Candle in the Attic Window Part 19

Eyes closed, she slid down to the floor and sat weeping. And then, after a time, she sat sleeping. She dreamed that night of the sea and her birth and the way the water had smelled of iron and oxygen, and how that smell had clung to her for weeks following. She dreamed of how she had hurt all over, as if her limbs were held on by red-hot pins, and walking brought new agonies each and every day until finally, the pain had faded.

She dreamed of those first days, when the books had been full of blurry hornets rather than words and how she had destroyed three in a rage, scattering pages across the island. Three books full of cramped writing, with neither pictures nor poetry. She had torn them page from page the way she tore rats and had watched the white shreds become caught in the cold wind rolling off the sea. The sight of it had calmed her immediately, though she could not say why.

Elizabeth awoke with a start. Her nostrils flared as she took in the smell of the day and the sea. She pushed herself to her feet and away from the door. Her hand hesitated inches from the k.n.o.b. Then, with a growl, she yanked the door open and stepped out.

Birds cried out as they swooped over the beach. She gazed at them, then down towards the path that led to the beach.

The boat sat among the rocks where its occupant had pulled it ash.o.r.e. She bit back a whimper and contemplated running back inside. But the house wasn't safe. Nowhere was safe. Not now.

Elizabeth didn't know why; she simply knew it was so. Safety had been an illusion, now stripped away. Slowly, unwillingly, she started down the path, pausing only to scoop up a length of driftwood.

The boat sat silent as she approached. She circled it, stepping unheeding through the surf, her bare feet dancing awkwardly over the rocks. She tapped it with the stick and when no response was forthcoming, her lips peeled back from her teeth. She had strong teeth, capable of breaking bone and grinding muscle to paste. She bared them now as she climbed into the boat and searched it for any sign of its occupant.

Wet tarps and empty boxes filled it. She swung a tarp around her shoulders, suddenly cold, and used the stick to smash a hole in the bottom of the boat. Then, grunting with the strain, she shoved it back out into the water. The rocks s.h.i.+fted loudly beneath her feet as she pressed her shoulder to the prow and heaved. The boat glided along against the current then began to dip as the water blossomed through the hole she'd made.

Elizabeth could not say why she had done what she'd done, but it was satisfying all the same. A blow struck against ... whom? She shook her head and turned, the driftwood creaking in her grip.

Above her, at the top of the path, a man-shape watched her. Her heart stuttered in her chest and her eyes sprang painfully wide. She stumbled back and the sea clutched at her ankles, shocking her back into herself. Above, the man-shape ducked out of sight.

Elizabeth screamed. A moment later, the tarp fell from her shoulders as she sprang into motion, running up the path, the driftwood swinging wildly. She fell several times as she scrambled upwards, such was her hurry. At the summit, she hurled the driftwood blindly and it clattered against the house.

There was no sign of him. Breathing, she whirled, head c.o.c.ked like a hound's as she sniffed the air. Familiar scents dug into her mind, but she could not bring the memories they had hooked into the light. Frustrated, she hissed and swung her arms.

Where was he? Where?

Her eyes fastened on the door. It was open, ever so slightly. She grunted, as if struck, and s.h.i.+vered. Was he in there, in her house? Was he watching her even now?

Her breath came faster, painful rasping knife-stabs of oxygen that bruised her lips in their escape. Her hands writhed into fists and sprang open again over and over. She took a clumsy step forward, but then hopped back.

Why was he here? Why had he come back? She shook her head and whined. Had he come back? Who was he? Why was he tormenting her? Her fingers dug into her scalp and she yanked at her hair, shuffling back and forth as her eyes stayed locked on the house.

Finally, explosively, she lunged for the door, striking it with her shoulder. The hinges popped and squealed. She was very strong, and not just in her hands or feet, and the door fell in and she fell with it. She was up a moment later, crouching on all fours. Books sat on the table, neatly piled as in preparation to be moved. Clothes were folded and placed in a trunk. She scrambled around, peering beneath the table and behind the bookcases. Where had he gone? He had been here; she could smell him.

Where was he? Where was he?

Rocks crunched together. She froze. Her eyes cut to the door. A shadow, rippling in the wind. In her mind flashed again that long-ago nightmare of mismatched eyes. A voice like the thunder rattled in her head.

Her hand flew to her locket and she screamed. She flung herself at the closest window and broke through, heedless of the scratches and splinters in her skin. What she could not ignore was the splash of pain that rippled up her leg as her ankle twisted and refused to bear her weight. She tumbled forward.

"No, no, no, NONONONONONO," she whined, her voice long unused now slipping forth like metal sc.r.a.ping metal. The shadow stalked her, gliding across the ground like a hunting dog ahead of its caster.

She met his eyes across the distance. Grey like the rocks and harder still. They widened as they took her in and she felt the memory of scalpels and cold ointments. He opened his mouth to speak, but then she was moving despite the pain, moving up and towards him, shrieking like a hawk. She lashed out and he fell back, no longer a monster but a man, the same as any in the anatomy texts. Berserk, she threw herself on him.

As she bore him down, images pinwheeled through her brain like sc.r.a.ps of paper caught in a wind. Images of the man before her examining her with grey eyes and a surgeon's smile, and of another whose mismatched eyes blazed hungrily, hatefully in her head and whose voice cut across her soul like razors stropping stone.

Her fist rose and the man squirmed away from her, babbling inanities. She reached for him, feeling the strength coil through her. She could rip him in two like a rat and crush those hateful eyes. As she dragged him back, fear filled the grey eyes. Fear and something else.

Her face looked back at her, contorted in rage.

"Elizabeth," he said. But he wasn't looking at her. His flailing hands snagged the locket and, as she jerked back in surprise, he tore it loose. She stood and stepped back, her hand flying to her throat.

Then, hands dangling, she looked down at him as he grovelled in the dirt, sobbing and clutching her locket. No, not hers his. His locket. His Elizabeth.

She wasn't his. She had not been waiting for him. A darkness crept upon her and she saw those mismatched eyes again, alight this time with a devil's flame. Her hands clenched then, abruptly, relaxed.

"No," she said. "No."

On his knees, he reached for her, babbling. She stepped back. "No," she said again, more strongly. She brushed fingers across her throat. The weight was gone. The weight of Elizabeth. Of memories not hers. Of designs and desires that she had no part in.

She was not Elizabeth. She had never been Elizabeth. And she had not been born in the sea. But to the sea she would return.

Leaving the man with the grey eyes behind, she walked away from the house with its secrets and down towards the water, her golden limbs moving much more smoothly than they ever had before. Before she knew it, she was running.

As she entered the water, she wondered, just for a moment, whether her intended bridegroom would be upset by her absence. She imagined his mismatched eyes wide with rage and his hands, so like hers, shaking in fury. Then, pus.h.i.+ng that thought aside, she wondered what her new name would be.

In the end, there was only one way to find out. With strong, smooth strokes, she began to swim.

Josh Reynolds is a freelance writer of moderate skill and exceptional confidence. He has written a bit and some of it was even published. For money. By real people. His work has appeared in anthologies such as Cthulhu Unbound 2 from Permuted Press and Specters in Coal Dust from Woodland Press, as well as in magazines such as Innsmouth Free Press and Bards and Sages Quarterly.

Feel free to stop by his blog, http://joshuamreynolds.blogspot.com/, and cast aspersions on his character or to give him money.

Dark Epistle.

By Jim Blackstone.

I pressed the skull to my stomach. I only looked down once to investigate it again, while I fled for my life, and only because my fingers had slipped into what I can only imagine to be ocular orifices that should not have been there. The skull was demonic to the core, triangular, and as black as the darkness beyond the stars.

Forgive me. In my haste to start this letter again, I have begun in the wrong place. Each day, I run, hide. Like a rabbit in winter, desperate for sustenance, I sense the proximity of those who hunt me. I know that my time is scarce.

Yet, I will try for the port of Tyre, or for the crossroads at Constantinople, or for escape to undetermined lands far safer than home.

First, however, I will do my duty. I have to report.

It was never my intention to wander so deeply into darkness. I could say the same about so many things: I never intended to live in a blighted wilderness on the edge of the Holy Land; I never intended to join a suspicious religious order of knights; and I never intended to fall in love with a woman "Abide even as I," said the Apostle Paul to the unwed, and such was my sacred aim. Then the Pope involved himself.

I write these words that, through blasphemy, truths might be revealed. The Western World needs to know those secrets rising covertly from the Orient and invading, through stealth, the lands of my nativity. All must know of the conspiracies, political manipulations, usurpations, demoniacal plots, and the hidden fight for survival, the silent war that we are on the verge of losing. Indeed, the first draft of this letter, I had addressed to the Holy See in Rome, the Church Father himself. Yet, I fear that if I do not change my account offer truth in the lingua franca of my people that these things unspoken and unspeakable, which may have been known by the Ante-Nicene Fathers and to some who came later, might continue to slumber in dark Vatican vaults, whilst a greater shadow seethes westward across Europe.

Born Jacques de Ronnay, I was a spy from the womb. I watched by mother sin and my father do worse. I am witness to the wickedness of siblings, neighbours, even regal authorities. I heard the words, "Thou shalt not kill," and then learned of murders and strifes uncountable. "Thou shalt bear no false witness," said the sheriff in my district, who then chose his words carefully and hid truth whenever he thought appropriate. I felt myself an outsider. I dedicated myself quickly to the labours of Heaven.

My father was a man of distinguished honour who fought in holy wars across the Mediterranean. From my youth, I heard endless tales of conquest, the b.l.o.o.d.y dispatch of the heathen. I, too, would one day follow my forbears and travel far, to kill the evil Saracen hordes and carry back the booty of honest endeavour (or what I called in my heart of hearts, 'honest hypocrisy'). I would serve the Holy Host.

My agreement to this duty, covertly amended by my desire to really serve the Creator of Heaven and Earth according to His dictates and teachings, sustained my quest to enter into holy orders and the reception of sacraments consecrated to those who would be the greatest servants in the Church, even the administrators and leaders.

Yet, my hope to become a priest was thwarted by complications owing to erroneous physical compet.i.tiveness with certain brothers in the seminary errare humanum est. The words did not serve as excuse enough. Father Soissons banished me on a mission to Rome, I went in the company of the Lady de Siverey, who would visit the Pope. When attacked by brigands beneath the Alps, I beat them off, splas.h.i.+ng the red fluid of the wicked over the Lady's cart. She told me not to apologize. She said that I had performed my calling. What really happened was this: I fell in love with the young widow in that very moment, though three tiny dots of enemy blood speckled her cheek like a constellation of heavenly winks.

In the Holy City, I made my honourable desires known. I was informed that our Papal Father was in need of a confessor on a trip to Avignon in Arles. My deeds and sacred longing were again brought to his attention, along with descriptions of my birthright and heritage. He summoned me. Prostrate, I swore my undying and unquestionable allegiance to him, making sure to clarify my aspiration to stand as far from the sword, and from the women of the world, as possible. I sought more sacred endowments. Perhaps I sinned in my request.

In the middle of the night, I was awakened and directed to visit Pope Nicholas IV himself, for a special a.s.signment.

But this is all history.

For the greater part of a year, Our Church Father would not release me from my penance for lifting the sword against fellow Christians. I begged forgiveness for my selfishness: "Thy will be done, and not mine." At length, I was pardoned. Immediately, I would receive ordination to higher office.

There was an order in which St. Bernard himself had endorsed the sustaining of an array of knights whose particular obligation was the protection of all pilgrims and crusaders from all parts of Europe and throughout the Holy Land. Having captured the Temple in Jerusalem, they called themselves the "Knights Templar".

Yet, like my fathers before me, their activities were in question. After Saint Bernard's edict, the Knights of the Temple quickly became the wealthiest branch of the Church: They did not pay taxes. They did not even pay t.i.thes to Rome. No royal hand could touch them.

And now Rome was feeling a tearing pain that, again, is unimportant for me to belabour here. Nor do I need to explain the rift and scandals, the disputations between Church Doctors I fear these terrible issues do not matter, not with the secrets I have uncovered: There are far more foul things in the earth than any of the quarrels of men. You must know. All must know. Or, I am certain, all will perish.

Quickly, papers were drawn up: recommendations, the highest praise, lists of experience and sacrifices lies to which I was forced by the holiest and most perfect of all living men to admit as truths, that I might fulfill my mission.

I was admitted as a novice into the Knights Templar. It was a humiliating and dehumanizing initiation, full of boisterous humour. Did I flinch? Never. I was doing all I would sacrifice anything! to serve Him on High and wash myself clean of the blood and sins of this generation. Whatever horrors and atrocities that I beheld and in which I partic.i.p.ated, I knew my real purpose. It was a sacred secret. And I would report to my Father, the Pope, personally.

My first crossing of the Mediterranean, I fear, shall be my last. The visions that I have uncovered are too dark, far deeper than the mysteries that the Cardinals expected me to uncover, so vast in their empty depth, in fact, that I suspect that the Pope already knows. I do not think that any who were aware of my mission imagined that I would really see. It is a true miracle that I am not completely blind. After the horrors which I must confess to you? It is a wonder that I still live.

There we were, upon the boats that would bring our black-and-white banner to Moorish sh.o.r.es. I remember viewing the stone faces of older brothers, their bone-white or brown or black habits, with red crosses flapping hard and loudly in a mean sea breeze, intent on pressing us away from the beach. I remember the coast all aglitter, prepared for our arrival: pikes to spear European knights, scimitars, oriflammes, halberds, and a wall of s.h.i.+elded men, madness in their blackened eyes.

There was a great stink that familiar smell of the corpses that the Crusaders had hung from captured city walls to be picked by crows and riddled by ants and maggots, warning all infidels that Christians were present and would not be denied their death-dealing victories. Such a rot carried on the Mediterranean wind. The foetor choked my nostrils as I saw the off-coloured bodies.

In Acre, I saw her.

From a staircase, the Lady de Siverey peered on me with eyes so majestically black and painted, she looked like the most beautiful of Egyptian infidels. A shadow roiled inside of me. I wanted to flee, like Joseph in the House of Potiphar. But she remembered me.

"Jacques de Ronnay, you have come to the Temple as a Knight of that holy order. You have reached the Holy Land at last."

I felt that she had the power to see into my mind and soul. I felt it, but I did not believe it. Not until now.

With these words, de Siverey offered her hand to be kissed. Yet Knights Templar, by their monkish rule, are not allowed to touch or kiss even their mother or sister., To avoid slighting this lady, who clearly had important ties with Rome, I bowed, lowering my forehead near to her signet in righteous esteem. Even so, the brother with me frowned at this impertinence.

She laughed. Perhaps she was mocking me, but all I heard was music to my heart. I heard the whisper of the Adversary in my mind, telling me that I might run away from divine ordinations and live happily ever after with this gorgeous female. I rose and retreated.

De Siverey smiled at me, her head to one side, her hair spilling and casting a lovely spell over me. In her eyes, the colour of deep Frankish woodlands, I thought I saw understanding and admiration. Mine must have shown a bit of shame, much adoration, and a determination to live every moment of my life as I was meant.

I did not see her again for more than sixteen months. Also, I left Acre but not the fiendishly hot countryside. I was transferred to a small garrison overseeing vineyards outside Acre.

There was a great peace between the Templars and the Sultan. There were so many different tales told. Forsooth, the Knights of the Temple were experiencing a sort of heaven on earth. The uneasy peace allowed them the time to cultivate their vast vineyards and olive groves, and rebuild their battered fortresses, even as their share of the Holy Land slowly and inevitably shrank under the encroachment of the Infidel.

There was also incredible evil. The sins rumoured to the Pope were true, for I was witness to much fraternizing with the Infidel and infernal compromises. I was expected to partic.i.p.ate and mandated by the Church itself to do whatever pleased the Commanders.

And this I did. And to this day I regret it all, for it led me toward the horrible hidden mysteries and sciences discovered and kept by Judean and Saracen mystics.

I learned that certain Knights of the Temple resided close to the Sultan's dignitaries. Their friends.h.i.+ps disturbed me. More than once, I was reminded that the primary task of the Knights Templar was to provide safe pa.s.sage to Christian holy sites; the Saracen and Jew sought the same: Jerusalem was sacred to them, too.

The topics made me ill. How could my "brothers" in the Order speak as if Saracens knew of the Bible? How had their hearts lost sight of real sacred callings, to promote the Church Visible until that great and dreadful Day of the Lord when the King of Kings would come again to rule all even the infidel on the Earth? I could not understand. Nor would I, until I discovered the depths of their evil gaze.

In Acre, I was brought, as a servant most trusted in the Order, to the house of Grand Master Guillaume de Beaujeu. His rooms in the commandery were small and houses himself and his staff.

The Grand Master expressed interest in my history. First, he praised me for my acts in the Order; then he referred to fictionalized aspects provided by Papal letters. He asked me questions. I gave prepared answers. Then his eyes seemed amused.

It was as if he knew the truth behind my mission, but that the game was only getting started.

I wish I had trusted my instincts. I might have fled and been happy with my delusions of simple hypocrisy in the world.

"Brother Jacques de Ronnay," he said, "What do you know of true religion?"

"Grand Master, I am a humble slave and would rather be the lowliest doorman at Heaven's Gate than spend a moment out of His service."

"But what do you know?"

I did not understand his inquiries. Did he wish me to begin at Creation and tell from memory all that I could from the Bible, as little as I knew?

I began, with humble voice, in Latin, "In principio creavit deus caelum et terram," before the old warrior held up his hand.

"Do you believe, Brother de Ronnay, that G.o.d knew all things from the beginning?"

"Yes."

"That he taught many of his greatest secrets to our father Adam in the Garden of Eden?"

"Of course."

"And that he has taught the same, through angels and other ministers, throughout the centuries to other important individuals, seers and revelators, such as John the Beloved?"

"Certainly. Praised be His name." I felt like slapping a hand over my mouth in my devotion, I had spoken almost like an Arab, who so quickly attributed all to Allah: I had heard plenty of their mumblings in the street. Their devotion is unquestionable, mirroring my own. I could see how time among these people had disturbed the Grand Master's mind, for I felt it disturbing mine own.

"Yet, the Bible does not record a single holy sacrament," said the Grand Master.

Chills rolled over my back. I was sure I had heard blasphemy. I could only say, "My lord?" for he seemed more regal and less holy to my instincts.