In the Eyes of the Confessor The sounds of wooden padded footsteps in the corridor alerted the occupant of the room that he was about to have a visitor. His senses were now fully alert. He realized, to his disgust, that the Elgongua he was drinking was having little recognizable effect on numbing those senses. More importantly the bittersweet liquid had failed to take the edge off his torment. The soft pattering footfall of sandalwood shoes scraping on stone was enough for him to recognize Confessor Roth coming to see him. He sank back into his chair, attempting the look of exhaustion. He then rested an empty bottle of Elgongua on his lap. As the confessor approached the doorway, yet before he had finished raising his hand to knock, he heard a dark voice from within beckon him onward. "Come Roth" grumbled the voice. Confessor Roth found it strange that the occupant knew he was there. The Order of Perpetual Light required that a balance between spiritual and physical wellness be achieved for each of its brethren. To that end, the confessor had trained in the art of silent walking; he obviously was out of practice. Mustering his courage and adjusting his robes the priest prepared to comply with the occupant's request. Confessor Roth, reaching with his right hand, turned the knob to the doorway and pushed the door inward. A reeking, putrid stench billowed out from the room inside causing the man to stop in the doorway to catch his breath. Elgongua thought the priest and lots of it. Roth pushed open the door just enough to slip into the room, now breathing primarily though his mouth, and quickly closed it behind him. To allow the smell of this room to escape would be a travesty and an insult to the decent folk who lived in the complex. Turning in the small confines of the entryway, Roth noticed that the living space was nearly dark except for a small candle burning at the far end of the room. Slowly and carefully he walked down the dark hallway to the main living room in the apartment. Not cautiously enough however as he stepped on and then, in an attempt to retain his balance, scattered a pile of empty bottles previously resting in the hallway. As the sounds of the spinning and clanking bottles slowed to a trickle, Roth completed his entrance. The main living space in the apartment was fouler in appearance then the hallway. The room was less than five meters both wide and long. The space itself appeared dank and musty in the darkness; no pictures adorned the walls to liven its appearance. In the subdued lighting, emanating from the lone candle, the confessor noticed that the ceiling was cracked. And in the far corner of the room the confessor could make out the form of a knife, at least the hilt of one. The shaft of the blade was entirely embedded into the ceiling, with only the hilt of the blade in view. "Strange," thought the confessor. As he focused on the object he noticed that there appeared to be some kind of protrusions from its pommel. Certainly it was an elaborate decoration of some sort but from his angle, and in the poor light, it was very difficult to tell what they were. Similarly strange was the fact that the cracks in the ceiling appeared to spread out from where blade had been buried. The floor was a jumbled mess containing litter, mostly papers, food cans, and otherwise worthless debris. However, the single most obvious item seen everywhere within room was the empty bottles of Elgongua. "This man has a death wish to drink that much of the foul brew" thought the priest to himself. His focus kept returning the blade piercing the ceiling. He now seemed to think those protrusions looked vaguely like wings; like the wings of a bird, a mythical griffon, or maybe an angel. Again the priest's mind talked to itself. "Strange? I wonder what it could be from?" Quickly switching his mindset, berating himself for being so easily distracted, the Confessor addressed his acquaintance. "I apologize for disturbing your belongings my friend. It in entirely my fault, I should be more careful when wandering in the dark. Please forgive me as the Emperor forgives the clumsy." He waited a moment but not hearing a reply from the man the confessor continued. "It has been a long time since we last spoke in the marketplace." "Did you bring the documents I asked for?" The confessor paused before replying. "My friend, you should trust in the Emperor's kindness. However, I do not under" Interrupting, the room's owner raised the tone of his voice. "I do not need you to understand! I need you to provide me with some information. The information will help me to complete an age-old mission in a long line of promises. Did you bring it?" "Yes, yes I did," replied the priest, his voice now solemn and monotone. "However, before I let you see it you must fulfill your vow. We agreed that the next time we met you would discuss the reasons for the burden you carry so heavily upon your shoulders." The room's owner lunged to his feet. He was tall, very tall, and dressed in a set of dirty combat fatigues. Over his shoulders was a blanket that the man was using to keep himself warm when the temperature of the room indicated it was better to have air-conditioning. Pointing at the frail figure standing at the end of the hallway, he raised the level and intensity of his voice and uttered, "I do not have time for this nonsense. Give me the information I seek old man, or today may be your last as you know it." The confessor smiled and then walked slowly into the room. He shuffled over the debris that littered his path as his robe redistributed the loose and lighter items behind him. He stopped at an ancient couch that sat directly opposite an ottoman where the room's owner had previously been sitting. The sofa was incredibly dirty and with a wave of his hand Roth produced a fine handkerchief from the confines of his robe and swept a pile of filth onto the floor. He then turned, smiled humbly at the man, and sat down. "Sit my son. You don't think I was foolish enough to bring it with me do you? You have been trying to get this information from me for over a year, as I have been equally trying to understand the fiends and daemons that torment your mind. We agreed to a compromise; I would provide you with some information and you would show patience by answering my questions. I have the information you seek, now sit and converse with an old man." The man erratically and in a jerky fashion spun in a circle where he stood. His motions gave the confessor the appearance that he was looking for a way to escape. Finally the man stopped, shrugged his shoulders with a loud sigh, and seated himself in the ottoman across from the priest. Reaching under the huge chair he withdrew two bottles of the incredibly wicked drink brewed especially for the poor on this planet, Elgongua. He extended his arm and held his palm upward motioning to the priest as if to share. The priest held up his hand, shook his head, and began to speak. "You know I can not. I took a vow and I am bound by my honor. Besides, that concoction would kill most men. You obviously drink a vast quantity of the foul intoxicant. Regardless, I am not sure how you manage to stay coherent." Returning the extra bottle to his lap, he opened the first with a flick of his wrist. Just before taking a long pull on the bottle he muttered "Practice! Lots and lots of practice." Upon finishing the only drink he had taken, he tossed the bottle over his shoulder. It landed with a crash amongst the other contents of the room and came to rest within the jumbled mess somewhere on the floor. Reaching down he drew the second bottle into his hands. He uncapped the top and then rested the bottle between his legs, always retaining a single hand on the neck of the glass container. "How do I know you have the information?" "How do I know you will tell me the truth?" The confessor replied. Raising his hands to stop the man's protest he softly continued. "Like I must trust that the information you tell me is accurate, so too must you trust that I have what you seek. However, I would understand if you did not actually believe me, for my risk in obtaining the information is greater than the risk of you telling me your story." "As proof I brought you this." Reaching into his garments the confessor withdrew a small ripped piece of paper. He then handed it to the figure occupying the space across from him. This is a duplication of one of the documents you requested. Only a fraction of the paper remains but this is proof that I have at least seen the objects you crave. I hope this satisfies your curiosity as to the legitimacy of my offer. I would like it very much if we now could speak of you." |
"WHEN TRUST IS VOID" By Mark Henry |
SAGAS OF THE FALLEN ANGELS |
