Category: Journal of Old Pieter

We camped near the water, between Anthracite and the swamps, the wind whipping at our meager fire. Lady Sparrowhawk had joined us, up from Anthracite. She shared with us a story she had gleaned from meeting with the master of that dark tower.

There was a plague, she recounted, even adopting a bit of the sorcerer’s creaking voice, with a glint of humor in her eye, in times past. Generations past, she waved her arms as he is like to do, that afflicted, first, the wheat and barley of the field.

This pestilence (she continued) caused whole crops to fail and a fear of famine swept Darkmoor. Worse, however, was that the bread made from the wheat and the ale from the barley caused those to consume it to be likewise afflicted. Those suffering from this blight could eat their fill, enough for two or three men, and remain starving. They grew gaunt, with their skin hanging from their bones regardless of how they fed. Their eyes seemed to grow huge in their narrow faces. And they hungered.

The only satisfaction they could achieve was in eating the flesh of their fellows; sipping on their blood, cracking their bones to feast on the marrow. And this frenzied feeding made the afflicted powerful and manic. The hair of their heads and bodies fell away and they eschewed clothing; indeed even boots on their feet as they chased after the only herd animal they valued: their neighbors.

“This story, Knight of Darkmoor,” I intervened, “is not the sort I prefer immediately before retiring for the evening. It does not prefigure a full night’s rest.”

They laughed, though I made no jest. Why was she telling us this tale?

“The sorcerer felt there was some lesson in this for us, Brother Pieter.”

“And how does this legend conclude, in the sorcerer’s telling?”

“He states that, in the end, an accord was reached between the living of Darkmoor and these cannibals. There was insufficient food, given the blight, to feed the entirety of the realm. And there were these ravening Glass-eyes, as they were called, who cared not for wheat and barley.”

We stared at each other across the fire.

“I can guess the rest,” Aldmaar was the first to break the silence. “These Glass-eyes, well-fed and satisfied became the noble classes of Darkmoor.”

We laughed again. I thought we had moved on, when, in the waning light, Lady Sparrowhawk spoke up again. In her own voice.

“The Sorcerer says, rather, that they founded their own church. And the children of this church have kept its nature secret for generation after generation. That they built a Temple, under the guise of the church of Zuggtmoy, and until that Temple is discovered and finally brought down, the Glass-eyes will always return.”

To my shame, I was summoned once again to Wolf Hall. His Lordship asked for an update on the matter of the caretaker. I could only honestly reply that I had not, as yet, taken up the matter.

He was very cross with me. I could not argue.

“I am told that you… picnicked on the green?” I admitted that it was true.

“I will summon my Inspector and ask him to look into this mystery at the cemetery, since the Royal Confessor has no time for such matters.”

It stung, hearing these words. I promised that I would delve further into the murder of the caretaker forthwith.

“Do no disappoint me again, Pieter.”

I am not sure how I have allowed things to come to this state. I must make amends.

I met with the Castillian upon my arrival. He was quite surprised at my rapid return. When I stated my business, he insisted that we retire to his apartment that we might have more privacy.

“Pieter, what is the meaning of this?”

“Sir, I have receive reports that you hold an innocent man here in your gaol. I hope to convince you to free him that I might return him safely to his family.”

“The man that you speak of, Thomas Slate is in no ways innocent. He is a member of a band of thieves and bandits who have raided the shoreline for months. He was caught, amongst his companions, red-handed, their little slip heavy with stolen items.”

“They are a criminal crew, to be certain. The young lad I name, however, he was impressed into their service. Kidnapped from his family and required to serve them. He committed no crime other than what, at the point of a blade, he must to survive. Any of us, in similar circumstances and at that age, would have done similar.”

I was able to convince the Castillian to release the lad into my care.

Thomas Slate was drawn and hollow-eyed, in his little cell. When I told him that he was being released, he could scarce believe it. He embraced me and promised he would do better.

In the morning, we shall depart for Elder Pool, where he can see his family, his parents and his young sister again. It feels me with gratitude that amongst the grand projects, there are these small acts that we can take that can have such a meaningful impact at the level of the individual.

The lodging at the Ragged Moon, at least, is an improvement over that of Lord Valle.

I attended services at the shrine this morning. Deacon Willmat attempted to goad me into leading the reading, but I demurred. The attendance was outstanding. The enthusiasm of the youth is intoxicating. Afterwards, a small number of those present met briefly for tea and discussion. I departed, carrying with me their prayers and wishes.

I met briefly with his Lordship. He was dealing with a number of pressing matters, of course, but made time at my request. We met in Wolf Hall. I reported on what I had discovered at the cemetery.

After a moment of silence, he added, “And is that all you have uncovered, Brother Pieter?” I could not take this as anything but a rebuke. I assured him that I would attend to the investigation forthwith.

I did not sleep well, last night, on the cot in the main construction tent. I dreamt of spiky swamp weeds grasping, pulling me deeper into the mud of the fen.

I watched the sun rise over the walls of Elder Pool. To the south, the sun glinted off the great tower of the Sorceror.

I met this morning with Royal Engineer, Lord Valle. He detailed a number of items on which he wanted my input, foremost among them a concern regarding the ground under which the main entrance and grand facade are to be constructed. He presented a pair of alternate concepts which would be far lighter. I rejected these.

“You are a man who knows what he wants, Father,” Lord Valle said from underneath his heavy brows. He is at least twenty years my senior. When others call me “Father,” I correct them. Lord Valle may use whatever title for me he pleases.

I considered visiting Anthracite before I return to the shrine. However, one is not exactly given a warm reception, arriving without having been summoned. Unless one carries a shopping list in one hand and the reins of a horse in the other, its saddle bags heavy with gold and platinum Wolfs.

I spent some time in the recently excavated sub-basements. They are unfinished, but perfectly square, as one would expect from a project overseen by the Royal Engineer. That space will serve as sepulcher for church leaders of the future. I may ask that my own remains be interred there.

We are a faith who privileges the sun, the snow and a spirit of optimism. Down, in that hole, I ruminated on the fact that, ultimately, we all will lie in darkness.

Today, Deacon Willmat introduced me to a young lady. Valentine. She is full of energy and said very kind things about today’s reading and sermon.

She comes, she says, from the south, where too many have not heard the gospel of San Nicholas. She shared that this idea that we all have an obligation to help each other, that there is more to life than the wolf-eats-wolf grimness that is all so many know, has awakened something inside of her. That the word of San Nicholas has generated a sense of hope and purpose that her life has lacked.

What could I say, but to encourage her to read the texts and to help to spread the word?

She is lovely, I must acknowledge, this Valentine. Lovely, indeed.

This evening I met with Lord Dahlen, at his request. He shared a concern that there have been… disturbances at the cemetery. His family, of course, have long made use of the Royal Mausoleum. The Caretaker, as is custom, answers to the ruler of Darkmoor. Dahlen, it seems, fears that someone else, or some other force, holds sway there.

I visited the site, though it was late. The gate was locked, but I had no difficulty in letting myself in. Cemeteries are not prisons for the dead.

Walking through those rows of graves, some tracing back two thousand years, I was reminded of the great legacy of Darkmoor and the Grey family who has ever ruled here. I know that many feel dread finding themselves amongst the deceased, especially after dark. That has never been my experience.

There was a light, I discovered, at the Caretaker’s shed, which sits atop the mausoleum. I made for it.

The shed was locked. That provided no more barrier than did the chains at the cemetery entrance.

Inside, the Caretaker sat at his desk, a lantern flaring. His throat slit.

The door, I reiterate, was locked from the inside. Amongst the ornate tombs and sarcophagi, I found no one, living or otherwise.

What this all means, I have nothing material to add.

Amongst all other matters, I am encouraged by our activities, here at the shrine of San Nicholas in Elder Pool. My sermons draw significant numbers. More, in truth, than I have ever faced before. There is a positivity in those sessions. I am thrilled by the energy of those who attend, especially the young.

Deacon Willmat introduced me to several of those who attended for the first time, this morning. Such enthusiasm and eagerness to learn and to good things.

We sat about, after the ceremony, making our way through the streets of Elder Pool, sweeping the trash from the streets and offering assistance to those poor and indigent as we might.

Our site, here in Elder Pool will never possess the grandeur of the great cathedral we are constructing in the west. But these days, amongst these assembled, lighten my heart.