The Augur
The knife is a cold, cruel weapon. It holds within itself a profound malignity, aeons old yet unburdened by age, unforgotten, the potentiality for destruction tempering the steel of the blade, making it stronger, more lethal. Its invention turned us from savages to sadists – here is a weapon which allows its wielder to look into the eyes of the dying, scanning for the disappearance of the last scrap of life. For centuries, these slivers of malice have pried open and let loose the contents of Pandora’s Box, killing men and women, kings and queens, Caesars and children, over and over again, staining the scrolls of our bloody history with the steaming lives of innocents. The knife is more than a tool – it is a symbol of our fetish for pain, for slaughter and its inevitable fulfilment.
This knife, then, is no different. It has been designed with the sole intent of murder, and as a result it is a wicked blade. A certain aura engulfs the serrated metal – the light gleaming on the surface makes it grin, relishing in its own godly power to give and take life itself. The horrors it has seen and done are evident in the way it holds itself, like a convicted murderer on trial. It is ornate, gold-plated with intricate engravings in its blade, ivy vines and doves and pretty little flowers scratched deep into the metal. The hilt is of a similar material, several strands of gold woven together and twisted round one another like the French braids of royal virgins, like the nooses of Salem’s victims. The blade is long and curves to a fine point, so very fine even looking at it for too long is harmful. It is a heavy knife – it drags with the weight of death.
Up swings the arm, down falls the hush; down falls the arm, up surges the agony. The knife finds its way through the weak flesh of the soft pig’s belly, slicing neatly through the upper layers of the skin before unearthing its wet capillaries. They submit without contest, splitting and spitting forth their innards as if it were a poison to be eradicated from the body. Vessel after vessel bursts, growing thicker and meatier as the point descends, sinking with an arrogant absence of resistance. Just as planned, the knife slides into the crevice between the sturdy ribs, too strong for the knife to break and yet ultimately helpless at the end. It slips in with ease, a perfect fit, as if the knife was always meant to slot in there; the two are complementary. Finally, the metal breaches its target, the thick wall of the lung, the fortifications of a closely guarded fortress. Closely guarded it may be, but not well enough – the knife does not stop, bursting through the wall, a steel battering ram, before invading space inside and laying siege to its inhabitants. The deed is done – the knife has dutifully completed its duty, it has overwhelmed, raped and conquered its enemy. This body belongs to the blade now.
The pig squeals a pitiful aria as it dies. There is a certain beauty in its recital – cacophony in perfect harmony. Life fades, and death succeeds. Silence sweeps in, repairing the discomfort of catharsis, before the simple monotone of chanting washes away their sins, whispered by a small chorus of cloaked men standing by, immune to the sight of violence. Brother Philip always likes this part: his role has finished; his duty, like the knife, has come to an end. The softness of the other monks’ music kisses his skin, returns the steel to his nerves once again. Something in their intonations distracts him from the shapeless form sprawled in front of him, washing away guilt and distress like Pilate’s basin. It is the only form of washing he is allowed – to lather himself and scrub the tell-tale crimson from his skin, an undeniable sign of his disapproval of a sacred act, would be treated as blasphemy. Those accused often vanish overnight; there is a reason why he is the sixth appointed augur in two years.
For indeed, he is an augur. He deals in entrails and practices in innards. It is a gift, he has been told, to be able to interpret the symbols of savagery in the way their god intends. He feels special for having been chosen – it is a coveted position, treated with the respect and dignity deserving of the mouthpiece of a deity. More importantly, there are individual benefits: a personal study, for example, privacy, a robe which doesn’t scratch or create rash, first choice at meal times – the simple things in life are most important, they make everything more bearable. He is young for his position, having ripened progressively for over thirty years; most augurs are well into their senile years before their appointment, whereas Brother Philip thrums with the prime of life. His selection was controversial at the time – it was a known fact all those years ago that god only interfaced with monks rich in wisdom, their experience decaying with them in their march into old age. But facts can change; the High Elder was adamant, and those who disagreed in doing so went against god’s will. So Philip had accepted the position with glee, forgetting in his pride exactly what his part entailed until he was required to perform it. But glory demands sacrifice, and the monk was more than happy to oblige to this transaction.
His congregation sits in devout silence, filling the pews with stoically pious faces. Garbed in long woollen cloaks, hoods shadowing their faces, they resemble animated sacks, filled with potatoes or tomatoes, or vacuous nothing. Philip finds it funny, but his face is a mask, and humour is not a characteristic befitting someone of his status. Therefore, the ritual continues with its hymnal backdrop. The stench of death – an unforgettable smell, a healthy blend of spilt blood and freshly emptied bowels – infects the chapel.
It is a subtle room, lacking excessive decoration or colour, Puritan in size and ornamentation. The walls are slabs of stone, hauled there no doubt by the bleeding hands of enslaved locals when that practice was still permitted. The altar used to be white granite, but now resembles the richest rubies, the rarest beryls after all these years. The outside world, lurking on the other side of the round window high on the wall behind Brother Philip, oblivious to the monastery’s secrets, goes on. Moonlight spills onto the Brother, illuminating him in a graceful white glow, a vision of a fallen angel in his bloody robe – another interdiction he must bear. The knife shines like fire in the moon’s luminescence, white-hot and blinding.
Philip glances at the High Elder, sitting front and centre, similarly hooded in his jet black gown, the colour of empty pupils. His face, solemn and foreboding, protrudes from the lavish velvet shell of the hood, pallidly skeletal. He is all angles – his cheekbones are deep-set and sharp, as is his jaw, his nose, the dome of his hairless head. His eyes seem sunken, sallow, sickly with responsibility. He is surprisingly small for one as powerful as he, frailty and force in equal measure, battling for contention within him. A bristly little moustache rests lightly on cracked lips, narrow and dark. He stares daggers at Philip, and Philip, perforated, looks elsewhere.
Beside the High Elder sits the subject of this sacrifice, a recent child, now a man overnight. He was a student here at the monastery, no doubt, as they all had been at one time. Families far and wide bring their sons to the monastery to be schooled about how they should live, confined within the grounds until their hearts submit to the arthritic hand of the reaper. The west wing of the monastery forms the children’s campus, consisting of school, canteen and dormitory. Philip has fond memories of his time there, living with his friends before they graduated and became Brothers, no longer so sociable. His anointment was the happiest day of his life; all his work had finally paid off, and he had truly discovered the meaning of family. He would have smiled at the recollection if he wasn’t preoccupied by the carcass in front of him. He would have to remember to do that later.
This boy, however, does not share his enthusiasm. He looks tired and, judging from the tightness biting along his jaw, afraid. Poor boy, Philip thought to himself, observing him with the warm empathy of the hospitalised upon a new arrival, he’s so young. His snow-white robe looks thin, thinner than the brown gowns donned by fully-initiated monks; the shivering tremors coursing through his body is indicative of this fact. He is a virgin (as are they all, being monks) but this one’s virginity is a Mark of Cain upon his forehead. Whereas each of them has manhood behind which to cower, this boy is trapped in the no-man’s land between adolescence and adulthood, not yet sure whether he should flee to the other side or cling to the mud of the familiar trench. Still, needs must, and the ceremony has to continue to the end. He would be the general to this soldier, forcing him into the far trench to preach gospel to the enemy – the boy would either die a martyr or return with a new flock in triumph. Both outcomes are laudable.
It is time. He ushers for the boy to move closer, and after a split second’s hesitation, he does so. His face is set in determination, and though tension still grips his body, the façade of calmness is so expertly crafted that it is almost imperceptible. He steps up to the altar, moving to the percussive beat of the pig’s blood overflowing onto the stone floor, drip, drip, dripping away. Closer now, the boy seems harder, made of sterner stuff. The knife almost grins at him – its deadly point dreams of finding its way home to the bottom of his heart. Its wielder dreams other dreams – he wishes to make this part as quick as possible, to spare the child as much misery as he could. For as much as he had relished in his anointment, he too understands that what he must do next is not for the faint of heart.
He takes the boy’s head between his hands, and squeezes in a tight, comforting gesture. Gently, he lowers him down to the floor, positioning him on his knees in front of him. The child’s eyes – dark and timid like a young buck’s – stare luxuriously into his own without restraint. There is something in his stare that makes Brother Philip reel, something distasteful there that he can’t quite put into words. It must be fear, he thinks. The boy watches the knife, and the knife watches him, sadistic in the way it savours his apprehension. But the blade is not for him, thankfully – Philip has committed massacre many a time, but never another human life has he taken, for that is a sacred gift, one which shalt not be soiled by the hands of men. Walking behind the altar once more, he heaves in a deep breath, letting the music of his Brothers wash over his skin, coating him in a film of peace, a trance, just the way he had felt all those years ago at his own anointment. Not daring to break the spell of meditation, up swings the arm, down falls the blade, swinging in a wide arc, carving the corpse in front of him with surgical precision. It is grotesque; it is glorious.
Blood, the essence of life itself, is a holy thing. There is no finer substance in the universe than the god-given life blood pumping through the veins of all living beasts. It is pure, without corruption – it is a sign of a Brother’s worth, their calibre. A hematologic infection is a symbol of debasement. Death as a result of cardiovascular problems forfeits the right to proper burial. Without pure blood, a Brother is not a Brother. Thus, when the boy disappears in a torrent of brightest scarlet, enveloping him in viscous fluid, forever staining him in its way, gushing forth like the flood which washed away all sin from the land, the sacrifice is complete. He is wrapped in the gift of life, reborn to his new family in his new home. It is a transformation of the most perverse kind.
Brother Philip offers the boy – the man, he reminds himself, now – a hand, a sign of the shared support system upon which the Brotherhood gently rests, a jewelled crown atop the broad brow of an aging king. But the initiate stands alone, never diverting his gaze from Philip’s own eyes, ignoring the extension of assistance. Any other Brother might have taken it as a slight, but Brother Philip is kind and forgiving, because he has been taught that he should be, so clemency is quick to stifle indignation.
And so the man stands, waiting as if he is craving dismissal. Tension still controls him, Philip can see it plainly in the line of the shoulders, the distinct stillness of the hands, the rigidness of posture. His mouth is thin as tripwire, barbed and primed to trigger at the slightest movement. Behind him, Philip judges his own worth from the multitude of faces forming the body of the congregation: there is the High Elder, impassive as always, still as stone; there Brother Luis, head of agriculture, is held in ecstatic rapture; Brother Francisco, the elderly librarian, whose flesh is marbled and disfigured with purplish spots and discoloured blood vessels, has a queer expression on his face – embarrassment? Or, more likely, pity for the poor animal, just as Philip himself feels; Brother Henry, blond and boyish, the most recent newcomer before the bloodied figure before him, is half asleep. Emotion charges at him from the crowd in the form of an undulating wave crashing against infirm rock; Philip takes a moment to steady himself, before taking the anointed one by the firm shoulders and spinning him to face the crowd. With a glance at the chorus, the room voids itself of sound, so that all that remains is the pitter-patter of dribbling blood. Absorbing the chapel’s attention, soaking up all the power he can muster, Brother Philip bellows:
“Arise ye, bathed in blood, faith-endued, before your Brothers all; accept the gift of life bestowed upon you with a humble heart. Pray for guidance, pray for mercy, pray for truth for truth’s sake. Greet your Brothers with kindness as we greet you, Brother Simon.”
“We greet you, Brother Simon,” the congregation repeats, their voices echoing and melding together to form one singular phrase, the voice of the divine speaking through each of them, using their mouths as amplifiers – they are tools for a higher purpose. The response has the intended effect – Philip shivers with inferiority: this is the true power of god, locked away in the voices of men. He smiles, and throws his arms wide, as if in a one-sided embrace:
“Let us all go forth in celebration,” cries the augur, power swelling and surging through him, an electric current of exhilaration, “with Brother Simon in our midst!”
The chanting strikes up once again, but this time the congregation add their voices to the melody, rising up towards the domed roof like a flaming dove, bringing light to the darkness through their reverberations. The procession begins as it always does – the newly anointed Brother Simon, oddly timid once again, like a lamb narrowly spared from the slaughter, scurries down the aisle, feet barely glancing against the cobbles, and is gone. The pews begin to empty themselves as Brothers rise and disappear through the distant doorway. Before long, only the High Elder remains, sitting corpse-still on the polished wood. His glare transfixes Philip – his limbs double in weight, and the stone slabs of the floor grow a sudden appeal of comfort. What if he has done something wrong? Has he somehow insulted his superior in some subtle, unknown way, unaware that he has sentenced himself, signing away his soul without even reading the contract?
The dread he feels, settled neatly in his stomach like a tapeworm, is naive. The High Elder, too, rises and proceeds out of the chapel with the rest. The knife in Philip’s hand sings with unspoken lust at the sight of the small man’s unguarded back.
*****
Brother Philip’s private study is small and secluded: it resides in the crest of the north-western spire high above the ground, so the augur can be as close to heaven as possible, so they say. The ceiling is low, the walls are close, the floor is hard and compact like earth flattened after burial. Augurs have lived and worked here for centuries, Brother after Brother, man after man after man, filling the space with forgettable faces and long-lost breath. It is an ascetic room, simple in design and decoration, much like the rest of the monastery. There is a bookshelf stacked with tomes, fraying and decaying, all broken spines and yellow-skins; a desk for working, a bed for sleeping, a window for seeing; and a small basin, erected upright in the centre of the room, with shackles and manacles looping over the top, like the torture devices of ancient savages. Currently dwelling in this seat of honour is the slaughtered pig, now cold, petrified, its own dried blood crusting on its flesh. A contamination of rot threatens to consume the meat, with maggots wriggling in between its folds, but for now the pig is whole; it is still full, and full of wonder.
Before beginning, Philip considers what he has done. What he still has to do does not bother him – unlike Brother George, he is not allergic to the sight of blood. In fact, having been taught that blood is a holy thing at a young age, he has learnt to love its presence: he loves the rich blend of colours deep within – red, of course, but the entire spectrum of red, from deep burgundies to rosy pinks if one looks closely enough, the tints and shades of life and love itself – he loves the fragrance of bitter metal, the sticky texture, like honey. He has the greatest respect and admiration for it, as all Brothers should; it is the pain he cannot abide. Though the carcass before him is bestial, below him in the chain of being, he cannot help but be overwhelmed by sympathy. It is his greatest weakness – compassion, the desire to protect and preserve others. Though he acknowledges and accepts that it is for the greater good, and understands well the consequences if he were to refuse, the pig’s agonising screeches resonate in his head like the tolling of a knell. The pig, of course, has no family – it is bred by the farmers and kept in isolation, far from any other living being, until fate decides it is time for it to serve its purpose, so its death has no consequence whatsoever. But even so, one can still observe terror in pained eyes, and writhing distress in bodily contortions. Though he would, and must, never say a word, Brother Philip burdens himself, along with many, many other emotions and thoughts, with guilt.
It is a heavy hand that sinks into the gaping wound in the pig’s belly. This, of course, is normal – as an augur, particularly following such a prestigious sacrifice, he is expected to read the contents of the body following the ritual to garner what the future may hold for the Brotherhood. This is ambiguous at the best of times – sometimes, if the liver is tender, it means the next harvest will be fruitful; otherwise, if the stomach is filled with a viscous fluid, a Brother has sinned, and an inquiry into the guilty party begins; the outcome is almost certainly violent. They had executioners and morticians on site for that, though usually they spent their time following other crafts, such as singing or sculpting. But, for the most part, god sends mundane news. No one has been executed by prophesy during Philip’s reign as augur.
This pig, it would seem, was very healthy preceding its death; Philip’s remorse engorges like a haemorrhage. He can find only basic details in amongst its essential organs: the weather will be fine all month, the training monks will do well in their examinations next week, the Brotherhood will prosper. Lungs, kidneys, brain, gall bladder, intestines – all seem to be in order, with nothing to declare except glad tidings. Philip smiles – at least this pig has served its purpose an omen of joy.
There is one organ which remains: the heart. Philip tends to leave this until the end, as it can be the hardest of all to analyse, and as the most important organ in the body according to holy scripture, he likes to save the best for last. It must have a small heart, he decides, for he has rooted around among the surrounding organs and is yet to identify it. Wicked knife in hand, he makes an incision along the breast bone, carving at an angle so as to slice deep into the meat. Once inside, he slips his hand into the slit, penetrating its flesh without so much as a thought. Rummaging inside, Philip frowns. Then he sits back and retrieves his hand. Cutting the pig open entirely takes time, and is a practice he tends to avoid since the entrails spill and the study becomes irreparably messy, but on this occasion he does so. Hacking away at the meat is like hacking at his own soul, even if the creature can no longer sense its maltreatment. The knife works its magic, and the flesh slides away, dropping with the grace of a bridal veil. The augur clears away the viscera with his hands, sending it slithering away down the basin, before inspecting the pig’s chest in full. Philip frowns again; then, Philip gasps.
The pig has no heart. It is an utterly heartless pig. There is nothing in that concave chest which could even suggest a heart – no atriums, no ventricles, no valves, no anything. Simply gaping emptiness, the absence of self, a black hole at the very core of this beast. Philip is shocked into silence. He has never seen anything like this before. He has been an augur for a long, long time, but the animal has always been intact when he began the post-mortems. His head shakes involuntarily from side to side. How can this be possible? The pig had screamed, he had heard it scream as it died, so it must have been alive – yet how could it live without a heart? Maybe it had been sliced loose by that acute sacrificial blade, still grasped firmly in his hand, watching on like a lion at a gazelle. Perhaps it had rolled off while being transported to his study; the Brothers transporting the soothsayer’s bounty would have been too preoccupied with making sure the pig didn’t topple to notice if an organ slipped away and tumbled unnoticed to the floor, the dull thud too subdued to raise suspicion. But then where are the connecting blood vessels? The tissue surrounding the heart’s supposed location is dark and clogged with thick globules of bodily fluid. Is that an opening there? A vein? An artery? It is hard to tell. But he is almost certain that his accuracy was correct when performing the ceremony – it would have been a fundamental error if he had missed so large a target as the lung, slipping up as he had in his youth, and severing something so vital and precious as this pig’s heart. Brother Philip cannot believe either situation – he is trapped between impossibilities so tight they will squeeze him to death.
For the consequences of an absent heart are severe. He has only ever heard rumours, suggestions of what may unfold following a discovery so dire, but they all share the same conclusions: blasphemy; terror; a contagion of death, widespread and infectious; the end of days. Philip’s entire body goes slack – the knife, cruel and cold, slips between his fingers, dropping to the floor and sticking point first into the stone slab. This Brother, the latest in an extensive roster of augurs and prophets at the monastery, knows what he must do, as all the others before him must have known. This, this abhorrence, this defiling of nature, was a sign from above; their god has news to share, a testament of the Apocalypse. Closing his eyes, he stretches his hand into the cavity, and delves into the depths where the heart does not lie.
For a time, there is no response. He almost finds it funny – here he sits with his hand in the dead body of a pig of all things, waiting for a message from an all-powerful being. The first light of dawn shines through his window, feeble rays washing through the glass and resting on the corpse of the pig like spilt water. The ridiculousness of his situation clarifies in his mind: he has been tricked, of course, by the other Brothers, their form of a joke. His eyes open, he grins. How hilarious! How–
Darkness. The world spun. Everything was upside down. Time blurred; life was muggy and oppressive; trapped in a furnace. Was he moving? Just about, spiralling up, up, up, away, away, something bad was happening. At the top, there was a man, a Brother, standing over an ox, a weeping child, a rat, the form kept changing, mutating and metamorphosing time and time again, indistinct, ambiguous, a mist descended, he couldn’t see, the man was carrying a knife. His knife, gold and glorious and wet with triumph, and the High Elder bled until he was dry–
Philip gasps for air, gulping in lungful after lungful as if he wished to drown in oxygen. As quickly as the images appeared, they dissipate, like smoke rolling away under the crack of the door, a sure sign of what he has just seen. His hand, crimson with guilt, hangs loosely by his side, dripping more pig’s blood onto the hilt of the knife in the floor, satiating its permanent hunger. For a long, long time, Philip sits, trying with all his might to keep a firm grip on everything he saw. But he knows, he knows for certain what the message is, what his master wants him to know, it is plain and clear to see: the High Elder is going to die, killed by a member of their own. And Brother Philip is the only one who can stop it.
But how? As much as he tries, the augur cannot visualise the face of the assassin – in his defence, the traitor was turned away from him, hooded, with no concrete identity discernible. For all he knows, it could have been himself standing there – it was his knife after all. But the thought perplexes Philip: why would his god show him such a thing if he were the one who should kill the High Elder? It made no sense. Plus, his gait was different, and his size, and in any regard, Philip would never, ever kill anyone under any circumstance. It would go against everything he had ever been taught. No, it could not be him. So who?
He leaps to his feet, scanning the titles of the books he has available to him. None strike him as being remotely relevant, all concerned with the trivial matters of soothsaying, and the basics of humourism. These fundamentals are far, far below what is now required. The fading red fingerprints coating their spines are the final indication that these are not what Philip is looking for – this is new territory, these are new ideas and new disasters, not rudimentary instructions. No, he needs something more, and he knows just where to check.
The door swings wide open with a shove, but before he can allow himself to disappear, there is one more thing which must be done. The knife, still still in the stony ground, must be taken care of. Philip lies it carefully in a safe box, shutting the lid, Zeus-like, before padlocking and hiding the damned thing. He leaves, trepidation beleaguering his steps. The knife lies in wait, patient as death.
*****
“Can I help you, Brother?” asks kindly Brother Francisco, oblivious to the distress written plainly across Philip’s features. He cannot be blamed for it, though – his eyesight is weak now he is in the latter stages of his life, and his brain has existed for too long, dulling down every thought and consideration, as all brains used too well in life become. But he is friendly, and his smile is frequent, which is more than can be said for the vast majority of Brothers.
“Yes,” says Philip, out of breath from the long journey. He stands in the entryway to the library having burst in shortly beforehand, his robe still congealing with fresh blood. Glancing around, he is glad to see the room is empty – it would be hard to explain to a large number of people why he was in such disarray. “Yes, you can. I need access to Brother Martin’s files, as quickly as you can.”
Francisco’s sagging face sags further in shock, wounded by his request. “Brother Martin?” he whispers. “Are you sure? Does the High Elder know?”
“He will if you don’t give them to me. It’s urgent.”
A sigh, arid as desert air, breathes from his discoloured lips. “Very well,” he replies, not willing to risk inquiry. “It will take a while, though – I’m afraid my memory is fading away in the coda of my life.” Philip cringes at his words – it is best to ignore an elephant in the room, in his humble opinion. His voice possesses the croaking nature of the elderly whose pipes are not well lubricated. He says nothing as his Brother shuffles away, deep into the labyrinth of the monastery’s archives.
Brother Martin lived long, long before Brother Philip was even a concept. He, too, was brought at a young age to a foreign monastery by parents too poor or too inconsiderate to care for him themselves. He, too, was special, and possessed the gift of interpreting the symbols of savagery. He was an ancient augur, one of the earliest and most controversial. He had been executed under the orders of the High Elder, of course, under accusations of blasphemy, as they all were. But the allegations laid against him, and perhaps only him, were founded in truth. His papers, locked away ever since, tread across new boundaries, thresholds which have never been traversed before. Perhaps among them, Philip can find the answer he seeks.
The library is the pride and glory of the monastery – reams upon reams, scrolls upon scrolls, books upon books upon books take up every spot, filling the space with paper and leather and miles of ink. The air is fresh with the smell of knowledge. The shelves extend deep into the caverns of the room, standing from floor to ceiling without a gap on any. It is an impressive collection, the largest in the land, the envy of many, and available exclusively to the Brothers of the monastery. A shame, then, that only a handful are taught reading skills at a young age – the brutes, like the welders, the farmers, the ones who carry corpses, do not benefit from such luxuries.
Brother Francisco returns a few minutes later, buried beneath the weight of a gilded box which he cradles in both arms like a small child. His footsteps are uneven, swaying from side to side, on the verge of toppling. Philip grabs the box, clearly too great a burden for his Brother to manage alone, and moves to the nearest table. Francisco’s gaze bores through him in an attempt to look at the papers himself, but he knows that even looking at the papers is treason, and removing them from their safe place in the library would be disastrous. He also knows that it is only his position as augur that has allowed him to reach this stage – lucky me. He is fortunate Francisco is so kind, or he may not have left the room alive.
It takes a short while for Brother Philip to find exactly what he needs, but there, lying in stasis for his burrowing fingers to find it, is Brother Martin’s advice. Philip reads it twice, once in disbelief, twice to be sure, before carefully replacing the page back where it belongs, lifting the lid into place, and shutting away the slanderous claims and controversial experiments. He is shaken to the very core. If Francisco’s sight had been any better, he might have noticed the ashy face of Philip turning aside as he passed, leaving without a word of explanation.
*****
“I see.”
The High Elder's face does not even quiver as Philip tells his story. Prophesy or not, he is always a reserved man, simple and predictable. Though not friendly in appearance, by no means amicable, he gives off a certain approachable air, as if his very perfume entices and charms. But therein lies his fatality – like a sailor lost at sea, his victim is lured in by his siren song speech; like an inherited disease, he lies in wait, patient and undiscovered, until the perfect time arises, and down falls the Brother. It is a funny game of chance, a life gamble, that the High Elder plays, and there is never any doubt that he will win.
“I see,” he spoke again, the words susurrating from his lips like the rustling parchment paper piled on his desk. Silence, used in the right hands, is like a knife held against the throat, and so Philip feels now, sitting before him, robes soiled and sordid, face sweaty and hair dishevelled. He is out of place in this orderly, uniform room.
“You can guess what the implications of a heartless sacrifice are, I'm sure,” Brother Philip mutters, receiving a subtle nod in response, so slight it is almost overlooked. “Then I'm sure you can also guess what measures I took to further understand our circumstances.” This is the moment Philip has dreaded ever since his discovery in the library, the split-second decision in which his life or his death would be verified. Perhaps the High Elder has already decided – perhaps, in his mind, he is already just a lifeless shape, a decapitated man waiting for the rest of his body to catch on.
The High Elder cocks his head to the side, a lion weighing up whether he should eat the gazelle or heed its pleas for a little while, for amusement; he is an amuse bouche. He does not look amused when he says, “Brother Martin.”
“Yes,” Brother Philip says, but his throat catches as if the High Elder's fingers are crushing his windpipe already, so he says it again, “yes.” There is no point in arguing his case. He is a sinner, and this is Judgement Day. The pause lasts for millennia.
“Very well,” says the High Elder. Is he even aware that the guillotine of his decree has only narrowly missed the soft, welcoming, fleshy mass of Philip's neck? “What did you learn?”
Philip tries to control his nerves, but his system will not allow this attempt at overthrowing authority. His knee taps as if with a will of its own as he explains: “Brother Martin's work was always hypothetical, for the most part. A lot of his predictions have turned out to be true, others completely unfounded. But this is entirely novel, and hypotheticals are all we have. I realise Martin is a controversial–"
“Get on with it.”
“Yes, my liege. His predictions for the outcome of an absent heart are as dire as the visions I have described to you, but there is a way to appease our god, to try and avoid the worst of the premonitions. It is, however, unpleasant.”
“Unpleasant?”
“It goes against everything we have been taught, all the lessons we have learnt from you. But it could save your life.”
“Then what are we waiting for?”
The High Elder stands abruptly, hastening to the large open window behind his desk. Through the window, Philip can see rolling hills, the verdant valley encapsulating the monastery as if the earth formed around the building itself. A little rivulet tinkles along, glinting in the spring sun, merrily lapping along. At the foot of the building lies the quaint farm – fields of wheat, corn, rye, other durable crops, surrounded by enormous silos like shining totems ready to consume the harvest and protect it for later use. Cows grazed; cows lactated; cows bellowed. Men snacked, labourers spat, Brothers yelled at their toil. They reaped the trophies of the land and bore them for themselves, content in their work, existing only in the present. Philip envies them, concealed in shadow at the top of a tall tower like a weeping damsel. Alone with the High Elder, the reaper of men, his life balancing precariously in bony hands.
“You must remember, Brother Philip,” advises the High Elder from the window, positioned so that the sun streams into his eyes, his eyes consuming the light without reaction, “the greater good. If I die, the monastery decays with me. It is as simple as that. Do what you have to do. I ask no more of you. It is a simple task. Do what must be done, and we will not perish.”
“But, my liege, what you are asking of me-"
“I know what it entails. Do you think I would have kept those cursed files to fade and crumble away? I know what you must do. I leave it up to you to fulfil your role without anyone holding your hand.”
“But-"
“It is your decision.” The High Elder has turned from the window, and slowly, methodically, he washes his hands in the basin beside him. Sweat trickles down Philip's neck, he can feel it sliding down, like the maggots burrowing into the putrefied flesh of the swine in his study. His leader dries his hands, turns to Brother Philip and takes his rightful place on the throne before him. “Choose. And choose wisely.”
Philip cannot speak. He nods. Fear turns his stomach, flipping it over and over, tossing it around, a play thing for gods. But he nods all the same – for what else can he do? A flick of the fingers: he is dismissed.
As Philip, fingers wringing, steps faltering, brain malfunctioning, approaches the door, the High Elder stops him.
“Have you told anyone the information we have shared?”
“Brother Francisco saw me read Brother Martin's papers. I refused to explain myself.”
“And your knife?”
“Locked away and hidden in my room.”
A brief pause. Then:
“Do you know who it will be?”
Another pause, pregnant, fertilised with conspiracy. Then:
“No. I shan't burden you with that knowledge until it is done.”
The High Elder never smiles, and he does not do so now, but he does give a curt nod, and it almost seems as if some of the tension there, before unnoticed in the placid pool of his face, ripples away.
“Good.” Another flick, another dismissal.
As the door closes behind Brother Philip, he realises what has happened. The High Elder has praised him. A compliment! In spite of it all, Philip smiles as he descends the spiral staircase of his tower, delving back into the depths of his fate.
*****
Up swings the arm, down falls the hush. Down falls the hand of death, up swings the pendulum of fate. Brother Philip stands before the ox calf, but for once his priority is not the swift death of the creature he harms. Instead, his attention is fixated on his congregation, the sea of faces all transfixed by the gushing of crimson, the dam of life breaking open and spewing forth its contents. He scrutinises them, all of them, every member of his new family, his Brothers: one among them is a murderer. Or, rather, will be a murderer, if Philip fails. Responsibility spreads itself across his shoulders like a cross. For how is he supposed to know who it could be? How can he make this decision on behalf of his master?
The High Elder watches, alive in the present, dead in the future – the constant threat of this fact is palpable. A dark cloud seems to hover over him, darkening his features, making his skin look sickly and distorted. His gaze begins to wander: who could it be? Brother Matthew? No, it couldn’t be – his family died of plague, all except he; he knows the power of death, how much it can inflict, and without the monastery, he would have perished with them all, a nameless child in a mass grave. Brother George? Unlikely – he faints at the sight of blood, which is why he sits so far away at the back. Brother Taylor? The smith of the monastery. But if he were to kill the High Elder, why should he require the augur's knife, with a whole arsenal at his disposal? It didn’t make any sense.
The sacrifice continues; the blood spurts and pours and bursts. Brother Kane? Too ignorant. Brother Paul? Handicapped. Brother Joshua? Too cowardly. Isaiah, Peter, Henry, Simon, Mason, no, no, no, no, no. It was impossible. He has seen as much of the future as god will permit, and yet still he cannot discern the assassin's identity. Panic wells like blood inside him.
Think. It is true that identifying the killer is impossible, but in the end, it may not matter. It is his decision, ultimately, that will change everything, not the act of an anonymous dissenter. His approach alters. The faces before him now pose no threat – he is in control.
But how should he choose? Merit? Reputation? Age? There are too many criteria, too many possibilities. It would take years to make his choice by going through each and every option and evaluating whether the risks would outweigh the benefits. And in the end, everyone can argue their case, one way or the other – perhaps he would never come to a decision if he were so precise. No, he needed to be brutal, harsh, making his choice and following it through. But could he be so heartless?
His eyes settle on a face near the front, and he knows what is before him. He has choice, and he has power, and he has the power of choice. It is his turn to make a move.
The ox screams. The knife grins.
*****
Darkness. The darkness is total. He cannot see. He cannot move, either – something binds his arms and legs together, rubbing deep into his joints like blades. Though his sight has been taken, his other senses are attuned to the world around him: the aroma of incense muddles his thoughts, making him lazy, drowsy, but he knows he must not sleep now. Bitterness coats his mouth – bile? No – it is the bittersweet taste of blood. His blood, he decides. Something bad is happening here. He fights, but the restraints are too strong, he can do nothing. He has his voice though, his one remaining tool, and he will use it to the end:
“Hello?” he screams, desperate for someone to hear him. But desperation is cowardly, and not befitting a Brother. His voice croaks as he yells, and the thick stone absorbs his pleas, stealing them from the ears of allies.
A scratching sound fills the room – a match catching flame. The room fills with a hot glow, and suddenly he sees again. God says let there be light, and there it is, a gift granted to him – he is gracious. But it is not god who bestows it upon him. Footsteps circle him, predatory in their pace, slow and gentle, careful. When the figure walks into view, lighting candles around the room as he does so, he is relieved to see they are donned in the familiar brown gown of the Brotherhood. He sighs in relief. He opens his mouth to speak, but the flickering light of the wax-laden candles illuminates an alarming discovery: the robe is heavily stained, dark and patchy like a dermatological infection. It is a crime to wear impure robes in the monastery, slandering the name of heaven itself, unless...
“Brother Philip!” he cries, “it's me! Help me! What's going on?” But Brother Philip does not listen. He is muttering deep beneath his breath, words so vile, so cruel they do not bear repeating. He does not want to listen to this chanting. “Let me go,” he begs, the coward, “please, I’ll do anything you want, please, I beg of you, let me go.”
Brother Philip does not listen. Instead, he lowers his hood, revealing his impassive face, cold like stone, and lifts the object held tight in his clutch. It is a knife – gold, serrated, wicked. It is so close to his face he can see the engravings: the flowers and birds taunt him in their joviality. They are daytime pleasures and he is trapped in the realm of night. The knife is terror personified. Hysteria rises in him like bile. Then he vomits. Pitiful.
“Stop this, please stop this!”
“Dear lord,” begins Brother Philip, “and Father of Mankind. Heed me in my prayer.”
“Help me!”
“Accept this offering, o Lord, and be merciful unto his soul.”
“Let me go! Help me!”
“I grant unto you a virgin soul, a sliver of purity. Take this life, and grant it to another.”
“A virgin?”
“Save us, god, and take pity on me – it is not my bidding to cause harm.”
“Help!”
“In the name of the lord, Amen.”
Up swings the arm.
“Wait!” he cries, his final attempt. “Wait! You can’t do this!”
Something in his voice must trigger Philip to take notice. His eyes, formerly glazed over by fire, clear, as he asked a simple question. “Why?”
“Because... because...” How to answer such a question! He is damned either way, doomed to die no matter what he did. What a terrible life he has led, full of error, of sin and darkness. This is what he deserves.
Philip is impatient. The knife is more so. It drives his hand downwards, and finds its home in the space between his ribs, as it always does, nestled deeply in his heart. He screams for Philip to get away from him, to get away, away, away; he dies; he bleeds.
Brother Philip feels violently sick. Is he moving? What has been done cannot ever be undone. But the High Elder's words ring in his mind, and the greater good dances before him in celebration. He is drenched in blood, as is the basin the body is strapped to. His study reeks of the fluid, and the woozy stench of incense in such close quarters is overwhelming. He sits down, watching the body with vigilance.
It had to be done – he knows that now, it had to be done – but the shock still takes its toll. He has killed a man. Not an animal, or a beast – a man, a Brother above all else. Family. He cries, alone, scared, weak. Not as weak as this man, though. Despite it all, he knows he has made the right decision. Even if he was kind. Even if he was helpful. Even if he was unlike all the other Brothers. But perhaps that was the best reason for choosing him.
Of all the choices Philip regrets, he does not regret sacrificing Brother Francisco for the greater good.
*****
Time blurs. For the longest time, Philip can accept what he has done. Francisco is replaced – he was old, he was weak, he was lame, his memory was terrible; it was a surprise no one had killed him sooner – and is not missed. The library, it is declared, does not need a Brother to watch over it any longer; knowledge can take care of itself. A funeral is held, led by Philip with the habitual sacrifice; the High Elder says that he died of old age. Life goes on.
Brother Philip thrives in his own little world. Now on excellent terms with the High Elder, seeing as he is not yet dead, little luxuries and blessings come his way – new books, gold rings and jewels, freshly melded knifes and daggers, each sickeningly brutal in its fashion. One, a particularly cruel item, is adorned with a hook at one end, spiky with barbs to rip away flesh. It is odd how quickly Philip forgets about his aversion to inflicting pain – now, the more savage the instrument, the better he likes it.
In fact, the whole world seems to benefit from Francisco’s departure – Brothers, Philip notes from beneath his rancid hood, begin to smile at other Brothers; the harvest is fruitful, as he had predicted, the weather just perfect for this time of year; water is plenteous, fruit is ripe, god is good. Philip cannot help but feel responsible – without him, would this happiness have been attainable? Would this paradise have been as idyllic if they had had to share it with one more?
He begins to research more, reading extensively and even making notes on his own more recent discoveries, more for personal than for public perusal. But he wants to learn more, needs to expand his horizons – he is too determined for augury alone now. Mathematics, always a topic out of his reach at school, now, like the fair fruit of Eden, is at his fingertips. He learns craftsmanship, woodwork and glasswork and metalwork with the smiths in the huge cellar of the monastery. Cookery and gastronomy come easily to him, as does agriculture, and architecture begins to inspire him. All because Brother Francisco is dead.
Medicine, the art of healing, eludes him somewhat, but challenge no longer cows him. So, between rituals and ritual sacrifices, Brother Philip finds time to visit the small hospital wing of the monastery. It is hardly worth describing as a hospital: it consists of one room, eight beds with surgical equipment laid out next to each, the torturer’s tools well on display. The chapel is larger than this chamber. But this is heaven on earth, and cases of illness or injury are few and far between, so the beds remain conspicuously empty. Here, he learns anatomy, diagnosis, natural cures and remedies to fix the more basic ailments. As the newest doctor, the Brother assigned to assist him is Brother Simon.
He is a sweet child, considerate and clear in his instruction, charming in his way. The anxiety and harshness he first observed must have been due to nerves only, he decides, for this Brother is more than brotherly. It is strange at first, how an age gap like theirs can be so easily overlooked, but as time passes, Brother Philip becomes accustomed to his company. He learns, even, to appreciate it.
There is one instance which catches him off guard, however. It has been several months since Philip’s decision, months of bliss and pleasure. The two Brothers have been getting on very well, chatting like old friends reunited, learning together about poultices and their uses. Brother Philip is laughing, so he almost misses what Brother Simon asks him. Almost – the words still cut through their mirth.
“Did you ever know your father?” he asks. It is a simple enough question, which should not, under normal circumstances, alert suspicion. Philip’s hackles raise in shock. He considers not replying, pretending to ignore the question, but Simon asks it once again.
“No, I didn’t.” He snaps it, to make it clear the subject should be broached no further. The message is not picked up by Brother Simon.
“Neither did I,” he says, a tone of sadness creeping into his voice, emotion staining the conversation like spilt blood. His words strike a minor chord in Philip’s heart. He doesn’t dare say another word – is this a trick? Another test from the High Elder to judge him? “Doesn’t that ever make you angry?” Simon asks.
“We aren’t supposed to discuss that,” Philip cracks, tension breaking in his voice with explosive seismic force. Simon looks as if he has just been flogged.
“I didn’t mean to offend.” The moment is over. Silence dominates.
But this is a solitary cloud in the blue sky of Philip’s world, and clemency is quick to stifle indignation. Their relationship is sound, and each enjoys the company of the other – that is all that is important.
Time blurs. Early spring blurs into late summer. A rat scurries across Philip’s path as he walks through the cloisters. He thinks nothing of it. Another scuttles after it, dirty, black, rotting. He pauses, breath catching slightly in his throat. If I see a third, he whispers in his mind, it is an omen. He waits, heart pounding, blood thrumming in his veins. His knife, forever at his side, his permanent companion, shivers with delight.
A third runs out before him, fat and bristly, dragging its serpentine tail along after it. It leaves a trail of mud in its wake. Philip knows what this means. It is a sign from the heavens.
Plague.
*****
Contagion is infectious – even the skies above have become ill and dark, booming with thunderclouds, a world of noise without end. Life is muggy and oppressive, the heat unbearable, the lice and bugs irritable and terrifying. Pestilence has ridden in on his white horse, bone-white, wide-eye-white, froth-white, subsuming control little by little as Brother by Brother falls victim. There is nothing to be done – the plague is too strong, its progression from conception to birth too sudden, too premature, its effects too widespread and subtle to have any hope of victory in opposition. Their only hope is for the survivors, a vast minority, protected by the gracious will of god, to prosper. For, surely, those who are good in the eyes of the divine will survive such an outbreak?
The ceremonial knife laughs at such snivelling optimism. Pestilence, horse-bound, laughs too, laughs through the screaming mouths of men as their bodies turn against them, a physical, individual betrayal. Plague does not choose wisely – it knows better than that.
The High Elder, in his hospital bed, seems reduced, dilute. He is smaller than ever before, more skeletal, shrivelled and wizened like an ancient nut buried in a tree trunk with nothing left but to wait for the ravenous squirrel to tear it greedily to pieces. Here lies the life and soul of the monastery – if he dies, the monastery decays with him – and yet here he is, decaying before death has struck the final blow. Brother Philip takes this as a good sign – there is still life clinging to him yet, some redeemable essence inside him that has not been snuffed out. There is hope, a flickering match in the night.
“What can I do?” he asks helplessly, but the roar of the hospital overwhelms him, men screaming, knives slicing, Brothers dying all around him. “What can I do?” He has lost sight of himself – here, surrounding him, is human suffering. Had he forgotten what it was? Had pain, deep and true, dissolved from his memory, like sugar, unseen and sweetly distracting? He feels sick. He feels ashamed. He is plagued by demons.
Noticing him, Brother Simon dashes over, bound in protective garb to conserve him from the worst of the plague. It is state of the art – cardboard and cloth, fashioned into a long beak with beady eyes and a veil over the head. It is his suit of armour in this biological war. Simon finds Philip and beckons for him to follow, sprinting straight out of the hospital ward without another word. With chaos itself swirling around them, Pestilence does not notice them slip away, out of sight.
It is a long pursuit – up the stairs, through the cloister, down the stairs, round the corner, through the canteen, up into a tower, working their way up like a spiralling drill cracking through the monastery’s fortifications. Philip knows their destination before they burst into the library. It is a sorry sight – acres of space stretch between the scant volumes occupying less than half of the shelves. Spiders lazily spin cobwebs wherever they please; dust motes hover in the air in stasis, as if time no longer exists here. The very room is pungent with the odour of old literature and forgotten knowledge. It is dark, so dark in this room, and Philip is afraid. How could they have let this happen? Where had all the books gone? What was once in beautiful harmony now has sunk into the depths of hell.
Brother Simon takes no notice of the damage, aiming straight for a case at the back of the hall containing two or three shredded tomes, and heaves them back to the front to examine. Philip is baffled – shouldn’t they be helping the others?
“Shouldn’t we be helping the others?” Philip cries, the screams of the dying and the damned rising ghoulishly up the spiral staircase like wafting sins, condemnation spreading and contaminating all touched by them.
“No,” says Simon, flipping through pages with expert pace, scanning every curve of calligraphy for any sign of useful information. “We don’t know what we’re up against – a plague of this kind hasn’t been seen in generations. We need to know what it is we’re fighting before we have any chance of tackling it. And since no one here was alive then, we turn to books.”
“No one was alive? How long ago was this?”
“Decades, outside of living memory. Well… except…”
“Except what?”
“That’s not quite strictly true. A couple of people were still alive back then, young and strong enough to outlast the sickness. One was the High Elder, who will be of no use right now. The other… the other was…”
“Brother Francisco.”
Guilt wraps itself around his heart, coiling like a cobra, and squeezes him raw. If he had chosen better, perhaps the plague ravaging his whole world could already have been conquered. Philip tries to think rationally, but shock drenches him like freezing water. How had he forgotten that Brother Francisco, despite his faults, had been kind, and friendly, and warm, and affectionate? How could he have overlooked those beautiful virtues? He cannot afford to dwell on his mistakes – he saved the High Elder from assassination, at least. The plague is not his fault.
“You killed him, didn’t you?” yells Brother Simon over the cacophonous thunder, the howls of the damned, the howling winds of hell beating at the windows, as if all the noise in the world is threatening to choke him and crush the words as they leap from his lips.
“What? How–”
“Don’t ask me how I know. You did, didn’t you? He didn’t die of old age, did he?”
Brother Philip, tears blurring his vision, stomach reviling him in its contortions, looks Brother Simon in the eye. Hope, hopelessly sought, dies.
“I killed him.” It is a relief, a release, unnoticed tension relaxing for the first time in months. He killed Brother Francisco. It is said. It is done.
“Good!” cries Brother Simon. Philip stares into the bottomless depths of his pupils – there is no remorse there, no pity, no anything. Brother Simon’s eyes are cold and cruel in the shadowy light of the library.
“What do you mean?”
“He deserved to die! He was a monster!”
“But he was kind, and friendly, and–”
“Bullshit!” Philip has never felt so stunned in his life. The word has been a rumour to him all his life, and here it resounds, like mythology come to life. He cannot speak – his throat hurts.
“Don’t you know what he did?” Simon screams, throat tearing at the effort, ripping the doctor’s mask away, and his own calm façade with it, to reveal the boy who had been left at a monastery gate all those years ago by a family who knew no better. “Don’t you know what he liked to do? I have spent eighteen years of my life here. I met Brother Francisco,” he says the name with pure venom, spitting like a serpent, “when I was eight years old. Eight! He had no right to do what he did, not to me, not to any child. He creeps into my room one day, and introduces himself, and is so kind, and friendly, and warm. It starts slow, a touch of the shoulder, a hug. Then the hand lingers, then it moves, and moves, and doesn’t stop moving, and then you have nowhere to go, no one to turn to. Because,” he says, tears breaking the siege at his eyes and spilling down his face, a weeping child, “who will believe a boy over a Brother? Even mentioning something like that is blasphemy, its treason, conspiracy, and the victim is punished again and again. There is nothing I can do. Nothing.”
Philip stares, aghast. He does not know what to do, what to say. Thoughts are thick and sludgy, as are movements, as is everything. He cannot comfort – he does not know how; he has not been taught how to console. Brother Simon stews in the filth of his own outbreak, ashamed, embarrassed, irate. But Philip does not think about him now. The one important thought Philip can conjure up, consuming his whole mind like fire, is:
Brother Francisco was not a virgin.
What a fool he is. This is his punishment, his penitence, for thinking he could play god. He had been warned to choose wisely, and under the pretence of wisdom, he has failed. Worse still, he had celebrated, gloated, taken pleasure in his sacrifice.
“Oh, god,” Brother Philip moans, or thinks he moans, he can’t hear himself speak. It doesn’t matter now, the blasphemy, for he is already condemned. He has failed. He has killed them all.
He stumbles, and Brother Simon catches him. “Don’t you see, Brother Philip,” he asks, shaking him, but it’s no good, Philip cannot focus on the words, “we are the same, you and I,” his voice roars and roars but roars as if it echoes from a distance, from the top of a white cliff somewhere in a long-forgotten land, “we feel, Philip, we know what emotion is, sympathy, empathy,” but Philip only has thoughts for himself, his own pain. “I need to do something,” Simon whispers to him, his voice like a rope dangling in the darkness: shall he save himself, or tie it round his neck and swing free? “Something I should have done a long time ago.” Philip cannot focus – the world spins, everything is upside down. The abused boy’s face throws him off balance, the form keeps changing, mutating, metamorphosing. He cannot see. His mouth bubbles with froth, it is the bittersweet taste of blood. He hates it. He loses his balance, suddenly, the support beneath him, whatever it was, suddenly disappearing. He tumbles to the floor, writhing in agony. His mind burns with fever, incinerating every memory, every dream and hope he once had, leaving him with a head full of cinders. It is unbearable – he cannot bear it.
And all the while, he thinks: Brother Francisco was not a virgin, Brother Francisco was not a virgin, over and over and over like a mantra.
The High Elder is going to die, he thinks, and the thought is like a shot of adrenaline pumped into his veins. He is suddenly at the foot of the stairwell – how did he climb down? Which way is the hospital? This way, he’s sure, the way the rats are all running, millions and millions all heading in the same direction. Pestilence has taken notice of him now, he is sure, it is galloping towards him – there! Can you hear its hoof beats? He has no time, no time at all.
A group of people rush past, carrying something light and airy between them on a stretcher. It is the High Elder. He notices this somewhat calmly before beginning to crawl along after them, he is on the ground now, crawling along like a weak baby. Get up! Run! The horse is catching up! His knife is thrilled – only, his knife is no longer on his person. Where did he put it? Someone has taken it, someone is going to kill the High Elder, the High Elder is going to die. He scurries along, on his feet, digging deep within his recesses, within his blood, for any human strength he has left. There is some, he is shocked to discover, but it is a dwindling supply.
The doctors are leading him to the High Elder’s tower, he can recognise that much at least. They must be quarantining him, separating him from the rest to ensure his survival. Maybe he can still save him if he gets there in time.
Up rises the staircase, down falls the Brother. He is weak, so very weak – the plague is having its way with him, abusing him like Francisco did to those poor children. How could a man so kind be so evil? But he is so close now, so very close, his master is waiting for him at the top of the stairs, he is so close. A mist descends, incense thick and strangling: his vision impairs as he moves, as if with each moment that passes his body is aging a year instead of a second. He is a crone before he knows it, a spinster, a future corpse. He staggers up the staircase, still alive, just about.
The staircase spins and spins and spins, spiralling up, up, up, and he climbs and climbs and climbs, like Jack and his beanstalk – wait there, golden goose! Brother Philip ascends to the heavens, striving harder than ever before to break free of the confines of the tower, to reach the top and protect everything he holds dear in his heart – it is the least he can do, after all. The white horse scrambles after him, rats scratching the stone in their eagerness to pursue, but the passage is narrow, and it is struggling. He has time – he is going to make it.
Brother Philip bursts through the doors, heroic in tableau, before sprawling to the ground. At the top of the tower it is hard to see – the incense billows like smoke – but Philip discerns a shape in the darkness, moving slowly before him. The fog clears for an instant; clarity blesses Philip in his last moments.
The High Elder sits still. His head lolls. There is a man, a Brother, standing over him. The man is carrying a knife, notes the plagued augur. His knife. How did he get it? He wonders absentmindedly, the soothing balm of death already massaging his mind into submission. I wonder.
But still, even still, he cannot see the assassin’s face. It is not fair: at the last, after all he has been through, he cannot even see the visage of the one who bested him. He wants to cry, but he smiles. His struggle is over now.
Philip’s head slumps to the floor. Blood, that great gift of god, trickles onto the floor. If Pestilence was not towering above him, it could almost look like he is sleeping.
*****
Brother Philip wakes up. It is hard to know how long he has been working – it could be hours, it could be days, for all he knows. Fluids drench his body: sweat, tears, sacred blood, both his and the ox calf’s lying in front of him. Poor thing – it has been desecrated by his hands, torn apart and reshaped into something new, something hideous. Nothing deserves a fate as horrific as that. Nothing.
He has been thinking for a long, long time now. The sacrifice ended what feels like years ago, and ever since the carcass was brought up to his study, where he now resides, he has been pushing himself to his limit, testing possibility after possibility, seeing how each choice plays out, how every consequence ends. His power flickers and dwindles, like a candle whose wick drowns in too much wax. He warned himself to be brutal, harsh, to make a decision and see it through to its bitter end, but Philip is not so impulsive. Nor is he so brave. He is yet to make a decision.
He has routinely investigated every possible scenario, using different organs and tissues from the ox to inspire his power into action. Every Brother has been accounted for. Every situation has ended poorly, with the death of the High Elder inescapable in each: if he chooses Francisco, though he knows now he certainly deserves it, the monastery is conquered by plague; if he chooses Brother Dylan, Philip develops a murderous streak, and kills the High Elder himself; with Brother Taylor, the High Elder is eventually trapped in a furnace, and the whole monastery burns to the ground. Peter – an invasive slaughter by the natives; Henry – drought; Brother Murphy – famine. And even if nothing as spectacular as this happens, the High Elder is resolutely murdered each time, always by the anonymous bandit in the brown gown, wielding Philip’s own knife against his own master. Time and time again, he has watched himself fail. It is torture, going through these hypotheticals, over and over again, as if someone is peeling him down layer by layer until there is nothing left, nothing left at all.
At first, Philip was bemused as to why these sacrifices were not working – the lord was refusing his offerings, so something must have been going wrong – but it had occurred to him a few hours in. Over the course of his prophesies, he had garnered that most, if not all, of the other brothers had somehow lost that integral piece of god-granted purity which he retains – he had grossly overestimated the number of virgins among his Brethren. Most hire prostitutes for the night, but others have wives, partners, girlfriends, husbands, even, punishable by death; some, a very scant few, like Brother George, who faints at the sight of blood, use their mothers, daughters, nieces; others like Francisco, little boys. The Brotherhood forms everything he stands for. Does it follow that he stands for these sins?
Brother Philip is in turmoil. What he used to know, he now cannot bring himself to recall. The world is bleak, monstrous, beautiful in the sunlight and wicked in the shadows. As he sits, pondering his life and the choices he has made and will make, he sinks down into those shadows, deep, so deep the light, so, so far away now, disappears from sight, like a star winking out in the night sky. He feels detached – he feels nothing – he feels sorry for himself – he feels tired. What is there to do?
One thing, however, remains unchanged: his love for god, for the High Elder, thrums through him like a flash of sharp gold. He would do anything to protect them – and does.
Though his Brothers are tainted, one and all, he himself is clean, he has never debased himself in the eyes of heaven. He is a virgin, still, and he will die a virgin.
Without grace or dignity, the ox carcass slides when it is pushed, a good corpse, following instructions without complaint. Philip slides into place on the basin. He is mildly surprised – the ceramic is oddly comfortable, warm, the curving sides reaching around him in an embrace. He smiles. He cries.
Did Brother Martin feel this way, when he died? Had he known what Philip knew now? Had they all, the whole roster of augurs before him which had always pressured him so? Now they all placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. You are one of us – join us. Philip wonders what his entrails will show, what indistinct, ambiguous future his spleen will bring. It is a question to which the answer will always be silence.
Up swings the arm. The knife, his knife, cold and cruel, falls. His ribs accommodate it snugly. Blood spurts, and Philip smiles. His life is finally free, jetting out of him in crimson fountains. It is beautiful. He is beautiful when he dies.
*****
Some time has passed. The room is quiet – even the dripping of blood has hushed to a gentle trickle, as if respecting the funerary quiet of the study. Brother Philip lies motionless, smiling, atop the basin.
Brother Simon tries to say something, to break this intolerable tranquillity, but he cannot. No words can summarise how he feels. This man, though they had never really spoken, had seemed to him like a kindred spirit – kind, with an energy about him that made him likeable. That energy has discharged itself through the gaping hole in his chest. Standing there deep in his heart, proud, arrogant, is his knife, gold and glorious and wet with triumph. It has seized one more, its profound malignity claiming yet another life. It is sad, Simon thinks. He did not need to die.
Although, he is sure he had his reasons. The likelihood was, he postulates grimly, that this Brother was treated exactly the same way as he had been when he was a child. He knows he is not a random occurrence – he is simply one of many, the neglected victim of a systemised crime. He is numb to that now, though – the past separates him from himself like a membrane of flesh. He moves on. There is work to be done.
He steps over the calf on the floor and plucks the knife from the augur’s chest, not bothering to wipe it dry. Philip’s robes are drenched in blood, now more red than brown, but the sight does not bother Simon. The butcher has been butchered. What a shame.
It is a simple task he must perform. The hydra of the monastery has many heads, but all one needs to do is sever the central, crowned head and the beast will die. So Simon walks, knife in hand, along the walkways; he travels through the cloisters, wondering at their engraved beauty; he climbs the spiral staircase, up, up, up to the top. He opens the door. The man inside does not notice. The knife is happy to oblige when it is jabbed into the man’s neck. He slumps. They make a good pairing, this Brother and his knife. He likes it. Brother Simon walks away, and the High Elder bleeds until he is dry.
