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Svata Orosia, Czech Republic
July 2000
A lone man, clothed in brown monk's robes and sandals, knelt
shivering in the middle of the room and stared, almost
unseeingly, at a small casket set on the floor before him.
Candles in the sconces along the stone walls and large
freestanding iron candelabras provided meager light in the open,
empty space.
Once this dark room, with its low multi-arched ceiling, unpainted
walls and rough statues of saints, had been a chapel. Most
importantly, though it had fallen into disuse over the long years
as the number of monks in the monastery dwindled, it was still
consecrated ground. Perhaps that would provide some small
measure of protection and stave off disaster long enough to
ensure they completed their imperative task.
Brother Esven had spent nearly all his adult life preparing for
this day. Even so, he had hoped never to see it. He had hoped
against all hope that their translations and calculations were
wrong. After all, there had been disagreement in the community
over several salient points in the codices. Some said that the
fated day was not due for another twenty-seven years. Still
others insisted the passage read as one hundred and twenty-seven
years. They asserted that there was still time. He had known in
his gut that they were wrong, were merely frightened children
hiding under bedclothes, and so he had plotted and planned
accordingly.
To his unending regret, today he was proved right. Earlier
today, *It* had been sighted. As soon as word reached him
Brother Esven had contacted the head of the Orosian Knights,
asking for their intervention, and by so doing had knowingly sent
that good man and all those who served him to their deaths. The
lives of those martyred men had secured them very little time in
which to perform the rite... But, surely, it would be enough. It
must be.
He had cleansed the area, first with holy salt water and then
with incense, chanting the required prayers and incantations all
the while. He had arranged four ritual candles about the casket,
lit them using a Word and his will, then set four guardian seals
around each of the candles to prevent their failing during the
rite. There was little more needed, just his remaining brothers
to add their strength to the work, and they would –- must! -–
arrive soon. Everything was ready.
Brother Esven wished then that they had been able to find a place
above ground secure enough in which to do their great rite. He
would very much have liked to see the sky, to feel the wind upon
his skin, to hold the song of birds in his ears... Just to
*know* the presence of life in the world once last time. He had
no illusions. He would not leave this room alive.
Then he heard them coming. Their sandaled feet slapped
frenziedly against the stone of the corridor as they ran. Their
breath came as frantic gasps and little moans of fear. *It* must
be close behind them! All the sacrifices he and his fellows had
made might yet be rendered meaningless.
Brother Esven reached out and opened the casket, resolving,
whatever else might happen, that the culmination of his life's
work would not be failure.
Drawing in power from the world around him, he began internally
reciting the Words. He worked quickly and deftly from long
practice, shaping the power pulled from the rocks and air of the
monastery and feeding it into what lay hidden in the casket.
Redolent with the strength, gentle solidity and ineffable pain of
hundreds of lives spent over hundreds of years in worship and
peace, the power itself steadied him and lent him focus.
He began to weave the Words and power together, building... No,
this was more organic, more natural... He was *birthing* a new
form to hide the precious object. A form that would, perhaps,
allow for growth and change. Or, even better, it might just
offer a chance at true salvation. If he could only make it more
real, more human...
That was right, he suddenly knew. That was the approach he must
take. He started to add pieces of his own life to the pattern...
Then inspiration moved him to reach out to their eventual target
instead. It was hard for she was so far away.
His brothers stumbled, panting, into the room. Two of them. Only
two when at least six had been expected. No matter; it must be
done.
They slammed the double doors shut behind them, clawing the thick
locking bar into place.
"It's coming! It's going to kill us!"
"Our lives aren't important! We have to protect the Key!"
They made him proud. So scared, their number so diminished, and
yet determined. He pulled the mingled terror and resolution off
them and threaded it into the working. The fear did not, as such
emotion can, cause instant disintegration and chaos. Rather, the
urgency of their emotions quickened the flow of the pattern, made
it easier for him to reach out, across the great gap of miles, to
the life he sought.
The door was as secure as it would ever get and there was no
time. They rushed forward to join him on their knees around the
box. As they did so, they discarded the extra, now obviously
useless, supplies they had gone to fetch.
"Help me perform the ritual!" He ordered brusquely and they
stretched out their arms over the open casket with him, beginning
to chant aloud. The minute they joined him the spell just seemed
to click into place.
He was startled at the ease with which it came together –- almost
as if his missing four brothers were in fact there, lending their
power. Whether it was his meticulous preparation, their endless
rounds of practice, their combined determination -- or possibly
Deity smiling on their endeavors -- something made the working go
absolutely right at this the necessary moment. Now if only they
had time to finish!
The doors shook suddenly in their frame, bouncing under a brief,
testing pair of blows. The doors were not as strongly built as
they might be, but the locking bar, a young telephone pole made
from oak, was strong and should hold long enough. God above,
hold it long enough!
However, the pounding distracted Brother Miklos. He turned,
frightened anew, to stare at the increasingly feeble barrier
between him and the ravening Beast without. His voice and energy
wavered. Brother Esven could feel the whorl of energies
faltering and starting to fragment in response.
"Concentrate! ...Concentrate!" Brother Esven adjured. They were
so close now! Miklos jerked around, wide eyes flying to meet
Brother Esven's. Taking visible grip of his emotions, Brother
Miklos gulped down his fear and returned to chanting. The work
came right again instantly, almost miraculously.
The hammering continued, growing in intensity. Dust from the
mortar around the stone frame of the door floated in the air. The
doors began to sag under the punishment and the bar began to
creak ominously at having to support both the pounding and the
doors' weight.
A wind suddenly rose from nowhere, whipping around the laboring
brothers. It grew in forcefulness until it tore at their
clothes. As it did so, a light rose in the casket, making the
wildly dancing flames of the guardian candles inconsequential.
It flooded over them in a brilliant green incandescence.
The light and wind together washed over the room so powerfully
that they overwhelmed the sound of the assault on the entrance.
While the brothers could still see each other chanting, they
could only feel the chants inside their heads and hearts -– there
was no way their ears could possibly hear anything over that
wind.
At the heart of the chaos a tight glow of magical energy rose
slowly from the casket. They chanted more intensely, more
urgently. Then, in a last, tremendous burst of light and sound,
the energy fired itself upwards and simply vanished.
Their voices failed in the sudden silence and calm. The
brothers, half-blinded, half-deafened, and absolutely drained,
sagged with relief. It was done. The Key was gone to someone
who could protect it better than they ever could.
Their triumphant mood lasted but a second. The locking bar
abruptly surrendered its unequal resistance with a hard, sharp
report. It broke in two and the doors flew wide, bouncing off
the walls forcefully.
*It* stood framed momentarily in the doorway. There was blood on
its hands and face, but, strangely, none on its clothing.
"Copak to deláte zde? (What are you doing here?)" *It* inquired,
and its voice was young, bright and disturbingly pleasant.
-- Bob
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Then the horns kicked in...
...and my shoes began to squeak.
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