Notes from the Future: Henrietta's Tale, Part VI

"The last thing Friar Rudel saw before running for his life was the first seeking tendril of shadowed inkness reaching up over the edge of the trail where they had just stood, searching, reaching.

"Softly calling his name:

"'Rudel, Rudel, ring that bell, call the sinners down to hell; watch them die, peel their flesh, cook their bones on iron mesh. No, Rudel, please don't go -- we whisper up from down below; our whispers carry slicey cuts to slice the slits of silly sluts. To hear them scream in tightened ropes, to snap their bones and crush their hopes beneath the bulk of ev'ry man if ev'ry man were bloated Popes. To slice and cut and tear and rip, to hold them struggling in our grip, to watch their eyes as lids are torn or choke their blood as tongues are shorn or dangle entrails north and south that we have pulled from out their mouth ...'

"Turning from this slithering whisper, up the trail they ran, up and up, turning and folding over on their path with every bend, folding and blending until Friar Rudel began to feel as though they were on some illusory track that tricked the mind into thinking that one was making progress, while in fact they only held in place no mater how quickly they ran. This, at least, was the thought in his head each time he turned around to look at the progress of the creeping inkness, which never seemed too far behind them -- perhaps three or four bends in the trail at most -- and, faltering at heart, he would lose a step or two. But then the Merry Guardian would put a hand at his elbow or lightly touch his shoulder, and Friar Rudel would find himself suddenly light of heart and energized, able to actually run up the trail. 

"For his part, the Merry Guardian was full of encouragement, never tiring and constantly aware of everything ahead of and behind them. He made a point of describing the precise fashion in which the beast of flame was destroying their sigils:

"'Oh my, Rudel, you should see how he does this thing with his penis, it's utterly awful. Shall I describe it to you?'

"'Why not, O Perverse Entity? As long as you keep me running up this rutting cunt of a mountainside, I can listen to your descriptions of any number of abominations. Come along, then! What kind of phallic absurdity does that creature visit upon our creativity?' Friar Rudel was laughing aloud as he ran, never tiring for breath now.

"'Well, each time he reaches one, he tries to tear it with his claws. But it burns him, more than the fire in which he is enmeshed. The burning seems to go deeper, deeper than his bones, to his very being. Which enrages him -- oh my, as you can no doubt hear -- and so then he, goodness he's doing it right now, he rakes the barb of his evil cock across the sigil and that, that shadow you mentioned? It gets darker. Then he tears at the flesh of his own hands with the barb and throws his blood into the air before the sigil and as it mists there for a moment, it covers the sigil. He uses that instant, before the sigil can absorb the blood and get stronger, to rip the tiniest hole with his claws. Then he shoves his beastly cock in there and -- Rudel, this fellow is simply not to be tolerated for very much longer -- he's raping your lovely sigils! The effrontery of it!'

"Terrifying as it was, the Merry Guardian's description of the beast's attack on their magicking had the mortal and the Guardian laughing aloud as they ran. And each sigil they passed grew brighter for their laughter, and in turn strengthened every other sigil they'd left behind them, so that the beast howled even louder at each sigil he touched, because rather than weakening, the entire line was getting stronger. Every time the beast would howl, the Merry Guardian would act out what he was doing to the sigil, with exaggerated expressions and humpings of the air. Friar Rudel's laughter was so loud and strong and clear in the snowbound moonless night that Hannibal the Talkative, Abelard the Donkey and Bluebell the Mule, far, far above them on the trail, were themselves renewed and refreshed and practically leaping up the steep and treacherous trail.

"The folding of the trail had begun to remind Friar Rudel of something, of dough being folded and re-folded, a pastry of some kind. It wasn't a clear thought in his mind, just something bubbling in the back, a notion that seemed to come closer to fruition the farther up the trail they ran. Sometimes golden light, sometimes a scent, sometimes a voice humming, but each time it came to mind he was able to allow it to settle back down to be considered, like pieces of a stained-glass window in some great cathedral being slowly assembled.

"The trail would seem to be evening out, reaching a summit -- then it would turn again and up they would go, each bend lit by floating, glowing sigils. The farther up the trail they moved, the brighter the sigils became. Some time later, he knew not how long, Friar Rudel was startled to discover that he could see them without the aid of the round stone. He stopped in his tracks.

"'Astounding, no?' The Merry Guardian was grinning, his eyes inches from the sigil closest to them, watching as it not only floated but as each of its smaller parts seemed to move in place or float within it, like an obscure magical dance on the village green, watched from a hillside high above. 'Rudel, have you ever seen anything like this?'

"'I have not, Merry Guardian,' Rudel admitted, joining his mysterious companion in perusal of the sigil. 'And I confess that the only thing that ever really interested me about the Church was the potential of learning some kind of holy magic. No such magic has been forthcoming, and I turned instead to meat and drink and flesh for comfort. Did Father Robert know these secrets all along? Could I have simply asked him to show me what he knew?' Friar Rudel seemed almost to be speaking to himself, and in the silence that followed they heard, far behind them, another percussive hiss and pop of a destroyed sigil.

"'Truly, Friar Rudel, I do not know. He seems to know far more than he is letting on, and as I have observed in the past, much of his knowledge is either hereditary or deeply intuitive -- either way, it can't be something he's shared with the Church. Maybe he didn't know of it himself, until he undertook this journey. Most people who come to me at the crossroads do so to make a deal with what they think is 'the Devil,' for sex or love or money or talent or fame. Trifling, petty concerns. It was a genuine delight -- and no small surprise -- to be released from my duties of trickery and be able to actually assist as I desire, for once. We must be careful, though, because there are one or two eventualities which could send me right back to the closest --' and here he paused, eyes focused inward. A slow intake of breath, and all color drained from the Merry Guardian's face.

"Far, far behind them came a great, torn howl: the beast laughing more clearly than before, and Friar Rudel realized it had been some time since they heard anything from it at all. He looked behind them, down the trail, and saw nothing amiss. A gasp from the Merry Guardian brought his attention back to his companion.

"'He's found your Anchor Stone, Rudel. He's going to destroy the entire line. Go, Rudel! Go now and never look back!' Sketching a fiery blue-green sigil in the air, the Merry Guardian plucked it deftly from where it floated and smacked it onto Rudel's chest, right over his heart. 

"The old Friar felt new life, new strength, new sap in him. His eyes alight, he clapped the Merry Guardian on the shoulder, then embraced him suddenly. 'If this is what it is to be a pagan, I would happily cast aside all the torment and boredom of the Church for the rest of my days!'

"'May those days be long yet, Friend Rudel. Robert of the Lost will need you, and sooner than you think. Leap up the trail, don't bother running. Treat each level like giant steps and you'll be to the top sooner than, well, otherwise. Now, go!'

"Swatting Friar Rudel on his great, aged backside, the Merry Guardian turned to the air around him and began sketching, with both hands, a series of sigils and wards and images that wove together around him like the vines of ancient ivy, glowing in the night and spreading out along the trail with an energy of their own.

"Friar Rudel, propelled upward with the swat on his rump, found that leaping up the trail was indeed just as easy as the Merry Guardian had said. And though he wanted more than anything to look back and see what his erstwhile companion was doing, he knew better: the darkness of the beast could seed despair in anyone who looked upon it. 

"So it was that in the span of about six hundred leaps, Friar Rudel came easily to rest on the trail just above where Hannibal the Talkative lead their pack animals and the injured girl and Father Robert. The animals did not seem terribly surprised to see the old Friar land above them, and in fact rushed up to him, braying happily.

"'Hannibal, these animals are almost as talkative as you. Let's be on our way, time is short --'

"As Friar Rudel turned to head up the trail, there came a whiffling, snapping noise from behind them; looking back down the trail, both men saw every sigil wink out in rapid succession. Even as they turned to run, the sigils nearest them puffed out of existence and on up the trail every single sigil was out before they'd taken three steps. The dark, snowbound night wrapped around them and they knew no light, no warmth, no clear route up the icy, treacherous mountainside.

"In that moment, Friar Rudel knew what it was that the trail had brought from within his memories; all the images, the folding dough and late afternoon light and humming voice coalesced into a face, a place, an event. The memory of his mother, as she truly was, became solid and clear in his heart the instant the sigils winked out of existence. He knew, then, that all the pain the inkness brought was a lie. He knew it as clearly as he knew his mother's voice. It was the clarity of that memory, of her face and her love, that prompted him to turn to the darkness of the night and cry out:

"'Mighty Mother! Blessed Feminine from which all Creation truly stems! If as above, so below is so, so all Life comes from the Female! Protect us now, Mighty Mother! Bless and protect us from this unnamed beast come to destroy us in our quest! Protect this girl who stepped through fire from another time and place! Protect Father Robert, or Robert of the Lost if you prefer, whose errand seems more and more to take him into the moonlit glades of your influence! And, please, protect we who follow and learn from him, that we may continue to thrive in his guidance, and that we may, on occasion, be able to assist him when he knows not which way to turn. Please, Mighty Mother, on bended knee we humbly beseech thee, offering ...' Friar Rudel rooted about in his pockets, and finding something suitable, opened it to spray on the trail around them. 'A delicious red wine, to the quality of which I can personally attest, at length!'

"In the silence that followed, only the wind and the whispering sound of falling snow could be heard. Then a howl, far down the mountain, echoing up and seeming to grow closer.

"Then silence, and the seeming certainty of death."

Mother Henrietta pauses to pour more tea, and I'm shocked to realize where we are. I'd forgotten the cozy little nook and the tea and the Rachels and Ezekiels resting on their beanbags. Looking at them, I see several new or different faces from the group we started with tonight, and I understand: they work in shifts tending the wounded or dying. So weird that I'm pursuing a nursing degree and have ended up in a compound full of nurses, doctors, chiropractors, Reiki masters, ayurvedic practitioners ... each one, from what I understand, following the path to which they were called. I've never heard of a medical doctor willingly consulting a chiropractor before. But here it happens every day. And the rate of recovery among the patients is remarkable. Which makes me curious about something.

"Mother Henrietta," I begin -- then falter. How do I ask this? How will she take it? I look at her and she's regarding me with her calm, level, ice blue eyes. Swear to God she could be another of Tad's Aunts.

"You hesitate -- are you going to ask me how I've failed so to protect my flock?" Her eyes are gentle and she smiles slightly as she asks this.

"Yes," I say. "But I wasn't going to say you failed; I was going to ask how so many people, with such strong healing skills and deep intuition, could have come under the control of someone so cruel? I mean, I have seen and known some evil people in my life. I've had my share, maybe more than my share, of cruelty that I was powerless to stop -- but Torvald Mayberry --" I see her eyes flick to some point over my shoulder and I stop, turning.

One of the women, a nurse a little younger than me, is crying quietly.

"I'm sorry, should I not say his name?" I ask.

"No, you absolutely must say his name. We must all say his name. We must not merely 'never forget,' but rather we must all always remember," and Mother Henrietta's voice is shaking as she speaks. "I failed my flock, I failed people I've known all of my life, all of their lives, I failed my family, and I don't know how he had such power over me, over this place and over the wards and sigils we've renewed weekly since we arrived."

There is a commotion downstairs, where the front entrance is; amid raised voices, an Ezekiel and a Rachel burst up the stairs into the common area outside the nook, covered in dirt and stray leaves, their clothing torn and their faces and arms covered with cuts, scrapes, scratches and bruises.

"We've found them," the Rachel pants. "We know where he's taken them, and he has all the children there, too."