TAKEN FROM THE RIGHT AND ORDERLY NOTEBOOK OF SADFAEL THE MONK
My satchel is considerably lighter than when I left the Monastery and many miles have been covered in these two weeks hence, during which time it is my sorry duty to note down that never have I seen such chaos and sufferance! Woeful though I am to report it, it has not just been in one, but in all of the villages and hamlets through which this emissary of Beelzebub has smeared his evil taint - on each occasion it has been my deep misfortune to have to follow and witness the misery left in his wake.
A well spoken prayer and a choice concoction of the various medicinal herbs I carry for such purposes is all I can offer the simple folk whose minds have been so abused by my quarry. Alas, but I cannot afford to spend the time I would like in helping these people as I cannot waver in my pursuit of such a rogue, the likes of which I feel the world has never seen since before the days of Judas himself.
In the worst cases of his demonic manipulations his victims are wont to show severe outbreaks of delusion and delirium, incessant mutterings and wild gesticulations. All gibber distressingly about this odd looking character and the magic he makes, and also about the singing demons he carries with him.
Strange. And most disquieting.
One man I felt especially sorry for was a certain master ‘Dundee’ Jock McBride, a traveller in these parts from across the Borders no less, hailing from the eastern coast of Scotia. I feel great shame that this man, a visitor to our fair Kingdom, could have been so rudely and fatefully accosted, robbed of all the monies that he had brought with him from his homelands and then bewitched to the point of idiocy.
So whilst a goodly part of me wishes to tarry longer in order to administer to these poor unfortunates, a far greater urge presses me on forthwith, with narry a thought for my own safety. Oftentimes have I had to remind myself that this task to which I have been appointed is such a one as has been bestowed upon me by the very highest of authorities. The Lord Himself has commanded me to rid the world of this cursed Hell Spawn and so that it what I must surely do!
Wheresoever this fiend despoileth the earth with his foul footfall I am duty bound to follow and whensoever I finally happen upon him, this malevolent blackguard, this terror incarnate… well, there can be no argument with the Heavenly Father. I will smite him down!
I feel no fear peculiarly enough, but it could be that I am so consumed with pity for all the casualties I have seen along my way that as yet I have not found time to allow the seeds of fear and doubt to take root in my head. Not to be discounted though, in this warding off of my fear, are the blessings from my very own Monastery which bring me more succour than anybody might know. Indeed, it is quite by accident that I happened to overhear a conversation on the night before I left St. Malcolm’s which, although it causes my chest to sinfully swell with pride whenever I think of it, it nevertheless has provided me with an immeasurable comfort thus far.
Having stolen back to His Grace’s quarters to empty the excess horse feed out into his private rose garden, I was creeping back through his rooms when I heard the unmistakable sound of the Abbott’s voice issuing from behind the door to his inner vestibule.
I would hope that any reader will not think that I stopped in order to eavesdrop. The truth of the matter is that I was forced to freeze for fear of my unwieldy sandals flapping awkwardly and giving me away. As I stood like a guilty child caught scrumping apples in the western orchard, it became apparent that the Abbott had somebody in there with him. They seemed in the midst of discussing something.
“So he’s definitely going?” It sounded like Prior Job Pedloe, second in the hierarchy at St. Malcolm’s, answering only to the Abbott himself.
“Yes. Tomorrow before dawn.”
“Well thank God for that!” Prior Pedloe exclaimed.
“Indeed,” came the more measured tones of the Abbott.
“Finally he is on his way! Glory be!”
Could I believe what I was hearing? Unless my ears were deceiving me I could have sworn I heard then the sounds of a set of goblets being clunked together, as if in a toast. Could this be true? I thought to myself as I stood there, cold and breathless in the middle of His Grace’s woollen rug. Not only were these two most important men of my order actually discussing me, but they were also raising a toast to my endeavours! I was touched beyond words.
“So who do you think this maniac is then?” the Abbott was asked.
“I don’t know, just some lunatic probably; some peasant finally driven mad by a life of serfdom and repression.”
“You don’t think there’s any chance that… that Sadfael might not…?”
“Now Prior,” His Grace’s voice floated through the door. “We can but put our trust in God and hope that in His ineffable wisdom Sadfael is… taken care of. Whatever the eventual outcome of it all, I shouldn’t wonder that Brother Sadfael will be gone for a long, long time.”
Well, I can tell you that hearing all of this brought a huge lump to my throat. It had not go unnoticed by me that here was the Abbott talking with Prior Pedloe, his right hand man – the very man to whom St. Malcolm’s was entrusted in His Grace’s absence – and yet he was playing down the nature of my mission, even to him!
Claiming in his unruffled manner that this Demon is simply a poor lunatic, the Abbott is attempting to shield even the prestigious members of the High Table from the full burden of this painful happenstance.
That His Grace should see fit to do this, that he should keep the truth even from his most trusted Brethren causes me to fairly brim over with a sense of duty. I must confess that his supposition that I will be away for a lengthy period of time did sink my heart like a rock in a bog, but remembering his faith in me is a veritable Tower of Strength.
And of course, I also have God on my side, which is deeply comforting…