In his high room in the fortified tower of the ancient monastery, Abbot Clementine was trying to read a transcription from the library addressing the agency of prayer on the delay of physical decay, but the wind was distracting him. He had made this room his own, refusing the grander chamber in the north wall. This aerial cell gave him more privacy and the distance he needed to carry out his own personal research. He had built the dividing wall in its modest proportion to create a private chapel. No one dared question him about his holy cupboard, which was just about big enough for a kneeling man and an altar. No one had helped him build it. This he had done by his own hand, a hand well used to the art of masonry before he had taken his vows. He had also built the small door in the base of the spiral stone staircase that led to his room. He had the only key. No one needed to know about it, and he would not allow anyone to question him on it.
Clementine had grown strong here over the years: directing the condition and sanctity of the monastery; making sure that the troublesome, cantankerous army of monks followed his doctrines, rules, and attitude; and keeping the machinery of protection constantly running in this cursed corner of the world.
He looked at his hands, which had gently constructed the nest that sat on his private altar. He saw their restraint and strength. In his fifty-second year, he was poised and ready to take on new powers and determinations. He had done his time in the wilderness, proved his command and responsibility to all those above him who had tested his mettle in this place of crucial isolation. All this was known about the good abbot. What was not known was the real purpose of the enclave he had constructed, which remained permanently locked when he was absent.
He had been seeking the lost thirteen Hymns of Orphic Separation, those that dealt with the actual manipulations in rituals of the other eighty-nine. Many learned men believed those fragments were the stuff of legends, but he had found six hymns in scraps of translation and scholars’ notations, enough to allow him to experiment.
Distractions continually demanded his attention, and he was losing patience with them. The snooping, overly inquisitive monks and the growing number of reports of unknown animals with disturbing human elements, the likes of which had never existed before, were only part of the problem. Far greater was his suspicion that since no living thing occupied the Oracle’s Cyst in the crumbling wall, a degeneration in the integrity of the Gland of Mercy was occurring. There were more frequent reports of smells and sounds emanating from that field of horror. People were beginning to ask questions.
The first sign of slippage in the centuries-old balance of realities had begun at the same time Clementine started drawing energy from the Quiet Testiyont to fuel his own rituals. He had realized years ago that the best place to conduct the rites was in a church or a monastery, so that the power of prayer might be diverted, stolen to give vigor to more singular needs. When he first started, he had not known that he was also drawing directly from the wealth in the Cyst. It was only after his astonishing success that he saw the change in the Testiyont: a weakening, a fading, a speculative hesitation in the being that had never shown doubt. What distinguished this Oracle from all the previous ones of its kind was the veracity of its implantation. No other had adhered or taken root with such intensity and determination, which helped explain the clarity of its cogent predictions. Just before the Testiyont began showing signs of frailty, it had told of another that was coming to be its replacement and explained how it would be stronger in all that it knew. It would answer demands and specific questions, debate with a chosen monk, and give him one, many, or all the keys to the Kingdoms. This prophecy had tempted the abbot to confiscate such predictions from any other ear in the abbey and to find out more details for himself, making certain that he would be the chosen one.
As the Baptist had enraged those savage kings into believing that the One coming after him would change the world, Clementine thought this might be a sign that the most famous Oracle was about to give up the ghost. The abbot knew this phase was one in which powers and influences could be interchanged, or learned, and he had no intention of sharing this information with the brothers. The Gland of Mercy had been constant and stable for decades. This was his moment to discover exactly how that worked, to gain as much knowledge from the fading Oracle as possible before it was gone. No human had ever dared such a thing. So he told no one of the Testiyont’s condition, and in the dead of night, the abbot broke open the wall of the Cyst and, a few minutes later, carried out its occupant in a bedsheet.
Days later, Clementine delivered the sad news that Quiet Testiyont had died peacefully and that he and Friar Cecil had considered it best to conduct a service and bury the remains quickly, because of the condition of the Blessing’s physical body. Friar Cecil gave a stern nodding agreement to everything the abbot uttered.
But a small group of monks were outraged, and argued that their own rites of prayer should be permitted at the grave. Friar Benedict had been the most verbal and demanding. The abbot would hear nothing of them, simply repeating that the disturbing and noxious condition of the remains demanded an expedient response and that all the necessary prayers were conducted with grace and sensitivity. The abbot also insisted, “under the circumstances,” on imposing a rule of silence and containment for the next month or until he deemed fit.
A great blanket of gloom descended on the silent monastery; the forced retreat of contemplation hushed even prayer until the abbot was satisfied.
Clementine knew his iron will was keeping secret the fact that the Quiet was still living, installed in his own tower room. But something more was maintaining the thin shadow of life in the Quiet’s fading body, while the abbot continued to extract its last few febrile words. In their last conversation, the Quiet’s remains were almost spent, its wisps of being moving only slightly. There was a murky translucence that had the slumping, gruff unpredictability of a sleeper caught in the cobwebbed depths of a dream.
“Blessings be upon you,” whispered the abbot, his voice dry, his mouth cemented in an emulsion of awe, pity, and dread.
The despairing remnant made an unpredictable motion, an utterance thinner than silence that choked all ambient sound.
Eventually and with great dread, Clementine said, “One of your kind is on its long journey to join us.”
He heard his words glisten in the still air, as the thing in the nest started to make a deep pulsing noise that insinuated itself into every fiber of the ancient building and into the abbot’s weakening bladder.
Then it spoke in a voice it had never possessed before. “We are the weird of what is going and what will come, and this is the last utterance we will make. The years of dissolving here have layered the silt of that which has become and that which will occur within these walls. The becoming will be much greater than the departing and will cleave to one here within, after they sing as one, binding a heart whose ink shall write a path unknown to us.”
The soft nest that sat upon the altar was silent and empty. Clementine did not mourn for the Quiet, but for the conversation that had remained unfinished. He wanted it to speak again and unconsciously listened for a sound in the chapel. Even the wind, which had halted his reading, mimicked the Oracle. That is what those fools had heard below. The abbot’s rule of silence and containment had eliminated all human noise, allowing natural sounds to take a more prominent place in the courtyards, cloisters, and stables. Without the noise of men, everyone could hear more clearly, and it was this greater ability that made some brethren think they heard voices where there were none. This had been his reply to the note pushed under his door declaring that “abnormal voices” were coming from the broken Cyst and that some of the brethren feared it might be the unquiet spirit of the Quiet.
He was certain that his sensible explanation would be ignored or derided. And the monks, for much poorer reasons, were also listening for the ghost of Quiet Testiyont to return with new prophecies from the other side of its hidden, forlorn grave.
“More distractions,” the abbot said to himself.
A sound of light scratching and panting shifted his attention across the room.
Abbot Clementine slid out of his high scholar’s chair and crept over to the door, listening intently for the sound of an eavesdropper outside. He grabbed the latch and wrenched it open with colossal force, expecting to terrify the dim, furtive spy who was skulking there, but the landing was unoccupied. He looked down the empty spiral stair and then returned, shutting the door with loud contempt.
The resonance of the crash caused the inner door to his chapel to creak open. Perched on the altar next to the nest, he saw, to his disgust, one of the unnameable vermin. It stared straight back at him without a shadow of fear. It looked like a polecat with tiny yellow claws that mimicked human hands, one of which was holding a scrunched-up yellow hat. The creature grinned at him in an insolent manner. It gestured at the nest, shook its head, and put the yellow hat over its eyes like a mask. The abbot knew exactly what it was saying, and a great wrath came over him. He stood next to a low bureau that held two heavy pewter candlesticks flanking a dense pewter cross. He grabbed one of the candlesticks and advanced into the chapel, taking a wild swing at the obscene intruder. But it was much too fast for him and fled before he had brought the great blow crashing down onto the gently made nest.
“Vanished!” the creature called as it descended the tight stone corkscrew of stairs, its shrill tones echoing in the spiral. This was a voice that was unique and totally its own.
When it reached the base of the stairs next to the secret door, it screamed “Vanished!” over and over again. Shredding the imposed vow of silence. Making sure everybody in the abbey, and a few outside, heard its declaration, which sounded much more like an accusation.
Abbot Clementine was breathing heavily, his anger congealing to failure as he confronted the mangled last home of the Sacred Quiet Testiyont. The bent candlestick in his fist had transformed into the cross, which he had grabbed by mistake in his rage, and the pewter was now buckled into something that would never again be a cross. He dropped it, stood back in shock, and confronted the wrecked nest. He remembered how the Oracle had diminished while in his solitary care; the memory had sustained him until that vermin, almost casually, gnawed its reality into doubt. He hid himself away and ignored the knocking at his bolted door. He had to understand what was going wrong.
The imposed silence had not yet reached its allotted time of four weeks. Abbot Clementine knew he must be the one to rescind this penance; it could not end because of the circumstance. Especially after the demon’s uproar had desecrated all that had been achieved in the holy quietude. He would give permission for all the tongues to celebrate before they began to wag. He dressed in a garment of heavy irritant cloth that made his flesh creep as it rubbed against him. It was a robe of penitence, and it was his time to wear it. He then prepared to wash the feet of every friar in the monastery. This was his monthly duty—although he had not fulfilled it for a quarter of the year—to lower himself, demonstrating that his humble soul and his position of power and authority were merely an illusion in the eyes of God. The obedient Friar Cecil had carried out the abbot’s commands, announcing to all the brethren that the restrictions of speech had been lifted and that there would be a general assembly that afternoon. His words were loud and oiled with enthusiasm, the first to be heard for far too long. He enjoyed these tasks that declared him to be in the confidence of the Father Superior.
The dark-robed figures filled the refectory like a gloat of shadows. Some of the elderly monks were also speaking in whispers and groans as they seated themselves at the long communal table.
The abbot was already speaking as he strode into his congregation. He held out his arms dramatically, somewhere between embrace and crucifixion.
“Simpering idiot,” Benedict mumbled as he trundled along in the line of gathered monks.
“My brethren, it pleases me greatly to gather you all here today and to thank you for your stoic solemnity during our period of quiet reflection.” The abbot’s voice was clear and bold.
“We have much to be grateful for, and our prayers this evening, I am sure, will reflect that.”
Benedict raised his eyes, and both the abbot and Friar Cecil saw the flicker of contempt in them.
“We must also give thanks for the soon and safe arrival of our new Blessing.”
There was a noticeable movement, a bodily reaction in the flock.
“Even as I speak, it approaches, somewhere on Das Kagel with its entourage, descending to be in our midst.”
After a second of hesitation, most of the monks began to talk to one another. The abbot’s proclamation had been a success. A growing wave of curiosity and anticipation filled the elemental hearts of the majority of the brothers. And while they babbled, tubs of water were brought forth. Friar Cecil reappeared carrying a towel, which he unfolded and placed on the long bench. He clapped his hands above his head for attention and then pulled his cassock up to his knees. Perching himself at the end of the bench, next to the towel, his legs facing outward, he forced the others to turn and see what he was doing.
“Idiot,” Benedict snarled faintly.
The abbot was ready, with rolled-up sleeves, to begin his humble task. On his knees, he held each foot of the brothers he had controlled so ruthlessly. He felt their weight as a cherished relic and washed each with care. Some internal part of him actually enjoyed the touch of another human being, the substantiality of its existence after the harrowing presence of something that was not really there. The water, loam, and grime became a blessing that healed any guilt that Satan or his demons might cause to rise within him. But they were dainty adversaries compared to the next-but-one friar, whom he was gradually approaching with his tub of increasingly murky water.
Those who had been cleansed were allowed to leave the assembly. Most did so with genial expressions, some even with a beatific glow. Abbot Clementine had moved along the line and now held two small, gnarled feet that had been thoroughly washed and scrubbed clean. Without looking up, he felt the bone notch, he felt the sinews tighten against his touch, and he knew who owned those rigid extremities.
Benedict wrenched his gargoyle stare away from the abbot and cast its fearful glance upward and over one shoulder. Like a listener suddenly hearing an urgent far-off cry.