Out of the Frying Pan ...

by Peter Gifford

That sound? A door opening to heaven or to hell? The scrape of stone. Noise after so much stillness, light after nothing but darkness. Musty air that is yet to me is as fresh as the cleanest mountain breeze. A whisper: “padre!”

And then— oh lord, though art blessed—I feel a hand touch my face.

My eyes slowly open, and I squint against the harsh light of a torch. It is Malvolio, crouched over my tomb. His wrinkled face is like the face of God himself to me. He smiles.

“Thank the Lord, you live” he says. “Come, rise up young padre, we have little time and I may be missed.”

Now, I am ashamed to say, I can admit to myself I lost all hope, there, buried under stone in eternal darkness. For some time after the last echoes of shuffling footsteps faded away, I prayed fervently, unable to believe that after seven years of faithful service to the Church and my Order, that they could turn against me so, and bury me alive in the forgotten crypts under the monastery. But the endless moments continued to pass; I panicked then, pounding the stone that weighed closely around my body, scraping flesh from my fists, squirming like a hooked fish in my prison. I wailed, and prayed, and ultimately I despaired, and—shame upon me—cursed God above and the Devil below alike.

And yet, someone listened. Malvolio waited until all others had returned to their cells and came back, faithful servant always, to rescue me from the most horrible of fates. And along subterranean passages known perhaps only to him, he lead my stumbling body, until we emerged among nameless ruins on a hillside outside the city walls. He pressed a small pack of supplies into my left hand and took the other, saying, “Go from here young master, far as you can before dawn. I do not know whether the Cardinal and his followers will learn of your escape, but you must trust no one, for his spies are everywhere.”

“But my faithful Malvolio, what of you?” I said. His face was lost In the darkness and I spoke as if to a black silhouette. “And who among the brothers can be trusted? Has Cardinal St Alban truly fallen into evil, or does he believe that in some strange way he is doing the work of God.”

Malvolio’s hands dropped to his sides then, and he seemed to hunch over still further. “There have been others, young padre,” he answered softly, “others I could not save.”

It is a year since that horrible night, yet still I find myself shaking uncontrollable if I should find myself in a small room. The walls seem to close in on me, and it is all I can do not to shout out and lose my reason. Tonight I write this in my room at a roadside inn, I will not say where. Old habits force me to set to paper all that I see and do, believing somehow that to do so gives me purpose. Perhaps one day I will see the Cardinal brought to task for his crimes, perhaps not. But I must continue to shine God’s blinding light of truth upon the darkest, most vile of shadows, and the base creatures that lurk in them. That is my purpose, or God would have despaired of me as I had despaired of him, and left me to slowly stifle to death within that stone coffin.

Outside, the winds howl and the rain pelts down, and this battered old inn shakes with the mighty blows. My candle flickers as the wind slips through the old timbers. On a night like this three moons past I was unfortunate enough to be outside in such a gale on such a night. I was caught past sundown on the road, on my way to a small village where I had heard they were in need of the services of a priest, and the storm had whipped into such a fury in such a short space of time that I found myself lost and wandering, soaked to the skin. I was badly in need of shelter, and thanked God as my protector when I saw a weak light blinking through the trees some way ahead. The light of a farm or country house, no doubt. I staggered on, bent almost double against the wind, and at the edge of my endurance came upon a iron gate swinging wildly on its hinges. Beyond the gate, at the end of a short, partially overgrown drive, a house showed black against the night sky. It was two stories, of a style that spoke of family wealth but in a condition that reveled the family had long fallen on hard times. Ancient ivy ran rampant up the crumbling stone walls; tiles were missing from the roof, and several windows had been hastily repaired with wooden boards. In an upstairs window I saw the light that had saved me from being lost in the dark woods, and I stumbled on.

At the door, mercifully protected somewhat from the worst force of the storm, I collected myself and wielded the great iron door knocker. The crashing was almost lost in the howling wind. After long minutes the door slowly opened and to my great surprise a young woman stood there, dressed in a high-necked shift.

“A priest! Come, come, out of the storm padre, how lucky you are to reach us this night!”

In great relief I fell over the threshold and the door was slammed behind me, blocking out the demon howls of the night.

Her name was Agetha, and she lived with her two brothers in that crumbling heap of a house. Their father had died recently, leaving only the house and his debts to his children. The young men were of very different temperaments, and reacted in ways befitting them. Shultz had taken to the wine cellar of the house and was engaged in drinking his way through a century’s collection of wines. Adolphus had taken to the library, and spent days in nights immersed in old books. Only Cynthia turned her head to the problems of the present. She was as strong woman of independent mind, pretty but prematurely embittered by her circumstances. She seemed pleased to have this strange, soaked priest stumble over her doorstep on this stormy night, for as soon I was set by the fire and drying out, a small glass of warmed wine in my hand, she began to tell me the story of her and her brothers in a charmingly innocent and honest fashion. Probably the fact that her father had been a minister of the church warmed her to me immediately.