Red He Wept
by David Samuels
Moralt is an Infirmarian at a medieval military hospital. He has become disillusioned with religion and deities that seem to permit or even encourage humanity’s endless grind of self-inflicted suffering in war. When a report comes of a weeping statue, Moralt feels he owes it to his skepticism to go and investigate it. He is joined by Arabelle, who is an imp’s advocate sent to verify the claim of miracle.
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Table of Contents parts: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 |
part 2
Arabelle and I arrived at Eastgate Terrace shortly after the first blush of dawn. Adjacent shopkeepers were unshuttering their windows while pedlars set up their stalls a good distance away from the holy servitors who guarded the statue. Armored in silver-chased plate mail with dark green capes, the servitors held vigil to ensure nobody tampered with the tears.
We’d hardly stepped into Divine Galvin’s shadow when one of the servitors blocked our way. His eyeslits framed oblong shadows in a manner that suggested windows on a starless night.
“Come no closer.” The acoustics of his helm multiplied his voice to a rumbly chorus. “Under orders from the Church.”
“Perhaps this will change your mind.” Arabelle whisked the imp’s tooth out of a fold of her robe. “Stand by, men.”
The badge of office might as well have been a magic wand by how quickly the servitor stepped aside. “Apologies, Lady Advocate.”
A man could get used to that sort of deference.
When Arabelle’s blue gaze switched to me, my usual slouch snapped to attention.
“May I borrow your matula?” she asked.
I was surprised she knew what a matula was, much less wanted to use it. My hands fumbled to unhook the flask from my toolbelt. Not only are the flasks used for urinalysis, but they serve as credentials for infirmarians. Embossed with the seals of various medical seminaries, they distinguish the learned physician from the second-rate bonesetter. I hesitated a moment before I offered mine up to Arabelle.
“Pretty.” She tilted the glass so that the dove on its surface flashed in the sunlight. “Ah, the seminary of Divine Dorias. One of my nephews is enrolled there. You’ll get this back,” she added with a wink. “Promise.”
Over my shoulder, I noticed a crowd of early risers gathering in the square. I could scarcely distinguish the defenders from the defenseless among their mishmash of battered iron and torn fabric. An aproned woman wore a pot for a helmet to my left and, to my right, a few children carried swords or maces at their sides. The war had exacted its toll on every one of them. If anywhere in Aeondom needed a miracle right now, it was the city of Galvin’s Ford. It could mean the difference between victory and defeat.
Excited murmurs arose from the crowd as they watched Arabelle approach the statue with the matula in hand. Out popped the cork and up went the vial to collect a sample of the radiant blood. Its sheen had dulled in the weeks following the first sighting, but it still twinkled with the faintest of promises.
A cold space opened up in my heart when Arabelle stowed the matula somewhere in the folds of her robes. Then she brought a finger to the stone cheeks of Divine Galvin, wiped off a streak of blood, and stuck that finger into her mouth.
Scattered groans broke out from the first few rows of gawkers. Me, I couldn’t stop smirking. I’ve done a lot worse to diagnose a patient. All five senses must be applied to gather every scrap of evidence.
“Well?” I whispered.
“Later.” A flourish of her hand brought a green apple out of her robes. Fruit from the infirmary rations, no less! Unbelievable. I was about to chide her when a storm of bootsteps thundered down an adjacent street.
A double line of soldiers marched through the press. Soldiers in checkered brigandines and domed T-slot helms, all dented and scratched from the dangers of battle.
In contrast, the holy servitors looked ornamental in their spotless parade armor. Still they held their ground, forcing the column to rattle to a halt.
Only then did the foremost soldier unfasten his helmet. He tucked it under his arm and parted a sweaty strand of black hair from his eyes. When his gaze locked onto mine, he flashed that bucktoothed grin so familiar from my childhood.
“Well, well,” he said in that infernally smooth voice. “If it isn’t Little Morty.”
I’d long since given up trying to correct him. However much I insisted he use my actual name, I’d always be Little Morty (né Warty) in his eyes. Never mind the fact that I was a finger taller than he. His height gave him grandeur while mine left me graceless. Lanky. Awkward.
I rolled my eyes at him and turned to Arabelle. “This is Reverent Marshal Luthos, a distant cousin of mine.” Emphasis on distant. Plenty of generals and margraves on his branch of the stemma, with farmers and whiskey-fiends on mine. It was a fact Luthos never let me forget. Combined with the misfortune of growing up as a ward in his family’s household, you can imagine how I felt towards the bully in front of us.
After listening to Arabelle explain her role as an imp’s advocate, Luthos drew close enough to whisper, “My men’s spirits are higher than ever, and you want to take that away from them?” He swept a gauntleted hand at the statue. “This is a good thing. Why question it?”
“Because,” responded Arabelle, “few things are more destructive than blind faith. Once there lived a man called the Lightbearer—”
“I’ve heard the story,” grumbled Luthos.
“The Lightbearer,” Arabelle went on, like a schoolmistress reciting a syllogism, “who falsely claimed to be Divine Lukas reborn. He turned the populace against the matriarchs of Three Falls, slaughtering half the Electorate. My role is to prevent such unrest from breaking out here.”
An icy worm of dread burrowed down my spine. I looked past the servitors to the swarm of curious, desperate faces. They had the same slack-jawed expressions of patients under sedatives. Zealotry could be as contagious as disease, sometimes with deadlier consequences.
Luthos watched them, too, squinting his eyes in that moronic thinking face of his: lips pursed over buckteeth.
“Until nightfall,” he said at length. “You have until nightfall to reach a conclusion before I send you back to Three Springs under escort.”
“You can’t do that!” snapped Arabelle.
“Says who? The Church? Unless you’re part of the Electorate, my men don’t fall under your jurisdiction. And with this city’s matriarch dead and buried, I’m in control here.”
“Luthos, be reasonable,” I said. “You can’t expect her to leave at the dark of night, much less in contested territory.”
“What part of ‘under escort’ did you not understand?”
“Give her until tomorrow.” Then I lifted my voice to reach every ear in the square. “For surely our marshal isn’t so cruel as to send an agent of the Church away at the dead of night?”
“You bastard,” Luthos growled through a tight grin. He did an about-face and proclaimed, “Certainly not! She shall leave midday tomorrow after confirming this blessing as a most wondrous miracle!”
“There,” he grumbled. “Midday and not an hour later.” To Arabelle he said, “I expect you to report your findings to me before the public.” After shooting one last scowl my way, he led his squad back to the encampment outside the city.
“What the marshal has told you is true,” announced Arabelle. “I am here to determine the validity of this supposed miracle. How will I do that? Well, Talissa the Eremite defined a miracle as a heavenly act that yields earthly blessings. To that end, I’m seeking witness testimonies of any incidents related to the tears. This can range from cured blindness to visions in the night to anything in between. If you’ve encountered such a blessing lately, do not hesitate to reach me at—”
“The basilica is fine,” I uttered out the side of my mouth.
She shook her head. “Somewhere with tastier food.”
On impulse I blurted, “Oldchapel,” as it was the only such establishment within eyeshot. The slanted stone chapel abutted the city gates in the corner of the square, where its blue rose window overlooked the crowd. It once served as a Patronist house of worship before the Church denounced their Godking as a heresiarch. Now that it served as a tavern, one can only guess what the Patronists thought about it. No wonder a war raged between us. I could only hope this miracle would push our men to victory before more lives were lost.
But that was assuming this was a miracle at all.
* * *
Two holy servitors kept the crowd back from Oldchapel while Arabelle and I proceeded inside.
Blue daylight poured from the rose window to give the barroom the air of an undersea grotto, mildewy scent and all. The stone walls muffled the rabble outside so that the sharp voice in the back of the room rang that much louder.
“Can’t say I’m happy to see a bunch of servitors kick out all my paying customers!” The matronly woman frowned from behind the stone counter which once served as an altar for the Godking. She wore a widow’s bonnet-dyed lavender per custom along with an apron over her lumpy dress.
“Hello there, Dame Olvara,” I said as kindly as possible. The woman had suffered through her share of grief. Only last year her tavern had burned down in the riots leading up to the war. As an act of charity, the Council of Burgesses had bestowed her the old chapel. Small consolation for the loss of a husband and two children.
I tried not to stare at the pink burn on her cheek as I said, “I trust your son is healing nicely?” A week ago, she’d paid a visit to the infirmary for unguents we couldn’t spare.
“Don’t try buttering me up.” Her purple-rimmed eyes glanced over my shoulder. “Arabelle, was it? No disrespect, but I can’t have you interrupting business, such as it is.”
“If it’s business you desire, then you’re in luck.” With a smile she sat in a repurposed pew and clasped her hands on a charred table. “I can eat for twenty. Bring me a tureen of soup, two bottles of wine, and whatever else you can spare under army rations. The Church will pay double for it all. Gods know they can afford it.”
The words brought a glimmer to Olvara’s eyes and propelled her into the kitchen in the back.
“Now then.” Arabelle rested an elbow on the table. Her stomach pressed against the corner as she shifted to regard me. “The townsfolk seem rather eager to chat with me. Much as I’d like to interview them all, I simply don’t have the time. Not with the deadline Marshal Luthos has set for us. Could you be a dear and play doorkeeper? I want to speak to the most honest eyewitnesses.”
“I’d love to,” I said, although there was nothing lovely about it. I was enjoying the cold quiet of Oldchapel and didn’t cherish the idea of sweating outside with the horde. And yet anything was preferable to spending another moment at my butcher’s block.
* * *
For the next few hours, I escorted informants into Oldchapel one at a time. Neighborhood gossips mostly, along with that class of codgers and biddies who’d otherwise spend their days in the basilica pews. It brought me back to my years attending seminary physicians. Particularly how the endless line of patients would list their symptoms in encyclopedic detail.
This didn’t stop Arabelle from listening patiently to each speaker, only breaking her eyes to slurp mouthfuls of halibut stew. None of the accounts included anything more significant than odd cloud formations or a coin found on the street. And yet each of the informants recited their tales with the exuberance of children, for they all believed the tears to be a miracle.
All except one.
Dusk was settling on Galvin’s Ford by the time I spotted Grizzled Fergus outside. Rumor had it that he’d once slain a bear with a pitchfork. My guess was that he had acquired the name from his beard and dreamed up the story later. Under normal circumstances I would’ve ignored him.
But it was hard to ignore the reddish-brown blood that coated his tunic and forearms. His face bore the pallor of a man who’d soaked his head in a barrel of leeches.
“Let me see the advocate,” he croaked. “This ain’t no miracle. It’s a curse.”
* * *
Copyright © 2021 by David Samuels
