“Think of them!” Her voice cried, terrible and shrill,
“Think of those that would miss you most!”
Yet did we both know, my mind was made.
It was folly, as all things are,
Yet still did she try to persuade my insatiable mind,
Just as she had in innumerable attempts past.
A man of a lesser curiosity than I,
And a rather weaker constitution,
Would have listened to those pleas.
I had arrived in that dreary village,
Early in the morning out of a thick fog,
In a carriage that celebrated the paupers and the sinners.
Transported to an age where once more,
The intellectual was the heretic,
And the blind were the pious.
Where rooted atop a great craggy hill,
The form of which was like a tongue,
And the trees like teeth, waiting to swallow it whole.
There stood a monolith of black wood,
With slatted windows like eyes,
Yet shut, blinded to the world around it.
A chapel old and decrepit,
In a state near past the point of repair
And now that I had gazed upon it,
I saw that its slats were warped and decayed wood,
Like the cataracts of a corpse,
A blank gaze blind to all.
No villager which had crossed my gaze,
Crossed theirs with that church,
For a people dedicated to the veneration of a saint, I was appalled to see the blatant disregard for that which was godly.
The saint, oh the great saint,
The object of my inquiry,
My reason for being.
The corpse most exquisite,
A figure most buried,
A life, which caught my eye.
I approached the mayor,
Shirking gazes away,
From what might’ve been every denizen.
An old sunken man,
He welcomed me readily,
With a smile bereft of warmth.
I inquired about the letter,
Which had drawn my eye,
To such a miserable place as sullen in state as this,
Assuming his hand must have,
Penned those words,
Imprinted upon my mind.
The old mayor only smiled,
Refused me the grace of an answer,
But offered something far greater.
In refusal to draw me a map,
His words spoke reverently,
Of the path one must take,
To journey to the Crypt of Saint Novis
Dusk began to settle,
Casting magnificent rays,
Of gold and purple,
Filling the sky,
With their magnificent inks,
Bathing me and the forest within brilliant orange.
At first all I could think,
Was “What beauty!”
Even in such a depressing place.
Yet the sun began to sink,
Past those distant mountains,
But never quite left.
It’s burning eye,
Left eternally vigilant,
Now began to follow me.
That once brilliant color,
Of a lovely orange,
Warm and soft like a lovers kiss,
Now bathed the canopy,
Was a great and terrible veil
Soft as the silk of a spider’s web.
Red, like the blood of wine,
Consuming me and the forest,
In one swift gulp.
The wind, which had been guiding me,
Ever faithfully at the back,
Now fell eternally silent.
The snap of branches,
The crunch of dry grass,
The sound of shifting earth,
All that was natural,
All that was alive,
Suddenly fell into absolute silence.
All that I could hear,
Was that of my breathing,
Which I had not realized grew so heavy.
The forest grew,
Denser and denser,
Like descending to the stomach of a great beast.
Where the branches of trees,
Welcomed me with their open arms.
And coddled me in their bark.
I closed my eyes,
Escaping to the inky void,
Only to find it’s sea poisoned by red.
When I opened them again,
I stepped forth thereinto,
A clearing in those woods.
Like a scar left upon the land,
Where no trees would grow,
In a perfect circle,
At the farthest edge of which,
There it sat resplendent,
With one door wide open,
A great structure of old stone,
And stained glass,
The images of which, could not be made out any longer.
Although my foot,
Is what stepped past the threshold,
I felt as if an unseen force is what puppeted the limb.
The air chilled my lungs,
The smell of dew and rot,
Permeated my nostrils.
What I had expected to see,
A ruin of burglary,
A victim of the roadside brigands.
Instead all I found,
Was aged tiled floor
Rows and rows of shelves mounted to stone,
Various unlit torchère,
A great chandelier, coated in melted wax,
Hanging just above, a great stone sarcophagous.
All layered gently,
Like a soft blanket of snow,
In dust undisturbed.
My fingers met,
And traversed in awe,
The great carving upon the lid.
A figure,
A man,
In a tomb centuries dead.
Right hand,
Palm open,
Laid over heart.
Clutched between,
Forearm and breast,
A great tome.
Left hand,
Held upright, fist clenched,
Except for the index, which pointed upward.
Unbreathing and cold,
Limestone wrought from the earth,
Carved into flowing silky curls,
That sat upon not a face,
Left in the macabre peace,
Rendered only by death’s gentle kiss.
Instead pouring into my gaze,
Were the empty sockets,
Of a skull meticulously carved.
To such a degree,
That when I looked upon it,
I was most certain,
That it could be,
Interchangeable with the reality,
And that the skilled hands,
Which had created,
This technical masterpiece,
Must certainly had his whole life leading him to this crypt.
Beside the saint,
There sat most odd,
A small table and chair of similar stone.
Unmired by anything,
Whether it by age,
Or the touch of a living being.
Upon that table sat,
A single candlestick,
It’s wick fresh and wax awaiting the blaze,
And what looked,
As if to be,
One’s old leatherbound journal.
Entranced I walked,
Pulling a match and shuddering,
As the ignition roared like a forest fire.
The candle itself,
Seemed to pulse with a heartbeat,
Glowing with tenfold the strength it should have,
As my flame touched its wick,
Illuminating everything around,
I heard the wind begin to howl once more.
The shadows cast,
By eager flames,
Danced and licked about the saint’s skull,
And Saint Novis seemed to stare into me with hollow eyes
In trepidation I sat,
Fingers brushing the armrests,
As I came to rest my back against it,
I found instead,
Of cold and indifferent stone,
A warmth like a hearth spreading across me,
Of cushions and pillows,
Embracing my aching bones,
Like a lover’s touch.
And so my hands found,
Without a second thought of my own,
That journal now just beside me.
The leather, old and beaten,
The pages yellowed,
And the strap broken to dangle limply.
When opened to the first page,
I found not a name,
To who it belonged,
But instead I was met,
With words I knew,
Could not truly exist,
“A most peculiar tale,
Of sacrifices thirteen,
And a noble blade for each,
Thirteen will open,
The gates of hell wide,
And reward the sadist alike,
Twelve strikes the clock,
Defiant stands the last,
Only the most favored will stand to pass.”
Marked below I could not believe,
That before me I could see,
Dated and signed below,
Wearily I cast,
My gaze up once more,
And met with the saint.
Light flickered seductively,
Dancing slow and languid,
Within the hollow caverns of his skull.
I swallowed thickly,
An invisible weight settled upon my shoulder,
And I turned to the next page.
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