Authors: Margaret Weis
"No
forgiveness is required, Brother. You do not remember me because I
was not here when you left. I arrived shortly after your departure.
My name is Mikael."
Fideles bowed, a
show of respect, but also a movement that provided him with an
opportunity to peer upward, attempt to see the monk's face beneath
the hood. The endeavor met with failure. Either by chance or by
design, Brother Mikael turned his head to look down a shadowed
corridor branching off from the one where they walked. He seemed to
hesitate, as if trying to make up his mind, then continued walking.
Brother Mikael's
moment of indecision had not been long. Fideles would have never
noticed it if he had not been so extraordinarily sensitive to the
monk's actions. The thought instantly came to Fideles's mind that
this monk had, for a split second, become lost or disoriented. The
hesitation would have been understandable in someone newly come to
the Abbey. At this level and in the subterranean levels below ran an
extensive and labyrinthine network of cellars and underground
passages. Food was stored below ground in the cool depths. The heart
of the life-support system was down here, with its massive array of
duct work and pumps and electrical wiring. And in the catacombs were
crypts and tombs for the dead. It was extremely easy to lose one's
way. But Brother Mikael had been in the Abbey for two years. . . .
"Brother
Chang was gatekeeper for a long time," said Fideles, trying hard
to sound casual, as if he were making polite conversation to while
away the tedium of their journey through to the Abbey proper. "I
hope that he was not forced to relinquish his post from ill health?"
"Brother
Chang has moved on to other duties," was Brother Mikael's
laconic reply.
That was
plausible, if not very likely. Brother Chang, a cheerful, jolly man,
had been extremely fond of his position as gatekeeper. Although he
was devoted to the Order, he missed the outside world and enjoyed
even this small opportunity to catch glimpses of it. His beaming face
put the new aspirants at their ease and gave a warm welcome to the
occasional rare guest of the abbot's. Brother Chang would not have
traded such loved duty for the position of abbot itself. Fideles
would have liked to inquire further about the friendly Chang, but
such curiosity could earn him a rebuke for indulging in idle gossip.
However, he
could not be faulted for asking after the health of a brother.
"And what
of Brother Nick?" asked Fideles ingenuously. "He was taken
extremely ill, just prior to my departure. Something he ate, it was
believed, affected him wrongly. I trust that he is quite recovered?"
"You are
mistaken, Brother Fideles," said the soft voice of Brother
Mikael. "There is no one by that name among us, nor," added
the voice, the shadowed face turning toward Fideles, "was there
anyone in this Abbey by that name when you left."
Fideles murmured
something about dreaming it. Brother Mikael concurred that this must
have been the case. Brother Mikael was not inclined to talk on his
own and Brother Fideles's thoughts were in such turmoil and confusion
that, though he could think of a thousand questions to ask, he could
think of none that would not reveal his growing, dark suspicions.
He fell back,
therefore, to walk beside the Warlord, tried to intimate, by a
glance, that something was amiss.
Sagan refused to
meet the priests eye and, when Fideles would have said something,
halted his words by the very slightest motion of his fingers, barely
seen in the dim light, slipping out of the sleeves of his robes, then
sliding back in again. The Warlord appeared to be rapt in his own
thoughts, natural, considering the solemn and sorrowful purpose that
brought him within these walls.
Fideles started
to sigh, checked even the soft exhale of breath, fearful of its being
overheard and taken for a sign of unhappiness and—if it would
not have implied a lack of faith to admit to it—fear.
Brother Fideles
and Sagan, led by the silent monk, left the lower part of the Abbey,
entered the main portion. They walked past classrooms, unoccupied,
their toll desks and high-backed chairs visible only for an instant,
fine wood gleaming in the lantern's fight. They passed through the
Abbey's gardens, the only place in the building where sunlight was
permitted. The sun had been a fiery red monster viewed from outside.
Shining through a skylight in the ceiling far above, it appeared to
have been chastised and tamed before being permitted to enter the
monastery. Neat, orderly rows of green plants, splashed with the
vibrant colors of their fruit, were ready for harvest. Fideles cast a
sharp glance at the garden in passing, and bit his lip.
The priests,
monks, and novitiates were returning from chapel. They filed out in
reverent silence, hands clasped in the sleeves of their robes, heads
covered, eyes cast down. Several bowed in greeting to Brother Fideles
and the Warlord. No one spoke. The monk led his charges on.
They came to the
dortoir,
the dormitory, the Abbey's living quarters. Numerous
small cells branched off from an unlit hallway. Walls and floor and
ceiling were of stone, chill and dank. The monk stopped before a
wooden door. Reaching into the pocket of his robes, he drew forth an
iron key, inserted the key into an iron lock, and opened the door.
"Your room,
Lord Sagan," he said. "I have placed Brother Fideles in the
room next door."
"I want to
see my father," said Sagan, the first words he'd spoken since
they entered the Abbey.
"You will
be taken to him shortly," returned Brother Mikael in his soft
voice. "The abbot thought that after having lived so long among
the infidels and evils of the world outside, you might like time to
compose and cleanse your soul with prayer."
Sagan's face
darkened. He seemed about to thrust the monk aside and go off on his
own. Brother Fideles, standing slightly behind the monk, shifted his
eyes to the door, made a slight motion with his head.
"A good
thought, Brother Mikael," said the Warlord.
The cell was
small, the three of them were cramped inside it and Brother Mikael
was standing half outside, blocking the door. The bed—a
mattress, thin and lumpy, albeit clean, that rested across wooden
slats elevated on short legs—took up almost one third of the
room's space. A wooden desk, with a chair, filled one corner. An
altar, made of stone, stood against the wall opposite the bed.
Sagan sank down
upon his knees before the altar, removed the scrip he carried from
his belt, opened it, and withdrew the small silver bowl. He filled it
with sacred oil from the altar, and lit it. The sweet smell of
incense filled the room. The Warlord rested his elbows on the altar,
folded his hands, and bowed his head.
Brother Mikael
evidently approved of these proceedings. He started to respectfully
withdraw.
"If you
will come with me, Brother, I will take you to your cell,"
Mikael whispered, motioning to Fideles.
"Thank you,
Brother," said Fideles. "That will not be necessary. Simply
give me the key, that I may enter later."
Brother Mikael
did not appear to approve of this. He stood in the doorway, the
hooded head turning from Lord Sagan to Brother Fideles, as if the
unseen eyes were carefully scrutinizing each. The fingers holding on
to the iron key clenched.
"I would
join my prayers with my lord's," Fideles added humbly. Going to
the altar, he knelt down upon his knees next to Sagan.
"
'Misere mei, Deus, secundum magnam misericordiam tuam.
Have mercy
upon me, O God, according to Thy loving kindness.'"
Fideles's
thinner, lighter tenor joined his lord's deep baritone in reciting
the prayer. Brother Mikael stood in the doorway. It was an
unspeakable offense to disturb a brother in his prayers. While the
soul communed with God, only an emergency, a matter of life or death,
could be allowed to interfere. Brother Mikael withdrew, closing the
door behind him. Fideles heard the key turn in the lock.
The young priest
discovered that he couldn't remember the next line to the prayer, a
prayer he had recited since his first days in the Order.
"'Et
secundum multitudinem miserationum tuarum, dele iniquitatem meam,'"
said Sagan aloud. "According unto the multitude of Thy tender
mercies blot out my transgressions.' God forgive me," he intoned
softly, then leaned close to Fideles, speaking barely above a
whisper, his breath warm upon the young priest's cheek. "Since
when do they lock doors in a
dortoir?"
"They
don't, my lord," returned Fideles, nervous and unhappy, talking
too fast, trembling. "We've never had locks upon our doors. We
have no need for them. And did you notice, my lord, that the locks
are only on your door and mine? And there are other things, my lord—"
His voice
started to rise. Sagan's strong hand closed over Fideles's arm,
comforting, warning. The priest regained control of himself, ceased
to tremble. The Warlord repeated loudly the prayer's third line.
"'Amplius
lava me ab iniquitate mea, et a peccato meo munda me.
Wash me
thoroughly from mine iniquity, and cleanse me from my sin.' "
"God
forgive me," Fideles murmured.
The Warlord
motioned. Fideles rose to his feet, padded soft-footed to the door,
and peered out a small iron grille. He looked long and hard, then,
satisfied, he turned and shook his head.
Sagan nodded,
gestured for the young man to return to his place at the altar.
Fideles continued the prayer, the words returning to him under the
Warlord's—or perhaps it was God's—calming influence.
Sagan left the altar, moved quietly to the desk, and returned with a
sheet of parchment paper, a crude ink pen and a stone jar of
foul-smelling ink that brought a rush of memories back to Fideles.
Dipping the pen
in the ink, Sagan wrote two words upon the paper.
Tell me.
Fideles,
wondering what was going on, opened his mouth. The Warlord shook his
head, laid his fingers upon the young priest's lips. Sagan's eyes
glanced significantly about the room.
"You think
someone might be listening?" Fideles mouthed, miserable,
desperately unhappy.
The Warlord
nodded. Fideles closed his eyes, asked for strength. When he felt
able to continue, he opened his eyes, took the pen in hand firmly,
and began to write, even as he prayed.
The garden
was filled with weeds. The desks in the classroom were covered with
dust.
Sagan shrugged
his shoulders, implying such trivial matters could be explained. The
two, meanwhile, continued to pray loudly, covering the sound of
rustling paper, the scratching of the ink pen.
Fideles wrote
swiftly, underlined with a firm, thick stroke.
My lord,
there is a Brother Nick.
Satan
interrogated the young priest with a look. Brother Fideles started to
write, shook his head impatiently. They had come to the conclusion of
the
Miserere.
"Let us
each offer silent thanks for our safe arrival, Brother," said
the Warlord.
Fideles leaned
close, breathed into Sagan's ear, "Brother Nick is a goat."
The Warlord
looked considerably astonished, then frowned, reminding the young man
with a stern glance that this was no time for levity.
"The
brothers raise long-haired goats, my lord, for their milk and the
wool. We've done so, since the Revolution, to raise money. And, since
that time, the he-goat of the flock has always been called 'Brother
Nick.'
"Oh, not
officially, my lord," Fideles added hastily. "It was a
joke, you see, among the younger brothers. The term 'Nick' used to
be, I believe, a slang word for the devil and since the he-goat . . .
well ... I mean, we had to have little goats and that meant . . . You
understand, my lord?" Fideles finished, unable to keep from
blushing.
Sagan raised an
eyebrow, one corner of his lips twitched. Fideles plunged ahead.
"It's a
tradition, my lord. Once the abbot himself forgot and made a
reference to Brother Nick' during a sermon, which caused Brother
Chang to laugh aloud in chapel. Realizing what he'd done, the abbot
couldn't help but laugh, too, although afterward he assigned a week's
penance to himself and to Brother Chang to make up for it."
Fideles paused
for breath. It was a strain to whisper. His chest felt tight, he
seemed not to be able to draw enough air into his lungs.
"Don't you
understand, my lord?" he said when he could continue. "Even
the newest aspirant would know about Brother Nick.' And Brother
Mikael claimed to have been here two years and has never heard of
him."
Fideles gazed at
the Warlord anxiously. He found himself hoping Sagan would laugh,
shrug it off, as he had shrugged off the other bits of evidence that
all was not well within the Abbey walls. The Warlord's face was dark,
his expression grim and serious.
"God help
us!" Fideles gasped aloud, leaning his elbows on the altar and
letting his head sink despairingly into his hands.
"The Lord
helps those who help themselves," Sagan reminded him softly. The
Warlord placed a firm, steadying hand on the young priest's shoulder.
His voice sank again to a whisper. "You showed courage under
fire, Brother."
"That was
different," the young priest answered bitterly. "Then the
danger was real and obvious. But this—vague fears, terrible
mysteries, and all in the peace and safety of my home . . ."
Tears choked his throat.
"Fear of
the unknown is always the most difficult to overcome," said the
Warlord. "But you can, Brother. I need you. And so does God."
"Yes, my
lord, " said Fideles faintly, drawing a deep breath. Swiftly, he
brushed his hand across his eyes. "What must I do?"