Beneath Ceaseless Skies #107

by M. Bennardo

  As I regain the path, a noise comes from away down the other side of the hill, towards the chicken coop. I take a few rapid steps in that direction and reach that side of the hilltop, where I can look down onto the coop. The birds are clucking and rustling about, and then one lets out a strangled scream. Making my way towards the coop, I now see the shutters that protect it at night were taken down. Somebody or something is inside.

  More clucking follows and the sound of rapidly flapping wings. Two alarmed chickens bolt from the coop amid a tumult of screams and a flurry of feathers. I crouch down, my feet tingling with pain against sharp rocks on the frozen ground. I hold my breath, trying to decide what to do—when suddenly, out of the coop bolts a figure.

  My heart freezes in my chest as I take the measure of the figure. It clutches three or four dead chickens in each of its hands, heads lolling insensibly on flaccid necks but bodies still twitching. The figure’s body is bent and stark white under its habit, with deep shadowy hollows along its neck and arms. Suddenly, it sniffs the air and turns to look at me. The eyes and the mouth are black voids, gaping and inhuman, while the forehead stretches white and round as a death’s head. Looking into its face is like into a skull.

  Then the figure is gone, bounding away with its dead chickens, its gaunt shoulders flashing in alternating relief until the darkness swallows it totally.

  I let out the breath I didn’t know I was holding and wipe the cold sweat from my brow. There could be no mistake. The dead man, Célestin, was raiding the chicken coop, and I stood witness to the act.

  * * *

  It is a long while before I am able to shake off my daze, but finally I creep forward again. The aftermath of the carnage will tell me whether this figure is the same one responsible for the dead mice and cat in the brewhouse. But no sooner do I bend down at the entrance to the now-vacant coop than I see the lantern suddenly rise to the top of the hill. Despite this new horror, I force myself to take stock of the coop—the same bones, picked clean of all flesh, are here again. I still don’t understand, but at least it seems these strange events are all linked.

  The lantern moves forward down the hill and I now see the long habit trailing beneath it. One of the other brothers has woken and followed me out here. I turn sheepishly to face my brother and find that it is in fact Dom Christophe. In the glow of the lamplight with its weird shadows and sickly pallor, his face has a terrible cast, hardly more comforting than the death’s head I had faced only ten minutes earlier.

  Ever conscience of the nighttime silence of the order, he merely motions to me with his arm. Once, and only once, Dom Christophe gives the sign for me to follow him, and then he turns without staying to see if I obey or not. I hasten to follow, for I know that if I do not, I will no doubt be excommunicated in the morning.

  * * *

  Excommunication returns to my mind again the next day as I make my way across the icy lane towards Biyen’s farm on the Rivière rouge. I endured a public excoriation in front of the other brothers for my unauthorized excursion the night before. It was impossible to explain that I was following someone else and even more impossible to explain what it was that I saw. There were simply the circumstances as Dom Christophe observed them, and that was damning enough.

  For Dom Christophe saw me peering into the chicken coop, and saw the chickens all gone. What else was he to think except that I let them loose or otherwise made off with them somehow? As to accusing Célestin of the crime—the man was dead. We all saw him buried, and I myself sewed him into his shroud and rained earth down over him. I even satisfied myself in the morning that his grave was still undisturbed under its dusting of frost and snow.

  But what of the lamp? How did it get outside? That question gnaws at me almost as much as the question of how a dead man can walk and eat. And yet, I can put none of those questions to Dom Christophe or anyone else.

  Instead, I was stripped of my duties in the brewhouse and gave Frère Bruno whatever instructions he might need in writing. Otherwise, I am to remain separate from the rest of the community, scrubbing the stable by day and sleeping alone in the guest house at night. No one will have any food for three days, and after that time Dom Christophe will decide whether I am to stay at the abbey or not.

  There is a modicum of a blessing in my exile, for it means that I might make it to Biyen’s farm and back without my absence being noticed. There is a chance the other brothers might catch sight of me on the road, but I have to put what I have seen before someone, to help me work out my own opinions. With things standing as they do at the abbey, Biyen seems as likely as anybody to be able to make sense of these strange events.

  Biyen, however, is even less given to superstition and tales of the walking dead than a monk is. “The man is not dead,” insists Biyen again and again. “He has tricked you, and is still lurking around the abbey.”

  It is with difficulty that I convince Biyen this is impossible, but at last he sighs and looks thoughtfully into the fire. I am used to silence, so I let him sit. After a great while, he looks at me again.

  “You say this Célestin left the abbey and went north, away from the city?”

  “So far as we know.”

  Biyen is quiet again, apparently turning something over in his mind. “There is a story among the Cree,” he says, “of a creature or a spirit called the witiko. It looks as your Célestin must have looked, like a ravenous and starving man, though it is so insatiable of appetite that it is never satisfied for longer than a day or two. Whenever it eats, its hunger grows more, so that each meal soon makes it only hungrier and more brutal.”

  “But we know this man. He’s no spirit.”

  Biyen shrugs. “These are just Cree stories. I don’t believe them myself, so I would not want to try and convince you about them.”

  “But there is more?”

  “The Cree do say that a man can become a witiko, or like a witiko, if he is possessed in a dream or if he resorts to cannibalism. Even today, up north in the isolated villages, there are cases where people claim to have the urge to kill and eat their families or neighbors. Sometimes it even happens.” Biyen makes a disgusted face and shudders. “Madness, madness.”

  “What is the cure?”

  Biyen shakes his head. “Death, usually. Among the Cree, it is better to kill oneself than to eat another human to stay alive. And so the witiko is already living a borrowed life.” Then he looks at me intently. “These are stories, you understand. The white doctors believe this is all madness, and I agree with them.”

  I nod and look out the window, lost in thought. Snow has started to fall, heavy flakes drifting drearily out of the grey sky. “Yes,” I say. “I understand that.”

  * * *

  By the time I make it back to the abbey, the snow covers the ground to the depth of four inches. I plow heavily through the thickening cover, my feet wet and aching through my moccasins. I am very hungry after such a long and cold walk, but I know there is no food waiting for me. Biyen offered me some of his own stew, but I felt bound to refuse it.

  When I reach the stable, I go inside and light a lamp. Night is falling quickly, and soon the other brothers will be called to vespers. They will have no dinner either—punishment for what Dom Christophe believes I have done. The first time he levied such a communal punishment, I was deeply ashamed and felt the responsibility for it keenly. This time, I did nothing to deserve the punishment so the injustice of it strikes me instead. It is a bad punishment and a bad way for Dom Christophe to run the abbey.

  None of the brothers took vows of poverty that would require us to live on these starvation rations, but we have all took vows of obedience to the order. And out here, a thousand miles or more from the next nearest Trappist monastery, Dom Christophe is the order.

  I do not know what to make of all that Biyen told me. I understand what he means when he says it is just stories, but too much of it makes sense. The part I do not understand is how Célestin returned from the dead. From what Biyen sai
d, it seems that the witiko can die or be killed like any other man.

  But however that may be, it’s clear to me that I cannot delay trying to capture the creature. According to Biyen, its appetite increases every time it eats. For tonight, since it seems to prefer meat, that leaves only Jacques, the pony—or one of the brothers. This is what I fear most of all, this gathering threat of cannibalism. It did not occurred to me before that things could ever get so dire, but with the snow falling and our stores in jeopardy, the possibility suddenly seems real.

  Standing in the stable with a great quantity of rope and as much of the leather fittings as I can pull together, I survey Jacques’s stall and the area around it critically. Part of this, I can do now. The other part must wait until Frère Bruno leaves the brewhouse for vespers. All of it must be completed before the silence falls after compline.

  * * *

  I wait in the guest house, filled with anticipation as I peer through the window, up the hill towards the stable. I will see and hear well enough from here, but I do what I can to ensure I do not fall asleep. It is hours since the other brothers prayed compline, and the snow has finally come to a stop. There are great drifts along the path and against the walls of buildings. In one day, the landscape around the abbey seems utterly changed, and now we are that much more alone.

  Outside, an owl mewls in the darkness—most likely the same one I saw the night before. With this fall of snow, it will easily see anything that dares venture out into the cold. As the night wears on, we wait together.

  At last, sometime after midnight, I see a lamp emerge from the dormitory where the brothers are sleeping. It’s too far and too dark to see more than that, but nevertheless the hair rises on the back of my neck. I get up from where I was sitting and creep forward towards the window in a crouch.

  The figure with the lamp steps away from the dormitory, and I get a better look at it. Hunched and frail, its body has the same shape as what I saw at the chicken coop. I suck in my breath as it lifts its head towards the guest house, and I see the unmistakable hollows of its eyes and mouth. It is Célestin—or rather, it is the witiko.

  Suddenly, it’s moving, and not up the path to the stable as I expected. Instead, it hastily walks towards me, its head flitting back and forth suspiciously. With a start, I realize that it is not just coming in my direction—it is coming for me. It knows I am alone in the guest house, a perfect victim for its cannibal appetites. I slump back onto the floor in fright and despair—I have not considered this and I am not prepared.

  The witiko comes within twenty paces of the guest house and then pauses. It places the lamp on the ground, just as it must have done the night before outside the stable. The hunched body stands, regarding the guest house carefully. I imagine the calculus that the thing must be performing, weighing its greed against its fear. For this thing is not brazen—this witiko is not some instinctual, unthinking killer. It is clearly crafty and scheming, driven by its appetites to use its intellect for evil, and that makes it all the more terrible.

  After a short moment, the witiko creeps forward again. Suddenly, I am no longer transfixed but in a dead panic. I crawl across the flagstones of the guest house, silently praying I reach the door before the witiko does. My hand clamps on the handle and presses against it, holding it closed with all the might I can muster.

  A second later, I feel a pressure on the handle, firm and insistent. Upon encountering my resistance, the pressure stops. Something scratches the door—fingernails, perhaps—and I hear labored muttering through the wooden panels. I squeeze the handle tighter, and then I feel the pressure return. The handle digs into my palm as I press back down on it. Once, twice, three times more, the witiko tries to force the door of the guest house, its feet scuffling on the patio outside and its frail shoulder bumping against the portal. The odor of a grave wafts into the guest house.

  At last, when I feel that I must scream or faint if it goes on, the pressure lets up, and I hear the feet of the witiko retreat across the patio. I empty my lungs and collapse on the flagstones in a disconnected bundle. Outside, I can see the witiko pick up its lamp and head up the path to the top of the hill, its hunger driving it on to easier prey.

  As soon as I can work up the courage, I follow the witiko up the hill. It has put down the lamp again and gone into the stable. This is what I expected and hoped for, but even now my plan may still go awry. In fact, if this does not work, it probably means I will have sacrificed Jacques for nothing—which will make our predicament even all the more dire.

  I am only a few paces away from the stable when I hear what I have been waiting for—the loud gong of the copper kettle falling from the rafter, where I had placed it, to the stable floor.

  My feet lock for a moment, but I know I must go on. With beating heart, I rush into the stable, but I cannot see what’s going on in the darkness. There are growls and howls coming from Jacques’s stall, and his hooves beat heavily against the walls of his enclosure. He lets out a terrified whinny, and I wait no longer.

  Even though I can see nothing, I race forward and grasp the ends of rope that I left hanging down near the entrance. Gripping them tight in my hands, I pull heavily on them, dragging them outside the stable as though I were pulling a sack of rocks behind me. I feel the ropes snap taut in my hands, a great weight snagging the other end, and I wrap them three times around the trunk of a nearby tree. Then, with shaking and freezing fingers, I tie them off and stand back.

  From inside the stable, I hear one last great crash. It is the sound of Jacques kicking down the wall of his stall, and an instant later he runs out and into the snow drifts with terror in his eyes. He is all right, though—still alive. I did as much as I can do, and there is nothing left now but to wait and pray until morning.

  * * *

  In the morning, I join the other brothers for matins. Everyone is there as usual, except Dom Christophe. There is confusion at this, and at first no one seems to know what to do. Already my mind is spinning, but I sign to Frère Michel to lead matins. Until the prayers have been said, we cannot even talk about Dom Christophe’s disappearance.

  By the time matins are over, I am sure I know what has happened. “Come,” I say to the others and lead them up the hill to the stable. Jacques stands outside in the trodden snow, having come back sometime in the night but still not daring to go inside. I pat his flank affectionately, but he must wait a while yet for his oats. Instead, I open the door to the stable and stand on the threshold, peering in amid the early morning light.

  Far at the back, behind the cart, I see what I expect to see. The tangle of ropes and harness that I set up the day before is still there, and hanging amid the cables is a limp, emaciated form. The trap ensured that so long as the witiko kept moving forward, towards Jacque’s stall, the ropes would pull tight around it and keep it immobile. If it stopped and retreated, it could have broken free—but not after I tied the ropes off around the tree. From that point on, it was caught as securely as a fly in a web, entrapped by its own single-minded greed.

  “Célestin!” cries Frère Bruno in surprise when he sees the witiko.

  I shake my head. That is what I had thought at first, but no longer. But the other brothers have already run forward, eager to cut down and help whoever it is. “No!” I shout. I reach out and grasp Frère Bruno by the arm. He turns and looks at me incredulously. It is clear from his face that there is no thought of possible danger in his mind. Though he believes the man feebly struggling with the ropes has been dead for days, there is no fear or hesitation. There is only the instinct of mercy. I release his arm, and together we join the others.

  It is Frère Michel who gives voice to what I have suspected since matins. “It is Dom Christophe!” And then, an instant later: “But how? He looks as though he hasn’t eaten in weeks!”

  Now I come forward and I explain as best as I can about the witiko, repeating what Biyen had told me and bringing out the bones of the cat and the chickens. I see disbelief on the f
aces of the other brothers, but the ravages wrought on the body of Dom Christophe do not allow for many other explanations.

  It does not take long to say all that I can, and when I have finished, the other brothers are quiet. But then Frère Michel shakes his head and says, “We must get him inside.” Though Dom Christophe struggles and strives against us, he is frail and weak. The night without food has changed him horribly and his own appetites have wasted him, leaving the unmistakable stink of the grave heavy on his breath.

  Dom Christophe does not live long and never regains consciousness. He was partly strangled by the ropes of the trap, but it is obvious to everyone that he starved to death despite being healthy and hale just the day before. It is after examining his body, and marveling at the wasting of his flesh as I did with Célestin, that the other brothers come to me again.

  “We don’t understand,” says Frère Michel.

  He is quiet for a long while after that. I can see the struggle in his face—he is crossing the gap that lies between what he always believed to be possible and what he since learned in contradiction to that. It is a struggle I face too, despite all I saw.

  I wait for him silently, and finally he speaks again. “Dom Christophe was a hard man at times, but it is inconceivable he could be a cannibal. I do not think this witiko story can apply to him.”

  I nod. I have thought this over myself, and I cannot entirely disagree. “We don’t know if what happened to Célestin is the same as what happened to Dom Christophe. Neither do we know what happened between the two of them when they were alone for eight days.”

  Frère Michel considers a moment. “Perhaps the spirit of the witiko that possessed Célestin left him and instead possessed Dom Christophe?”