by Aaron French
The other nine members of the order stood in a circle at the center of the large chamber, each balancing the sword of their ancestor in their palms, with the tip buried in the ground. As God’s chosen few, these ten were given numbers rather than names, and Septum was elected by the other nine to undergo this ritual.
Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Septum walked into the core of the group and dropped to his knees, facing a large wooden crucifix which hung on the damp, stone wall.
Novem walked over and put his hand on Septum’s shoulder for support. His grip was steel, almost painful.
“Take comfort. Because of you, the world will soon have its messiah. A man couldn’t ask to accomplish more in his life. Now go with God, my friend.”
“Thank you,” Septum said with a false smile. The words were barely a whisper.
After Novem retook his place, Septum leaned down and gently kissed a leather Bible embossed with solid gold, which rested in front of him on a square slab of marble. Each movement was made with his eyes shut, as if the darkness could shield him from the coming pain.
He then formed his hands into a steeple and began to silently mouth the Act of Faith. The rest of the monks took up his prayer in unison until it became a cacophony which echoed off the stone walls. By the time the last words of the prayer faded, Septum’s hands were shaking. Between his two sweaty palms rested the body of Christ laced with three drops of poison.
The only light in the room was from a single fire sitting in the bricked-in recess underneath the cross. Its orange glow painted shadows across the ten monks’ faces.
Decum pulled an iron from the fire with a steady hand. The tip of it was formed into the shape of a cross which now burned white-hot.
For a moment everything went static. They all knew it wouldn’t be long now.
Suddenly, the door at the back of the room burst open, startling the monks from their concentration. They turned and looked towards the sound just as a man rushed into the room and fell to his knees in exhaustion.
It was Jacques De Molay, Grand Master of the Knights Templar. Jacques had been a former Rebirth Monk, before passing the position to his eldest son, Unus.
De Molay had left for Rome just over three months earlier at Pope Clement’s invitation, and he hadn’t been heard from since. Most of those in the order suspected treachery. The Knights Templar had always been weary of the Papacy.
As the monks looked at De Molay, it took a moment to realize he was wearing a crown of thorns—the crown of thorns. Blood streaked down his pale face from dozens of tiny pinpricks. The crown was radiating a soft red glow.
De Molay looked up and struggled to speak. “I’m... sorry. I told him... everything,” he said, his voice like death. Tears were streaming from his bloodshot eyes.
They all knew the implications of his confession. Pope Clement was the kind of man who held his power at ransom. He would not even let the second coming of the son of God get in the way of his greed and ambitions.
Outside the entrance to the room the monks could hear the sound of dozens of footsteps growing louder by the second. When the noise peaked into a deafening rumble, a large group of figures poured through the opening wearing hooded robes of the purest white. Their very presence illuminated the chamber as if they were infused with holy light.
Simultaneously, blades dropped from the handless sleeves of each figure. They gave no warning for the attack that followed. It took the skills of a lifetime of training just for the monks to hold their ground.
Unus fell quickly under the blades of two of the aggressors, followed closely by Quinque. De Molay cried out at the sight of his son’s body hitting the ground.
As the battle raged on, Decum rushed the hot iron across the room and handed it to Septum.
“Finish it,” he yelled before joining the battle.
Septum took it with trepidation. He never wanted not to do something so much in his life.
“Father, give me strength,” he said under his breath.
Three fast, deep breaths followed. Then on the final exhale, Septum placed the hot end to his forehead. He had to stifle a scream as it seared the cross into his flesh.
It was said that the Messiah would be born with this mark.
Decum was the first to make a kill. With a swipe of his sword he cut one of the attackers in half at the waist with one beautifully fluid motion. The wound was a bloodless one.
As the stranger went down, the rest stopped in their fight, removed their hoods, and stood like statues. The monks could now see these things for what they were.
Their bodies were segmented and made entirely of splintered wood. In their chests they didn’t have hearts; they had singularities trapped within a clear, round casing. From these they collectively sucked De Molay’s soul from his body and used it as a means to control him. The many pricks in De Molay’s skull were the anchor points from which they received their power.
Carved into the top of their heads was the papal seal; each glowed the same red as the crown. For the monks, the connection between the crown and the creatures was clear.
The top half of the one slain by Decum still functioned and began to speak, the million splinters of its face moving in unison with the emotionless words. “You will not succeed. Across Europe my men are killing off the members of the Knights Templar in the name of heresy. After today, your order will be no more.” They were Pope Clement’s words coming from the abomination’s mouth.
As the last words left the creature’s lips, all the others lunged at Septum in one final, desperate attack. Tres, Quattor, Octa, and Decum were slain in his defense almost instantly.
Oblivious to the violence and bloodshed taking place only a foot away, Septum continued the ritual by raising the Eucharist towards heaven. After performing the sign of the cross he placed the small, flat disk on his tongue. The effects of the poison could be felt almost instantly as it melted into his system, causing the veins of his face and neck to blacken. The pain of it was like a thousand razors penetrating his soul.
By now, the creatures were almost on top of him. If they succeeded in killing him before the poison finished purifying his soul, all would be lost.
Knowing there was no way to defeat the overwhelming attackers, Novem took a gamble. Without hesitation, he pulled a small dagger from the back of his robe and hurled it desperately at Jacques de Molay.
De Molay’s eyes went wide with shock as he looked down at the knife sticking from his chest. There was no pain, only surprise, as the cold hand of death took hold of him. As his body hit the ground all the creatures collapsed into fragments.
Now only Duo, Sex, and Novem remained. Without a word of what had just taken place, they looked to Septum and froze. A long blade was sticking from his back, its hilt still in the grip of a detached wooden arm.
Pope Clement’s horde had succeeded in dealing their deathblow but it was too late. The poison had already burned through Septum’s body.
With one final breath Septum praised God before slumping to the ground. But where the body fell the soul remained upright—a kneeling, man-shaped mist with tiny blue embers floating within a cloudy form. The sound of the disconnection between body and spirit tore through the air like thunder.
The three surviving monks watched in awe as the soul of Septum slowly stood and took four steps before dissipating, each one burning a footprint into the packed dirt. The direction in which Septum’s soul walked was the direction they would find the Son of God.
The battle and ritual were over but there was no time to rest, no time to mourn, and no time to think.
With haste, they marked the direction the footsteps pointed on a map and readied themselves to depart on the long quest.
These three wise men had only nine months to find their Messiah.
About the author: Joe writes out of Charlotte, NC. His work has been published or forthcoming in fourteen markets, both online and print, including M-Brane SF, Liquid Imagination, Short-Story.Me!, Prinkipr
ia, and Aurora Wolf.
Nasrudin: Desert Sufi
Barry Rosenberg
In the ancient languages section of Nambour University in Queensland, Doctor Simon Hulva found an old book. Hidden inside its spine was a map with a message that seemed even older. With the aid of a computer for scanning and decoding, he finally unravelled its secrets. If he was correct then he’d discovered the site of an unknown Sufi temple. He quivered with excitement. He’d soon have four weeks leave and, as an unmarried man, there was nothing to prevent him from making an adventure.
With an arm purple from inoculations, he boarded a Boeing 747 bound for New Delhi, the capital of India. From there a local flight took him to Jodhpur where he hired a battered 4WD. Though he would’ve liked to visit its intricately carved, golden-yellow sandstone mansions, he pressed on towards Jaisalmer. Simon stayed in that cobbled city just long enough to buy an Indian handgun. He also contemplated purchasing a bullwhip. But no, the Indiana Jones look was old hat and so he headed north without it, into the mysterious Thar Desert.
By following his map, he turned onto a barely visible track. Golden dunes rose around him, glinting against the bright blue sky. He hadn’t gone far, though, when he spotted a white shape in the middle of the road. Strange. Taking out his gun, he bounced and bumped towards it. When he could just make out that this small mound was a man, the figure leapt to its feet. In a moment of fear, Simon’s finger tightened and a bullet headed towards the sky. The possible bandit dived into the sands as the ricochet pushed Simon backwards.
The man bounced to his feet, his arms stretched wide in greeting. “Welcome, welcome! I have been waiting for you.”
Simon braked to a halt. The man was round, brown and bearded. His eyes sparkled with merriment and his right hand held a sitar. He was the very picture of innocent harmlessness. Nonetheless, Simon kept his foot over the accelerator as the man approached.
“Welcome,” he repeated. “I am being Sufi Guru Mulla Nasrudin.”
Simon swallowed. “You’ve been waiting for me?”
“My sitar was telling me.” Nasrudin held up the instrument. Its strings were broken. “Why else would I be waiting under this burning burning sun in the middle of this burning burning road?”
“For me specifically?”
The man waggled his head up-down, left-right and around-around. A common movement in India that combined yes and no but infuriated Simon because it left him not knowing if the answer was a yes or a no. “I am waiting for someone who is having the map.”
“Oh!” Simon touched his button-down breast pocket. No one knew about that map, no one. “Your name is Nasrudin. Are you a Sufi?”
“Indeed! I am being a Sufi monk of the mystic chant. See!”
Nasrudin smoothed down the white tunic that reached to the knees of his loose white trousers. With the sitar on the ground, he faced his right palm to the sky and his left to the ground. With his right foot fixed, he used his left to scoot around in a circle. As he did so, he began a soft chant. The vibrations of his movement must’ve travelled through the ground for Simon was sure that he also heard music from the sitar. After a moment, Nasrudin stopped. His eyes, however, kept going.
“See, the world is turning around me.” He smiled beatifically. “I am being the centre of the cosmos.”
Simon leant out of the window. “Isn’t that being egocentric?”
“Yes, being egocentric. That is our way.”
“I thought you were meant to be free of ego?”
“Yes, being that, too.” Nasrudin waggled his head. He blanched. His head was still spinning. “You are having the map, no?”
“I might.” Simon touched the accelerator, making the engine rev. “I thought Nasrudin was the name of the archetypal wise fool.”
“I am being archetypal.” Nasrudin strummed his wire-less sitar. “And am I not a wise fool?”
There was a clunk from the bulbous body of the instrument, suggesting that a tape recorder was hidden inside it. Simon, wondering if he were just being simple, opened the passenger door.
“Okay, Nas, get in. We’ve still got a few more miles to cover.”
“Nas?” The Sufi hesitated at the door. “Yes, Nas is being better than Rud.” He entered the 4WD and plumped down. The old springs tried to plump him up again.
Nasrudin took a quick look at the map. “Yes, yes. I am knowing where we are going.” He pointed. “First lefting at the palm tree with no leaves then, at the second sand dune, you are turning right.”
With the Sufi monk’s directions, it wasn’t long before they arrived at a collection of skin tents.
Simon studied the map. “But... But... This is where the ancient Sufi temple is supposed to be.”
“Shtop! Shtop!” Nasrudin had a marked lisp when excited.
Simon stamped his foot on the brake and they skidded to a halt just outside the nearest tent. “What, Nas? What the bloody hell!”
“Please, see in that tent.”
Though the door flap was rolled up, it was still dark inside the tent. The monk went to the entry and softly called, “Mir’yam, Mir’yam. Are you being inside?”
“Yes, Father. I am coming.”
The voice was like music and Simon’s bachelor heart unexpectedly fluttered. A slender brown arm led the way out of the tent and was followed by a cascade of lustrous black hair. Mir’yam came out and Simon’s heart skipped a beat. It skipped so many beats, he wondered if it would ever beat again. Mir’yam was gorgeous. Her cheekbones were high, her eyes were deep brown and her lips were full. Her brown body was slim and her movements were supple. Her face simply radiated intelligence, giving the impression of an exotic aerobics teacher with an IQ.
“Your... your daughter!” Simon babbled. “But you’re a monk. How can you have a daughter?”
“Oh, I am having her in the usual way.” Nasrudin patted her on the shoulder. “Ah, I am seeing. After her poor mother was dying, I was becoming a monk.”
“And Mir’yam?”
“I was put with a convent.” As Mir’yam spoke, shivers ran up Simon’s spine. She darted a shy look at him and he was certain that she felt the same electricity.
“So... so what are you doing here?”
“Father wanted me to learn how to read palms.”
“Palms?” Simon stared wildly at the surrounding sparse growth. “But there aren’t any trees here.”
Mir’yam held up her hands. “These palms.”
“Oh.”
“Yes, yes. Come and you are meeting Mama Lakshmi, divine seer.” Nasrudin took Simon’s elbow. “And daughter, you are staying inside. There are wicked brigands who will kidnap a beautiful young woman, unmarried, like you. Being unmarried,” he repeated.
Unmarried? The word sang in Simon’s head as he followed Nasrudin. He’d have to find a way to win Mir’yam’s heart.
Coming to a tent that was richly adorned with crystals and woven carpets, Nasrudin called, “Mama Lakshmi, Mama Lakshmi, we are seeking advice.”
“Welcome, most holy Sufi monk, welcome.” A round woman pushed aside the tent flap, her dark eyes were surrounded by khol, giving her a mysterious air. “Are you seeking to know your fortune?”
“Ayeh, my future is being with the holy one, blessed be he.” Nasrudin beamed. “Or she. See, I am being a very modern model of a very modern monk.” He ushered Simon into the tent. “This young man is wanting to know his future.”
“Ai.” Mama Lakshmi took Simon’s palm. Her voice acquired echoes. “You are having a long life but... but there are many adventures. You will meet a dark woman and soon. Aiii.”
She was about to continue when they heard shouts and screams. One scream in particular: “Father! Father!” It was Mir’yam’s voice. Nasrudin leapt to his feet. But his portly belly hit the card table and it toppled to the ground.
“Ai, my table, my table!” Mama Lakshmi caught hold of the monk as he reached the entry. In turn, the Sufi was blocking Simon’s way as they tried to leave.
&nbs
p; “I will be coming back,” Nasrudin shouted. “I will be coming back to help you.”
He dashed through the tent flap but his foot caught on the bottom stretch and he went flying. Simon tumbled over him. By the time they rose, Mir’yam had been thrown on the back of a camel in the front of a huge man with a terrible scar running across his face.
“My daughter! My precious daughter!” Nasrudin fell to his knees.
“Up! Up!” Simon drew his handgun. But he only shot into the air, worried that if he aimed at the brigands, he might hit Mir’yam. “Into my jeep.”
The camels swayed left and right as they raced away from the tents and headed towards the dirt track. Simon thought this odd, as going onto the loose desert sand would have given the animals an advantage over the jeep. Presumably Mir’yam’s vigorous struggles were affecting the leader’s sense of direction.
As they ran parallel with the track, the jeep soon caught up with the camels. Simon raised the pistol but Nasrudin caught his arm.
“No, no! That is being too dangerous. I will be bringing the wrath of god upon them.”
The Sufi monk raised both palms to the sky and began to chant. As he did so, he moved his hands as if there was a large ball between them.
“Tai chi!” Simon gasped.
“Yes, yes! I am also Sufi sub-branch Shaolin.”
“You’ve been to China?”
Nasrudin sent Simon a superior look. “I am learning here on website.”
Simon was further surprised when he saw movement between the Sufi’s hands. Then he gaped. The air was whirling between the palms in the form of a mini-cyclone. When Nasrudin made a throwing movement, Simon actually saw an insubstantial rotation fly from the monk’s palms. Nasrudin had created a whirling Dervish made of air.
The rotating wind first flew over the head of the leader. His scarf was caught up and tightened around his throat. His flowing robes were drawn above his head. Simon even had the odd perception that the scar on his face fell off. Shouting and swearing, the leader rolled off of his camel. The mini-whirlwind went onto the next camel rider. In minutes, all the brigands were spread across the sand. Without their riders, the camels raced on for a little longer, only gradually halting. Simon caught up with them just as Mir’yam jumped onto the track.