Light flooded the room, silhouetting the bulky figure in the doorway. She
backed against the rough stone wall, grabbing handfulls of the straw dirt
where she curled in the corner.
"Are you ready to repent, sinner?"
The door closed as the hulking figure entered the cell, filling the already
musty air with the added oppression of stale alcohol. In the gloom the shadow
moved over her, darkening her vision, driving her somehow further into the
pressing stone.
"Will you repent?" The voice was stern, demanding.
As the hessian habit of the monk hit the floor, the dust swirling out in
a cloud, she screamed. Screamed as she had never done before.
She knew that outside the sun was beaming, lighting up a brilliant world
of life and happiness. Her former friends chipped away at their lives, roaming
a free world, for even though their god had changed, what had really changed
in their lives? If they were pagans and evil before, then why, now embraced
in the kindness of this new church, would they turn her in? Just because
she had questioned this strange man who had shown up at their village? Where
had he come from? And why had he such power to oppress their everyday
lives?
The door opened again, blinding her eyes. The monk entered the cell while
she cowered in the shadowed recess. At each side of the door stood two of
her former peasant friends. In the right hand of each hung a heavy wooden
club, which they had already used against others of the village who had resisted
their forced change in beliefs. They would have no hesitation in ending her
life if the monk called her pagan and passed judgement on her. This monks
flock would follow his command like the sheep he told them they were.
She huddled back from the presence before her, repulsed by his smell and
the image he stood for. At her feet, in the straw, he lay a platter of blackened
bread and a wooden mug.
"Will you enter the house of the lord and beg forgiveness?" he said, still
gripping the tray.
Her eyes widened in response, her only sound a whimper. He reached over and
took her hand, terror sapping the life from her arm, which hung limp in his
grip. He looked over his shoulder in mock concern and spoke to the peasants,
asking them to close the door. As the oaken portal closed and blotted out
the sun, the monk turned to face her again.
"Change your mind and enter the house of the lord." His voice was soft and
calm.
Pulling away she nestled into the corner, head turned away and eyes
lowered.
"Enter the house of the lord, you whore," he hissed at her. "Fall before
the image of Christ and beg for forgiveness."
Tears fell from her eyes, her sobbing breaking the tethers of his temper.
In one swift movement he hit her. Hard. Her cheek pressed into the stone,
splitting the side of her lip open, blood wetting the wall.
Grabbing up the mug, he drained the contents. Her nostrils, flared in terror
and pain, could smell the ale that he drank. Flinging the tray into the straw,
the black bread coated in the dirt, he rose and yanked open the door. Again
the silhouette blocked the sun as he departed and left her to sit in the
dark and dwell on her pain.
He lit the candle and placed it before the gold image of the Christ. The
girl would have one more chance to repent her sins and embrace the true god.
And if she didn't? She would die. Yes, she would die rather than pollute
his earth with the soul of a heathen who would not listen to the words of
the saviour. Stepping across the lush grass he pulled open the door to her
cell.
In the dim light she lay pressed in the corner as if she sought to flee from
the light he was trying to show her. Lifting the cup to his lips, he drained
the ale and threw the wooden receptacle to one side of the cell. The girl
scrambled in her corner. He could smell her, the foul smell of her and the
moulding bread pressed into the dirt floor.
Moving to her side he gently held out his hand, his palm flat and turned
toward her. Kneeling down he took her hand and tried to speak soothingly
to her.
"Save your soul," he whispered. "Come with me into the house of the lord.
Follow me and listen to what I have to teach you."
He looked imploringly into her eyes, watching them dart from him to the open
door over his shoulder.
In one swift movement, swift for her withered limbs, she bolted for the door.
He knew she would do it, could see it in her eyes.
The choice was out of his hands now, she had doomed her own soul. Clasping
his meaty hands onto her thin frame, he pulled her back to the ground next
to him. Lifting his right hand back, he sent it smacking into her face. Could
feel her nose give way beneath his knuckles and sink back into her skull.
Looking down, he calmed his breath. Her eyes were open, but she would no
longer see.
Outside the panorama of the village called him.
One soul lost, so many saved. And here, in this virgin pagan land, he could
save so many heathen souls.
Maybe even his own.