Barnaby the Wanderer

Chapter 7: A Metaphor of Memory

Nightfall of the second day upon the road. Cedric debated with the gathered Society of St. Benefact.

"But there is no need for any of you to go to the shrine. If danger awaits it is mine to face. If not, as I expect, it shall be a dull argument upon the wisdom of Epicurus versus the asceticism of Stylites."

"Lucif's fiery farts, that's become a tiresome song," growled Bodkin. "Hear up, Friar. You let your real friends join your fight, or you are no real friend to them."

"Damn right," said Val. "You're sounding like, like, you-know-who." She frowned at her harp, which had a tendency to make sad 'twangs' upon the naming of certain millers.

Cedric opened mouth to argue... then stopped himself. Smiling sadly.

"It was Jewel who explained Barnaby best." Twang. "She said he did not fear for himself, but for those for whom he'd come to care."

"I never said Barnaby was scared," said Val. Twang. "Just being too Infernum motherly with other people's decisions. So don't you make the same mistake."

"Or I'll awake bound in cobwebs?"

"Could happen," declared Jewel. Giving rare smile.

Cedric hesitated, then nodded.

"You are right. I am wrong. We shall share the task and its hypothetical dangers together, then."

"What exactly is the danger?" asked Matilda. "Just out of idle curiosity."

"The Deaconry of St. Plutarch fear the hermitess Beatrice pursued a life of self-denial to the point of ending that life."

"Killed herself?" asked Val. "Why does it matter? All mad Plutarch is ruled by ghosts and revenants."

"The testament of St. Plutarch declares Death the final sacrament. Suicide misuses the rite of life and death. And truly, a spirit obsessed with its own destruction is a thing to be feared. Whether in this world or what dream may follow. Here, such creatures oft become night-haunts."

"You said a Nachzehrer," reminded Val.

"So spoke the Deaconry," sighed Cedric. "But such as they assume the worse whenever some devout soul begins to declare truths that threaten order and commerce. I suspect we will find poor Beatrice alive, starved and scarred by the violence of her own devotion. No doubt abandoned by the acolytes who could not follow her path of self-denial."

"You knew her." That, from Bodkin.

"Did I say so?"

"Not in words. Your face said it."

"Well, I make no secret. We were students together in Daedalus. The Deaconry sends me instead of Questioners and exorcists, exactly because I knew her. I can best judge in what state of mind or soul she now stands."

"Then your mission is just to scout," said Val. "You don't have to put down any night-haunts. The Deaconry will send forces to deal with what you find."

Cedric growled.

It took a moment for the others to understand it as a sound of anger; and pain. The man had never expressed himself so before. When he spoke, the words came sharp, edged with determination.

"If the hermitess is well, I shall wish her well. If she is in need, I will aid her. And if she is dead, I will see to her rest. It is nothing for any committee in Persephone to decide."

"What is that?" frowned Matilda.

Cedric halted, looked about.

"What?"

"Something in the tree branches."

From above came the sound of mocking laughter.

"Shoot it," commanded Bodkin.

Matilda drew her bow quick as rogue picking pocket.

"Stop," commanded Cedric. "We are not at war with every shadow of Plutarch."

"What about the ones surrounding us?" whispered Val. She stood, long knife drawn. "Backs to the fire, all."

The mules brayed in alarm. Matilda started towards them; Val pulled her back. Bodkin drew his sword; Cedric raised his staff, whispering words that set it aglow.

"I see a light," whispered Matilda. "Coming from the river."

"Lot of lights," agreed Bodkin.

They watched a firefly flicker become a candle glow. Then another, and another. Gradually the night wood filled with soft glows moving slowly past their camp. Candles, held by solemn figures walking between the trees. Men and women, old and young; clad in simple white gowns that glowed faint as star shine.

A woman entered the camp, holding candle high, singing soft words without meaning to any but her. Eyes alight, face transfixed with some inner vision.

"Hello," said Val. "Out for a walk?"

The woman smiled to the companions, but did not halt nor turn. She continued on, singing, soon disappearing again into the trees.

Now all through the woods marched similar figures. Filling the night with song that rose and fell, calm as ocean waves journeying to far shores. Moving steadily west through the trees, paying no heed to company.

Matilda shouldered her bow, a dreaming look overtaking her usual expression of alert amusement. She took a step to follow the marchers.

"Stop," commanded Cedric. He grabbed Matilda by the arm. She muttered but did not struggle.

"Saint Erebus eat me," whispered Bodkin. "Wake up, idiot." Matilda turned, blinking as though indeed coming awake.

They stood silent, watching the glowing candles disappear with the marchers.

"Some ceremony from beside the river," whispered Val. "And I'd guess they're heading to the shrine."

Now one last figure walked through the trees. A young woman, face transfixed with visions of inner wonder. Long hair streaming out behind her, golden rays for a cathedral icon. Simply clad in white gown, barefoot, glowing faintly in a light that seemed to come from deep within her. She walked past the fire, the companions, then turned. Studying them awhile. Wide eyes stern, yet warmed by kind smile. She spread her arms wide, speaking a name.

"Cedric."

He was slow to answer. When he did, it was merely to whisper a name.

"Beatrice."

"My Cedric. For too long I have felt your pain and confusion across the Middle House."

His answer came more firmly.

"We swore not to meet again."

She shook her head. "We never parted, Cedric. Always was I with you, as you with me."

"A metaphor of memory. But that is not to be together."

"Ever the materialist, holding priest's staff."

"A converted broomstick, actually."

She made no reply to that. She began stepping backwards into the trees, eyes still upon Cedric. The faint glow of her form dimming to dark.

"I charge you to come to me, Cedric Weiland. This very night. In the shrine we shall..."

Her voice faded, last words unfinished. The faint star-shine glow of her form vanished. She was gone.