Curses And Sin

It was near the stroke of midnight and a darkness fit for the tomb gripped the soundless village. The brisk coolness of an autumn evening joined the assault of an early evening’s rain to chill a body down to the very marrow. In the darkness and the cold and damp, a sound of footsteps on cobblestones pierced the silence. “Click-clack,” they announced to the world that a visitor was approaching this woeful town’s lone church. The tall late night visitor wore a cloak as black as sack cloth. When he had reached the top of the church’s granite stairs, he pounded on the broad age worn oak doors. Thunderous booms that echoed through the still night burst from his massive fist. “Grundler! Murdering priest! Come out of there!” Shouted Dark-Shroud above the thunderous pounding. After many blows and many more curses were thrown at the door it finally creaked open and in the dim light inside the face of a tired monk appeared. “Can I help you?” “Tell Father Grundler that Cenarius has come to collect his due.” The monk stepped back from the door, frightened by the tone of the man before him. A timid voice squeaked, “I know what you are, demon. You have a lot of nerve in showing up here.”“But…” Cenarius’ voice took on a gentler pitch. “But it is cold out here. Will you not invite me in?” “The Father said I was not to offer you entrance in any manner. He said you could not enter if I did not invite you in.” “Damn his eyes! Tell him…” The voice grew quieter. “Tell him I accuse him of murder. Tell him he must come forward to defend his name.” “You cannot issue a challenge to a man of the cloth. We are not warriors, here.” “The church is judge, jury and executioner. I wish for the priest to be judged in the eyes of the church.” “This is most unusual. We do not…” “Bring him. He has murdered an innocent, and I want him to be judged.” The door closed, and for several minutes the stranger could hear the murmur of animated conversation. Then finally the door opened. A priest stepped out, accompanied by five robe-clad monks. Dark-Shroud gave the priest a terrible stare and said, “I accuse you Father Grundler of the murder of my beloved Draenda.” So saying, he grabbed a fistful of the priest’s robe and tossed him down the stairs.

The monks hurriedly gathered at the bottom of the stairs with their priest. The stranger raised his voice to address them all. “He murdered her! That man!” Grundler yelled back in defiance, “I destroyed evil. That is not murder! Your woman was a servant of Satan… just like you.” “A servant of Satan? So this is how you justify murder, Grundler? You place your own titles upon people and then drive stakes through their hearts? My beloved was no more a servant to Satan than you, less by your actions. Her only sin was to be cursed – cursed by another who was cursed.” “You lie! You attempt to deceive us all.” “Do I?” The stranger leaped down the stairs to land beside Grundler. The other monks stepped back. In an instant the man grabbed the cleric and sunk his teeth into the priest’s neck. He drank the priest’s blood with one hand out in warning to the monks. Fearful, the monks did not move to save their priest, but huddled closely together like frightened children. At last as the stranger finished he laid the priest on the ground gently. He stood and wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. “Listen to me. For three days he will lie in a deathlike trance, but at the end of the third day he will rise. He will have a thirst for blood, so have some warm animal blood ready, or your blessed Father will attempt to drink from one of you. In the beginning he will not understand what he is so you will need to protect him from himself. He will only be able to come out at night. The daylight will kill him. He will no longer be able to gaze upon your God’s cross, and any object blessed in the name of God will cause him agony if placed upon his skin. He will have great strength and no mortal man will be able to best him in combat. The only way to truly assure his death is to drive a wooden stake through his heart.” The man in the dark cloak began to back away from the courtyard. The dark of night was faintly lighter with the warning of a sun about to rise. From across the courtyard he yelled, “When he wakes up in three days - cursed as I am cursed – you will need to make a decision. Is this cursed man a servant of Satan? That is the title he placed upon my love and with that title he committed murder in his God’s name. So, if he is a servant of Satan it is your sworn duty as men of the cloth to purge him from the face of the Earth. However, if you decide this is but an illness, then you must assume he committed murder when he drove a stake through my beloved’s heart. What sort of man gives succor to the ill by slaying them? I care not what you decide, but know you this: if any of you decides that this curse makes me an enemy, then an enemy I will be, and you will rue the day you made Drak Anthony your enemy. Adieu!” In the quiet courtyard all that could be heard were the sounds of a man’s footsteps on cobblestones, growing fainter. The sun of a new day was struggling to peek above the distant horizon, and the five monks found themselves pondering the meaning of curses and sin.