DREAM #5

“Careful concealment of the moon within the folds of the Archbishop’s robes could only be seen from the depths of the dungeon. Dark and harsh repression was the current of torment pressing on all our flesh. This dank hole has contained the desperate and the noble, all suffering at the hands of this religious charlatan. Yet I do have friends here.” It was the first time this prisoner had spoken, other than to maintain some degree of civility and humanity.

“Edmond’s words were hollow. He continues to preach hope and righteousness. He sings the hymns of God and he repeats the lessons from his youth. Every day he preys for those forced to exist in this dungeon, but it is just a lamentation. Never has his God appeared here. If His light reached into this squalor then Edmond’s soul must be judged stronger.”

“George has been here as long as any anybody else, he never preys, but yet he still lives. The dark presses in upon us all. The longer you live, no “live” is very wrong, EXIST, the more the darkness nibbles at your mind. How many have passed beyond the realm of sanity? Countless thousands have suffered at the whim of the Archbishop, few have ever been heard from again. This is where they come. This is the fate of those who stand up against the tyrannical forces.”

“Edmond’s Bible says that the weak are the progenitors of victory over tyranny, but that has never made any sense. That is nothing more than false hope.”

“’False Hope’ The idea that hope is ever true…all hope is false. Nothing can redeem a man’s mind once it has parted ways with his soul. Nothing can save a man’s soul once it has been tainted with evil. Edmond would explain that God, his righteous and good creator, will judge the Archbishop and damn his soul to an eternity of pain. That is too good for that man. Pain for all of time is half what he deserves.”

“Inflicted with the pain of branding irons, you can brace yourself against the fiery pain of red hot iron, even when it is thrust into your eye, but it’s the smell of charred flesh. The offal smell of burned flash is bad enough, but the knowledge that it is is your own body burning is torture beyond measure. When it boiled the water of my eye, I lost my sight. I could feel the water of my eye trickle along my cheek. I smelled the odor of blackened flesh and I felt the pain of my eye being burned from by skull. This was the Archbishops assigned penance for my sins.”

“What have I done you ask? Nothing! I was a faithful servant, coachmen for his Excellency and a poor humble man. My duties were simple and my labors consistent. I was just a man trying to feed his family. I did nothing to deserve the wrath of our villainous clergy.”

“The Archbishops personal guard had awoken me. It was sometime after moonrise, but the clouds cloaked the earth in shadow. When I was roused, I was told the Archbishop was going to have to make an urgent trip to Prague and we needed to leave within the hour. I sent the guard to rouse the stable staff and prepare the carriage as I hurried to gather my things and then joined the effort to ready the horses.”

“The carriage was made ready as the archbishop arrived. He was accompanied by two men in monk’s robes and his personal bodyguard. I directed my assistant, Pavel, to attend to the Archbishop and guests as I helped the guardsmen to the rear of the carriage. We set off for Prague just as a small storm settled in.”

“The storm was an omen, and ill omen! It followed us for the whole of the voyage. The roads were turned to rivers and the grim skies frowned upon our intentions to travel. We arrived in Prague before five bells the next day and I took the archbishop and his comrades to Strahov Monastery. Pavel and I took room and board with the initiates. It was more than three days before the Archbishop had need of us. We were to depart the monastery that night after 11 bells and we were going to the countryside. We were destine for Neratovice. I was instructed to pack for several days on the road; and even odder I was told to take the monastery wagon, not the archbishop’s carriage.”

“I made the preparations and we set off, but when we arrived at Neratovice we turned east and tripped to the Fenstal Forest and Prova Hill [Cemetery Hill]. I set up camp and the archbishop and his traveling friends went to the see the hill’s stones. As the sun began to rise, I became concerned. The three men had not returned and had not eaten, so I set off up the hill to find them.”

“Huge ancient oak trees stand as ever-vigilant sentinels to protect the rest of the dead. These great and venerable trees conceal Prova [Cemetery] Hill from the nearby village of Neratovice and even conceal it from the road that accesses it. The cemetery itself is a clearing atop Prova Hill. The soil of the hill cradles the long abandon flesh of the villagers and simple stones offer remembrance to the dead. Many of the markers have disappeared within growths of grass and weeds. Finding yourself walking in Prova you may suddenly be atop the only memory of a soul’s existence on Earth. At the center of the graveyard is a large flat stone that the clergy use to speak to the mourners.”

“The archbishop was standing at the center of the clearing, the morning sunlight shinning off his brilliant blue robes. His eyes fixed upon me and he stretched out his hand. He was covered in blood and blood stained his face. I was paralyzed; the cold of the graves anchored my feet. He commanded the monks; they jumped at me with speed beyond belief.”

“I am now here. My story is my only shield. I know not what that soulless archbishop thing wants with me, nor do I know the actions that brought blood to his lips, but know that I tell you the truth and I shall continue to tell my tale.”

With that, Archabold, bastard son of Miriam Spooner, lay back against the bars of the cell and let out a long sigh. “For whatever it’s worth…”