CHAPTER FOUR
The rain fell throughout the night and into the early morning hours. Just before dawn, the rain had stopped and the sky filled with rainbows as the sun rose over Carter Pass (named after Brook's grandfather, who made Pomperaque a powerful city-state, nearly two centuries earlier).
On the streets were the people who hid from the rains, in the dry sanctuaries of their homes. They came out and gathered up their friends and relatives, that laid about in the streets half or entirely naked.
Some were still in the dreadful perverted poses brought upon them, by the rain.
The gatherers wore masks while they tried to separate those individuals still connected in their copulation. They wore the masks to keep the abominable stench of the human and animal excretions, from reaching them.
The heat of the morning sun made the horrid reek worsened to an overwhelming degree.
Medical men and women walked about and offered aid to those injured in the deranged mass orgy. Most were young girls and boys, killed by the frenetic desires of those who found it more to their pleasure to fornicate with the bodies of the dead; after having experienced the added excitement of killing them; with their fists or anything that they could find, to use as weapons.
There were men and boys, dead or dying from excruciating pain, after having their genitalia bitten off by some nymphomaniac harlots and other erotopathic bitches — some of who also died, choking while trying to swallow their prizes.
In the final reports given to Brook at noon, eighty-eight citizens were dead. Forty-three were women (ranging in age from fifteen to forty), twelve were men (mostly around fifty years of age), and the rest were children (boys and girls, six to fourteen).
Brook was saddened and alarmed, for this rate of mortality was the highest seen in Phoride for almost three hundred years. He still waited for word to come to him, from Upper Phoride and he didn't want to think of the numbers there.
The reports of those injured critically and seriously were also high. Their numbers reached close to two hundred; again, mostly comprised of children. Many boys developed venereal chancres and scores of young girls would now, never be able to bare children.
Even those who were slightly injured had reddened mouths, anus and genitals covered with runny infections. The more painful pustules erupted with yellowish-brown, jelly-like fluids that seeped from them, resembling the softened putrefaction of carrion. The most frightening, and eerie, result of the rain was the affects that it had on the human spirit. After the rain, there was always a deathly hush over the entire city. Only the gag-like breathing of those hundreds recovering from their scourged vainery, could be heard. This lasted for several days and sometimes continued for weeks.
There were no regular markets and no trade occurred. At night, the quiet was gravely frightening and it gave the entire land the atmosphere of a necropolis. The buildings were the tombs and the people inside were the living dead.
No one ate for days. Most could not eat from the stink of the ejaculations and blood that still covered the streets. The sight of it all caused nausea on its own accord. Those who were injured didn't eat either for they knew that the good food would quicken the runs of pus, as the poisons were forced out of them, and their pain would become even more unbearable.
The clean-up of the dead and injured was hurried on this day because soon after the sun rose, the heat of the day was intense and by noon, the carcasses of the animals that had died from the rain, began to rot. By now, the sane, unscathed citizens began to remove the corpses from the streets and cart them off to the incinerators for burning.
Many vicars, cardinals, novices and other coenobites helped those on the streets. They administered first-aid and prayed for their souls' salvation. But they were the last to appear on the streets that morning, after they cleaned-up their own mess at Halls. Within the Quadrangle of the Cathedral, all the members were locked-in during the rain, with dozens of whores and other town's wenches, that were promised good food and a place to stay for one month, in return for their services when the eagerly awaited rain finally arrived.
These merry women adored the great Halls Cathedral. It was the most enormous structure in all of Phoride and the other lands on the continent. The structure reached for the sky. Its lean, slender appearance was capped by a crystal and gold ornate dome, with a spire. Buttresses flew out, all about from the slender central pillar; where at its base, tall and wide copper doors majestically opened and closed as people walked in and out of the main chapel.
Extended behind the pillar and into an oval shaped building was the area of the monastery, serving as the dormitories, rectories, scholarly libraries and private rooms for the monks. This residential building also housed the ArchBishop's office, wherein he conducted all his business of decision. Although this was one day of heavy mourning and discontent, there were plans at hand, and there were thoughts to be exchanged. All this was owed to the ArchBishop's ill-at-ease feeling, that was brought on by Lord Brook's refusal to meet with him for such a long time. The ArchBishop was always in his office, seated in his leather chair, rumpled in holy softness, and able to turn in full circles on its rounded legs. The ArchBishop was the same age as Brook but his hair was darker and the lines on his face were less defined. They framed his jutting, hairy brows and silvery-grey eyes, with a sculptured precision.
His physique reminded one of a defeated athlete. His paunchy flab lolled about his waist like Saturn's rings, and the texture of his skin lacked softness, appearing course and strangely tight.
His clothing shimmered in rich extravagance as he sat in his chair dressed in his ethereal garb made of the finest white satin. His black surplice, thrown over it, opened on the front and revealed his bulging gut as he sat. On his head rested the constant sign of authority, his tall white and gold mitre, studded about with rare jewels, gifted to him by the Heads of other lands. Across the desk from him sat the Cardinal Allen. Unlike the great ArchBishop, he was more modestly clothed in the handmade magenta habit, that all the other Cardinals and monks wore within the monastery walls.
The ArchBishop in his chair, listened to the choral chants coming from the chapel. The melodic resonance was made by the dozens of novices and vicars as they sang their praise to the great forces of the Almighty. They gave their thanks for their lives, their homes, their food and the virgins sent to them, for the pleasures of administrating their blessings to them.
During the 'Praise to the Almighty' hymn, the ArchBishop, with his greatly inflated ego, listened in quiet and not tolerating interruptions. Afterall, their praise was being made to him alone, and he felt obliged to listen to them.
The chants echoed throughout Halls and its Quadrangle. Soon, all the senior monks joined in the melodic praise from wherever they were; whether in their gardens, in their stalls or strolling along the colonnade beneath the dormitory buildings. After a few minutes the whole area around Canon's Butte, where the Halls Cathedral stood, was filled with this song. This was the only sound heard, making its way through to the rest of Pomperaque, as it struggled out of its misery.
The office seemed to have an identity all of its own. On the walls hung the likeness of the Archbishop and the ancient Canon Di'Vaticanus. On the number of shelves about the room were placed rare and antiquated texts that dealt with their faith, and there were equally-rare statues of long-dead saints; those whose names were all, but few, forgotten.
As the 'Praise to the Almighty' ended and another hymn began the ArchBishop sat up in his chair and resumed the talk that he was earlier engaged in, with Cardinal Allen.
"I am pleased that you had found an opportune time to speak with her." he said in his roguish, powerful voice.
"Her thoughts seemed preoccupied, when I first spoke to her. I finally asked her to arrange the visit with Brook and Your Holiness, but that disturbance had occurred in the square and I do not know if she remembered to tell her Lord Brook. We should have had a reply by now!" Cardinal Allen relayed to the ArchBishop his brief encounter with the lovely Dearborne. He also admitted to him, the desires that he felt for her, during it all.
The ArchBishop smiled, his evil, butterflied lips turned up on each end while the rest of his mouth stayed unchanged. His eyes sparkled with intrigue and cynicism, and with the knowledge of predictability.
"Our Lord Scullion never replies. I really don't expect him to — now, more than usual, and we would waste our time to go to him. We would be told by his wretched servants that 'He is not in, call again!'. Then I, like a fool, would wait for another time. Now, more than ever, we must strive for an alliance between us. His power is a great danger to mine and he knows it deep inside his heart. His is a presence to be feared in Phoride!"
Cardinal Allen seemed confused by the change of the ArchBishop's usual attitude towards Brook Scullion. He couldn't see the true feelings in his Master's eyes and he didn't know whether he was frightened or just being careful about the great sovereign of Phoride.
Allen stood up and went to the window that was behind him, across the room. He looked out to see a number of the monks' service-wenches. They all lounged naked by the courtyard fountain, recuperating from their follies in the rain the previous evening. Beside them were a number of young novices and some messeigneurs. He looked over to a picture of the ArchBishop and sighed in a breathless manner, until he finally looked straight ahead again and nodded to himself in approval of his proposed thought. He turned to the ArchBishop. When their eyes met, he knew that maybe Allen had designed a cunning solution.
However! …
"Why don't we just dispose of our Lord Scullion? Then we will have no threat and you will be the supreme One, in Phoride!" he shouted to his Holiness.
"But, my loyal Allen, I already am the most supreme. Why do you think that he hasn't told the Phoridenes about the ancient people? He has the proof, just as we do; and because the citizens regard him as highly as they worship me, care must be taken to keep him alive. Our advantage lies in my hope that he does not know the extent of his power."
"That is odd, your Holiness! If he indeed has the power, the ability, to destroy your authority, then we do not fare well. You remember the other rebellions against you, you Holiness? He, too, can destroy our position of power. He can be just like Martin of Ohigh, Hudson of Netheda, or maybe even like Harvard Bartlet of Besten. And don't forget the single disobedience by those people, like that Virunese pig, Empal. Our unity has become weak and their's has grown!" Cardinal Allen worked himself into a frenzy.
The ArchBishop, with a cool attitude towards the talk of his imminent downfall, calmed his loyal servant and set him straight as to the workings of Brook's mind, and the probability that nothing at all would happen.
He lifted his hands and gestured for Allen to stop. He smiled and swayed his chair to and fro while he spoke. Cardinal Allen slinked back towards the desk. Apparently, his nervousness was greater than the Almighty's himself.
"You worry too much. I still have Phoride under control, my favoured-one. I have the advantage over our Lord Scullion. As I said, I don't suppose that he knows the full extent of his power and the people are also unsure. Confusion! … Confusion, Brother Allen, is our ally. If he tries anything against us, we shall call him a blasphemer, and he does not want this." he smiled at his own deductions, but Allen did not appear to be very pleased.
"Scullion has ruled Phoride for as long as you. Do you really believe that this man, who has ruled for nearly thirty years would cower at a charge of blasphemy?"
The ArchBishop laughed as he arranged his surplice, folded beneath his gut.
"Yes, I do believe it, most favoured. He thinks that the people follow only me. I proved this to him when I passed the Canon Education Law. He will be controlled … in time." He leaned back in the chair, a dry squeak cut the choral hymn in the background and nurtured the evil mechanism within the room.
The singing in the background moved further into the distance as the monks shifted to a different section of the building. They chanted the appropriate hymns in each of the spiritual rooms.
Allen spoke of Dearborne once again. He seemed to be angry and oddly annoyed about her apparent inability to produce Brook's offspring over the past twenty years. They were the only couple in the land to be together for such a long time without begetting children. Everyone questioned that but the answers were always the same. They weren't ready, and are young enough to wait some while longer. Allen made his fun of the man, Brook.
"What of his wife, Holiness? What of her chastity for these past years? What a coward he is, to be wed to one so fair, as she. Twelve years of marriage and no children, and you do not allow Our right, to have her bare one of Our Holy children."
"Hush! You will have the chance, my most loyal friend. But we must be vigilant for the appropriate opportunity."
Allen smiled at the ArchBishop's approval and with eager ears waited to know when.
"You are right about the length of their marriage, with no children.
Soon they have celebrations of their joining. We shall attend. You may
have her obey your whims, at that time, but not before and not after.
The time will make itself available to you, then!" finished the
ArchBishop.
"May humbled thanks, Most High and Wise." said Allen as he quickly trotted to his master, the ArchBishop and kissed his hand.
"Enough, Allen! You tire me! Go and make the necessary preparations and give it your fullest attention."
"Yes, Your Holiness!" and after his bow, he left the Almighty to his own thoughts, as he listened to the chanting choir, again drawing near as they made their way to the upper spirals of the tower.
He relaxed in his chair and patted his belly. He stretched and sighed, as he leafed through some papers and tabloids.
Soon, he delved into deep contemplation about Brook and himself, and their respective positions in the land. Through his mind ran a whirlwind of thought that concerned the so-believed misfortune in Brook's power. He felt uneasy over the total disunity that could occur, if the mobs of Phoride rose up against him. It could happen if the past were revealed, as truth, in place of the Canon's 'disillusionment' commandment. What if they accepted it? He wondered.
He remembered that he attained his rule of churchly affairs after the death of his father. He remembered that he had to discharge the promise made to his father, after he died, and so changed Phoride and all the adjacent lands, to meet his own needs. His need was to receive the fullest devotion and love from every individual in Halls, and the realm, and to bask in their worship of him, as their god.
He slowly got up and walked about the room. He took off his surplice and hung it in a chiffonnier then, before he closed it, he drew from a small compartment a large napkin, scented with the essence of Nethedan lilacs. He touched it to his nose.
The choir echoed in the background. The heavenly hymn that they were singing was 'God's Tribute to Canon', the first over-praised god of the continent.
Listening to the choir, the ArchBishop's spirits were lifted, as if he were the Canon and the praise was to him. Although he had been considered as a god in Phoride, for nearly two score years, he was still envious of his great-grand-ancestor; for what he had accomplished had set the method for those gods after him, to follow.
He smiled heartily as he thought to himself, about the total unadulterated domination of whatever he chose to control, and whenever he chose to control it. And once, he spoke aloud to himself. "Phoride and its all, are mine!" He clasped his hands as he walked about the room and to the window. He looked out at the naked women lying by the fountain. Around them were young monks rubbing palm-butter on the ladies' bodies, to prevent the sun from burning their overused flesh.
The hours flew by in their relentless journey to forever. Already they had passed into the afternoon. The ArchBishop still looked down at the fountain, where some more regenerated, sweat-greased ladies and some horny vicars were at it again. He was slightly angered when he saw their folly. He knew that he would have to take disciplinary actions on them. He had told them, many times before, not to play with their guests in open view. But this thought, however, didn't deter him from looking at the shapely objects below.
Soon, there was a rap at the door and it slowly opened. The ArchBishop turned to see who it was. It was the Cardinal Levy; a large brawny Nasin man, similar in age to the ArchBishop, but balding. His face always seemed blue from the perpetual shadow of hair, that grew with phenomenal quickness.
In front of him stood a pretty young girl about fifteen years old. Her large, frightened eyes flitted from side to side. Her heart pounded within her chest. Her delicate but firm breasts rose and fell with each breath that she took, and the fair skin on her arms and legs were dotted with goose-bumps. She had a sense of alarm and apprehension within herself, as she stood in that office. She had never before seen the ArchBishop, and only one hour ago, she was summoned to appear before him.
What had she done? What sin had she committed?
She felt like crying but she couldn't. She was terrified at the questions that ran through her imaginative mind. She feared punishment for whatever she had done, and she dearly wished that she knew what that may be.
"Will there be anything else, Holiness?" asked the Nasino.
"Yes. Bring food and drink within the hour!"
"Yes, Holiness." said Cardinal Levy, then left them both in his office.
The ArchBishop stayed silent as he looked-over the beautiful young woman. He stepped closer to her, but she inched backward and up against the door. She held the veil that she wore over her head and shoulders, tightly in her hands.
He stopped his advance towards her, to let himself take-in the full extent of her pure, young beauty; the tresses of gold that hid beneath the veil, the soft roundness of her form and the delicate prettiness of her bare feet and shapely legs.
Her large, sky-blue eyes, reflected the objects in the room and shone like sapphires when they caught the sunlight that beamed in, from the outside.
The choir still chanted in the Cathedral. The voices of all those men rose into the groins of the chapel within, and then echoed out towards the town.
The ArchBishop grinned at the girl and asked her name but she did not answer. Her fright robbed her of her speech and after he asked her twice, in a soft and kindly manner, he at last boomed harshly.
"What is your name, my child?" he ordered and moved closer to her.
She showed nervousness when pinned up against the door with nowhere else to move. She began to speak, her melodic voice trembled and stuttered.
"My name is Mercedes, Holiness! — Please, please do not hurt me! I don't know what sins I have committed but please, I repent them!"
He smiled again and put his hands on her shoulders. He assured her that he would not hurt her. However, he soon began to fondle her, rubbing her shoulders and neck with his fore-fingers. She said nothing. She stood still as if frozen, her heart jumping inside her while the choir crescendoed into the finale of their 'Hymn To The Virgins!' He reckoned her, his sparkling evil eyes sized-to-mind and personal passions, her plump and full mouth that glistened with the juices of youth.
"Sh-h-h-h!" he commanded her in mock gentleness. "You are not here to be punished, my darling child. You are here to be blessed."
By the gentle, fatherly sound of his voice, he quelled the fright from her, and from her confused, unsure expression, emerged a trifle, but still apparently trusting smile.
"Bless me, Holiness? I do not understand. Why bless me? I am no one!" she told him in a half-happy, half-honoured tone.
He smiled at her as he affectionately took her dainty chin into his hand and told her the reason for her being brought to him.
"But you are someone, darling Mercedes. You have been chosen on this day, from all the fair maidens of this land, to mother my Holy Child."
She felt cold again and went aback. His hand dropped away from her chin as he slid the veil off her head. She slowly shook her head and touched her uncovered, golden-fleeced hair, unable to believe that her god would ravish her. And she tried in every way, to prevent what she feared would happen and she pleaded with him.
"My god, I cannot! I am promised to another, and to him I am to give my chastity. Forgive me, Most High Lord. The honour is great but I cannot accept." she looked down to her feet and waited to be dismissed. She had thought that her appeal to him about her betrothal, would touch him, but instead he was angered by her disobedience to his charge.
"You can't refuse, my child! To refuse suggests that you are possessed by a demon of vast impurity!" his voice echoed throughout her mind. She was frightened again and did, so desperately want to leave but she had to listen.
"To refuse is to pronounce death upon yourself, and you do not want to die … DO YOU, my darling Mercedes?"
Her mind spun with twisted visions. Jugglers played with her eyes to amuse those watching. Acrobats flew over her netted bowels and wrestlers squeezed the living soul from her heart.
In a desperate craze, she fell to her knees and grabbed his sweaty hands and kissed them with terrorized respect. She grovelled at his feet and further pleaded with him, to choose another, more worthy than her.
"Oh, please, Holiness — don't do this to me! Let me give my chastity to my promised, Hartford. Then you may come in, onto me!"
The ArchBishop's indifference to her pleading grew, as did his anger. He had wanted her for days, ever since his searchers showed him a likeness of her, swimming alone in the crater lake. She would be his best, he thought. Of all the others, she is the most beautiful and would bring to him the highest fulfilment and the heartiest offspring.
"You cannot bargain away from a privilege!" he told her. "This is a favour done for you. All the world will look to you in praise and will worship you. You will be proud when you hear the people shout their homage to you … 'Paise Mercedes, Mother of Grace!'. Don't you want this?"
She continued to beg her position but he paid no attention. She repeated, over and over, "please don't do this to me!", while embracing him, still down on her knees. She cried and tried to regain her breath but her spirit weakened and totally fell to the surrender of his ultimate dominance over her.
"I Am the Almighty. You must obey me!" he barked at her, as he leered down fixed upon her eyes.
Mercedes cried hysterically. She allowed her body drop all the way to the floor. She turned limp and helpless like a weak little kitten with no hopes of survival.
The ArchBishop bent down to her and took her face into his hand. He wiped her tears with his scented napkin. He gently seized her by the shoulders and slowly lifted her, and the choir in the background grew stronger in volume. He embraced her and his hands groped for the lacings that kept her clothing closed around her. Then for a final time he rumbled at her, eagerly trying to make her realize that what he was about to do to her, was a blessing and not a violation of her body, as some were sure to regard it.
"You will thank me one day, my lovely child. You will bare my son or daughter — the child of god — and the world will pay fealty to you, and you will be happy." and, as he finished his self-forgiving reasoning to her, he ran his hands over her breasts and down to the smooth roundness of her hips. He kissed her mouth and brought his hands to her shoulders where he moved his fingers beneath the material of her garb and disrobed her. Her dress fell, in around her feet, revealing her silky smooth whiteness.
She still cried but her hysteria left her, just as did her spirit and her self-value, turning her into a submissive bag of flesh that rattled with blood and bones.
Like a child's rag doll, she gave pleasure to her master while he toyed with her until, at long last, he lifted his white satin frock.
The choirs' hymn-sing rose to a grandiose peak that resonated throughout the length of Halls, then stopped.
On the other side of the monastery were the libraries and the private-roms for learning. Daily, in those rooms, novices and the youngest vicars learned their history of the Canon and all that was necessary to be known, as men of the Almighty.
Cardinals were usually the most learned of the monks, given to train the younger and inexperienced in the ways of life, love, worship and rule over the peasantry.
While the ArchBishop made his studies in his office, so did the novices and grade vicars. They learned the proper methods for the torture of rebels and the demonically possessed. They learned that which assured the longest, most painful and lasting punishments that insured against quick death.
Then there were those who taught proper methods of seducing and satisfying women. The Cardinal Allen was one such instructor, in this what he called 'an art'.
In a dark room filled with books and artifacts, the Cardinal Allen was having and instruction session with one of the young vicars named Tohm, and a slanted-eyed wench, from Lÿnondan, called Ssidel.
On a large rumpled couch lay Ssidel, with Tohm, clumsily balancing himself overtop of her as he took is instructions in making Allen's pronounced 'art'. Ssidel lay there. She didn't make a sound or move a muscle. She seemed dulled to what was happening and poor Tohm was once again becoming frustrated at his failure to please her. He felt ashamed at his adolescent inabilities, since this was his third time at his class and the third at his failure.
Tohm begged Cardinal Allen, with all his heart, to tell him what he was doing wrong and requested him to demonstrate that was in which he does it, and how he manages it so well.
Allen showed him, over and over again, until the Rogjan chanted from the chapel spire, calling the monks to their evening prayers to the Almighty; to ask him for his blessings on their food, and on their other necessities.