Barnaby the Wanderer

Chapter 10: What Lies Beneath, Behind, Ahead

Cedric

Foolishly, I did not await the dawn. No, I insisted I must follow Beatrice. Wherefore not? That shining vision was no Nachzehrer, no night-haunt. She yet lived. All was well.

And so I rushed heedlessly towards the shrine; followed by a grumbling Val, a silent Jewel, a cursing Bodkin. They gave over arguing me into sense; though doubtless they weighed knocking me down, binding me till sense returned of its own. Well, but the Society of St Benefact had sworn off such methods of debate.

The Silenian remained with the mules and our gear. At the time, I thought that wise. I did not foresee battle; only theologic debate.

Word must have been given, for no guard challenged our entry to the shrine. No, they ushered us on, smiling, welcoming us in the name of the hermitess.

Whenever I doubted the path, I spied the glow of her white dress, the shine of her gold hair, leading me on. Reminding of summer days in Daedalus, when we sat on the grass of the aerodrome, comparing the power of steam to the power of the saints.

And so I hurried after her, seeing her face before me, eyes stern, chastising me for my long delay. I pursued her through the room of devotions, and down through the chamber of penitence, and then through the nightmare chamber of sleepers. By then I understood I had erred. Not all was well, at all.

And so at length we stood in the lowest room of the shrine. 'Lowest', in every sense of the word. A long stone chamber lit by plentiful candles, but lacking chair, table or least ornament. Baren as a tomb. Only a rough stone altar lurked in the back, far from the candles, where shadows ruled.

I stood before Beatrice, staff in hand. Not to lean upon it in weariness; but as symbol of authority. For though I had rushed in as a lovelorn fool, still my duty remained clear: I stood now before the hermitess Beatrice as Questioner.

Granted, behind us now gathered white-robed disciples, weapons drawn. I had walked not just into a child's model of Infernum; but led my friends into a trap.

And yet, looking upon Beatrice, still it came difficult to distrust, to fear.

Though the room glowed with bright candles, she shone the brighter. Her golden hair radiating outwards, rays worthy of the icon of some cathedral saint. The thin white robe shaping a form young, and womanly as any marble angel.

She held hands out to me, ignoring the others of my company, and the white-robed followers who stood at the door, swords ready, preventing exit.

"Cedric Wieland, you must choose. Is it to be the flesh that rules, or the spirit?"

I worked to meet her eyes. Wide and open, gazing intent and stern. Yet not truly meeting mine. Did she even see me? I considered her words; mere echo of those we'd exchanged when parting years passed.

But I stood now as Questioner, not lover. I gave a stamp of my staff, broomstick though it was.

"The choice is not flesh or spirit, Beatrice Lucia. It is Life, or Death. Which have you chosen, Sister of the Order of St. Plutarch?"

Beatrice gave her gentle laugh, passing hands over breasts and groin to remind me of the shapely form shining bright within the tomb.

"Man, you see I glow with life. Behold me now, Cedric. You have never known life so pure."

"Life is never pure, Beatrice Lucia."

"But the saints call us to make it so, Cedric Wieland."

"The saints..." At that I halted. What servant in all the House of Saints did Beatrice now serve in her madness? My eyes looked past her, to the shadowed altar at the far room. In the dark where no candle shone.