the Order would find any of those traitorous survivors and deal with them swiftly and justly. But I may be mistaken, for I was overcome by thoughts of a one-way assignment that I needed to endure, if ever I would fulfill my instructions and purpose on this Earth.
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