***
She was, of course, gone the next morning. You pass judgment and you write, and your will is done. Florence listened to the voice carefully now, that voice which had returned to him.
Anything that I write down will happen?
Yes. Anything at all.
But… why me? Why has God chosen me? And what proof do I have that you even are God!
Trust your faith – that is what your creed is based on. Blind faith. Trusting faith. Do you trust me?
Florence wasn’t sure if he did – but he clearly had the power. He thought back to last night and smiled. He had written about Sylvia, and she had come. He would have been a fool to refuse this gift. I do.
And so he was resolved, but told himself that he would use his newfound powers for good. Even as he copied down manuscripts during the day, by night he wrote his judgments on parchment lifted from the scriptorium. Father Paterias’ health improved greatly, and he appeared to lose age before the very eyes of the monks, who took it as a miracle and a sign of God’s blessing. Calixtus’ replacement among the ranks of the Fathers, Turtakles, was not a man Florence liked, and one afternoon proceeded to accidentally chop his left arm off with a hoe.
Florence’s punishments – and few rewards – were very creative, and almost always grand and epic. Brothers Johnathan, Patrick, and Donavus all met their ends within a few hours of each other, for snide remarks sent Florence’s way. The spirit of God clearly is not with them, the voice had remarked. Would a true man of God say those things? Florence had been forced to agree. The privy collapsed upon the head of Brother Johnathan, who then drowned in a pool of excrement, while a terrible beast from the woods seized Brother Patrick not an hour later, consuming him rapidly before the horrified eyes of the cowering monks. Brother Donavus, while cleaning the roof of one of the houses, suddenly turned to ice and slid onto the ground, shattering into a million shards upon impact.
The Father Abbot took these sudden, inexplicable, and terrible deaths as a sign that God was watching their monastery very closely and punishing the wicked, and so did his best to adhere to the rules that he had learned from the Holy Bible.
But that was not what mattered; what mattered was Florence’s own view of them, goaded and prodded by the voice of God in the back of his mind. As he became more and more confident in his new powers – and advised by the voice in his mind – Florence began to develop a habit of waking up late, at first only a minute or two, and eventually reaching lengths of up to twenty whole minutes. The Father Abbot took notice of this, and punished Florence with reduced rations for his lax behavior. Of course, this did not worry him much; Florence bent his own regulations about the use of his power in order to supply himself with food conjured up from nothing.
Eventually, however, the punishments for his behavior became impossible to avoid when the Father Abbot ordered Florence stripped and flogged. Following this humiliating and painful display – and after he had written his wounds away – Brother Florence decided that the time had come for the Father Abbot himself to be written out of the picture.
And as he walked between his study and his quarters, the Father Abbot of the monastery at St. Mary’s was struck by a thunderbolte as if sent downe to Earthe by God himself, and his internal fluids spewed out all acrosse the greene.
It came to pass that that afternoon, while all was sunny outside, a bolt of lightning – seemingly descending from the sun itself – clove the Father Abbot in two, covering the green grass with his blood. An assembly was held, and Paterias was chosen as the next Father Abbot.
Paterias chose Brother Florence to be the official scribe of the monastery records following the untimely death of Brother Gregorius, who had fallen into the monastery’s pond and had been devoured by something that dwelt there. The monks feared to approach the shallow pool after that.
Indeed, many of the Brothers feared for their lives everywhere. The monastery had numbered fifty-seven before the death of Father Calixtus, and now numbered only thirty-eight – nineteen dead Brothers, all over the course of a month. The monks felt the wrathful eyes of God watching them, and several began to secretly perform the forbidden practice of flagellation. Though many considered fleeing, none did; God’s eyes could find them no matter where they ran, and any sign of doubt in one’s own morality would only hasten God’s harsh hand.
Free now of his normal tasks by his promotion, Florence’s imaginings became even more wild, and he began to do more than pass judgments. He feasted every night upon the best of food and drank the best of wine. He wrote into existence a hidden trapdoor that led down to a palace, where he had naked women, men, and beasts to tend to his every need. He ruled an underground kingdom of faeries and sprites, each of whom would subject themselves to his every whim.
As he sank further and further into a life of debauchery, the quill only encouraged him. It was a wonder that Brother Florence did not merely write his fellow monks out of the way so that they would stop interfering with him; perhaps some hidden need to be reminded that he was superior to others around him stayed his pen, or perhaps it was the dark will of the god in his mind. His face became constantly flush with wine and his form became more and more bloated. His brothers could not help but notice his changing appearance and frequent absences.
And thus he was eventually called to Father Paterias’ office. “Brother Florence, what has gotten into you? You were once a brother who did his best to work hard and be diligent, but this promotion I think has gone to your head. You have some hidden supply of food and wine; speak now, where did you find these unholy temptations? They must be done away with!” Paterias was more stern than he had ever been before.
Brother Florence merely shrugged and giggled; the wine of the night before had not yet wholly left him. “I do not know what you speak of.”
“In the divine and holy name of the Father in Heaven, tell me at once where you have hidden it or I will dig and search until I find it myself!”
Brother Florence’s giggling stopped. “I am serious, m’lord Father – I know not of what you speak.”
Paterias’ self-control was tested mightily and his hand twitched. “I am not the lord father – only God in Heaven is that! Whatever voice God may have given you all those weeks ago has by now surely left you – and as you are failing in your duties, I hereby return you to your position as a transcriber in the scriptorium. Brother Hexarius will take your place.”
Florence nodded calmly and accepted his demotion with a faint giggle, but inside seethed with anger. Who are you to tell me what to do?
Are you going to let that windbag push you around? came the voice. God is with you. Give Paterias what he deserves: the most creative death imaginable.
Smiling, Florence spent all night writing a grisly account of the deaths of Father Abbot Paterias and Brother Hexarius.
Fuming with rage, the next morning Brother Hexarius confronted Father Abbot Paterias, wielding his quill as a weapon and shouting abuses at the man. “You have abused me your whole life – raping me and giving me your terrible, corrupt seed! And you expect me then to obey you and work for you! And now, to stand by and watch as you ruin the rest of my life? No more shall I take this; I denounce you as the spawn of the Devil himself!”
Paterias was similarly flustered; memories surged in his mind that told of the truth of Hexarius’ accusations, yet he was sure that he would never have done such things.
“I am a man of God,” Paterias responded calmly. “Never would I have done such a thing.”
“You lie even now,” shouted Hexarius, taking a step closer to Paterias. “Your lies will betray you, and you shall die now by my hands!” Hexarius’ rage was fueled by an unknown source, and deep down inside he did not understand why he was doing what he did, and why he was going against all that he believed in – but he was compelled to do so nonetheless. He leapt forward, but never made contact with Paterias, who had taken a step back and held forth his right hand. Where his hand touched the air,
a circle of rippling darkness began to spread.
Horror was shewn clearly upon the face of Brother Hexarius as a tentacle lashed out of the darkness, wrapping itself around his struggling body, dragging him screaming to his doom. Paterias closed his hand and the darkness vanished. Paterias looked at his hand in abhorrence and fear – he had never possessed sorcerous powers like that before!
But how were the brothers to know that? Seeing a sorcerer in their midst, they were filled with the holy rage of God and set themselves upon the Father, tearing him quite literally limb from limb and then throwing his various bodily parts into the monastery pond, where the beast of the deep shallows snapped up the morsels.
Something snapped then in the mind of Brother Florence as he watched, and he began to scribble upon his hand, giggling madly. The power is all mine…
The great beast of the shallow pond that yet was deep, spurred on by the words of Brother Florence, leapt out of its abode, the terrible pike sprouting wings and legs, and began to devour and consume the flesh of the monks of the monastery at St. Mary’s. Screams filled the air as the monks fled from the hungry fish’s snapping maw, but none could escape. It broke down doors, smashed through windows, and dug beneath the ground. The entire population of the monastery at St. Mary’s was consumed and digested within an hour – all save Brother Florence, who had now gained the attention of its great yellow eye.
Brother Florence laughed, tears running down his eyes as he dropped his quill. “Take me, devil-beast! I do not want to live any longer!” His laughter became wracking sobs as he collapsed to its knees. “This power is not for me – God, the Devil has taken hold of me! Let me die!”
The great fish obliged, and Brother Florence was no more. As the beast flew away from the monastery, seeking other morsels, Florence’s quill quivered and then relaxed. Any nearby listeners would have sworn they heard a sigh, and would then have rubbed their eyes in disbelief as the quill stood up and walked away.
After all, quills don’t just get up and walk away.
II
“A new typewriter, Emilio?”
The man on the opposite side of the counter shrugged. “Unfortunately so, Daniel – got any recommendations?”
“For you, nothing – you go through typewriters like nothing else. What on earth do you do to them?”
“I type on them, just like any other person.” Emilio relented. “Perhaps with a hair too much passion.”
The shopkeeper snorted. “More like terror – I swear you believe those obscene horrors that you crank out day in and day out.”
Emilio D’arcy shook his head. “There may be but one grain of truth in every hundred tales I write, but no more – I am capable of distinguishing phantasy from reality, thank you very much.”
“I am not always so sure – you definitely believe that flying fish of death one you always go on about,” Daniel the shopkeeper mumbled.
“That one is true – or at least people thought it was.” The shopkeeper rolled his eyes and went back to repairing the typewriter on the counter before him as Emilio ranted on. “I did the research myself, you know – eyewitness accounts of it are everywhere, across all of Southern England and France, and I’ve even seen a drawing of its head! Someone slew the beast, one ‘Sir Gregoric,’ and its head was put on display in what became a museum in Normandy. Shame the place burned down.”
“Aye, indeed,” muttered Daniel as he pried loose a stuck key.
Emilio was unperturbed by the shopkeeper’s sarcasm. “I traced the pattern of deaths and sightings, too; it seems that the fish originated from the monastery at St. Mary’s, near the sea – the place was found demolished, with decaying, half-eaten human remains all scattered about. And best of all they found an old crumbling parchment, with neat handwriting – probably a scribing monk’s – detailing the almost fantastical deaths of a ‘Brother Hexarius’ and a ‘Father Abbot Paterias.’ He claimed that Paterias used sorcery to slay a fellow monk – that being Hexarius – and then was torn limb from limb by the other monks and fed to the beast in their pond! Apparently they kept it as a pet, and that day it got out of control and killed everyone, and then escaped!”
The shopkeeper sighed. “And how old is this evidence?”
“Err… a few centuries?”
A snort again. “And you say you can ‘distinguish between phantasy and reality.’”
“I can!” Emilio said indignantly. He waved his hand through the air. “Besides, this is all irrelevant – I just want a new typewriter.”
Daniel put down his tools. “Can the old one be fixed? At this rate you’ll go broke if you keep buying new ones.”
“I’ll manage,” Emilio responded primly. “And if you have no suggestions, I’ll just take a peek around.”
“Be my guest,” Daniel grunted, turning back to his mechanical charge.
Emilio wandered about the shop as Daniel rummaged for a replacement key. Emilio and Daniel got along rather well – or at least, Daniel tolerated the author’s eccentricities. Emilio was a writer of horror in a time when if one was not Poe, one could find no audience. As such, he wrote his grisly and macabre tales by night, hunched over his personal typewriter, while during the day he worked as a desk journalist, carefully handling the company’s typewriter.
Emilio used Daniel’s (rather expensive) self-publishing service for his tales of horror – but he never managed to sell more than two, and as a result had several large stacks of his writings in his flat. Not even libraries would accept them.
Pushing such melancholy thoughts aside, Emilio concentrated on his search. There was, of course, an abundance of typewriters in Daniel’s old shop, aptly named “Ye Olde Scrivener’s Shoppe.” The store carried all manner of fascinating and useful things for a writer, and it did very well for itself; Daniel was certainly much more well-off than Emilio, whose spare income went to failed efforts at self-publication and replacing typewriters.
In addition to typewriters, the store carried ink, pens, pencils, pads, paper, parts, and the antiquarian could even purchase type for his archaic printing press; Daniel did not sell the devices himself, but had two in the back room that he would let people use – for a fee, of course. He also had four modern presses that saw considerable more use, by people like Emilio. The man also offered bookbinding and could recommend one to an illustrator if he needed one.
But Emilio just needed a new typewriter – it was a shame about the old one. It had almost lasted him four whole months.
There were five brands of typewriter filling their designated parts of the shop, and Emilio had tried them all. He shook his head in disappointment and carefully began inspecting them, looking for anything that might indicate durability.
After a few minutes of careful inspection, he came to the conclusion that none of the machines before him were different from each other in any way other than the name emblazoned on the side. Resigned to his fate, Mr. D’arcy chose a typewriter of the same make as his last one, in the hopes that it would last him just as long.
Then his eye caught it. Or did it catch his eye? Whichever it had been, Emilio was reasonably sure that the typewriter had not been sitting there on that table a moment before. “Hello,” he murmured, carefully approaching it. It was an older model of a brand he did not recognize. To further confound matters, it did not appear to have a brand name on its side at all.
Emilio stopped about a meter away, afraid to approach any nearer. The thing exuded a strange malignance, accompanied by the sense of something moving from a state of smug satiety to one of a dull hunger. The writer shivered. Has it gotten colder? Surely not.
But yet – the font used by the manufacturer in the type was unique and extraordinarily well-suited to Emilio’s needs. Archaic, spindly, and almost calligraphic – but still easily readable – the font would create the perfect atmosphere for a writer of horror. Then there was the bulky, ominous nature of the device itself – anything inspiring such chills in a self-proclaimed master of the macabre w
as certainly a good investment for said master. The thing also seemed invincible, giving off an air of immortality, eternity, and most importantly for Emilio, durability. This typewriter would not break.
A smile slowly crept across the young man’s face. He stepped closer and picked it up. It was surprisingly light physically, but in the metaphysical sense he could feel a certain weightiness to it. All the better for him. He carried it back to the desk, where Daniel was proudly staring down at his completed repair job.
“Found something, did we?” Daniel asked, carefully storing his work in a box and shelving it under the counter. Emilio laid the machine down in front of Daniel, whose face began to take on the characteristics of one befuddled and confused. “Where the hell did you get that?”
“In the back, on the table near the Schuermanns.”
The shopkeeper’s brow furrowed. “I’ve never seen-” Daniel hadn’t gotten to where he was by failing to notice those times when fate handed him cash on a gold platter. Then he could take both the cash and the platter. “-anyone want to ever buy that one before,” he finished smoothly, smiling slightly. “For you, dear friend, only a hundred pounds.” Since it was free money, Daniel could afford to be a little generous.
Emilio’s face brightened considerably. “Much obliged, Daniel.” He hurriedly wrote the shopkeeper a cheque of the proper amount as Daniel boxed the typewriter for easy transport. “Got to be going now,” Mr. D’arcy said as the pair switched their respective items. Daniel nodded in agreement and understanding; each man was eager to go his separate way before the other changed his mind. Wishing Daniel a cheerful farewell, Emilio stepped airily out of the shop and onto the street, where the light clouds had begun to sprinkle water down upon the earth below. Smiling down at his new partner, Emilio D’arcy hurried back to his flat to get to work.