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May the Lord God and His Son and Our Saviour Iesu Cristo watch over and protect all who dwell in this house. Amen.
I was born in Buda-Pest but have lived all of my life in a nearby town called Unterkiefer, because it is part of the lower defences of our glorious cities. I was educated by the Augustine monks as a boy and became a scribe in the lower courts. In time, I became a lawyer. I was reasonably well-to-do, with a modest house and some servants and this allowed me the possibility of looking for a wife.
I found her in the least noble of all places. She was the girl who came to tend my garden and my kitchen. She was only 15 and I was 27 at that time; already a mature man. I was born in the year of Our Lord 1592, so this was in 1619, four years ago from today, the feast of St. Gregory, whose name I bear. Despite our different ages, she quickly turned into the most wonderful wife a man could want. She was attentive to my every need, and had a natural talent for running my house. She bore me a son, who soon passed to God, and a daughter after that. We began to despair of having any children at all when our beautiful Sophia was born; named for the great cathedral in Constantinopolis, now over-run by the Ottoman hoardes, may God curse them Forever!
We continued to try to have a son but it was not the will of God. We contented ourselves with the light of our lives that was our daughter, Sophia. She was the most wonderful creature ever born to man! While I worked in my studio, she would sit in my lap and hold the tip of my beard in her tiny fist. With her little fingers, she would point out words on my legal documents and then look at me with such a questioning look in her eye that I would be forced to explain! I would say, 'that is the Latin 'litigare'. It means to fight, but not with our fists like common street thugs; to settle an arguement in the court, like gentlemen and honourable people'. She would gaze up at me with such attention that I thought my heart would burst! A perfect angel; I can almost still feel her little hand tugging on the tip of my beard but...
Oh! Excuse me, but I am emotional, aren't I? I hope I do not embarass you.
Yes, yes, thank you, another mug of wine will certainly strengthen me. Thank you.
I do not know how it happened to them and not to me; that is my cross. I will bear it for the rest of my days and I only despair that Sancta Maria will intervene for me and bring me still to the land of the blessed.
Our troubles began in the fall of this year.
As you good people know, the summer was very hot. This was followed by the rain coming early and the temperature falling. I have friends, farmers and woodsmen such as yourselves, who saved only fractions of their harvest. I see by your reaction that this is true also for you.
Years like this bring the plague, as we have seen before. Our chroniclers write of it in the Year of Our Lord 1348.
No! It is not the Black Death of which I speak, although nothing could be blacker. Fear not, good people. The Hand of God does not follow me.
The first instance was with the horses. The blacksmith came to me in a blustering range demanding that I investigate who had killed his draught horses, splendid beasts each one. I returned with him to his stables to observe what could be learnt from this. The scene that I saw cause my belly to swim and I am grateful that I did not embarass myself in front of such a man.
The horses lay in their stalls on the fresh straw as it had been layed out for them the night before. These magnificent creatures, the most powerful and gentlest of all Creation, seemed thin and drawn beyond all credibility; as though they had been emptied of all humours and vitality. I studied them one by one and could only observe one thing in common. Their throats had been torn from their necks, every one of them, without a drop of blood being spilled. In fact, we were certain to reaffirm that there was no blood about. I called a servant to bring an axe and had him lop off a forelimb at the shoulder. The flesh was pale and pink, like that of a sow after she has been hung and drained.
The next morning, by the light of a candle as the first rays of dawn began to illuminate my house, I sat in the courtyard and reviewed some recently received documents. All at once, I heard a comotion in the street; hysterical shouting and crying out. I thought to myself that a madman was about, but I was wrong. I exited the gate and into the street to find the parish priest beside himself with grief and despair. I managed to curb his flight and escorted him into my house but he would not be still. 'The house of Our Lord...the house of Our Lord' was all I could understand from him. I called for a strong liqueur to be brought to him and he seemed to calm after drinking it. 'Please, Mr. Advocate,' he said and the tears would not stop from streaming down his face, 'come with me and see what has befallen our town!'
We went out and I followed him over well-known cobble streets to the church dedicated to the Archangel Gabriel. I can only say that what greeted my arrival was abomination.
The body of the church's custodian was layed out at the foot of the altar. I had never seen in my life a finer old man of spirit and charity; may God bless and protect him. He had been emptied of his chest and belly. The result lay about for all to see. I gasped and knelt to cross myself on seeing the poor man's lungs, pale and purple, draped around the arms of the statue of Our Saviour over the altar. It seemed that the organs from the man had been put in various places about the church. His intestines were found lying along the bannister of the organ loft. His heart was not found. I noticed not a drop of blood among these parchment-like organs.
The nuns were gathered in a tight knot at the back of the choir. They were praying and the voice of Man was not one that they were hearing. I took my walking stick and gave the Mother Superior a sound beating. I said to her, 'Woman! God will wait! Now, this man needs your attention. Attend to him!' The nuns followed her like sheep and began to collect the parts of this poor man and he was buried the following day.
The plague visited my own house.
It took three days to watch them die; my wife and my beautiful daughter. By that time, the dead were accumulating in the streets. Families would put them out, cold, naked and abandoned for the rats to gnaw or the dogs to disfigure. No one wanted them in their houses.
I did not want them to leave.
I stood by them moment after moment, my wife and my daughter, praying and praying for their salvation. I wanted them to live. I wanted them to stay with me. I abandoned God, although I prayed to Him incessantly. It was not to the Glory of God that I prayed but for the life of my wife and my daughter. My sins were too many.
On the evening of the third day, they died. It was simple. Lying side by side in the bed, with the crisp sheets wrapped around them, they rattled together their last breaths as the sun blessed the world with it's last moment of light.
Even then the stories were circulating of the opened graves. On the same day that we witnessed the body of the custodian in the church,a tomb was found violated. I did not see this with my own eyes but, it was reported to me, that grave of a few recently interred in the ground were found open. The earth had been pushed out as though a great gust of wind had blown from within the tomb. Similarly, a family tomb of stone was found open. The iron doors and chains had been thrown to the ground like some great tempest had erupted from within.
I did not believe these stories of the dead rising, like vampires, to draw on the life of the living. I stayed with my dead wife and daughter all the night. I kept my Bible in my lap and I prayed for them, that their souls might find direction.
The next day I had to announce theirs deaths and, as was the custom, they were entombed in my family sepulchre.
I may not be the strong man that I thought I was. I wailed like a child at the site of these two coffins, upholstered in damask, one large and one very small, being carried by my familiars. I will never forget that sight.
That night, empty and alone, devoid of all emotions, I lay upon the same bed where they had died. My mind tried to comprehend the magnificent loss that lay upon me.
Their voices came to me slowly, lulling me me like a song. From beyond the shuttered windows of my room, so filled with death, my daughter called to me. 'Pappa ! Pappa!' She called to me again; 'Please! Open the window! I want to kiss you!'
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Well, that's it.
I don't think it's the best I've ever written, actually, it's certainly not. But it is my 100th blog. And tomorrow is my one year anniversary on thoughts. It's been a strange year; full of twists and turns and definitely ups and downs (too many downs!), but all I can do, or anyone can do, when looking back over a year, is to hope and try for the best in the future. Ok, I know that Boccaccio told 100 stories in ten days - I'll just have to try harder! :p
Thank you so much to all of you who have come to visit; you've all been very kind to me and I've met some lovely people here. And thanks to thoughts.com for giving me this space where I can go for a stroll with my muse.
cheers!
:)
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cheers back! *clink*
now tell us... how does the amazing storyteller celebrate?!
plz don't retire your muse. i enjoy reading you.
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Posted by paperlily
on 2008-06-27 01:00:02
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hey this would make a great movie too.
happy anniversary ... let me buy you a drink. would you mind?
:p
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Posted by DreamingOfBruxelles
on 2008-06-27 13:34:47
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It's not often you can say to someone:
Happy 100th! I look forward to many more.
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Posted by circe
on 2008-06-27 17:30:28
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I love it! Happy 100'th, and happy one year! this is a great story, very creepy indeed hehe :)
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Posted by pixierose
on 2008-06-27 20:47:42
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I loved your story. Is there more to it? We can always hope. Happy 100th Anniversary and 1 Year. I wonder if I will be here that long. We shall see. You are a great writer.
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Posted by Emmy
on 2008-06-29 15:36:30
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| Views: 80
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