He stood up. When he spoke again there was an edge in his voice— not, I think, because I refused him, but because I blamed him, because I would not allow him to pretend it did not matter.
“Which do you think is a darker thing for a man, Pauli?” he asked bitterly. “To share his bed with a living man, or with a dead one?”
I did not answer. I was not going to be drawn in by his shabby excuses, his willingness to always find something or someone to blame for his sins: war and other men’s greed and the Church and probably God himself, and now of course his marriage, the same marriage which he could and should have ended in Ravensbruck where it began…. No, dear God, he was not going to get anywhere with that argument!
I did not know it at the time, nor for a long time after, but it was then, I think — that very night — when I began to hate him.
Lauds had rung, and then nones; Paul did not go to chapel. He sat as a man condemned, unaware of the moonset, or of the pink dawn lightening the walls of his cell.
The exorcist from Mainz had arrived eight days ago: a tall, robust man with steady eyes, riding on a mule. He was not just an ordinary priest, but a monsignor, and he arrived with a perfectly credible story. The Church, he said, was growing troubled about the practice of sorcery among the common folk, a practice which it no longer considered harmless. It was too easy for monks, shut away in the quiet sanctity of their lives, to ignore such things, or fail to notice them. They must become more aware, he said. He spoke in the chapel; he led prayers in the refectory; he heard confessions. And so, when the time came to sit alone with Brother Paul in his cell, no one thought anything about it.
He sat with his elbows on the small wooden table, his fingers carefully poised into a pinnacle. His name was Wilhelm von Schielenberg. He was the son of a Rhineland baron, and he might well have aspired to a bishop’s miter, or at the very least an abbey of his own.
“Well, Brother Paul?”
Paul knotted and unknotted his hands. He brushed dirt from his robe, and from the scarred wooden table. He was almost overwhelmed by panic, by a desperate wish to back away and run.
It is nothing, Monsignor. I’m a foolish man; I alarmed Brother Anselm over nothing. I had a few bad dreams, that’s all; it is nothing….
But if he sent this man away, he was finished, and he knew it. He could not defend himself— not against them, not against her. And no one else would listen to him after this, not even Anselm. The servants of darkness would come triumphant and howling with laughter. They would pull him down, and always further down, into the depths of his own corruption. And finally into eternal pain.
He had to speak to this man; he had to save himself. Only the risk was so terribly great….
He saw with sickening clarity what the witch of Car-Iduna had done to him. She had caught him between two pits, each more black and terrifying than the other. All he could do was stumble back and forth between them, like a rat in a burning cage.
“You wished to speak to me, Brother Paul?”
The priest had a strong face, with a clean line of jaw and deep, knowing eyes. It was a face to inspire confidence in anyone, even those who were utterly desperate. Those whose souls were no longer their own.
Paul began slowly, haltingly. He had served, many years ago, as squire to Count Karelian of Lys. He had been in the war—
“Which war, my son? There have been many.”
“The war against the Salian kings.”
“Ah, yes. Gottfried’s war. Go on.”
“I was asked to write a history of it. By the Holy Father. Only when I began—”
“Forgive me, Brother Paul. I mean no offense. But why would the pope ask you to write such a history? You were hardly one of the principals in the affair.”
“I wasn’t one of the principals, Monsignor. But because of my years of service with Karelian Brandeis, I knew things about him which most of the principals didn’t know— at least they didn’t know for sure. He served the powers of darkness, Monsignor, and he used sorcery and other abominations against his enemies. This was what the pope wanted me to write about. Only when I began, they… they put a spell on my quill. So now it writes what they wish.”
“They?”
“The witch of Car-Iduna. And her demons.”
Father Wilhelm linked his fingers briefly and then steepled them again. “And who is this witch of… of Carduna? What is her name?”
“I don’t know her name. She’s the witch of Helmardin. The Lady of the Mountain.”
The priest’s face did not change, but Paul could sense the fierce quickening of his interest.
“You’re saying it is she who bewitched you? How do you know? Many people say she’s only a legend.”
“I met her. I was there, inside her fortress in Helmardin. With Karelian of Lys. And she came here also, to my cell. The night I began my history. She took up my quill in her hand and she cursed it.”
“How extraordinary!” Wilhelm murmured. “Go on.”
“Please.” Paul wanted to kneel, to place his head between Father Wilhelm’s hands, and weep. “Please, will you rid me of them? Drive them out of my quill, out of this cell, out of me? My soul is in mortal peril.”
He looked up, half expecting the priest to rise, and wrap his stole around his neck, and take out the crucifix and the hyssop, and begin. But Monsignor von Schielenberg sat as calmly as before, and when Paul did not say anything further, he repeated his soft command.
“Go on, Brother Paul.”
“They torment me day and night,” Paul said desperately. “I dare not sleep for the evil things they put into my mind. I dare not close my eyes. I’ve even thought… I’ve even thought of self-destruction— oh, not willingly, dear God, no! They put the thought in my head; they whisper it in my ear: End it, Paul of Ardiun, end it and sleep…!” He shuddered. “Can’t you help me? In the name of God, can’t you help me?”
Wilhelm shifted a little in his chair.
“What is the nature of the torments they inflict on you?” he asked. “Do the demons cause you pain?”
“No.” Paul shook his head. “They fill my mind with evil thoughts.”
“What manner of thoughts?”
Paul looked at his hands. “Unclean desires. Images… vile images of the vilest deeds. I can’t speak of them, Father.”
“You must speak of them. How else can we learn how devils come into men’s souls? Or how to defend against them? Tell me exactly what happens when they appear, and what they do.”
Exactly? How was it possible, when their coming was all nightmare and fire, all shadow and mist? Voices in darkness, demon flesh melting even as the eye wakened to discover it? Heat rising up in his own loins, night after night unbidden? Dead men walking into his cell, laughing, brushing their hands through his hair, their blood spilling over him while his own flesh burst in a hideous mating of hatred and desire?
There were no words for such things.
But he had to answer the priest. He needed help. He had to find the words somehow.
“They… they provoke in me a terrible concupiscence. I can’t control it. They fill my mind with thoughts of sin— every kind of sin there is, Monsignor, between men and women, men and beasts, men and men. And then they….” It took all his strength to finish. “And then they… take me.”
“In what fashion?”
“Every fashion.”
“They assume human bodies?”
“Yes.”
“Women’s bodies?”
“Yes.” His head fell lower. “Sometimes.”
“And the other times?” Wilhelm asked.
“They have the bodies of men.”
“Most times, perhaps?”
“Yes. Most times.”
There was a brief, unbearable silence. Wilhelm got to his feet and walked to the window.
“The devil,” he said, “is an excellent strategist. It’s always his way to attack the soul at its weakest point. What have you done to draw this evil into yo
ur life? Are you one of those who foul themselves with their own kind? Who come on purpose into monasteries to live among their brothers and corrupt them?”
“Never! I swear to you, never—!”
“But you have been tempted,” Wilhelm said, turning back to him. “Sorely tempted.”
“No.”
No. To be tempted was to desire, and he had never been guilty of it; never. He had loved them purely, both of them. It was Karelian who saw everything through his own corrupted eyes….
“You have lived chastely in the monastery?” Wilhelm asked.
“Yes. Always.”
“And before?”
“Yes. Almost always. I tried very hard.”
The exorcist sat down again, and drummed his fingers softly on the table.
“It’s remarkable, you know, how many times I hear the same stories. Lust is in all men the great corrupter.”
He paused thoughtfully, and looked up. “Corruption begins with the passions of the body; it doesn’t end with them. There’s a great deal you’re not telling me, Brother Paul.”
Paul sat rigid, barely able to breathe. The exorcist picked up the quill and turned it in his hands.
“The Holy Father asked you to write an account of the war, of the sorcery practiced by Karelian of Lys and his allies?”
“Yes.”
“At the time, many men accused Karelian of such crimes. Those accusations reflected on the highest lords of the land— even on the king himself. If you knew the truth, Brother Paul, why didn’t you reveal it then?”
“I did speak of it, Monsignor, to such men as would listen. But I was only a knight of modest station. As you say, many other men accused him, and most of them were far more powerful than I. If the lords of Germany would not listen to their peers, or believe the evidence of their own eyes, nothing I could have said would have made any difference.”
“I’m not talking about the lords of Germany, Brother Paul. I know what they believe, and what they don’t believe. They do not concern me right now. I want to know why you didn’t take your knowledge to the Church.”
He paused. His voice was soft, almost fatherly, yet there was a threat in it, and a terrifying power. He spoke as one who spoke for God.
“You should have taken this information directly to the archbishop of Mainz,” he went on. “To the papal legate, perhaps even to Rome itself. Yet you were silent. You were silent then, and for thirty years thereafter. Tell me why, Brother Paul. Why did it take all these years, and a command from the pope himself, to make you speak to the Church?”
Paul did not know what to say. In a matter of moments the exorcist had penetrated all his defenses. He had found the lethal question, the one question Paul could not answer with the truth.
“I was confused and afraid.”
Yes, he thought. Let it seem so. Let Wilhelm think he was weak, or vain, or stupid. Let him jump to any shabby, wrong conclusion, just as Anselm did. You don’t want to look bad; you don’t want people to know about your sins….
“I was terribly afraid, Monsignor. And after, when the war was over, I wanted only to forget, and dedicate my life to God.”
“But surely, Brother Paul, the highest service you could have offered God was to confirm those terrible accusations, if you knew they were true. To confirm them at the time, when it would have done the most good. Instead you joined an obscure band of knights and fled to the Holy Land. And you stayed there for eleven years, until Germany had forgotten all about you.
“You had things to hide. Your own involvement, perhaps? Did you obtain such a thorough knowledge of your master’s sorceries by taking part in them yourself?”
Paul stared at him, appalled. “Dear Jesus, Monsignor! Never! As God is my witness, I never once—!”
“Then why were you silent?”
Paul made a brief, helpless gesture. “I don’t know. It was… easier. To say nothing. To just… run away.”
“Yes. But what were you running away from? That is the question, isn’t it?”
Paul had seen strength in von Schielenberg, and found it comforting. How foolish he had been! The face across the table had no warmth in it, no priestly concern. It was a face of raw power.
“Brother Paul.” Wilhelm paused, choosing his words. “You tell me you’ve been bewitched, against your will, and through no fault of your own. It may be so. Or it may be that your own folly and corruption have finally caught up with you. Until I know which, I can’t begin to help you. Where is the manuscript?”
“The manuscript?” Paul whispered.
“Yes, Brother Paul. The manuscript.”
“It’s hidden. Under the floor.”
“I want to see it.”
It was unbearable to think of anyone reading it, seeing those words from his own hand, those memories of his own life so twisted and befouled. But he knew he could not refuse. He retrieved the parchments from their hiding place, and handed them to the priest.
“You must understand, Monsignor,” he said. “I had no power over this. It’s the devil’s work, full of contradictions and lies.”
“We shall see.”
Wilhelm von Shielenberg rose, tucking the bundle under his arm.
“You must pray, Brother Paul. Pray and do penance. Throw yourself utterly on God’s mercy; it’s your only hope of salvation. When we speak again, I will expect you to tell me everything.”
* * *
The pink dawn turned to golden daylight. A faint smell of wood smoke drifted in through Paul’s window, reminding him instinctively of food. He did not know when he had last eaten anything but crusts of bread. He felt a brief tug of longing. As a boy he had lived well in Ardiun. They had eaten meat whenever it was permitted. They always had butter and cheese, and pastries sweetened with honey. His father had such a stern view of human flesh; why did he not fast more?
But Paul knew why, when he thought about it. His father did not have to fast in order to learn mastery of self; the mastery was already there, the absolute will. He, Paul, was only a shabby echo of the man who had sired him. Could his father see him now, he wondered, looking down from his place in heaven? Could his father see him and know what he had become— a plaything for devils, a weakling who stank of sin? It did not bear thinking about. It was worse than God knowing, or the whole world.
The priest from Mainz returned the following day. He looked as though he had not slept at all. He laid the manuscript on Paul’s wooden table and sat down across from him. He did not even bother to hide his distaste. False though it was, the chronicle had done its work. It had marked Paul forever in Wilhelm’s mind as cowardly and sexually corrupt.
“Your writing,” he said, “is full of heresy and abominations.”
“I know, Monsignor—”
“But it’s interesting nonetheless. As long as it’s not allowed to fall into the wrong hands, I think it will prove singularly useful to the Church.”
The room spun. Paul closed his eyes, gripping the side of the table, cold sweat spilling over his face and drenching his habit.
“Forgive me,” he whispered. “I’m weak from fasting.”
“No, Paul. You’re afraid.” The priest smiled; it was the calculated, knowing smile of the born interrogator. “You’re afraid of damnation, but you’re even more afraid of the truth. And since we already know the truth about your… concupiscence… it’s clear you must be hiding something else.”
“I’m hiding nothing,” Paul said desperately. “I want to be free of this… this horrible entrapment.”
“No doubt you do. God knows what you might be compelled to reveal. I’m not a fool, Brother Paul. I know when men are lying to me; it’s my business to know. Left to your own devices, you would never fulfill the pope’s command. You would write what you wished him to know, and conceal the rest. Only now it appears the devil’s minions have come to blows— just as they did thirty years ago. And when thieves fall out, honest men can sometimes prosper.”
As they spoke, Wilhelm
had been watching him with cold and relentless eyes, and it occurred to Paul what the exorcist really was— what any exorcist had to be. He was a Christian sorcerer, wielding all the same gifts of power, practicing all the same skills, merely doing so from the other side of the fence. The thought was unexpected, and utterly horrifying.
“Let me be blunt,” Wilhelm went on. “The Church has had little except grief from her German subjects. You do nothing about the paganism in your midst. Your highest lords hang witch-charms around their necks, and call on the old gods in battle. And your people hold them up as heroes. It’s reached the point where good Christians can no longer pick their way through the muddle. They will come to blows quarreling over Gottfried and the count of Lys, claiming one was a sorcerer and the other a saint, but from house to house and village to village they will not agree on which was which.
“The archbishop of Mainz was in Stavoren when it ended,” he went on. “Many times afterwards, he said the same thing: ‘They were all evil,’ he said, ‘all three, and they trampled down the will of God between them.’ I think he was right. And I think you know something about them even the archbishop didn’t know.”
Paul could not believe what he was seeing. The priest was gathering up the sheaves of parchment, as if the interview were over. As if he were about to leave.
“Monsignor…?”
“Your chronicle has a certain ring of truth to it. A perverted, malevolent truth, but a truth nonetheless. That’s what troubles you, I think. It might not be a mistake to hear what the witch of Helmardin has to say about all of these things.”
“You can’t be serious?” Paul whispered. “You would trust a document written like this? A devil’s chronicle? Dear Jesus, you expect it to be true?”
“No. I expect it to be revealing. There is a difference.”
He paused, looking grimly at the monk. “Two things you are forgetting, Brother. First, God’s will is absolute. Nothing passes in the world without his consent, not even this. And second, you forget that evil often works to its own destruction. What better weapon might we wish for to combat sorcery than the testament of sorcerers? I could have spent a lifetime searching out their ways, and found nothing better than this.”
The Black Chalice Page 18