Of Men and Monsters

[Blind Justices]

Closed to Vigil

She'd broken from the wolves for the time being. Even Melancholy wasn't sure how it had happened; one moment the wolves sleeping around her in the small hut they shared deep within Concordia, and the next she was alone, running as fast as she could towards the edge of the forest. She'd burst into a field at the break of trees when the waning crescent moon was high above her, encircled by the giddily twinkling of stars. Her legs were scratched, skin torn by nettles and branches. A toe was bleeding where she'd struck it against a rock. Within her breast, her heart was beating a mile a minute, her mind loose and foggy. She was tired, confused and she had to get out of here. She'd disappeared like this before, running until her legs gave in so that she could clear her head of the cobwebs.

Guilt drove her forward, between rows of corn stalks and along dirt roads, rutted with wagon wheels. She found a river and began to follow it, grateful for it's guidance. She'd been living with the clan of wolves that had caused the death of her husband, rendering her a widow before her first wedding night. She ate with them, hunted with them, and most despicably, laughed with them. She'd come for vengeance and instead wrought about her own betrayal. Saturday night blended into Sunday, reminding her of her church lessons and bringing the stigma even more brightly burned into her soul.

With the morning, the fields that followed the river's sway gave way to farmhouses, and eventually the silhouette of a hamlet town in the distance. As the morning sun rose, the light glinted from the stained rosette of the church at the edge of town. The light fog that rose from the river in the summer morning drifted amongst the gravestones lined up beside the church. Reaching up, her hands caught at the Suffering that hung at her throat. Over the red wooden bridge that turned packed earth road to the well tended cobblestones of town, she let herself be carried. Spiddal, as the township's sign declared was just beginning to wake, the smell of bread wafting from somewhere near the fountain that gaily splashed in the silence of the dawn. She stopped just on the other side of the bridge and washed her feet and stinging legs in the river before continuing up the stairs of the church. Taking a deep breath and smiling in sleepy satisfaction, she pushed against the doors and entered.

It had been a long time since she'd prayed.

[Vigil]

The peal of gigantic, mouldering bronze bells that hung from the cathedral's towers broke the silence of an otherwise blue and placid Sunday morning in the village of Spiddal. Villagers who had risen at the crack of dawn finished breakfast with their large families and roused their snoring, worn elders from their beds before leaving their homes for another Sunday mass. It was a ritual that had tailored itself into such a tightly-knit community that all work and manner of labor would stop that day. Shops would close, farmers would swear off their grueling fields in favor of Church, and artisans would rest their tools and various projects for another day. To the people of Spiddal, a Sunday was not only a day of rest, but a day of worship. Religion is an identifying trait in the people of Spiddal which was uncommon in a country whose spirituality was quickly vanishing in most communities who had become awash with grey apathy and nostalgia for a particularly bloody civil war.

Entire families composed of two, sometimes even three, generations left their hovels in their best Sunday clothes. Suits, dresses and all manner of attire were welcomed at the Cathedral of Saint Arbogast, but it thrived mostly on a conservative and traditional appeal. Even those who were stricken with poverty and without business or farm wouldn't have been caught dead without their Sunday clothes. It was especially true because those same villagers who sojourned from all parts of the village to worship would only wear the same clothes they would want to be buried in.

Wives smelled of varying perfumes and bore their various hats and gaudy jewelry that their mothers and their grandmothers had worn before them. Husbands stank of pomade and were pungent with cologne that could curl the hair on one's chest while they dressed in the best of suits and wore only the finest of polished leather shoes. Sons and daughters had been beaten and reprimanded into their own attire as their parents still sought to instill their values and traditions of their ancestry upon their children.

But, no matter the generation or social class, all of the people of Spiddal heeded the din of the Cathedral's bells.

A quarter before nine, the town thrived as the community made their way to the Church at large. Many stopped and waited by the large, ornate fountain that sat betwixt the cathedral and town hall while they waited in line for their turn to enter their church. There was the custom of greetings with either a kiss or a hearty handshake that the villagers met and gossiped while they made their way through the long and twining throngs seeking passage into the Cathedral. Men spoke of work and spoke in jest, even sometimes to their wives protests. Women clucked and struck into the very vein of their town's gossip as those only adept in gab could pierce the veil of rumors and half-truths to the glorious nuggets of stories of sin and squalor that could prove the character assassination of somebody in the village. And children, well, children did as bored and creative youngsters do. Getting in all manner of mischief and fighting with each other over things adults would consider only trivial, they ceased only at the brandishing of the rod and their parent's inclination to use it in public.

The priest who presided over his flock, Father Michael Findlay, was a young and animated man with hair stricken so red that it looked alight with fire. He stood by the entrance of the Church and greeted every worshipper with a blessing and a friendly smile. His monks and nuns took control of a situation laden with social mayhem with practiced ease as they ushered and chided their followers into the cathedral like faithful sheep dogs guiding a flock of sheep, but with good will.

The townspeople eventually received their blessing and crossed the threshold into the darker recesses of the Church where they navigated the labyrinth of hallways to the main chapel where they crossed the river of ornate, red carpet and into the pews whose proximity to the pulpit was determined by social upbringing and welfare in the community. They stirred in silence and glanced at their black and leathered Bibles while sitting as a family waiting to be ordained with God's word.

Stains of paned glass bore illustrations not of saints and people from the Bible but of prominent countrymen and ancestors that had paved the way from a Hellish existence in a war torn and starving country to the salvation of Corone. Soft sunlight trickled through the windows into the cathedral and smote the shadows that clung hungry to gray stone walls, allowing the entire town to bask in another calm and relaxing Sunday.

By the time most of the congregation had been seated, an old man whose reputation preceded him walked into the chapel guided by a long black cane. Much like they would with the priest, the townspeople parted ways and cleared a path for the old man who was dressed like a dandy except instead out of reverence they did it out of intimidation of the stories they had heard of Old Man Duigenan. Though he was beloved and held aloft by the townspeople for his triumphs on the Isle, he was the last of his kind. A protoman who belonged to the first generation of immigrants who endured the tumultuous seas upon crowded ships and the hungry, spiteful provocations of his fellow countrymen to the first footsteps upon the shores of Corone almost forty years ago.

Once a hero and revered as such, Liam Duigenan had lived too long on his own, especially with his own demons, and had become tired and especially bitter. His morals and character came from days long forgotten and he managed to outlive all of those who would recognize and share his desire to preserve the old ways that many of their children thought to border upon barbarism.

So it was that the last of the original founders of Spiddal walked down the red carpet and took his proper seat at the front of the pews and next to the pulpit that sat empty save himself, for none could seem to measure to the prestige Duigenan seemed to carry. As it so happened, as the old man took his seat, Father Findlay took his place at the pulpit while the monks respectfully closed the great wooden doors that barred the shrine from the outside world. As he did, the entire town of Spiddal stood and with a deep, boisterous voice the priest began to lead his congregation in their first prayer.

Outside, as the clocktower struck nine, the town was silent and not a soul stirred as every house and establishment that called itself a member of Spiddal hung empty. Sunday Mass had begun.

[Blind Justices]

A feeling of relief had washed over her when she entered the church. When she’d opened the doors, bringing with her the sunlight and the heaviness of her midnight escape the church had been as quiet as the just rising town had been. A sleepy silence pulled her in, and was shortly broken by the scuffling of her footsteps upon the stone corridor and the muffled chanting of the priest ahead. Preparations for Sunday Mass had begun, and for a moment Mela felt guilty for having imposed upon the cathedral. She was unclean, in more ways than she cared to remind herself. However, there was no denying that once she’d followed the hallway down towards the pulpit that it felt as if she were emerging from a dark and stifling cave. The closer she got to the warm glow of the stained glass windows, the more she felt as if a great weight had been taken from her. She found her release in religion, and it was a smiling face that finally greeted Father Findlay.

He had taken her into the confessional booth, the darkness terrifying for a moment until she heard the scrape of wood and his kind voice asking for her sins. Even in this place where she felt so free, she could not tell the entire truth. She told him her lies, her bitter vengeance, and how she turned her back on her family. Leaving out mention of her disease or the murders she’d committed in the form of the beast, it had been a short conversation and one that left her unsatisfied. Mass soon to begin, Father Findlay left her in the confessional to say her prayers and take her repentance.

Somewhere between the rosary and the sound of an entire town’s voices lifting in hymnal song, she’d drifted to sleep. With a jerk, she stood in the booth, reverberating with the echo of the basal organ tones and hundreds of voices assaulting the air. It took a moment to remember where she was and how she’d gotten there. Her hand moved in front of her and fumbling with the latch on the door, she emerged from the confessional booth to the sight of pews filled with families. The light was blinding, and raising her hand to block the shine that came from the stained glass above, she blinked sleepily at the crowd. Some of the congregation paused in song, and looked over towards her. Their eyes were upon her, curious and confused and full of judgment. They wore simple finery, tailored clothes and jewelry. The men had removed their hats, though the most of the older women wore towering headwear, wreathed in lace and netting. They looked like royalty compared to Melancholy, her stained off-white tunic wrapped in rope about her waist, her sandals those of a sea-side pauper. Simplicity had been the creed of Brother Smert, and his followers dressed in the same clothes as the simple monks. The comfort of the cathedral had been stripped away under the watchful eyes of Spiddal, replaced with an alien feeling.

Gathering herself, Mela began to walk down the aisle between the pews, searching furtively for an empty space to sit. The priest had already begun prayers, some eyes casting down or closing as he did. Still more of the congregation watched her. By the time she found a row that had an empty place, her hands were shaking and she’d made her way to the front of the church. Prayers were ending, and the Priest was beginning his sermon. The front row was empty save for one man, an older gentleman dressed the same as the rest. There were several seats of space between him and the end of the row, even though in many rows families were packed together, children on the laps of their elders. It was as if there were some unwritten rule in this place that the front belonged to this man, but Mela didn’t feel as if she had a choice. Quickly, so as not to cause more disruption, she sat down. Glancing at the old man for a moment, she leaned back and gave the Father her full attention.

“And from that moment, the snake was buried deep within the souls of humanity!” The Father preached. “Each of us are born with it, writing inside and only through a pious nature and the offering of our souls to God may it be slain. Our hands are stained with the venom of our sins. Without the absolution that comes from the Divine,” he paused now and his gaze swept over the congregation. Mela felt chilled when his expressive green eyes fell upon her. The pew was suddenly rock hard, unforgiving uncomfortable instead of the cradling sanctuary that she’d been expected. The silence caused her ears to ring, broken by a child’s cough near the back of the room, echoing up towards the front.

“Without paying our due penance, the Evil that the Devil has stricken into the hearts and souls of men will be our undoing. Our own hands shall be the poison that rots this earth.”

A wave of guilt overtook Melancholy. Here, she sat so proudly at the front of the church, unrepented sins still left unsaid. She should not have emerged from the confessional, she felt. The eyes of parishioners behind her were burning into the back of her head. Her face blazing with embarrassment, red across her cheeks and ears, she stood. Her eyes cast down, unwilling to meet the gaze of any, she did something she never thought she was capable of.

She turned her back on the pulpit and walked briskly out of the church.