Satan's Lullaby

Chapter Twenty-one

Renaud pulled his cloak tighter around his thin body, bent his head, and willed himself to walk another circle around the guest quarters. Although the breeze had been soft when he first toured the lodgings, this sudden northern blast was as jagged as Satan’s claws and ripped at him until he was sure he bled. When would they leave this cursed priory, he wondered as he pushed himself against the merciless wind.

The gust began to whistle an obscene tune in his ears, and shadows mocked his terror as he felt evil beings crowding ever closer. He began to shake so hard he feared he would piss on himself for this was the hour owned by the Prince of Darkness when ghosts, fiends, and the damned ruled the earth. All god-fearing men were wise to look over their shoulders for hellish creatures that lurked with malign intent in the gloom.

From a frail part of his soul, a wicked voice whispered that God slept during these bleak hours and would do nothing to help any mortal foolish enough to walk alone where some imp could drag him into Hell. Renaud would never confess to any man about this weakness in his conviction that God was all-knowing and all-caring. Indeed, he dared not. His confessor was Father Etienne, a man most intolerant of delicate faith.

Like a fool, Renaud thought, I took the captain’s advice and sent the other clerks off to their beds. I should have kept a companion. He longed to fly to the monk’s dormitory and shake one of his fellows awake so he would not be alone in this darkness replete with frolicking hell spawn. It took every ounce of resolve and pride not to do just that.

Suddenly, he stopped, his mouth opening in fear. What was that sound?

He froze, held his breath, and then spun around with the cross, worn on a rope around his neck, held high.

Nothing.

Surely the howling is only from the wind, he assured himself, and those twisting shadows will be born again in the morning sun as shrubs.

Bending to lift his robe, he determined that the cloth and his legs were dry, and then sighed with relief that he had not suffered complete humiliation by losing control of his bladder. That was enough to give him sufficient courage to lower his head and continue marching through the brush and grass behind the guest quarters.

As he turned the corner of the building, that tiny reserve of strength vanished. He again whimpered with longing for the companionship of a fellow soul. Even the servant, who usually sat near the gate, had gone to his bed soon after the last Office was sung. If Renaud had dared, he would have cursed, but even an innocent oath took on a more sinister meaning in the night where the creatures from Hell found cheer in any hint of blasphemy.

As he resumed his patrol into the small garden near the entrance gate, he slid to another stop, put a hand to his mouth, and bit back a horrified cry.

Something was in the shadows. Not a shrub. Not a wild creature. The twisting shape resembled a man, featureless and hooded.

Renaud wanted to scream, but his tongue froze with terror. He wanted to flee, but his feet were bound to the earth. All he could do was gape with an awful fascination. This shape had not been there before. He was certain of it. As the shade writhed, the clerk suddenly recognized the creature.

“Jean?”

The only response was the wind’s high-pitched shriek.

Renaud staggered backward. “Surely it is not your spirit that has come to haunt me,” he sobbed. “Your soul must be in Heaven.”

There was no answer. The wind now calmed, but the shape continued to writhe, one long arm raised in a beckoning gesture.

He slipped to his knees. “Father Etienne swears that you died pure in body and soul. He never knew a man so worthy of Paradise.”

The shadow appeared to reach out to him as if longing to draw him into an embrace, doomed and eternal.

“No!” Renaud scrabbled backward. A stone cut into his knee, but he did not notice. “I did nothing to endanger your soul,” he howled. “I swear it, Jean. I meant only to get you drunk in jest. If that tainted you with sin, you committed the transgression in ignorance. Surely God knows that.”

He was certain the spirit had begun to approach, its gait heavy with the weight of damnation.

Again opening his mouth to scream, he could only moan. Now he feared no one could hear him except this menacing phantom. “I was jealous of you. I wanted to prove to our master that you were imperfect like other mortals. Just one failing, nothing grave!” He stretched forth a pleading hand. “Anything to show him that you were no better than I!” He put his hands over his eyes and wept.

Blinded by tears and weak with terror, he began to sway. What had he done to cause this horror? How could Jean’s soul have gone to perdition because of a silly prank? No matter what he had tricked Jean into doing, Renaud believed that his fellow clerk was cleansed of all sin when he died. No matter how much he longed for Jean to show flaws in the eyes of the priest, he had never wanted him to lose all chance for Heaven.

“Forgive me!” he cried out, then stared into the infinite darkness above him. “It was I who sinned, Lord, not Jean!”

Those were the last words he spoke before the blow fell.