Letters to Maxine

CHAPTER 5

Unrequited

Father Moritz lay in his bed, unsure what he should write. He listened to the night rain hitting the side of the building. And with each drop, he inclined his ears to hear. The voice of the November Witch was accompanied by obscene visions of slaughter. He saw steaming bodies torn and scarred in a grave. Others were being stalked for the most vile and wicked acts. Men of Renown, elite warriors and hunters, find their prey and turn them to ash and dust. Then there was blackness and silence.

He sat up, eyes widened with terror. He panted and struggled to wake himself from this revelation.

"I have my words," he stammered. "I have heard you, my witch."

He rushed from the bed and to his desk. He hurriedly opened the drawer, spilling pencils and clips on the floor. His hands trembled as he pushed through the remaining contents. He gritted his teeth and drew back his lips before dropping the drawer.

He went to his dresser and grabbed the dirty towel from earlier. Then, with a quick swipe across his face, he let the towel fall. Father Moritz opened the second dresser drawer, then the third. He rifled through them, found nothing, then slammed them shut.

He hurried across the room to his closet. As he pushed his priestly garments along the tension rod, they slammed into each other. He growled before reaching for the final robe and shoving them to the far wall.

He wept, his blood drumming his arms and neck. Then nothing. All was normal. He heard the rain on the building and felt the rug beneath him. Exhausted, he got up and walked to his desk. After sitting, he saw the fountain pen and inkwell that eluded him.

Gentle and careful not to break the bottom drawer, he slid it until it touched his belly. He breathed in, sighed, and took a piece of animal skin and cotton parchment paper milled for him in Nepal.

"I am eft," he said. "I am eft mine own Mistress of the Night."

With a quick dip of his pen into the well, Father Moritz, Dole of Saint Bonnot, wrote.

Dearest unrequited,

I hope this letter finds you well. In this first introduction, I need to explain myself.

Forgive me for the informality of a letter instead of speaking in person. I believe the more you read, the more you'll understand that I cannot talk visage to visage.

I have recently been born again into a realm of the supernatural. Some would say that it has resurrected me in the spirit of loup-garou. I was once a commoner. I lived a secluded life and served an institution that has existed for two millennia.

I experienced my first kill through the guidance of my November Witch. She's adopted me into a bloodline that supersedes kings.

My new heritage is one of famed royalty and nobility. They have sought freedom from oppressors for five thousand years. It is a line of thirst and greed that I will fulfill.

My first triumph was sloppy. To bury my young one in a burrow in the middle of the November gales is not advisable. But the witch's breath kept me from harm.

I wonder, unrequited, who was your first? Of course, we all have one, a first love, kiss, fornication, and heartbreak. Some experience highs from narcotics, lows from depression, and manic episodes from the mind. 

My triumph over my young one was not born nor satisfied in the flesh's lust. Unrequited, I had, long ago, made a covenant with mine eyes. Why should I look upon the flesh of a virgin?

No, and I say no, and amen! This was something different. No fantasy or lustful groans too deep for understanding suffered this young child to my hunger. This call from my November Witch gave her liberty and peace.

Though I don't know you yet, I have sought you for an age. I have sinned in my thoughts and hid behind a shroud of incense and perpetual flames. I would touch those forbidden to me, seek pleasures in their flesh behind their vows and veils. They hadn't recovered from the whoring they had left. They would give themselves willingly until succumbing to a contrite spirit and rededication to spend their remaining days in solitude and service.

Please hear me. I beseech you. I am not obsessed with your age and ability to lust. No!

The November witch foretold your coming and forbade me to touch or soil your body. So no, unrequited, I will admire you from afar and offer peace to you.

As he read it over, he smiled.

"How to sign, how to sign," he said. "Ah, I know. Something I learned during my time in Palestine."

On a scrap piece of paper, he took from the right drawer, he practiced. Finally, after the fourth time, he was ready.

And here I am, my unrequited. Goodnight.