The Key

70

Brother Gardener moved through the cool, dark corridors of the mountain carrying the warmth of his recent work with him. He could smell the woodsmoke from the fire, still feel the heat of it licking his skin.

He had been up since before dawn, organizing his staff into a team of eight, each armed with saws and pruning shears. They had started at one end of the garden and moved through it, combing every tree and cutting as deep as they dared wherever they found the blight. At first it had seemed to be the oldest trees that were the worst affected, but as they progressed through the orchard they began to find signs of it creeping into the leaves and branches of younger specimens too.

Again he had taken it upon himself to organize the pyre on the firestone, studying each sacrificed limb in the hope that one might provide the key to understanding what had struck the garden. It had also given him the excuse to stay focused on something other than the systematic decimation of his beloved garden. Only when the last diseased branch had been dissected and thrown on the flames had he allowed himself to survey the devastation they had wrought. He had worked in the garden for over forty years, knew every plant and shrub. But he no longer recognized the crippled thing it had become. And when the pyre filled the firestone and raged with the heat of a burning fever he still had no clue as to what had brought the plague, nor what might drive it out again. Exhausted and distraught he had turned away, and sought refuge in the mountain where there was one thing left for him to try.

He stumbled along the corridor now, laying his hand on the uneven stone wall to steady himself, hoping he would not encounter anyone before reaching the sanctuary of the private chapels where he planned to pour all his pent-up emotion into a heartfelt plea to God to spare his garden. He reached the steps leading to the hall beneath the cathedral cave and almost lost his footing, so weary were his legs from standing all those hours. He felt like he might be sickening with something. He’d had a nose bleed a few hours back and he couldn’t seem to shift the smell of oranges from his nostrils. At the bottom of the stairs was a short, narrow corridor lined on either side with wooden doors, each with a candle beside it, sitting in the congealed wax of thousands of predecessors. Most of them were lit, indicating that a chapel was occupied, but some were not. He headed to one, lit the cold candle from the sputtering wick of a neighbour, then fixed it in place and entered the room.

The chapel was little more than a cave cut from solid rock. It was lit by the votive candles of previous visitors, which wavered as he settled in front of them on a floor worn smooth by the knees of the faithful.

The heat continued to cling to him, even here in the cold dark heart of the mountain. He felt his skin prickle beneath his cassock as he knelt and gazed up at the small T-shaped cross resting on the altar stone.

His trees. His garden. Consumed by disease and then by flame, like a soul cursed by God. And there was nothing he could do to stop it.

He felt the emotion he had been bottling all day rising, expanding as it came until it exploded out of him in the form of a sob so raw it hurt his throat. He screwed his eyes closed and clasped his hands together, trying to focus his emotion into the prayer he wanted to offer up, but the sobs continued to wrack his body. He wrapped his arms tightly round his body, trying physically to get a hold of himself. He could still smell the smoke clinging to him and feel the heat of his body through his clothes. As he rocked himself back and forth on the hard floor, he buried his mouth in his shoulder to stifle the sobs so that no one in the neighbouring chapels would hear him.

The prickle of sweat beneath his robes started to itch and he rubbed at it through the fabric. Tears leaked from his eyes and dripped down his cheeks, but no matter how hard he cried nor how deeply he sobbed the desolation did not dissipate; instead it built inside him, expanding until he felt it might break him apart from within. As the pain of it grew, and the itching became unbearable, a sound emerged from his throat, a howl of lament so chilling and raw that he knew it would bring others.

He turned to the door in anticipation, wiping the wetness from his cheeks with the back of his hand as he tried to control himself. But the howl continued, louder and more desperate the more he tried to contain it. It was then that he noticed the wetness on his hand was dark in colour and his cassock was similarly stained wherever he had been scratching. In panic he tore at his clothes, shredding the front to reveal that the tickle of moisture he had felt was not sweat but a rash of boils that had erupted all over his skin. Wherever he had scratched they had burst and now wept a dark brown liquid. The urge to continue scratching was overwhelming. It was as if every atom of his body was itching and the only way to salve it was to scratch it all away.

He started tearing at his skin, the thick nails of work-hardened hands peeling away strips of flesh and bursting more of the pustules. The relief was immediate, far outweighing the pain that came with it. It was bliss. It was torture.

He heard the door open and looked up into the shocked face of a brother monk who visibly recoiled from the thing kneeling and rocking before him, its hands tearing frantically at pustulant flesh, its mouth a hollow from which the awful lament continued to wail, the eyes staring and desolate, weeping brown fluid instead of tears.