The Book - Chapter 1

Chapter One

Leaning out through the window of the black carriage, fourteen-year-old Rebecca reached down to squeeze her mother's outstretched hand.
        Anicia Gardyner struggled to maintain her composure. "It won't be for long, my darling. Your father and I will find a way to appease Lord Blackstone."
        When the carriage lurched forward, Rebecca shouted, "You needn't worry, Mother. I'm not afraid. I'll be all right!"
        Unwilling to let go, but unable to match the horses' quickening pace, Anicia stumbled. As the black spokes of the tall wheels spun an inch from her face, she felt her daughter's fingers slip from her grasp. By the time she caught her balance, she could do nothing but gasp and watch. Had she been crushed beneath the carriage, the pain could not have been greater. Bending forward, she placed her palms on her knees for support and panted. Tears dribbled down her cheeks.
        Her husband, Norman, caught up and wrapped a strong arm around her shoulders. "We'll see her again, love, soon enough." 
        Soon enough? Anicia shook her head. Rebecca would be held in servitude at the castle until they could pay the taxes levied by Lord Blackstone. They still had two boys at home to feed. When and by what miracle would they be able to come up with the money?         
        "What choice did we have?" Norman's shoulders sagged as the black carriage grew smaller in the distance. "Father Benedict was our last hope."

~        ~        ~

        Tormented by the state of his poverty-stricken parish, Father Phinnius Benedict abandoned his futile attempt to sleep. Three days prior, the Gardyner's had begged for financial assistance. Ineffectual prayers for Rebecca's safety were all he could offer the distraught parents. Shortly after cock's crow, the next morning, their only daughter had been taken away. Each time he closed his eyes he saw the anguish on Norman and Anicia Gardyner's face. Their pain, combined with profound feelings of impotence, haunted him.
        The weary priest rose from his lumpy, straw-filled mattress and massaged the back of his stiff neck. An hour earlier, the sound of distant thunder somewhere over the North Sea had amounted to no more than a murmur. Now it growled, promising a storm approaching from the east. As the rumble faded, Father Benedict cocked his head to the left and winced in reaction to a second noise. Horses pulling a wagon, or a carriage? Bringing a hand to his forehead, he ran it back through his short, predominantly silver hair, and mumbled, “Not again, Lord."
        The sounds that troubled the priest became more pronounced. He slipped into his sandals and hurried toward the sanctuary. Jangling harnesses and the ominous clatter of hooves echoing on cobblestones heralded the approach and left little doubt as to the nocturnal visitor's identity.
        Upon reaching the altar, the priest knelt. His thin hands came together, tightly clasped by his bony, intertwined fingers. “O God," he prayed, "come to our aid. Lord, make haste to help us." Soft at first, his voice grew louder and more insistent. "We have no means by which we might resist Lord Blackstone. We pray thee to remove this abomination from our midst.”
        After praying, Father Benedict snatched the nearest burning torch from its wall mount. With pained resignation, he proceeded through the center of the nave, toward the chapel's doors. 
        Outside, the carriage driver pulled on the reins and shouted, "Whoa there, you two. That's enough!" Ears at attention, the dark steeds appeared restless, affected perhaps by the approaching storm. Their nostrils flared. Snorting dragon-like plumes of misty vapor into the chilled night air, they pawed at the stones beneath their hooves.     
        Rusted iron hinges groaned in protest as the chapel's heavy wooden doors swung open. Illuminated in the flickering yellow torchlight, the priest beheld what he most feared. Clad in knee-high boots with a dark cape about his shoulders, Lord Blackstone’s vassal, Albert Bigge stood in the doorway. In his muscular arms, he held Rebecca Gardyner's limp body.
        The tall, powerfully-built young man stepped in, carrying the petite child as though she weighed no more than a small lamb. Albert gently laid her on the straw-covered, stone floor, the way a loving parent might place a sleeping infant in a crib. Rising, he brushed his hair back from his face and found himself confronted by an angry priest.
        “There's been an accident," Albert explained, spitting out rehearsed words for which he obviously had no taste. Avoiding the cleric's eyes, he said, "Lord Blackstone instructed me to deliver her body for proper Christian burial.”
        On the street, the horses stamped and whinnied as the tempest drew near. Albert turned to exit before the priest could sling his arrows of condemnation. Over his shoulder, he shouted above the rising wind and the fat raindrops that pelted the stone steps. “Tell the girl's father his debt is paid!”
        A frosty draft invaded the sanctuary. The gust swatted at the priest's torch, provoking a flurry of sparks that fell about his shoulders. Beneath the light, Father Benedict's watery blue eyes, normally kind and accommodating, narrowed and burned with flinty resolve.
        He shook his fist and shouted over the thunder that rolled across the sky. "Inform Lord Blackstone that he, too, must pay a debt! He'll pay for his transgressions, he will - either in this life or the next!"
        The snap of a whip served as his reply. Galloping hooves raced away, swallowed up by the wind, the rain, and the thunder.
        Furious, the priest jammed his torch into a nearby receptacle. Bending down in the dim light he saw that the fabric of Rebecca's brown dress bore a dark stain between her thighs.
        Invited by the opened doors, windblown rain peppered the clergyman's face, causing him to blink as he knelt. Seeking even the faintest flutter of life, Father Benedict pressed down on the young girl's chest. He felt nothing, only the cold stillness of death.     
        Lightning highlighted Rebecca's vacant, lifeless eyes. They stared upward, frozen in a final plea for help that never came. Father Benedict closed her eyelids with his fingertips and used the dangling sleeve of his robe to wipe away the tears and rain that dripped from his face. Hoping Rebecca's immortal soul might still be within her, he recited her last rites.
        Weighted down by despair, the priest grunted with the effort it took to rise. He recalled the day he baptized Rebecca. Memories of her cherubic smile brought still more tears, born of bitter frustration.     
        After closing the doors, Father Benedict hurried to where the monks and an occasional traveler slept. In the dim candlelight, he summoned Brothers Michael and Stephen. They could often be found awake long after evening Vespers, debating social and theological issues.
        Upon seeing the child's body sprawled upon the floor, Brother Stephen's hand flew to cover his mouth. No words could he find, none that a monk should be heard to utter.
        Behind Stephen, Brother Michael lamented, "Dear God, this makes four, and we can't do anything to stop it."
        As the three men stood over her body, the priest reached out to grasp each monk by the shoulder. "Brothers, I need you to prepare Rebecca's body for burial. Mend her torn garment and try to remove the blood stain. In the morning, we shall take her home."     
      Rain and hail pounded like a hundred marching drummers on the roof. As the beleaguered priest approached the altar, blinding flashes lit the arched windows along either side of the sanctuary. Tormented, as if the storm raged within his soul, he sagged to his knees and again begged God for divine intervention.
      When he raised his head, a large book lay on the altar. Where did this come from? Who brought it? Decorating the rich, leather-bound cover were intricate swirls and loops of inlaid gold that glimmered like unearthly flickers of flame as his fingers brushed across the cover. Simultaneously, a rush of hot wind extinguished each torch in the sanctuary. Startled, Father Benedict gasped, stood, and stepped back.
      What manner of book is this? He considered calling one of the monks, but thought better of it. He rubbed his eyes, which stung from the combination of shed tears and insufficient sleep. Could the strange glow have been a reflection from lightning, or a product of imagination? Possibly, he decided. But what produced the wind that snuffed the torches? 
        "Open it," a voice commanded, so deep in timbre that it blended with the thunder that shook the rafters.
        "Who speaks?" the priest demanded. Wide-eyed, he scanned his immediate surroundings. Outside, the wind howled and moaned, swirling about the chapel like a pack of possessed beasts seeking entry. Goose flesh rose on the priest's arms and the back of his neck.
        Again, the priest heard the deep, powerful voice. "He to whom you pray, Phinnius Benedict." Father Benedict turned slowly. In the dark, he squinted, peering into each corner of the sanctuary. Seeing no one, he realized the voice resonated within his own head.
        "Open The Book, Phinnius. This is the instrument of dispatch for which you have prayed."
        The priest 's gaze returned at first to the mysterious book, but shifted to the carved wooden figure of Christ upon the cross. Behind the altar, between the statues of Mary, on the left, and St. John, on the right, the cross began to glow as if on fire. Thoughts of Moses and the burning bush flashed across the priest's mind.
        Once more, he knelt at the altar. Burying his face in his hands, he wondered, Have I lost my ability to reason? Through spread fingers he peered at The Book and asked, "Am I to understand that I converse with The Creator?" 
        A nearby lightning strike turned the chapel's interior pure white as thunder shook the earth. Fearful that the entire structure might collapse, Father Benedict pressed his forehead against the cold, stone floor. He squeezed his eyes shut and covered the back of his head with his arms and hands, expecting the wooden beams above him to come crashing down.
        When the roar subsided, a second voice responded to the priest's query. "Yes, Phinnius, you speak to The Creator... and a collaborator. Fear not. No harm is to befall you this evening." The second spirit spoke softly, in a tender, entrancing manner that led the priest to identify it as female.
        Calmed and encouraged by the soothing voice, Father Benedict lifted his head and opened his eyes like a frightened child peeking timidly out from beneath his bedcovers. Before him, the cross remained on fire. "An angel, you must be," he gasped. In awe, he pressed his palms against the sides of his face. Waves of heat emanated from the carved image, warming his cheeks and forehead.   
        "Nay, no angel am I," the second spirit professed. "Think of me as a keenly interested party."
        "An interested party?" Father Benedict seemed puzzled.
        "Yes," the spirit concurred. "Interested in the removal of a certain abomination from your midst."
        "Phinnius," the first spirit rumbled. "What lies before you is The Book of Judgment. It contains the names and deeds of the damned."
      The tranquil, second voice added, "Lord Blackstone celebrates the date of his birth this weekend. You must attend his festival. Make sure that this book is presented to him as a gift."
      The priest raised his hand. "I've not been invited." Fearing that his temper may have ruined the opportunity to serve God's will, his heart raced. "After the decree of condemnation I sent through his vassal —"
      "Leave that to me," the gentle spirit suggested. Through the church's arched windows, the diminished frequency and intensity of the lightning and thunder indicated the storm's passage.
      "Lord, why have you responded to me?” Father Benedict spread his arms in a humble, pleading gesture, and asked, “In a world filled with pain and misery, so many cry out. I am but a poor, parish priest. What makes me worthy?"
        In his head, the cavernous voice replied. “Your heart is pure. Your prayers, justified. The time is at hand.”
        The soothing voice of the second spirit added, “On Sunday, through this book, we shall deal with Henry Blackstone. Open The Book, Phinnius.”
        With the folds of his robe, the priest wiped the moisture from his perspiring palms. His arms trembled as he lifted it from the altar. As before, his grip brought the swirling, golden loops of inlaid scrolling to life. They flared, but not with their previous intensity. 
        Reverently, he stared at the rich, wine-colored leather cover. Not knowing what to expect, he opened The Book . Nothing appeared on the first, second, or third page. Driven by rising curiosity, yet fearful of what he might find, he riffled through the rest of the delicate, thin leaves. When he closed the leather cover having found nothing, he felt disappointed, confused, and yet, relieved.
        Gingerly, with both hands, he placed it back on the altar and rendered his assessment to the spirits. "Holy Father, the leaves within the leather case are made neither of vellum nor parchment. They are milled in a way as to be exceedingly fine. Even the page edges are gilded." After pausing to gather his thoughts, the priest continued, "Lord, you said this is The Book of Judgment, yet, I find no mention of lost souls or their transgressions. Truth be told, I find no script, anywhere within this mysterious codex." Phinnius shook his head. "Never have I seen its like."
        “Nor shall you,” the rumbling voice agreed. “This book is unlike any that ever has, or ever will exist." With the last words, the fiery aura of the cross faded. Thunder trailed off in the distance, far to the west.
        Stunned and humbled, alone in the stillness of the sanctuary, Father Benedict struggled to his feet. He trembled, certain of the first spirit's identity, but curious regarding that of the second. Still doubting his sanity, he wiped his face and eyes and stared at The Book, afraid to touch it again.
      "Go on . . ."
      The priest flinched, surprised by the reemergence of the second spirit's soft voice. 
      "Pick it up," the spirit instructed. "It will only harm those guilty of mortal sins to which they've not confessed."
      "Where should it be kept?" the priest inquired.
      "Why not in your room?" came the reply, followed by a whisper. "Next to your Bible."
      Father Benedict inhaled as if he might be taking his last breath. Am I to be struck by lightning when I pick it up? Again, the cover's loops and swirls glowed upon contact with human flesh.
      To the priest's horror, the heaven-sent codex slipped through his sweaty hands. As The Book fell, Father Benedict lunged forward, caught it, and pulled it in. He hugged it against his chest, feeling his heart thump against it. As the fierce pounding slowed, he squeezed his eyes shut and sucked in a deep, recuperative breath. Detecting an odor that seemed out of place, he tilted his nose upward. After several experimental sniffs, he identified the faint, yet unmistakable smell of sulphur and brimstone.