The Holy Curse

Wessex, 9th century.

The windswept shore airily shifted to and fro. Incessantly the northern current thrashed down on a still and silent cliff cracked by the still more violent thrashing of the sea. Above the cliffs, timeless wardens of the teeming ocean, lay a tranquil grassland. The wind transformed the plain into an ocean itself, the grass rippling and shivering before the oncoming storm.

As a monument to the eternal mountain of God, a spiral rose from a compact, well-crafted sanctuary which stood amidst the trembling plain. The lighthouse of the parish was made of stone and earth, yet when a ray of sun pierced through the gathering clouds, a tiny pane of stained-glass resembled the future precious stones of heaven. All inside the heavy oaken doors was as quiet as the dreamless sleep of death. Even the figure bowing low before the altar at the front gave the appearance of some saintly specter who stood motionless, guarding the house of God. Yet the steady movement of his prayerful lips indicated otherwise. Wrapped in the burdensome robes of the village priest, the ancient man on his knees was oblivious to all except the One with whom he had an audience.

After minutes were spent that had the depth and importance of ages, the priest arose and unbent himself, walking straightly toward the stained-glass catalyst of light behind the altar. The figure of a cross was centered in the pane. With the light streaming in, encompassing the symbol, the shadow of the crucifix was cast down before the table of communion. Inaestimabile sacramentum. No gold adorned the altar. The chalice was roughly shaped. The tithe box by the oaken doors was almost empty. Yet the solitary window gave the sanctuary an unearthly light which negated the other earthly deficiencies. Still the old man gazed through the pane, his tired eyes seeing more than colored glass, peering at something beyond – something unreachable in this life.

The oaken doors flew open. The wind rushed through the narrow chapel almost startling the silent priest off his feet. He walked stolidly down the length of the aisle and extended his arms to take hold of the doors. As he slowly pushed the doors shut, the wind beat down on him and his limbs gave way. Again the doors flew wide open. It was then he saw the approaching fleet. Clustered together and traveling swiftly, the prows of the longboats were pointed straight at the cliffs. In sight just above the cliffs’ edge and below the stormy horizon, even the poor eyesight of the priest could see that the boats were bristling with the pagan shields of the Northmen.

The waves rose and fell. The longboats fell into the rhythm of the sea and advanced with fury. The Northmen, armed and filthy, saw the cliffs and the parish above. Grimy hands clenched at their spears. Knotted braids were flung back so fierce eyes could gaze at the approaching treasure. Jutting chins were pointed straight ahead. As the prows ran aground, the warning peal of ancient bells was heard. The Northmen did not care. Plunder was the treasure. Besides, the sound of the carillon would only draw them to where the richest treasure was kept.

Dozens of the villainous raiders found their way brashly, but slowly, up the paths of the cliffs. Panting, yet feeling a twinge of excitement, they reached the flat grassland and saw the village church. From among the bristling crowd, one giant warrior began to strip off his armor, grabbed a spear and rushed straight toward the church spire.

His feet pounding, treading mercilessly on the gentle rolling grass beneath him, the Dane whirled his spear about his head rashly. His comrades followed behind at a swift pace. Like thunder, he came to the doors of the sanctuary, now closed, took an axe from his side and hurled it through. The doors burst open. His eyes were blind with a ferocious fever. With terrible strength he began overthrowing the pews. He retrieved his axe and brought it down with a splitting cacophony on the organ in the back. Without any apparent reason the warrior started toward the front of the church. All around cries were heard as his fellow Danes began the raid. Yet he was oblivious to them.

He had seen it. It stared back at him.

The stained-glass was too bright. Too terrible. Too holy. He rushed forward while screeching sounds of horror and fury. He clenched his spear and drew his arm back to thrust it through the pane. Yet in his fury he did not notice a still and silent figure, the warden of the timeless symbol, crouched down before the altar. The warrior stumbled in an inglorious heap over the priest. The two figures on the floor gazed at one another in equal horror. The surrounding pandemonium faded from thought.

The fire in the warrior’s eyes had been quenched by the cold assurance of the black-cloaked ancient beside him. The priest extended a hand toward the warrior as if to both ward him off and beg for mercy. Yet as the hand was extended, the warrior blanched and quickly withdrew. Backing away from priest and altar, he stood up in a disorderly manner and stood a bit bow-legged.

At that time a swift current of wind burst through the chapel as several warriors entered through the oaken doors. It was not long before the tithe box was found and overturned. The fact that the chalice was roughly made did not exempt it from theft. One of the warriors came forward to the altar. When he saw the priest kneeling there, he took his sword, already stained with blood, and thrust it through the side of the aged man. He kicked the wounded priest aside and started gathering the golden candlesticks behind the altar. As the sword entered the frail body, the cowering warrior was still standing, watching.

Like a tremendous wind the Danes came and left, wailing with perverse pleasure at their plunder. Yet they left one of their own behind. The timorous heathen was still standing by the priest. It was impossible for him to avoid the gaze of the ancient eyes. Those eyes burned like warm water on frostbitten hands. It was evident the priest found breathing difficult, but he still managed to keep his head up and hold the gaze of the warrior. While gazing intently at this pathetic crumpled old man, the Dane found something unnerving. The eyes holding him captive were as still as death. Indeed, the sword-blow given by his companion was certainly fatal. Yet the warrior could have sworn that those eyes… those eyes were like nothing he had ever beheld. Even while still as death, they were full of life. Yet that presence of life burned him like the fires of the underworld. What would life be to him, a man who lived by the sword? A man whose existence was a living death? Could Thor extend this life to him?

Then he remembered the stained-glass. He looked behind the altar and saw the cross outlined, though the light no longer streamed through as brilliantly as before. At the sight of this undefiled object, the heathen desire once again rose up in his heart. He clutched at his spear and hurled it straight at the window. The window shattered. The heavens thundered. The heathen trembled.

The warrior turned and raged down the narrow aisle, fleeing from some unknown fear. He grabbed the handles of the oaken doors to escape. Yet when he pulled at the doors, they would not open. He could not escape. He let out an inhuman scream. Then he saw the figure of a cross inscribed on the doors. It still haunted him. Had he not thrust his spear through that terrible object already? Could this hideous object be conquered? He had killed the symbol of life, yet it returned. He rammed his entire body straight ahead and broke the doors open wide and rushed out, back toward the cliffs, back toward the eternal cycle – death and plunder, plunder and death.

Inside the sanctuary, the ancient priest took his last breath. In manus tuas commendo spiritum meum.

Between the heavens and the sea, the wind goes where it will, directed by a Spirit no mortal can see. To some it brings life in death. To some it brings death in life.