Journal of Nathaniel Faust, Master Supreme of Mystics
2 May 20–
Some people are terrible. The worst are those who create generations of pain by passing it on to their replacements, who inflict it without even understanding why. I hope it’s true that he keeps a special place for them. What manner of punishment awaits those who would harm an angel?
I awoke to the scent of piss, accompanied by an unpleasant semi-warm dampness from my waist to my knees. “Damn,” I blurted, before my head fully cleared of the not-so-warm-not-so-fuzzy feeling of getting pulled out of dreamland. Less than a heartbeat later, I instinctively clenched my right fist, anticipating the waves of fire that usually follow that sort of sentiment. Only, this time, my hand was quite cool, almost like…
I looked down. The burned star was peeking up at me from under a bowl full of blessed water.
“Oh, right,” I yawned, “I suppose the water worked,” I gently patted my lower body with my dry hand, then again, maybe it’s better to wake up to a bit of pain than to… this. I padded off from the sitting room to find my bedroom, or, failing that, a bathroom. The house led me to an old servants room that didn’t look at all familiar, but that hardly mattered so long it had running water and towels in the adjoining washroom.
Feeling refreshed after… cleaning up after refreshing myself, I wrapped my lower regions in a towel skirt and set off to find my bedroom. The servants’ room was somewhere on the second floor, I think. It took three staircases, two dead-ends and a detour through the sun room to find my way. The house spirits feel lonely (that, and it’s hard to navigate when you’re barely awake). I changed into some new clothes and pulled on that trenchcoat I found in the attic the other day. It smelled vaguely of mothballs and lavender, but anything is preferable to pee-soaked cotton slacks. I sat on the corner of my bed, trying to remember what I’d been dreaming about. It felt familiar, like an old fairy tale, but I couldn’t help but shake the idea that it’d been important somehow. I decided to try a reflection mist spell, which would hopefully let me get on with my… midafternoon.
I chanted the spell to summon forth the mists from the rainbow-filled world of Phiroce, commanding them to show me the dream. The brilliant hues of the otherworldly fog began to coalesce into images, though, unfortunately, they couldn’t reproduce sound:
A princess lay in a dark dungeon, wearing tattered rags and crying herself to sleep. A group of monks, or perhaps priests, were holding a midnight prayer above her. Then, the senior clergyman dragged the girl into the chamber, and the praying men seemed to become possessed of a manic energy. They descended upon her, and the candles flickered out, and, along with them, the mist dissipated back into the aether.
I could remember the screams that rang out in the darkness. Maybe that was why I’d woken up when I had.
Granted, I had always been the sort to read/watch fairy tales, especially the “storm the castle,” happily-ever-after, magic, revenge, sword fights, true love, etc. kind, but this felt too real to ignore. I had to find her—I was certain of it. I just had no idea where to start.
I briefly considered trying the mists again, but they would be more muddled and quicker to dissipate a second time. Better to try something new. I could try to search for missing princesses? Nah, not even sure if she was a princess; could be some everyday run-of-the-mill damsel in distress. Maybe look for weird, cult-y religious orders? That wouldn’t narrow it down at all… If only Master hadn’t—no, mustn’t think like that. He left you in charge Nathaniel, the Supreme’s amulet is not just—of course! The Supreme’s amulet!
I patted my pockets in search of the talisman before realizing that it would probably be in the fresh laundry from last night. Yuck. I gave it a thorough rinse in the frigid Waters of Cleansing Calm before opening its lens.
“Oh mystic medallion of infinite intuition, show me the prison whose likeness I envision!” The not-so-creative half rhyme was good enough to get the message across; the molded eyelids parted to show a small, dark abbey on a coastal cliffside. While I watched, lightning streaked across the sky and rain poured down so heavily it made the cliff indistinguishable from the sea (at least, it looked like the sea).
“That can’t possibly be a real place,” I shook the relic, hoping for something more realistic, preferably within walking distance or a short bus ride at most. The old-timey cartoon backdrop didn’t change, though the storm reflected in the tiny image seemed to grow even more violent. Now I just had to match that with an actual place.
I hurried to the library and grabbed H. B. E. Cooper’s British Cliffs, volumes X-XXXVII, and John of York’s Places that Were Not Destroyed by Vikings (so I assumed the rainy cliff with an old abbey was British. Sue me). It took a couple hours (Oxford graduates just love to drone on and on), but I found a likely candidate buried in a sidebar in John’s 68th chapter:
Situated on the peripheral isle of Róimh, the Abbey of Everlasting Reclusion was very nearly attacked from the nearby Kingdom of Dublin, though each time the Viking kings set upon its conquest, they found themselves swallowed by the Earth itself, never to be seen or heard from again. Its order is rumored to produce a very fine golden thread, as well as a small quantity of distilled spirit that supposedly grants heavenly powers.
The illustration was almost exactly the same as the vision in my medallion, but with more of a “here be dragons” vibe (mostly due to the fact that the seas next to the cliffside were filled with dragons). Unfortunately, when I went to consult the globe, there was no such island, anywhere near Ireland or Britain; I would have to ask for directions.
To keep off the rain, I grabbed a wide-brimmed hat off a peg near the door to the library that I swear I’ve never seen before, and opened a portal to the heart of Dublin. Fortunately, I was not immediately interrupted by those stuffed-shirts at the Resolute Sect, and I wandered over to a pub on the corner, MacGuiness’. It was unfortunately closed, they apparently don’t stay out all night drinking in Ireland, I learned. I set off down the street, hoping someone would have, maybe, a 24-hour convenience store, or something. I was grateful for the trench, which, though it had likely lost its belt (if it ever had one) decades before I was born, still kept the slight drizzle off my clothes. Between that and the hat, I must’ve looked like any two-bit gangster from an old movie.
I literally stumbled upon an open Sainsbury’s, rolling my ankle slightly on the black mat in front of the doors. It didn’t hurt (much) when I tentatively took another step. You’re fine, it’s fine,everything’s fine, I repeated the family mantra for minor inconveniences as I made my way into the store. I slowly made a beeline for the energy drinks—the EU has that special Rose-Orange flavored Blue Goat that’s so expensive to get at an import shop—and was perusing the selection of candy bars when the lone staff member came over.
“Are ya okay there? Tha looked like a terrible fall, d’you want a gel splint?” the middle-aged woman offered a Stiff Sock! (as seen on tv!). I wasn’t sure if it was offered as a “don’t sue us” bribe, a sales tactic, or if she was just being honestly nice.
“Thanks,” I accepted the splint and picked out a plain KazooQ (mint or caramel would’ve been terrible with the Blue Goat). If my accent was a surprise, her face didn’t show it. Maybe random Americans in gangster cosplays often stumbled in at night. When I paid for the stuff, it turned out the gel splint was free, she directed me to a bench hidden away in the hallway that led to the loading dock.
“Never heard of it,” she answered when I asked about the Abbey or the isle it was supposedly on, “wouldn’a recommend goin’ out lookin’ for it, either. Not exactly a safe time for pleasure cruisin’.”
“Do you know anyone who might know anything?” I was on my second energy drink and whatever soreness my ankle had had had disappeared. The clerk sat there thinking for a while as I finished up can number 3 and the rest of the chocolate. “It’s ok if you don’t,” I stood up to leave.
“If ye’re sure,” she called after me, “my ex-husband’s a ferryman. Always bragged about how ‘e could sail from here to Liverpool with ‘is eyes closed and twelve pints burning through his ulcer.”
“Would he be up this late?” I asked, my hand resting on the door without pushing.
“It’s the second, yeah?” she handed me a very crumpled business card, “E’ll be at the office watching the rerun of the match today, if ‘es not dead.”
I thanked her for the splint and the information, and walked out into the cold, dark night. It wasn’t until I was a block away that I realized I had no idea where the “Salt Runner Ferry” dock printed on the card was, though I figured it was probably near the sea. I headed the opposite direction of the moon until I caught sight of it: an undulating reflection of the inky sky.
I still had no idea where I was going, and now I couldn’t remember how to get back to the store. Huh. Maybe there was… one of them nearby. One who could give me directions in exchange for leniency. Worth a shot.
I rubbed my palms together and chanted the Ritual of Solomon. The mark tingled a bit, and my arm felt as though it had detached from the hand, and was floating into the roiling waters of the Irish Sea.
“You called, my lord?” a voice gently murmured as a shadowy figure appeared in the corner of my eye.
“Daemon Inferni Infiniti, Te Cogo,” I commanded, my hand growing blisteringly hot, “tell me how to get to ‘Salt Runner Ferry’ dock!”
The voice cackled, “is that all, my quite simple lord? Do you truly have no more,” it paused, “desires?”
“None that concern you, now comply or be returned to the Pit,” I thrust my burning hand into the shadow’s torso, solidifying the ritual. While I could have asked it where the island was, it would be better to leave that level of detail until I was desperate.
“It’s the fourth dock on your right, my imbecilic lord,” the fiend hissed, before dissipating into the night, its contract fulfilled. I could swear I still heard it cackling a bit in the wind, though. I muttered a curse on its entire tribe (unless it’s from a clan? Maybe a village?) and walked the twenty-ish feet to the dock. A large sign on the door said “Salt Runner Ferry – Open All Hours,” then, in larger, underlined print, “No English Need Apply.” I knocked.
No answer.
I banged on the door.
Still nothing.
I tried the handle.
Locked.
Well ok then, I used a quick veil of impermanence to walk into what was possibly the dirtiest waiting room/ticketing office I’ve ever seen. And I live in NYC. There were muddy, salt-crusted boot prints everywhere, including the walls (and even on the ceiling), chairs haphazardly strewn about the space with no intelligible pattern, and no fewer than five overflowing garbage cans with what looked like the beginnings of rat nests in three of them. From the back room came a roaring sound that would be perfectly at home in the Caverns of Torment and Victory beneath the lower training areas in the Shadow of Old Constantinople. Ugh… football. “Hello?” I yelled towards the door, “I’m looking for a boat to charter?” When that got no response, I raised my voice to its limit and added: “I’ll pay however much you want!”
The roaring abruptly stopped, followed by a small crashing sound and a smaller muttered voice. The door was thrown open by a red-faced man whose hair was so oily it was hard to tell if it was red, blond, or brown. He was wearing a pair of work pants and a ratty old sweater that inspired so little confidence I almost walked right back out the door.
“Apologies, sir, where might you be headed?” he spoke in such a posh accent I nearly didn’t register what he was saying. “Liverpool, perhaps? That is the general port for Engl-”
“I need to get to the Isle of Róimh, please,” I interrupted, “Tonight if possible.”
“Oh. I see,” if the ferryman was at all surprised by this request, he didn’t give any indication, “I am afraid that route may be a smidge difficult this time of night. Is there any-”
“Nope, I need to get there as fast as possible.” He wavered a bit, but when I offered double the usual amount (whatever that was) he seemed to concede any of his doubts to the businessman side of his mind.
“Of course, sir. Will you also be requiring a return ticket?” He asked as he typed a string of words into the ticketing computer. Again, my answer that I shouldn’t need one did not seem to be at all surprising, garnering little more than a “very well” and a request for whatever type of payment I had that amounted to €4,782.37. Good thing credit card companies offer flexible payment options. Ticket in hand, I followed the gentlemanly sailor out to the docked ferry.
“It will likely be quite rough out there, I suggest remaining in the interior deck,” he pointed down the staircase opposite the one he was climbing. I asked if I could just stay with him in the wheelhouse.
“If you so wish,” he sighed as I followed him up the padded steps, “though I must insist that, in the interest of your health, you must take care not to look out at the sea.”
“I don’t get seasick.”
“There are other… issues that may arise as a result of these particular waters than might be resolved from returning to dry land,” he cautioned, his tone ominously reminiscent of Master’s whenever we traveled between realms.
The engine sputtered to life like a fish in a bucket: violently and with great likelihood of dying again. We pulled away from the pier, and the waves changed almost immediately to swells, rocking even our large ferry.
“So…” I tried to break the silence, “you don’t—” “I was educated at Oxford,” he cut me off.
“And now you steer a boat for a living?”
“It pays the bills. Are you looking to…” he paused, “become one of them? Or just a visitor?”
Caught off guard, I said something about looking for something, which seemed to make perfect sense to him. We sailed onward through the squall in silence, really only speaking when there was, for instance, an especially loud crash of thunder. I had to promise to double the already considerable fare in order to keep from turning back and waiting until morning. The sea was all foam and ink, staining the deck as we forged onwards.
All of a sudden, a sound echoed around us, quieter, yet more haunting than the loudest wailing of the wind. At the next lightning flash, I just barely caught sight of a shadowy thing as it dipped under the roiling water. I recalled the illustration in John of York’s book.
“Dragons,” I breathed, awestruck.
“Your eyes must be playing with you!” my companion laughed off my comment with forced humor, though it was impossible to miss the way his face went from its usual ruddy shade to a papery white.
I dashed out to the deck so quickly I was already slipping on the rain-sodden stairs by the time his shouting “wait!” caught up to me. Another flash revealed the massive dark form in the waves just off the side of the ferry. It was a sea dragon of titanic proportions: the head alone made our vessel look like a single cube of sugar next to a wedding cake. The tail was probably long enough to span the entire Irish Sea if it wanted to.
My admiration of the creature was only broken by the crackle of the ferry’s PA system, “get back inside, please, I must insist. These are… not safe conditions to be outside in.”
The voice seemed to catch the dragon’s attention, and it let out another of its baleful cries as a wave came over the side to soak me to my very core in its briny coldness. I stood there, chittering for what felt like forever. The PA might have made a few more entreaties for me to “come back in out of the wet,” but I took no heed of them. Finally, when a dim light began to issue from the horizon and I could make out the fuzzy edges of land, the beast gave its most mournful noise yet, and rose briefly from the waves to change direction. Its black and green scales, each of which easily the size of my block back home, faintly shimmered, reflecting what I now saw was the beacon from a lighthouse. When it reached the apex of its flight, its massive head slightly above the water, a great blue eye, the color of lightning crossed with cotton candy, opened, and seemed to focus on me! As it hung there in space, I could feel that it was asking me for something, saying that I was its last hope.
“I will,” I vowed, though I didn’t know what it was I was swearing to. It seemed, somehow, that the beast had heard my small voice in the cacophony of the storm, for, the instant after I assented, it threw itself back into the waves, somehow leaving scarcely a ripple or mat of foam to show that it had ever existed at all. I climbed the slick metal stairs back up to the wheelhouse, having long since lost notice of my soaked clothes.
“Are you quite fine?” the captain asked as I plopped down on a chair near the heater vent. “Did you see it?” was my only response, “true magic…” I trailed off, the cold mingling with my exhaustion to send me into a half-dozing stupor. I have no idea what the captain answered, though some vague impression I can remember through my hazy state of consciousness makes me think he denied seeing anything besides a whale.
Less than an hour must have passed from then until I was roused, the captain telling me we had reached our destination. I recognized the beam of the lighthouse that had appeared to show me the majestic being shining on the precipice of the rocky island. We followed the beacon to an incredibly tiny dock situated at the foot of a massive cliff.
“You are certain you will not be needing my services on a return voyage?” the captain inquired with an air of someone who knows what the answer will be, but still has to ask the question. I thanked him, but declined his offer, giving him the last of my money as a tip (good thing pounds are waterproof).
“Very well, brother,” was the last thing he ever said to me as I made my way down the pedestrian gangplank. As soon as I set foot on the dock, the boat pulled away, as though he were terrified to even stay a single moment longer. I turned my back on the sea, peering up at the imposing wall of stone.
The only apparent means of ascent was a set of soggy, half rotted swooped staircases that nearly collapsed under my weight. One or two steps actually shattered during my climb, and several gaps showed that it wasn’t the first time those steps had failed their passenger. I resolved not to look down, for fear of seeing my fate, should I fall, reflected in the aspect of some unfortunate predecessor of mine.
As I neared the top, the storm grew altogether more violent, throwing the hat from my head into the sea, like nature itself was telling me to turn back. I was nearly swimming in the horizontal sheets of rain by the time I reached the summit. Now that I’d made it, I could tell that the “lighthouse” was little more than a covered lamp, not ten feet above my head. Besides it, and the staircase, there was only one structure that indicated that any semblance of human presence had ever even existed on the island. A large stone gothic structure stood in the center of the plateau, the cross above its doorway proclaiming it to be a church of some kind. I shambled wetly across the muddy ground to knock on the solid oak door. The heavy iron ring made a hollow, echoing noise that seemed to absorb the very thunder from the surrounding maelstrom.
Within moments, the great gate swung open with nary a creak. A figure of average height wrapped in a grey woolen cloak stood just inside the dimly lit entryway, holding a small, mostly burned out candle.
“Hello,” I said in Gaeilge, “would this happen to be the ‘Abbey of Everlasting Reclusion,’ by any chance?”
The figure nodded by way of answer, and shuffled noiselessly away from the portal, beckoning me inside. Lacking the telltale feeling of a place of death, I judged that I could safely enter the abbey. I clenched my hand to prepare for the usual burning that accompanied my entering hallowed spaces. Nothing happened; my first definitive clue that something was wrong here. All the same, I resolved not to use magic until I had found definitive proof of what I sought, or was in immense peril. I was fewer than four feet past the door when a great resounding clang rang out from the bell tower. Four rings followed in measured succession.
“Dawn must be soon,” I thought aloud. I could have sworn my host chuckled at that, but a peal of thunder made it hard to tell. I was led down a dark hallway, the candlelight hardly reaching the barely two-man-wide walkway. I pulled out my eternal flame lighter, but it barely added anything besides a slightly better view of the oppressive stonework ceiling. We came to a stop at an ornately decorated doorframe, and my guide ushered me into the gloomy space beyond, before quitting my presence rather hastily.
This new chamber was much less oppressive than the passageway, at least, with a window showing the multitude of streaking lights that broke through the riot of the storm. A couple bookshelves that lined the walls could be seen whenever there was a flash, along with what appeared to be a massive, hand bound bible, that sat, covered in dust, on a little table in the corner. The center of the space was taken up by a desk, whose occupant sat, poring over a collection of papers by the light of a silver candelabra. I stood in uncomfortable silence before him for a long while before clearing my throat.
“Ah! A new brother,” the old man said in English-accented Latin, seemingly taken aback by my presence. He gestured for me to sit across from him, but I objected, confessing that I didn’t want to get the furniture wet, which he seemed to believe.
“I’m here for—”
“You wish to partake of our… mysteries,” he interrupted, “like the others.”
I could only agree. “I hope I’m not too late.”
At this, the aged monk laughed and reassured me that I would be able to “partake at dawn,” he then asked why I seemed so on edge, having made it to “refuge.”
“I suppose I’m still a bit shaken from the storm,” I lied, feigning exhaustion (as though it were hard).
He nodded, and replied, “don’t worry, our little rite will have you feeling better than ever in your life.”
I couldn’t tell him that the real reason was that his skeleton was plainly visible under his ghastly white skin. Every flash of lightning showed the abbot as a true demon.
After giving a reassurance that I wasn’t to worry about waking up before sunset the old monk dismissed me with a smile that showed nothing but rotten brown gums. The grey-hooded doorkeeper was waiting for me, and ushered me down so many passageways and stairwells that I felt we had certainly descended beneath the bottom of the ocean. At this depth, the candlelight only reached to the bottom of the candleholder. I could only pray that the floor stayed even and bare of any obstacles. After a length of time that might have been anywhere between several hours or just a minute, my flickering guide halted. Just barely visible in the gloom was a wooden door that barely reached my chest.
“Is this to be my chamber?” I asked. My only response was a slight bobbing of the dying flame. I pushed-crawled my way through the doorway to find a cell so tiny and so bare that my small lighter was able to illuminate all of it: in the middle of the space there was a small mat of what seemed to be wool, which might have fit whoever would be able to comfortably use the door, and a small chamber pot that smelled like it hadn’t been emptied since the monastery had been new. There wasn’t even enough headroom to kneel, much less stand, and I could touch all of the walls easily from the middle of the room. I was about to crawl back out and just sleep in the corridor when I heard the unmistakable sound of a lock being turned behind me. It seemed that this cell was to be my prison, for the time being.
While my eternal flame was useful in that it only burned what I wished it to, meaning I could have spent my time reading further into the Book of the Eternal Wanderer, but my surroundings were so drab that I decided to heed the wishes of my host and attempt sleep. The rug proved too itchy and small to provide much comfort, so I wrapped the trenchcoat as snuggly around me as possible and curled into a fetal position, glad I had decided to grab the old thing from the attic. It had proven to save me from discomfort twice already.
I cannot say whether I fell asleep at any point during the night (day?). A few times I could’ve sworn I heard a small noise, almost like a sobbing child from a block away. My mind managed to convince itself that it was just a rat somewhere, and resumed my doomed attempts at unconsciousness. Maybe I should start putting some herbs and whatnot in the coat’s interior pockets.
Eventually, my thoughts turned to the dragon I’d passed in the sea. What had it wanted? It was evidently vastly powerful, able to appear and disappear so easily, without so much as rocking the boat. Maybe it had caused the storm? It was on this idea I was turning around in my head when I heard the scratching squeak of the lock and door, and smelled the musty, refreshing air of the passageway. Upon crawling out of the cramped space, my eyes were assaulted by what seemed to be blinding lights.
“Pleasant dreams, brother?” the abbot himself had come to fetch me, carrying his large candelabra, which was capable of lighting the surrounding gloom for quite a distance. “As pleasant as any I have had for the past year,” I assured him. He led me onward, towards the opposite side of the corridor to where I remembered entering.
“I trust you are prepared for our rites,” it didn’t sound like a question, but I responded all the same.
“Absolutely.”
We climbed down yet another flight of stairs to a hallway filled with lit lanterns every three steps. About halfway through the passage, the left side had another small staircase leading downwards into an even gloomier darkness than my cell had been. The old man muttered something in what might have been German, but definitely had the appreciative croak of a supervisor pleased with his underlings. Either way, he pretended not to understand when I asked about it. We came to an oddly modern-looking (compared to the rest of the building) elevator, and rode it upwards until we reached the floor where I had first come into the monastery. The old masonry was illuminated by what seemed to be the last red-colored embers of twilight. Instead of returning towards the entrance, we made our way to the chapel in the center of the complex.
The ceiling here reached up about as high as any church I’d ever seen. It looked very regular for a gothic-style chapel, but the effect was marred slightly by the fact that the great stained glass window behind the altar was nearly completely shattered onto the floor. One could have assumed that lightning had struck it the night before, had it not been covered in dust, and lacking any visible burn marks. A cluster of robed figures like my guide the previous night stood in silent prayer in a nearly complete circle around a baptismal font, from which bubbled a small trickle of clear water. It lacked the scent of consecration that Father Jeremiah’s had, however. It was mere water.
The abbot barked something in that language he’d been muttering, which in a loud voice sounded much more like a Celtic language than it had earlier, though it was neither Gaeilge nor Cymraeg, and I was only able to understand something about “now” (though that might have been a hallucination caused by his tone). Two of the figures shuffled off and began fussing with a large trunk set under the altar.
“You are fortunate, brother,” the abbot said to me in his Latin, “we could not have prayed to Him for a greater evening,” when he had mentioned “Him” all the figures beat their hands against their breasts. This was evidently their god. I made what I hoped were reverent enough overtures of excitement, and was, in turn, shrouded in one of the grey cloaks. The fabric was immeasurably soft, as though it had been worn for centuries, yet smelled of blood and, oddly, a forest. I assumed one of the open spaces in the circle and tried to mimic whatever actions the others did, which involved a lot of shuffling side to side, as well as an unintelligible chant that sounded like “mmmmogrd higonnn aessss dooooo.”
As the last rays of scarlet fully disappeared, a slight yelp rang out from the two by the altar, and the rest of us seemed to take that as a sign of the climax of our ritual. We sang a long note until the chapel was filled with darkness. The two then rejoined the circle on opposite sides, and we held hands as a group. I could feel a slight rush of power from the circuit, but it was not enough to stir any particular memories of mystical objects or entities. After the first star became visible through the open hole where the window should have been, we broke, and I was led back to my cell for another night. At least this time I had the cozy wool robe as a second blanket.
Several days and nights passed in this manner. I found that I had ceased to be hungry, thirsty, or tired, somehow managing to get all that my body needed from whatever the ritual did. I spent my nights scouring the Book of the Eternal Wanderer for similar cults, but found nothing save a particular solstice ritual practiced by a certain tribe of faeries.
After what I took to be a week, my room was not locked behind me. Whether this was a sign that I had been formally taken into the cult, or a mere slip up on the part of my guide, I immediately took advantage of the opportunity, and stole out after a count of two hundred. Fortunately, the passageways were all straight—I had merely to feel my way until I came to the stair. I shuffled down until I came to the well-lit passage. I nearly walked around the corner when I heard the abbot in that language again, seemingly chastising another monk about something. Fortunately they left via the elevator, and I was able to see what they had been talking about. The corridor had nothing except the stairs I had descended, the elevator opposite, and the descending stairs in the middle. Since the abbot had always seemed interested in whatever was down that staircase, I figured that it was in all likelihood the very thing for which I had come.
Unlike when we would pass by at dusk, the lower staircase had a couple lamps keeping it lit, which must have been how the abbot was able to determine whether whatever was being done at the bottom of them had been attended to each day. It was incredibly fortunate that it was illuminated, since the steps were, strangely, carved clockwise for an easier ascent. They had been worn in by many years of use, more so than any part of the rest of the monastery. It was as though these steps predated the rest of the structure, like it was from an older castle that had somehow sunk into the earth. I cautiously descended, drawing my blade in case anyone was at the bottom.
As I wandered deeper into the earth, a fresher, botanical scent began to overtake the mustiness of the old building, and roots began to peek occasionally through the stone. About five steps from the bottom stretched a sort of vine, which, having impossibly come from seemingly nowhere, tripped me up. I fell in a heap against the heavy iron portal, my blade clacking off the steps. The sound was nearly deafening, and I had every expectation of being caught sore buttocksed then and there.
Well, might as well open the door before they throw you in it, I said to myself, pulling to my feet and picking up the blade from where it had fallen. Good thing it hadn’t cut me, that could’ve seriously compromised everything. I resheathed its obsidian edge, still surprised that it hadn’t so much as gotten scratched from the fall, and turned my attention to the solid iron block barring my passage. There was no obvious handle, nor lock. I threw my entire weight against it to no avail, and was looking for a seam somewhere in the stone nearby, in case there was some hidden mechanism, when I heard two things: a repeat of that crying sound that had haunted me in the night, and, more terribly, hushed voices from above. I had to get in immediately.
“Animae conversio,” I consciously shifted my surroundings into their alternate forms, thrusting my owl/bat body through the now soft shrubbery of a door. I muttered the reversion spell as soon as I hit the floor, hoping for any chance that the other monks would either give up or be delayed long enough to find a good hiding spot. Then, I lifted my head, and saw her. The princess from my dream.
“I-it ha-s not been a full d-day yet,” she stammered weakly in almost unintelligibly old Gaeilge, shrinking back against the wall. Sheer terror and pain were written on her face, those enthralling green eyes filled with tears long ago dried up. It was then that I realized she was scared ofme (it was only later that I realized I could somehow see, due to a growth of luminescent fungus growing from the ceiling). I took off my cloak, hoping this would help comfort her, but she stayed against the mossy stones. Not five seconds after I’d removed it did we hear a loud Thunk!! coming from outside.
I had no time to waste trying to calm her down just then, and I turned to face our mutual captors. I started to mutter the Daerk Rytte of Shedoose, which sent my rescuee into even more panicked hysterics, which affected the plants in the room until I was covered in both tendrils of both my own shadowy creation and the plants of hers. The door almost exploded inwards with three monks on the other side. They yelled at me in their language, but I had completed my spell. They hit the ground, bound in their own shadows, which were plentiful, due to the flickering lamps used on the stairs. As my tendrils fell away, I ripped hers off me. They were, fortunately, feeble enough to tear through easily, probably due to lack of sunlight.
“I am not one of them,” I tried to tell her. What I actually said, at least in her version of the tongue was apparently some kind of joke or pun, because she let out a half-hearted chuckle before collapsing. Though I was about ready to faint myself, from the sort of dizzying rush of using two high-level spells in succession after a period of unuse, I forced myself to examine her.
She seemed tiny, though much of that must be because of the state of near complete emaciation. The pallid skin barely covered her bones, making it hard to discern whether she was ten or a hundred. Her hair was black and brittle, evidence of not having been washed or cared for at all in a very long time. She was wrapped in a threadbare shawl-like garment that would obviously have been too cold to wear as pyjamas in a cozy bed, much less one’s only barrier against the dankness of this dungeon. Her breathing was even more ragged than my own; her soul was overtaxed, nearly past the limit. It felt… familiar. Like memories of woods in the summer sun. I wrapped her in my discarded shroud, and must’ve moved her more than I realized, because she started to stir.
“Hi,” I tried to talk in my most soothing, cheerful voice as her green eyes fluttered open. They now looked more like pea soup, than the sunlight-through-ivy that they’d resembled earlier, “I am called Nathaniel, and I will get you out of here.” I’m pretty sure that’s what I said.
Probably. She let out a soft groan and half whispered something.
“Re-l,” was all I could make out, before she started heaving more violently and lost consciousness again. If she was this far gone I was surprised she had had the strength to stand when I’d first entered the cell.
“Ok, uh, Rel,” I promised the comatose prisoner, “I’m gonna get you out of here.”
I was, fortunately, able to stand again without seeing spots, and “Rel” was lighter than a full suitcase, so I managed to climb the staircase without needing too many breaks. Unfortunately, when we made it to the top, we were not alone.
“So, Nathaniel Faust. I was wondering whether the so-called ‘Supreme’ was capable of doing any actual magic,” the abbot coldly chuckled, leveling a wickedly sharp broadsword at my neck, “how would you like your corpse to be fed to our little star-witch, hmmm? I’m sure your meat would sustain her and us for another century or three, at least,” at this, Rel seemed to curl even further inward on herself.
“So,” I gently shifted my rescuee onto my left shoulder and held up my right hand, hoping the hellmark would at least make the old man a little weary, “you speak English,” I pointed out. “Truly, the Supreme is the greatest of all us mortals,” he said flatly, “don’t worry about that little burn there, we reject nobody from this sacred brotherhood; all have their place here.” He lunged, narrowly missing my jugular as I sidestepped. The other monks, now swathed in crimson robes, began their chant as they blocked off both means of escape. The words threw the girl into a sort of sleeping frenzy, where she started wriggling out of my grip. It was all I could do to gently deposit her onto the floor before she fell.
Now unencumbered, I drew my blade and met the abbot’s next attack head-on. He had me beaten in both strength and reach, my only advantage was desperation. Despite their numbers, none of the others interfered in the fight (unless the chanting was meant to do something), and I was more-or-less able to block whenever he swung at me. We both knew I couldn’t last forever, especially after he nicked me a couple times.
Blood. That has magic in it, right? I realized through the haze of adrenaline that was keeping me upright. I switched off to my left hand, smearing some of the blood from a cut on my face into my right. My opponent noticed what I was doing. “Oh, ready to use some magic, then?” he taunted, “so shall I.”
We thrust our hands out at the same instant, energy bursting forth that would generally reduce entire buildings to dust; hellfire on my end and a mass of wood and vines from his. Rel let out an empty gasp and I realized why she must have been suffering, why her spirit felt familiar. She was the source of the ritual. I’d fed, in part, off energy drained from her. The very thought filled me with blinding rage. They had made me into the very thing I detested about Him. I poured what energy I had left into my hand, knowingly allowing my own power to mingle with His. Dark red flames gushed from my palm, reducing the plants, then the man before me, then the chanting figures, all of it to ash.
My next sensation was of sea air and wind. I was crouched in front of the ruins of the monastery, now little more than a few sizzling charred rocks. Rel was lying near the beacon atop the cliff. It was morning, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. My right arm was numb, the mark still blazing with dark red flames. I would need to visit a church and get it doused soon.
I made my way over to the grey wooly heap that was the girl I’d saved. Her breathing seemed steadier, like she was just asleep instead of in a spirit coma, and there was a definite luminescence about her skin now. I wondered who she was, what I should do about her now that she was safe. I couldn’t give her to the Resolute sect, that was for sure. They’d probably stuff her in one of their dimensional prisons as a specimen. I was staring off at the horizon when a familiar cold sensation came over me. My arm had feeling again.
“I’ve always found it lovely, this little island. Shame you had to go and ruin it,” the Devil perched atop the beacon, looking expectantly at me.
“You aren’t meant to come here,” I snarled, holding up my hand, “we have—
“A deal,” He sang in the same ancient Gaeilge that Rel used, “but I would expect that, having saved your life, I am entitled to one of our agreed upon… special favors.”
There was no way to fight back, I didn’t even have the strength left to argue about the terms of our contract. He must have saved us, given me the power required to obliterate the monastery. He saw the look in my eyes.
“Good boy,” He vanished, “I shall send for you once you’ve properly rested. I would give you a way home, but I believe he has that covered.”
Not two seconds after He’d said that, the titanic head of a leviathan dragon erupted from the sea, lowering its snout so that it met with the cliff face. I felt that connection like I’d had on the ferry—was that only a week ago? I felt waves of gratitude bursting from its massive eyes. Eyes which were now the color of ivy that was lit up by sunlight. It let out a musical tone, one that was, unlike before, full of hope and joy. Rel seemed to notice its presence, but stayed asleep, though I could’ve sworn she murmured something about “mama.”
Feeling that He had either sent (unlikely) or predicted what this creature came for, I tenderly cradled the sleeping girl and, after asking permission, stepped cautiously onto the dragon’s snout.
I woke up on my own floor, with a beautiful young woman with piercing green eyes looking down at me from the edge of my bed. “Hello,” she said, in a sweet, melodious voice, “I am called Réalta, it is nice to meet you.”
About the Author
John (Jack) Turcotte is a sophomore from Minnesota majoring in history. He spent most of elementary through high school daydreaming about superheroes, and uses what he remembers for creative writing. The cat’s name is Pumpkin Spice Latte.
Read more on the Honors Blog.
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