The Twins of Noremway Parish (3 page)

The field was large; the golden grass spanned in every direction as far as the eye could see, and at roughly seven feet tall, bodies lying in it would be hard to find.

“
I’m so sorry, Tomias,” she said.

She didn’t see what happened next. Blood sprayed in the air, covering her face, hair, and protruding abdomen as the wolves jumped at her, ripping open her gut. “
The baby!
” she cried. “
Oh no. Please, please
.” She managed to protect her face with her hands, but that hardly deterred the predators from eating into her womb. The flow of a mother’s blood stained her legs. There was no hope for her, the baby, or her husband. The wolf pounced again, this time clenching her neck in its jaws. She tried to pry it away, but to no avail; she felt the pain of being torn apart.

Chapter 2

Brother Decon continued his meditations as the Watermans were being eaten by the wolves. He sensed something was wrong within the parish, but he didn’t know what. The answers, he believed, would come to him shortly; and if they didn’t, it would only be a matter of time before they did.

Teret had left the cathedral, leaving the worship hall in preference of the chapel next door to it. Classes would end early today, the first day of the harvest—known simply as Harvest Day—but that didn’t mean there wasn’t grading and planning to be done early. Sometimes it was a fulfilling job, but other times she felt like the target everyone agreed was acceptable to hit. He felt for her; and it wasn’t just because he loved her. He knew she worked hard.

He was lucky that the friar was immune to any sort of criticism. Such behavior would seem unruly. He was to be treated with a deep reverence, and if one disagreed with something he said during a particular sermon, one could do so privately and respectfully. But parents with children attending school often felt the need to publicly and loudly ridicule the leader of the teaching body.

He’d been feeling it all day…a change was coming. Unfortunately, the feeling in the pit of his stomach dictated that the change—whatever it was—wouldn’t be a good one.

Story Teller
, came a whispered voice from the shadows.
Story Teller
? Did he hear that correctly? He slowly stood from his prayer in front of the statue and walked to where the voice had spoken, but saw no one. Maybe he was just hearing things. He looked around the cathedral, noting the series of lanterns lining the rounded walls. The orange light cast an eerie glow. The pews were plentiful enough to house a sermon containing every parishioner.

Story Teller
, the whispered voice said again, this time from behind him. He spun around but again saw no one.

Then a blinding light flashed, and in that light he managed a glimpse through the story teller’s eye.

***

Where am I?
he thought, but this thought was soon crowded out by an onslaught of others. Thoughts that pushed through his mind like a sand storm, thoughts like the narration of a story.

I wake
, spoke the thoughts,
and I don’t know where I am. I can hear screaming; cries of pain, anguish, torture. “Who’s crying?” I attempt to ask. I try to move, but am held down by chains, thick chains made of steel. I struggle against them, and soon the chains are holding me suspended upside-down.

Despite the darkness, I can clearly see filaments of black smoke surrounding me. The dark fog is so black that it would show clearly even against the blackest of night.

“
Story Teller
,”
the fog speaks my name. The black wisps of fog flash with electricity as the voice speaks. “Story Teller,” it says again. The voice is deep and scratchy, echoing through the chamber.

“
Where am I?”I try to speak, but the words won’t leave my lips.

“
Story Teller, what is your purpose here?”

I try to answer, but I can’t make my mouth move to say the words. Of course, I have but one purpose in this world, and that is to tell stories. I finally manage to respond with a question of my own. “Where am I?”

“
What is your purpose here, Story Teller? Answer me!”

I’m growing anxious. I can feel the fear rising through my body, stopping briefly at my heart, and catching in my throat. Of course, you know the feeling. It starts as a tightening in the stomach, and then it causes your heart to flutter and skip and seizes the throat, restricting the flow of breath, hampering your ability to breathe. “What do you want from me? Where am I? What is happening here?”

This last question is one that is on a story teller’s mind, for I usually know. A story teller couldn’t very well connect you from one circumstance to the next without the foreknowledge of the impact of that detail. If one were to tell a story without a clear picture of the outcome, details of no import would slow the pace and expand the tale to something unmanageable. I always know what’s coming next: except for this tale.

Because I don’t know what’s happening now.

The darkness—or perhaps the Darkness, if the note left in The Book of Ragas had indeed been from the unremitting creatures of the Dark—seems to be clouding my eye, preventing me from seeing.

“
Since you want to know what’s happening, why don’t I just tell you?” the voice said. “Interesting that you are now in the position of listener. The story teller having to listen to the story he was intending to tell. Right now,” the voice paused, then continued, “Tomias and Lynn Waterman—the heroes of your precious account—are being eaten by wolves. I’d love to say they are being eaten alive; but, alas, I can most assuredly confirm they are both dead.”

“
No!”

“
Oh yes…both dead; and their child, the one that would be the hopes and dreams of the mayor of Noremway Parish, will show himself and bring the parish to its knees!”

“
You lie!”

“
No, I’m not lying…so what is it that you call it? A ‘revision’ is in order, and the Darkness is doing the rewrites. You just sit tight and listen.”

“
This isn’t supposed to happen!”

“
Well it did—and it continues to happen…and as for your heroes, no one will find them for hours at least. Their bones will be picked clean. And when the good friar finds that two from his flock have gone missing, our demon child will be born unto the world with hope and peace in his eyes. Such trickery is divine.”

***

Decon woke in the cathedral in front of the statue of Ragas, disoriented, sure that what he had just witnessed was some sort of vision. He decided to leave, but as he was on his way out of the cathedral, who showed up but Rita Morgan, the loudest and most abrasive woman in the parish. He silently prayed the Watermans were alright, because it appeared he would not be getting to them any time soon.

***

“
Mrs. Morgan, it is great to see you this lovely day,” Brother Decon said, wearing a faux smile and holding out his hand in welcome. In fact, he hated her. He couldn’t let on that he felt that way, however, since he was the friar. He was supposed to love and care for his whole flock. But, oh how he dreaded talking to Rita Morgan, the thorn in his side.
She’s like a cancer on this whole parish
, he thought.

She returned his smile; hers was likely fake as well. Her curly black hair stood up in a crazed parody of a clown’s, but that wasn’t all that was wrong with her appearance; she was also bloated and fat. She and her husband owned and operated the largest orchard in Noremway Parish, as well as bred and slaughtered all of the livestock. The portly appearance of both she and her husband was a constant reminder that while the rest of Noremway Parish barely found enough food to live, the Morgans were eating plenty…plenty that they weren’t sharing.

“
Brother Decon, I think you really ought to know what Sister Teret is doing in those classes. I demand—no, I
DEMAND
you let me observe her––see what she’s been teaching those poor children. My little Abigail always complained Sister Teret was picking on her. You know, giving her extra homework to do, keeping her in from recess because she didn’t have the extra work completed. You know I never made her do it. Do you know why? Because it just was not fair to give my little Abby more work than the rest of the class got.”

Decon couldn’t believe he was being delayed by this garbage. Abigail Morgan…how could Rita even bring her up? She left Noremway Parish as soon as she had finished school, preferring to live away from her mother in neighboring Bassingway Parish. “As I remember, Rita, your daughter was treated fairly, and she left Noremway Parish to get away from you.” He saw no sense in sugarcoating the facts as he saw them. Besides, he was in a hurry; he needed to get to the Waterman farm.

“
Well, I just want to see if there has been any—”

“
That’s great. I know you and Sister Teret have never seen eye-to-eye, but I’m glad we can put that ugly episode behind us,” Decon said, interrupting her. He tried to push his way around her, to head out the door, but she blocked his path with her considerable girth.

“
Look, Brother Decon, I’ve no need to remind you that I have not seen or heard from my daughter in five years. That is five long years that James and I have given up our parental rights. And for what cause? Because of your damned parochial vicar,
Teret Finley!
” She spit Teret’s name like a curse. Rita wasn’t saying anything that he hadn’t heard many times before, however, and her frequent rants were becoming a bit of a bother. Sometimes she repeated herself with the same ease that she told herself lies. He suspected the habits were related––perhaps even two parts of the same flaw. “Sister Teret is a heathen—a heretic—and it’s a shame that you don’t see it.”

“
Rita, please. If you continue, I will have to ask you to leave, and I don’t want to do that. This cathedral is open for anyone who wishes to enter, and is open to any beliefs anyone brings in with them.
But
if you cannot be respectful I will ask you to vacate the premises.”

“‘
Vacate the premises?’” she said, shaking her head. “You the sheriff now? Gonna ask Franz for his badge after you kick me out? Huh? That your plan? Maybe appoint yourself chancellor?” Rita didn’t give Decon a chance to respond–or ask her to leave again–before turning around. She hesitated briefly, as if second-guessing her decision to leave, but thankfully decided there was nothing left to say.

Decon breathed a sigh of relief when she was finally gone. She was a thorn in his back, and had been for years.

“
That woman is
crazy
,” he said aloud, relieved that she was gone. There was a nagging at the back of his mind about something, however; something he was doing, somewhere he was going. Rita had entered the cathedral just as he was leaving on this errand, but he couldn’t remember what it was for the life of him. It was such a strange sensation. It was like something took the thoughts right out of his mind.

“
Every woman is a little bit crazy, Decon,” a voice said, interrupting his thoughts. Bartholomew Plague stood at the entrance, arms folded, shaking his head derisively at what he may or may not have overheard between the friar and Rita. “Just be glad the law forbids you marrying one.”

“
That woman takes it to a whole new level, Bart.”

“
The matriarch of trees. If you ask me, the parish can’t support that damn orchard, anyhow. Sure, we have water enough for a few years, but a drought’s coming; sooner or later you know it’s gonna happen. We can’t act as if the good fortune we’ve had over the past decade will continue…because it won’t.”

“
I know. But the Morgans would never give up the trees.” He loved talking to Plague. The panic he had felt while talking to Rita was now gone, replaced by the relaxed feeling of kindred brotherhood. Yet that which he’d forgotten continued to nag at the back of his mind.

“
You know, each of those trees sucks up 100 gallons of water a week. At 80 trees…that’s a lot of water.” Plague walked down the center aisle between the pews toward the statue of Ragas. He continued past the statue toward the holy fountain standing in front of the pulpit. This particular holy fountain was carved in the shape of two small children wrapped together in angel wings. The wings, intricately detailed, contained clearly defined feathers. Beyond the beauty of the symbolism, the most noticeable feature was the meticulously carved expressions on each of the boys’ faces. For generations parishioners had debated if the faces expressed joy or pain, or perhaps both. Some had even asked whether they were angels or demons.

Plague noted the water flowing from the open mouths of the children and scoffed. “Aye, I’m complaining about water shortages right in front of the holy fountain.”

Decon laughed. “Don’t worry, Bart. The danger of hell is often overstated. Blasphemy occasionally has a place.”

“
I’ll remember that,” Plague said with a nervous laugh. “But I think this place is too beautiful to stain with foul language. That’s why I wonder why you even let that Morgan woman in here. She’s as foul as they come, and you know it.” The cathedral stood at the north end of Noremway Parish, overlooking the town like a guardian. Designed by Ragas Moliere himself as a monument to the seven parishes of the Inner-Crescent, the cathedral stood as a symbol of hope.