Cluvmux fell out of the tangled mass of bedsheets and woke up without any idea of where he was. He stumbled about the unknown room seeking a vessel to relieve himself in. This he eventually found in the kitchen of the strange house. On his way back to the bed, he foolishly opened the heavy curtain to look outside for a memory of place, time, or identity. The bright sunlight made him groan and cover his eyes. It also exposed the naked occupants of the bed he had been living in for the past three days. He approached the bed, hoping it was just a nightmare.
The sight of Mewdriss van Keulen was bad enough, but the sight of his other playmate made him lurch back, fall over his own feet, and grab the bedpost for support. Lying faceup, spread-eagled like a starfish, was a person, a thing whose green body was beyond belief. Its face was that of a smiling trout, and its lipstick was the same color as Mewdriss’s big toe, which it held gently in its warty three-fingered hand. Cluvmux hoped it was just a grotesque costume, but he knew it wasn’t. Memories of their couplings crawled into his stomach. The threat of more recollections was enough to evict him from this nightmare. He found scraps of his, and some of her, Carnival costume to cover himself as he tiptoed, stumbled, and crawled out of the Van Keulen house at the fastest speed he could muster. His head was pounding, his mouth felt scratchy, wanting a release—he needed a drink.
The streets were quiet, and the bright morning air was singed with the smell of distant fires. The nearest tavern was a large and noisy establishment, the Caballistas del Camino’s favorite watering hole. Since the guards were not allowed alcohol inside the walls of the garrison, the tavern was always open, night and day. Cluvmux knew where it was; he and Meg had been there once or twice.
The building was in sight when he fell over the first corpse. Smoke was rising from the back of the building, and crows were squawking and gathering on its roof. He walked inside like a somnambulist, not believing what he was seeing. They were all dead. Sitting at the table, lying on the floor, one standing at the bar, locked in a bizarre rigor mortis.
“Plague,” Cluvmux muttered. He grabbed up an untouched mug of beer and staggered out, wanting to find his way back home. The only traces left of Carnival were a few bits of torn bunting being carried away by the wind, and a couple of false noses in the cleaned gutter. All the laughter, songs, and parties had been shelved; the costumes of impropriety exchanged for sober gray work clothes. Lent had arrived, and his ugly wife would be even more of a nagging nuisance than before.
He supped his beer as he turned onto the wide street that ended at the garrison. Its brutal gates were open wide and smoke poured from its rooftops. He peeped inside, expecting to be challenged and abused at any moment. Something, everything here had changed; it was almost silent inside the high walls. One of the features of the stronghold was its constant noise, not just due to the loud men but also because of the machinery they used night and day. The machines, powered by treadmills, had stopped for the first time since their installation. Only the sounds of crackling could be heard coming from the vast prison, where the two wheels were continually powered by slave labor. But the wheels were in flames now, and their smoke-filled house would soon collapse in the hungry heat.
Cluvmux was in a daze. So he sat himself down on an upturned cart and held his hands over his face. Sadly, this meant he didn’t see the Woebegot and the Filthling walking hastily out of the prison, holding a weak, emaciated man between them. The trio joined the few other people on the streets, who were all going in the same direction. Cluvmux wiped his eyes, staggered to his feet, and started to follow them. A crowd had amassed outside the monastery, whose doors were resolutely shut. He saw one of his cronies and was told how the monks had announced that the demise of the Inquisition’s soldiers was none of their business. Then they’d closed the monastery doors, saying they would remain closed until Lent was over. Cluvmux took his last swig of beer and threw the clay mug at the doors, shouting, “Fuck ’em!”
As the day dimmed around Cluvmux, the faltering trio reached the back of Meg’s garden, where she was hanging the washing on a long rope line. She heard someone struggling to open the gate and spun around, ready to defend herself against anything…except the return of her prodigal son.
Inside the abbey, no one heard the pathetic beer mug break against the solid doors. They were all far too busy. Benedict had taken command without any discussion or dissension. Even Friar Cecil had remained silent and mostly absent since the abbot’s disappearance. There had been much speculation about what the new Oracle might bring and how its power would establish a more robust control of the Gland. The Lenten isolation had worked both ways. No guidance or wisdom was arriving from the church outside. It seemed that the most important thing now was the Oracle’s internment ceremony. It did not take long to discover that Benedict was the only one of the brothers who had sufficient knowledge of the ritual and its language. To be sure, the Oracle itself had to be consulted, but only Benedict had had any dealings with it—and all the information about its requirements and day-to-day needs had died in the bloody conflict between the two men who brought it to the abbey gates.
It was necessary that someone speak to the Oracle to gain its opinion or its vision about what should happen next. But no one volunteered after what they’d learned from Pittancer Johbert, who’d been sent to ascertain knowledge of the Blessed One’s nourishment. And Johbert had reported back dutifully. It was becoming clear that this Oracle was quite different from the Quiet Testiyont and that it possessed nothing of its predecessor’s gentle personality.
Finally, it was agreed that Cecil and Ludo must take on the task. Cecil was chosen for his seniority, and Ludo for the popularity of his innocent nature. Neither monk was excited by the prospect. However, duty was duty, and they both rehearsed their approach and the questions they dared bring to the Blessing’s cell.
As the bold brothers neared its door, a volley of rude and gaseous noises could be heard, followed by chunks of giggles. It sounded much like adolescent boys imitating the passing of wind by blowing into their elbows, thus instigating hours of merriment.
The brothers stopped and looked at each other, trying to find strength and comfort. They coughed and knocked to announce their presence. The Oracle did the same, mimicking them exactly. There was a moment of silent chill.
At last Ludo spluttered, “Blessing, we must consult with you on the question of your guardian, the next abbot of this abbey.”
Cecil quickly joined in. “It is a matter that must be decided before your internment. May we come in?”
“Inturdment, stinks in here, pray enter.”
This announcement was followed by another round of fart noises and giggles, which may not have been a problem had it not been delivered in Ludo’s voice.
Benedict’s authority was given on the eighth day of Lent, just before the internment ceremony. The Oracle had made it clear that it would not enter the Cyst until it had been agreed that the old man would be the next abbot. Just before entering the Cyst, the Oracle announced his name as Loxias the Blind.
When all had departed, Benedict was summoned to the hole in the wall.
“Tomorrow twilight, come hither. We have much to say and write down. Bring the boy; he will be our scribe.”
“Yes, Divine One. May I ask you something?” There was no answer, so Benedict went ahead. “Are you blind?”
“Not yet,” answered Loxias. “But this day, at the distant end of the Middle Sea, I have seen an island erupt, casting fire and brimstone into the heavens and turning the sky to ash. I have also taken all the tendrils and roots of your Gland and realigned their commitment. And I have put in the minds of those in Rome that you must run this significant house.”
Benedict was overcome by the magnitude of the Blessing’s achievements and by its statement.
“Now you must be given a new name,” the Oracle pronounced.
Benedict bowed slightly and placed a modest hand on his modest chest.
“Abbot Twisted Lip the Ugly.”
The next evening Benedict and Dominic slowly approached the Cyst. An overpowering scent of honey and ammonia laced the air, and the old man’s brain changed shape in his skull. As night fell, the Oracle began to sing, promising to tell of great and wondrous things.
“Now we shall be silent before we start the important work.”
The vigil lasted all night long, with no words spoken. Dominic sat with paper, a quill, and ink as instructed, awaiting the promised words of erudition. Excitement and trepidation pulled through their exhaustion to create a condition without name.
Just after dawn, as the scruffy skylark embroidered the waking air and the sleepy bittern hollowed out its first boom, the Oracle, in a voice they did not know, told them to write down everything.
“Saint Christopher is a dog-headed man,” it began.