The Scars of Saints Page 2

  Lidia heard a soft splash – a footstep inside. She darted her eyes to the left. Nothing but a pile of rotting wooden chairs. She pushed her face harder against the wall and peered down the alley where her father once stored his kegs.

  That’s when she saw him.

  Although her view was interrupted by the top plank of wood angling down, she caught sight of a tall, slim, well dressed figure. He wasn’t moving, just suspended in one spot, staring right at her. His ghostly face was particularly skeletal, protruding cheek bones and dark rings under his eyes. The skin across his neck was blotched with black and blue bruising. She gasped, holding her breath. Stumbling back from the door, her expression turned to horror, her hand placed across her mouth to stop herself from screaming.

  “What are you doing child?” chirped a curious female voice, behind her. Turning with desperate hope of finding a familiar face, Lidia’s expression turned from despair to relief.

  “Margery!” Lidia cried, overwhelmed with excitement to see her neighbour. For the first time Lidia could remember, Margery didn’t have her dog with her. Lidia had never seen her outside without her dog clasped in her fragile hands. Her face was gaunt, pale and sad. Three healed scars criss-crossed her forehead, and she appeared to be missing her right ear.

  “Away,” hissed Margery with distaste, backing away and fluttering her hands, “where have you come from child?”

  “But…” Lidia mumbled, trying to find the strength to call out the madness of the situation. She imagined this was just one of her mother’s stories, or perhaps this was her father punishing her for her transgressions. But Margery would not endorse such an absurd punishment. Lidia raised her dirt-stricken hands in desperation, “what happened to father’s tavern?”

  “No beggers! Get out of this village at once, or I’ll fetch the guard, so back from whence you came,” Margery scoffed, backing away, keeping her eyes on Lidia before briskly departing down a nearby alleyway, casting various backward glances as she scurried away.

  Trembling, Lidia looked down, noting her once pretty white cotton dress her mother had sewn for her years ago now destroyed, cut open in various spots, haggard like a dirty old mop. Her legs were badly scratched; various trails of blood stained her skin.

  “Girl,” chimed a voice nearby, “girl, can you hear me?”

  Turning in fright, Lidia clasped her arms around herself, a single tear rolling down her dirt-stained cheek. Standing before her was a church pastor, an old man with stringy white hair and a toothless grin. He appeared gravely ill, dark rings under his eyes purporting the illusion he in fact had no eyes at all. A peculiar glowing pendant hung from his neck, a swirling concoction of colours.

  She had never seen this man before. He was not her local Pastor, nor was he from town. Lidia said nothing.

  “Come with me girl,” invited the pastor, urging her to follow, “I will tell you what’s going on. I know you must be frightened.”

  “But I don’t know you,” Lidia muttered, confused and afraid.

  “Strangers are but friends you have yet to meet. It’s not safe for you out here girl. Come with me, inside,” the Pastor darted a finger towards the hillside that rose to the town’s tiny stone church.

  “Where is everyone?” Lidia asked, presuming the man would know. He looked like he might have been part of a travelling priesthood. Many had passed through town during a pilgrimage, some even staying overnight.

  “Come inside, and I’ll tell you everything,” he promised.

  ---

  Once inside, the man dressed as a Pastor offered the distressed Lidia water in a dirty glass, a chip imbedded in its side. Her hands shook as she sipped, her eyes wide with panic.

  “Many orphans like yourself have turned up in the village recently,” the Pastor croaked, his shaky hands lighting a wick amongst a myriad of melted candles, “I can help you.”

  “I’m not an orphan,” Lidia protested, “I’m not! That is my father’s tavern! My sister and I live there and we went to the woods for just a moment to see-”

  “The woods!?” the pastor gasped, shaking his feeble head with disdain, an untrustworthy grin across his wrinkled face. The flickering light gave her little solace while she gazed around at the church walls. This was much different to what she remembered; she didn’t recognise the pews, the darkened brick, and the stone staircase in the corner. Thousands of tiny twigs and branches covered the once beautiful windows, blocking any light. The walls seemed to be melting, a glazed red ooze sinking down the ancient brick.

  “Why is it so dark?” she wailed, glancing around.

  “You mustn’t go near the woods, unless he invites you inside. Did he invite you inside?”

  Lidia glared at the Pastor, her lips trembling.

  “My sister and I, we…” but she trailed off, frightened by the growing darkness.

  “He doesn’t like the light,” the Pastor said, shifting his attention to the roof above Lidia. She began sobbing. She felt weak, alone, scared. She rested a hand on the red bandana, still tight around her head.

  “Please help me, I need my father,” she begged, “please I just want to see him, I want to see him.”

  The Pastor said nothing, his unruly grin painted to his face, contorted and toothless. Licking his lips, the Pastor reached out his hand, clutching the pendant around his neck. With his other hand, he jabbed a needle into Lidia’s arm and she wailed out in fright, stumbling back. A single droplet of blood oozed from her shoulder, and down her arm.

  “What did you do?” she asked, gripping her arm, staring at the darkened red trail, “what did you do to my arm?”

  Growing nauseous, Lidia stumbled ungraciously down a single step near the pastor’s pew, before tumbling over, blacking out instantly.

  ---

  Lidia woke to the sound of a distant dripping, and the strong stench of rust and lime scale. She couldn’t see a thing, nothing but pitch-black darkness. Taking a moment to let her eyes adjust, she soon realised she was in the catacombs below the church, locked in a dark cell surrounded by walls of century old rock. Her breathing began to quickly accelerate, her fear taking hold. The oxygen was thin.

  “You’re an orphan too?” asked a soft voice, from over in the darkened corner inside of the cell.

  Lidia gasped, turning in fright, her bottom lip trembling.

  “Who are you? Why am I here?”

  “He takes us,” the soft voice heralded, “the old man, dressed as a Pastor, was he the only one who spoke to you in town? He takes us and he locks us in here. He says we need to trust him, and that Aevum will save us.”

  “Why are you saying this!?” Lidia cried, falling to her fragile knees. Her hand slipped down the rocky wall, and she caught a glimpse of thousands of faces – men, women and children all locked up in this hellish dungeon before her.

  “Will you bless Aevum with me?” the soft voice questioned, a frail gaunt looking girl with scars on her ghoulish face appearing from the darkness, “so we can give life together?”

  Lidia screamed in terror. The bandana fell from her head, landing in a puddle of mud. The overwhelming smell of rotting flesh returned, and she felt the life slip from her body.

  CHAPTER 1.

  The village of Orlat, twenty miles east of Sibiu, Southeast Romania.

  The Year 1835

  Röark couldn’t help but smile. Watching his oldest friend Cervis stealthily try to swipe old man Vlad’s traditional eliznik hat from his head while he tended to his sheep was nothing short of comical. If Vlad caught Cervis, he’d wring his neck and beat him swiftly with his cane, even if he was one of the village elders.

  Ducking and weaving amongst the giant black nigra trees at the foothills of the Cindrel Mountains, Cervis drew closer and closer to the old man. Their little village was his backdrop, the vibrant green hills littered with sheep and goats comparable to tiny dotted clouds among a stunning green sky. Röark held his stomach as he laughed, trying not to make a sound.

  But their fun
was soon cut short. Röark felt a vicious tug on his already bruised ear and he knew straight away who it was.

  “Look at you out here, messing around! How in Lugh’s name are you going to tend to your father’s lands when you stand out here and mess around with that boy?” his mother squawked with her usual rage. She raised her muscular arm and punched Röark, first in the ribcage, then the thigh. He tried to defend himself, but to no avail. She knew his weaknesses.

  “Stop!” pleaded Röark.

  But she didn’t. She belted him again right across the face, before grasping his chin, pulling it close to her dark, scowling face. Her features were sharp; piercing eyes, long pointy nose and a permanent frown. Her skin appeared as if she’d spent years in the sun, frail wrinkles brewing assumption she was older than forty one. But Röark loved her. She had taught him everything and looked out for him in a fierce way. Her love was tough, almost always ended in a hiding. As a timid, quiet boy, Röark was the stark contrast to his overbearing mother. Short and stocky with dark brown eyes, his mother would always jibe Röark’s body was the culmination of the best parts of his father, yet none of the personality. He was introverted, loved to be alone, seldom seeking company.

  “Get back inside or I’ll beat your face black,” she threatened, giving him a hard, suggestive push towards their tree-lined cottage inside one of the oldest villages in the Mărginimea Sibiului region of Transylvania - the quaint farming village known as Orlat.

  Röark flashed a quick glance towards Cervis, but found him nowhere to be seen. Not surprising, he was terrified of his mother. Everyone was, but Cervis especially. He was a self-renowned wimp, always claiming he was an adventurer like his ancestors, yet everyone knew he was really just a coward. There was truth behind his nickname ‘nervous Cervis’ – a sheep in lion’s skin his mother would say. So the nickname stuck, much to Cervis’ dismay. Loud, boisterous and demanding, Röark’s mother had gained quite the reputation as the matriarch of the sleepy little village.

  “I make you breakfast, I make you lunch, I make you dinner, and this is how you repay me!” his mother blared behind him, while Röark hastily made his way towards their front gate. He swung it open to the accompaniment of unoiled shrieks, and pottered past their orchard littered with various fruits and vegetables. Dozens of chickens fluttered past, clucking in fright and flapping their wings. Behind his cottage, amongst the red, yellow and green pines, a faint call of a red kite trailed, searching the pastures for stray field mice. Half a dozen cows grazed nearby, their docile heads rising and falling as they chewed their way through banquets of fresh green grass. Six huge bales of hay ran perpendicular to the back wall of the cottage, blocking out the sun, keeping the inside of the stone building cool. The hot sun paraded high in the crystal blue sky, not a cloud could be seen. The beautiful air was warm yet refreshing - a perfect day for tomfoolery.

  But not today, and not ever, according to Röark’s mother.

  Entering the cottage, she gave Röark one more heavy smack on his behind, urging him to get outside the back door to tend the fields. She forced a decrepit string-bound hoe into his bulky hand, and again squeezed his chin.

  “What will your father say when he returns to find the fields in the state they are?” Röark’s mother grumbled, shaking her head, “If I catch you out there running about with that boy Cervis I will beat you senseless, understand me?”

  He replied with a simple nod, avoiding any eye contact.

  Röark knew his father wasn’t coming back, but his mother didn’t seem to. It was though she was still holding on to hope that her husband might return. The townsfolk often spoke of his disappearance over a decade ago, the mystery behind it and the many fables that arose in the aftermath. But Röark’s mother wouldn’t listen to any of them, instead insisting the place must be kept in pristine condition for his impending return.

  “It’s the full moon harvest festival next week in Sibiu, can we go?” Röark asked sheepishly, a feeble attempt to have the subject changed.

  “Only if you pray to the harvest Gods. How else are we to sell the herbs and fruit?” she snapped in response, whipping up a tatty sheet of cream coloured paper resting atop the room’s antique table. Knocking over one of her woven ticca dolls, she growled in contempt, scrunching up the bit of paper. She threw it against the stone wall with a powerful lob and stormed over to the stone oven, reaching for some coals.

  The ball of paper rebounded from the wall, resting by Röark’s shoes. Paper fliers of the like were not prominent in Orlat, only more so in the big towns around Romania. Yet Röark knew straight away he had laid eyes on this once before. An exact copy, delivered the day before, by two elderly men dressed in exquisite flowing blue robes. Röark reached down to unravel it.

  While mostly penned in Latvian, there were small pockets of writing in a language Röark had never seen before. His mother had taught him to read their local scribe, along with various others from outside town, and so rarely was he exposed to a language he didn’t recognise. Furthermore, two small sketches of young men who appeared to be heavily deep in prayer were scribbled along the left hand side. In a bold sense of finality, written along the bottom in flawless ancient daco-Romanian, was the phrase ‘Rise with Aevum, embrace the teachings and be blessed’.

  “That’s the third time!” bellowed Röark’s mother’s voice from the kitchen, along with a clatter of pots, “the third time this week they have come to our home.”

  “What do they want?” Röark asked, confused, again reading the text and running his finger along the sentence he didn’t recognise.

  “They want the farm,” his mother barked, her face red, “those monsters, who do they think they are!?”

  Röark didn’t understand. Orlat was mainly peasant farmers working in an underprivileged agricultural village. Besides their neighbour Pascal’s fishing exports, and the shopkeeper Ilie’s small scale bee products and honey deliveries, no one was ever interested in their village.

  “They want our farm? For what purpose mother?” he asked, eyes glued on the bottom of the page, the words standing out as though they were speaking to him – Rise with Aevum.

  “It doesn’t matter why! They are not getting it! Now get out there and tend the field or I’ll beat you, do you hear me? And if you see that rotten trouble-maker Cervis once more, I’ll beat you both! Now get out!”

  CHAPTER 2.

  “Why are you always trying to take things from other people?” Mihaela asked, glaring at Cervis.

  “That isn’t true,” argued Cervis, frowning, “I don’t take, I discover. It’s an adventure.”

  “That’s just stealing,” assured Mihaela, raising her eyebrows judgementally, “anything that isn’t yours that you take without asking is theft.”

  Holding a giant slab of pinewood vertically, Cervis hammered in two rusty nails and let go to admire his work. Within seconds, the nails slid free before snapping under the pressure and the slab tipped over like a tree that had just been logged.

  “I can’t sell anything at the harvest festival if I don’t have a hut to sell it in.”

  “No, it’s okay,” assured Cervis, stumbling around the newly fallen slab, “I’ll fix it. It’ll be perfect.”

  “Let me help you,” suggested Mihaela, stepping forward. Petite, pretty and nurturing, she was also hard working and ambitious. Having never left Orlat, Mihaela knew little of the world beyond, which made her appear somewhat naive and sometimes ignorant. But thanks to her father she knew plenty about carpentry, and Cervis was terrible at it. She was a few years older than Cervis, and was acutely aware he had a flailing crush on her. She felt responsible for him, like a baby bird fallen from its nest. This upset him greatly, as his attempts at impressing her were crass and usually blundering, and for this she felt guilty.

  “I just need a few more moments to balance the timber,” Cervis explained. His underfed pet dog, a matted Carpathian shepherd dog, sat beside him, eyes glazed. She twitched her head, and barked.

>   Mihaela laughed, “See, even Collarbone agrees, you need help.”

  “No I don’t,” Cervis disagreed, flashing his trusted companion an agitated glare. Collarbone whimpered slightly, and retreated to the back fence of Mihaela’s yard, collapsing on the grass in the sun.

  “Why don’t you go back and find Röark, so we can-“

  “No!” snapped Cervis, his eyes darkening with rapid seriousness. Mihaela paused in initial shock, before realising her mistake. Although Cervis and Röark were the oldest of friends, Cervis always felt disparaged around Röark. It was obvious Cervis felt inadequate, and perhaps with good reason; Röark was prevalent amongst the village folk, and Cervis was not. Even though Röark was timid and introverted, he was well mannered and polite. On the other hand, Cervis was insolent, brazen, and commonly adverse to rules. Having been raised by an abusive alcoholic father, he had little in the way of discipline as a child. His father had been a peasant, brewing illegal quantities of fruit brandy in their home when the local breweries had all been shut down.

  After his father’s body was found in the local creek, Cervis became increasingly distant, unpredictable and angry. No matter how much any of the villagers tried to help, their efforts were always in vein. But Cervis had found a confidant in Mihaela, and his insecurities about Röark were rife. Mihaela knew it, and knew better than to persist.

  “I’m just saying,” continued Mihaela with more care in choosing her words, “that he might want to help us so he can get away from his mother.”