The Fickle Winds of Autumn

A hopeful fire blazed in the hearth of Father Steadman’s apartments; its dull crackle broke the stunned roomful of silence which greeted his disclosure.

He stood and warmed his back against the gathering chill, as he glanced around the wood-panelled chamber at his fellow members of the High Pleiad. They shifted uneasily against the comforts of his fine chairs, obviously uncertain of how to react to his disturbing news.

He felt himself young in their presence - in both age and knowledge - but the plain purity of his unadorned robes indicated that, despite his unusual past, he had indeed been duly elected as the Supreme Father of the Church - more than a decade ago now - but, he reflected, never in that time had he been forced to confront a problem of this magnitude.

Several of his guests helped themselves to the fine dark wine, which as Patrex, he was always obliged to keep de-cantered ready for any such occasion; but although the fire and the smoothness of the vintage had un-thawed their ageing bodies from the autumn temperatures of the unheated Great Cathedral, their thoughts and voices had become frozen once more following his announcement.

His eyes were drawn towards Brother Caldor, the second most senior member of the Pleiad, who had always resisted his leadership; but the revelation seemed to have dulled even his barbed tongue.

Clearly, it would be up to him to continue the conversation. He was the leader, and these were his apartments.

“So you can all see how grave the situation is, gentlemen,” he said, breaking through the tense atmosphere. “We must handle things very carefully, for we cannot allow our faithful to become unduly alarmed.”

“Unduly alarmed?” said Brother Fencliffe. “You can speak of such things at a time like this? Why, if even half of what you’ve just said is true…”

The room shuddered into an uneasy silence once more. Brother Rowe’s chair scraped on the floor as he coughed nervously and reached for his glass. But Steadman knew he must maintain a calm exterior, no matter how he felt inside, no matter how unsettling their situation.

“But I’m afraid it would seem to be so,” he continued. “Brother Lanqvist, the greatest of our scholars, was researching ways of dealing with the witch attacks.”

He indicated the white-haired man sitting in the corner, stooped against the cane which rested between his knees.

“It was our ever-diligent Librarian who first informed me of it,” said Lanqvist in his rolling lowland tones: “but her findings were true enough. I have spent these last weeks reading and cross-checking - but all the scrolls point to the same conclusion.”

The tense, sombre ambience engulfed the chambers again.

He must act; he must make them see the danger, while being careful not to provoke their dignity. They were his elders, even if below him in rank, and they still held a great deal of authority within their own communities. Their help would be critical if they were to avoid disaster.

“Yes gentlemen, I’m afraid it seems to be so - these witch attacks are no small matter, and no doubt troublesome and dangerous in themselves - but we must also accept the fact that their recent boldness might not just be a coincidence - it may be that they are testing our defences and readying themselves…”

“And you’re serious in saying these attacks aren’t just unfortunate and random? That they are somehow all connected to… the old stories?” said Fencliffe.

“Yes, I am.” Steadman replied.

“Stuff and nonsense!” Caldor erupted from the far side of the chamber. “You dare to speak of such unfounded sacrilege? And here, of all places? Inside the very heart of our beloved Church?”

Here it was at last; he knew Caldor would not disappoint.

“I cannot simply sit here and allow such blasphemies! The common folk are bad enough - they are like simple sheep, whose primitive minds are burdened with an over-active imagination, and when they cannot understand something, they simply invent and grasp at half remembered folk-tales and superstitions - but to hear such talk from educated men of faith like ourselves is entirely inexcusable.”

Caldor’s face reddened with the conviction of his passion, crimson against the dark of his hair, until it almost matched the scarlet trimmings of his black vestments. It had always seemed peculiar to Steadman that someone who professed such a spirituality and zeal for religion would choose to be so fastidious in his elaborate, worldly dressings. But it was an old argument, and one that hardly mattered now.

“But, my Lord, if it were true…” suggested Brother Odal.

“You’re referring to the Auguries?” said Brother Byram.

“The false and garbled ravings of a long-dead lunatic!” Caldor scoffed. “Such ridiculous ideas will cause mass hysteria amongst the common folk. They are already dry kindling, and this spark could ignite them into an unstoppable panic. If they begin believing this nonsense, then what of the Church itself? How are we to make them feel the majesty of the Great Surrounder amidst the depths of such ancient and febrile paganism?”

“Indeed!” echoed Brother Odal. “What would become of the Church - and what of us, too?”

“But we know it is true - Lanqvist has researched it!” said Rowe.

Steadman sensed the room igniting into an edgy bickering. The shocked silence had been bad enough, but he could not allow things to descend into an open argumentative split. It was his job now to hold the factions together - to unify the Church and its response.

“Brothers!” he said, cutting through general alarm and concern, “Must I remind you that we have already summoned the Harmonist?”

He stepped into the centre of the room, putting himself physically between the squabbling priests, drawing all eyes towards him.

“He has already sent word that what he called the ‘Cleansing Spell’ will protect us from this dreadful calamity. Whether the old stories are true or not, we still need to take action now and defend our people from these confounded attacks. We must hold firm and show a brave and united face to our congregations. Once the Spell has been fulfilled, tomorrow night, then we will be able to see our way forward more clearly.”

“Yes,” said Odal: “what was the idea of speaking directly to the public like that? I thought we agreed on the need for secrecy?”

“It was a necessary step under the circumstances. And I took care not to reveal the time or location.” Steadman responded.

“And now we have no choice,” Caldor complained. “We must do as we all originally planned and entrust our lives to this magikant.”

“So they will convene at the Sacred Grove?” asked Rowe.

“Yes, the Grove, and the power of the full Harvest Moon, will increase the potency of the spell,” Steadman replied.

“And is this certain to succeed? What if he fails?” said Odal.

“We are men of faith and not magik - we must trust that the Harmonist knows his business,” said Steadman.

“Who knows what those who wield the magik are truly capable of,” said Caldor.

“Yes, precisely; that’s my worry,” Fencliffe added.

Rowe took another sip of wine. “And it’s a bad time to be travelling, what with all these attacks recently.”This content is © NôvelDrama.Org.

“Yes: and speaking of travelling,” Brother Byram chimed in: “it has been noted that Brother Thaddeus and his companions have not yet arrived from their cloisters at Ardale. They were due to arrive two days ago to discuss the Cleansing Spell, but there has been no sign of them on any road, and we cannot account for their absence.”

“Perhaps they simply got lost while taking the short-cut through Sidemoore Forest?” Rowe suggested.

“Or perhaps they are lying drunk in a tavern somewhere,” Caldor interjected scornfully.

“This morning I even heard a rumour that they had been captured by some of those foul, iniquitous creatures,”said Byram. “This is how bold the witches have already grown…”

“Or perhaps how fanciful the fertile minds of these frightened sheep have become to even invent such nonsense,” said Caldor. “We must do everything we can to suppress and stifle such blasphemy. We cannot allow such nonsense to escape from this room into the minds of the common peasants.”

“For if we cannot control the people, we cannot properly control the Church, and what then shall become of us all?” said Odal.

The others nodded in worried agreement.

Steadman was disappointed by their reaction - it had always seemed to him that the purpose of the Church was for the comfort of the people, not the aggrandisement of its leaders - although the passing years had slowly stripped him of such outright idealism - but at least it brought a nervous truce and some sort of unity to the room - and he could work with that.

“Well then, we must wait for the Cleansing Ritual tomorrow night,” announced Caldor, “and trust that these doom-laden auguries are nothing but deluded nonsense.”

“And then this scourge of witches will atrophy and die,” added Odal.

“I’ll drink to that!” said Rowe.

“Well,” said Caldor as he stood up, “Brothers Fencliffe, Odal and I must make our own preparations. I’m sure you will excuse us most Reverend Father.”

Steadman kept an unwavering eye on each of the three as they approached and stooped low to indicate their eternal obedience to the head of their Church as they kissed the ring on his right hand.

The first two attempted to return his gaze, but their eyes glanced off nervously toward the floor.

But as Brother Caldor bent and grasped his ring-hand, his brooding, hooded eyes stared straight back, unflinching.

All three then bowed to him again as they left the room, and although they had all given him this public sign of fealty, Steadman could not help the doubt from gnawing within him that a sterner test was yet to come.