Forsaken Soul

Chapter Forty-One

Thomas grew breathless. His feet pounded the earth. Branches slashed at his flesh as he pushed through the thick brush. Thorns from a wild berry cane cut into his ankle. Soon his lungs were screaming with pain.

Running in front of him, Ralf cried out and fell.

The monk leapt over the crowner, avoiding the vine that had tripped his friend.

Were they too late?

Rushing around a thick clump of bushes, he burst into a small clearing.

A tall tree stood near a steep embankment. Hob stood at the brink, looking down. His dog leaned against his leg.

“Where is she?”

The blacksmith pointed to a spot just below him.

The monk crouched on his heels, then carefully eased himself over the edge and down the several feet to the stony stream bed, grabbing at rocks to slow his pace, gravel and dirt filling his shoes as he slid.

Tibia lay at the bottom, her body broken on the rocks. Her wide eyes turned to stare at him, eyes that screamed more of terror than pain.

“My son,” she gasped.

From the angle of her body Thomas knew that the fragile bones of her spine must have shattered beyond hope. “Mother,” he whispered as he knelt by her side. Then he took her hand.

A strange look of peace came over old Tibia. “I killed them,” she said. “For you.”

What point was there in reminding her who her was, he thought. “You killed them because they hanged me?” he asked, raising his tone into a soft and youthful tenor. “Martin, Ivetta, and Will?”

Tibia’s lips twitched into a brief smile. “God was kind to send you, Brother,” she whispered.

“He wants you to confess so He can hold your soul in His hand,” Thomas replied, reverting to his own voice as quickly as he had the dead boy’s.

“I have given no joy to any and sinned for no reason, even pleasure. All that I confess and regret.” She lost breath for a moment, then continued, “Aye, I killed the three who murdered my sweet lad. No remorse.”

“You must repent or all hope of salvation is lost.”

“My son went to Hell on that tree above us. Ivetta lured him to her bed. He’d been as virginal as a saint ‘til then. The others waited until he was covered in spent seed from wicked lust. Then they killed him.”

“It was an accident.”

“God knew otherwise, though I didn’t understand that. Spent years weeping for justice from Him. Then our anchoress said I must fall silent. To hear His voice.” She groaned. “He told me the time had come for vengeance.”

Thomas felt tears stinging his eyes. Surely God would never order or consent to these murders. Satan must have found a way to twist the anchoress’ innocent advice.

She cried out, her eyes round with pain, and dug her nails into Thomas’ hand. When it eased, she continued. “The crowner’s jury blinded themselves to their own sins when they found the murderers innocent. Some lay with me as a girl, others had Ivetta.” Her eyes squeezed shut. “Muttered that a whore’s son caught swyving a harlot was a sinner twice over and deserved to die. Puffed out their chests with righteousness. Thought to hide their own guilt and…” She screamed. “Punished me!”

“Say you repent!” Thomas pleaded.

Panting with weakening breath, the old woman whispered, “Of those deaths, I can’t. God said I needn’t wait longer. I was dying. He let me have justice.”

The killings were wrong. Of course he knew that, but his heart ached with both sorrow and understanding. She had been spat upon by the very men who had once used her as a girl no older than their daughters. Then she lost the one thing that gave her joy and was mocked when those who had killed him walked free. If she had heard God’s voice in Satan’s seductive words, how many others might not have done the same? But the deed was still against God’s commandments and Tibia must repent. He begged God to show him how to persuade her, for he would not let Satan have this soul.

Then it came to him, a cruel thing to tell her but something that might force Tibia to see the error of flawed mortals rendering vengeance. She had adored her son and that love had brought some redemption, despite the harshness of her life. This news might grieve her deeply enough to provoke remorse.

“Did you know that Ivetta was with child when you killed her?” he said, bending to whisper into her ear.

“Didn’t know!” Tibia convulsed with fresh agony. “I deserve Hell.”

“Nay! Your son begs you to cleanse your soul. God does. I do.”

Another spasm hit her. “Give me comfort and pity. I die!” She rolled her eyes in the direction of the embankment. “Of the four, I poisoned three. I saved Hob. He begged forgiveness. Left wood at my door in winter. He could live. God said.”

Thomas glanced up at the man standing in silence above, his arms casually folded as he gazed down at them. The dog looked intently at Ralf who stood but a foot away. Did the crowner think the younger blacksmith had killed Tibia? Had the man done so?

“Did Hob push…?”

“Dog. Scared me. Fell.” Her lips drew back, exposing her gums, and her eyes began to roll back. “An accident,” she mumbled.

With her soul struggling to depart a body it had long hated, Thomas knew he had no more time for questioning or argument. He must cleanse her of sins. “I bring the comfort of forgiveness. Just say repent,” he beseeched.

For a long moment, the only sounds were the rattling whisper of Tibia’s fading life and the bubbling of the nearby stream. Then she murmured something so softly that Thomas had to press his ear near her lips to hear.

“God’ll grant mercy if due. Punishment, too. I’m ready.”

“Then you do repent,” the monk decided and quickly repeated the ritual of absolution.

With a harsh scream, she reached out to him, her eyes turned white and blind with death. “God’s terrible face! Take my hand! Oh, sweetest son, hold me! I can’t bear this…”

Thomas raised her hand to his lips and tenderly kissed the gnarled fingers.

The herb woman convulsed once and slipped into silence.

Tibia was dead.