After killing the man who turned him into a living corpse, Crastor was once again on his own. It did not take him long to figure out that the curse was not permanent—at least, not entirely. If he concentrated on it, he could change between his living body and the dead one. It wasn’t always easy, though. If he tried to stay in his living body all the time, eventually his own familiar face began to feel like a stifling mask. His body ached to let the corpse come out. He might go to sleep as the living man and somehow wake up as the dead one. As he went about his day, he might slip into his dead form without realizing it. Of course, people did not generally respond well to the sight of an animated corpse with glowing yellow eyes and half his face missing. It was often hard to change back into his living form if the dead one was feeling neglected. Crastor was endlessly grateful that he could still access his living body, but also frustrated that he could not completely control his appearance. Eventually he found that he could be a living man by day and a dead one by night, and that seemed the best way to keep the changes under control.
Once Crastor had established his system for maintaining his living appearance, he found work easily enough. It was the sort of hard agricultural labor that left him exhausted each night, and brought on dreamless sleep. The unceasing demands of agrarian life distracted him from his pain. Yet in the pauses of life his bitterness crept in, and with it came a deluge of existential confusion. How was he supposed to go on like this, alone and deformed? Was God punishing him? Was God even real? Had Illyrio even been real? Was magic really evil, or was it just Illyrio who’d been evil? Was Crastor blessed or damned? Or worse, neither?
Meanwhile, memories of Cara twisted in his belly like a knife. Sometimes Crastor wished they had never met. Then she would still be alive, and he would not feel tormented by her blood on his hands. As he hid from the world by night in his corpse body, he reflected that this punishment was far less than he deserved. She had warned him that no good would come from magic. Of course she had been right, and her life had been the price of his stupidity.
He had every reason to hate magic. It had destroyed his face, his childhood, and the woman he loved. Yet once in a while he spotted a plant or a stone with magical properties, and each time he felt a longing in his heart. As much as he insisted that he hated magic, he had to admit that without it, the world felt dull and colorless. The trivial concerns of the common folk were intolerably boring to him. Each day brought the same repetitious tasks that immediately began to undo themselves. He’d always hated the unpleasant surprises of potions research—the stench of Illyrio’s long-neglected concoctions, or the occasional outbreak of rashes or an extra limb—but now he longed to be surprised by anything.
There were a few people he could turn to. Illyrio had had certain regular clients. They called themselves magicians, and they recognized that Illyrio’s potions were extraordinarily powerful. They had always wanted to know more about Illyrio, the brilliant and mysterious recluse. But Illyrio had forbidden Crastor to get too close to them, and Crastor had always found them rather odd and frequently irritating anyway.
As the months turned into years, Crastor felt more and more convinced that he was cursed by God. His many causes for shame—for having killed Cara and Illyrio, for his face, and for the secret temptation of magic—all mingled together so that he became convinced he was a filthy, miserable wretch. Desperate to belong to the ordinary human world, he decided that the safest way forward was to pretend that magic didn’t exist. His work felt less like a distraction and more like penance, but it was never enough. His self-loathing began to consume him, and then only the sacred silence of churches could bring him relief. Not every time, but sometimes, the prayers washed over him and he felt a rare peace, a certainty that all things must be part of God’s plan. The problem was simple. He was simply a sinner, like everyone else. There was a parent in charge, the good father he’d never had.
Faith was his problem. If he could only trust in God more fully, then the answers would come. He would at long last know where he belonged, and his bizarre life would begin to make sense. Finally, fed up with the drudgery of agrarian life, Crastor resolved to become a monk. If Crastor’s old life had displeased God, perhaps a pious life might appease Him. He dared not ask God to lift the curse of his monstrous face. But he was drowning in confusion, and perhaps God could lift him out of that.
~
Life in the monastery was a bit better than life on the farm had been. There was plenty of hard labor in the upkeep of the monastery, but there were breaks from it, too. Every day at the appointed hours, Crastor was transported to another world through elaborate rituals and transcendent chants. In the sacred space of the chapel, he felt everything was as it should be.
Crastor liked the lessons that were about salvation. It seemed to him that most of the lessons, however, were about sin, and involved graphic descriptions of the eternity of gruesome punishments that lay in store for sinners who did not fear God. He squirmed through these lessons, as if they were an accusation pointed directly at him. Of course no one at the monastery knew about his corpse face or his checkered past. He exploited the monks’ strict routine to ensure that his corpse face came out only at certain hours when he was alone.
Meanwhile, the existential questions that had initially nagged at him grew into roaring demons. He wanted to grab the senior clergy by the shoulders, to shake them and demand, “Is this it?!” Cautiously, he occasionally posed questions about Catholic doctrines, like how Christ could really be in the ritual bread and wine, or why the priest faced the altar and not the congregation. Most of his superiors had no tolerance whatsoever for such questions. The abbot was the least tolerant of all, but luckily Crastor rarely interacted with him. One monk, called Father Duinn, was patient with him. He listened, and tried to address Crastor’s questions seriously. Crastor took advantage of this, pressing him with increasingly radical questions. By what criteria could God judge a man’s soul? Why had miracles ceased to occur more than a thousand years ago? Had God abandoned his children? Eventually, he would reach the limits of even Duinn’s patience.
Occasionally there was business to be done beyond the local village, in larger towns, government offices or other churches. One such errand was an annual market at a far-off town that attracted people from all over the region. Merchants sold fine textiles, art and other luxury goods. Artisans showcased their wares and their skills. Actors and singers showcased their skills as well, though none of the monks would have dared to admit any delight about this within earshot of the abbot. Crastor had never before been asked to attend this festival, but finally one year he, Duinn, and a few other monks were sent to seek out certain goods and services for the monastery. Crastor was pleased to go, as any change of scenery was a rare opportunity.
~
Crastor browsed the colorful stalls. Buyers haggled, screaming children ran past, and somewhere far off a flute was being played. Crastor breathed in the vitality of the place, along with the smell of livestock and the large quantities of dirt being kicked up by the patrons. They had completed all but one of their errands, so they walked now at a leisurely pace.
They passed the tent of an herbalist, and Crastor lingered there. There were common herbs and some exotic ones, and a few that even he did not recognize. There were fine boxes of ground herbs, and bottles of pre-made elixirs. All of it brought back memories he had tried hard to forget. This was just the sort of market where he would have been selling Illyrio’s potions, carrying just these sorts of glass bottles in a box for display, with more bottles in his bag clinking as he weaved his way among the patrons. As he advertised elixirs to heal the sick, to preserve beauty, to cleanse the body or the home, some patrons looked at him with mild interest. Some looked at him with annoyance, as if he were a gnat they wished to swat away. What might Illyrio do to him if he did not sell enough, or if he did not buy the right herbs Illyrio had wanted? He could hear Illyrio’s voice now. “Foolish boy! What am I supposed to do with this? Didn’t I show you what Compersote looks like and smells like, didn’t I tell you that it was important? And you bring me this garbage! After all I do for you, you cannot even do the simplest tasks for me. You would have been dead years ago if it weren’t for me. You can understand that at least, can’t you?” Suddenly, smoke was everywhere and Crastor was stabbing Illyrio again and again. Vacant eyes stared up at him. His hands were rotten and covered with blood.
It was then that Crastor realized the herbalist was talking to him. Crastor shook his head slowly, with effort, trying to clear away the dreamy state. “…not from North Shore either, eh?” Came a voice. “No, well give me a moment, it will come to me. Were you in Fox Hill let’s see, it would’ve been five summers ago?”
Father Duinn came up then. A quiet, pudgy, older man with thinning brown hair, Duinn naturally exuded an air of calm and comfort. Seeing that Crastor looked troubled, he placed a hand on Crastor’s back. “Are you alright Crastor?” he asked.
“Ah, see now Crastor—that name does definitely ring a bell,” mumbled the merchant.
Crastor looked up at the merchant. He was short, like Crastor, though larger of build. His messy black hair framed a ruddy, expressive face. With horror, Crastor realized that the face did indeed look familiar to him.
“It must have been some time ago. I would have remembered a man of the cloth, I think. It is rare that I can tolerate the company of a churchman. And rarer still that they will tolerate me!”
Crastor put a hand to his temple and muttered a prayer in Latin to calm himself.
“Hmm.” The merchant watched him, frowning. “De omnibus dubitandum! That’s the only prayer I’ve ever needed.”
“Is that prayer or is that mockery?” asked Duinn.
“Could it be both?” replied the herbalist.
“You ought to have more respect for learned men of the church,” said a bystander who was looking at some of the herbs on display.
“Bah! Any man who demands my respect doesn’t deserve it, and any man who deserves my respect doesn’t need it,” the herbalist quipped haughtily.
“Could we be both?” asked Duinn, raising an eyebrow.
The herbalist glowed like he’d just felt a bite on his fishing line. “Oh, I’m sure there are one or two great men among your lot. Just as there are among mine,” he said. “But I believe most men go to church out of fear, or lack of imagination, which are really the same thing. Now you must not think me godless. I am not godless, merely churchless.”
“Well then it’s a shame we won’t be able to stay for your sermon.” Duinn moved his hand to Crastor’s elbow, but Crastor seemed rooted to the spot.
“I don’t provide sermons. Only commentaries. One doesn’t become learned by following the repetitious sermons of old men,” continued the herbalist.
Duinn frowned, then said, “Luckily we do not follow any old man, we follow the Lord Jesus Christ. If you truly have nothing to learn from him, then I wonder that there is no church dedicated to you.”
“Aha, you have some fire in you! Still, you could learn more from a woman’s body than you could from any book.”
“Great men write books.”
“And the world is the greatest book there is, written by the almighty hand! Who needs books and traditions when the world is a fine teacher? If God is in the world, then the world will always lead us back to God.”
“So you would have us burn our bibles and rebuild Babylon in the name of God?”
“Now there’s an idea.” The herbalist smiled thoughtfully. “The church ought to encourage men to think for themselves. But instead it merely tells them what to think. Tell me, learned one: can you really follow in the footsteps of a man who forged his own path? You took the path that was already there. He did not. So as soon as you become his follower, you are failing to follow in his footsteps.” At this, Crastor furrowed his brow.
Duinn spoke as if to a misguided child. “The Lord Christ showed us the path to God’s kingdom. To think that we could improve upon it is the height of arrogance.”
The herbalist shook his head. “No no, you did not hear my question. But he did.” He gestured toward Crastor, who leaned back a little, as if the man were contaminated with something foul. “There are uncountable paths to God. Each one has its own truths. Each man must discover his own path.”
“And yet you are offended by ours. Why? Are our robes or rosaries causing you harm?”
“Certainly your uniforms offend me,” responded the herbalist. “But I think most of all, his youth offends me. A young man like him should be out in the world, making friends and enemies. What a waste, to spend one’s youth in solemn obedience. Someday he will be an old man, longing for the youth he relinquished, and he will find it easier to defend tradition than to admit his mistake.”
Duinn began to speak sharply. “Obedience teaches us humility. Perhaps if you had spent your youth cultivating humility, you would not be so easily offended by the slightest trace of it in others. Perhaps we do not think for ourselves, but at least we speak to strangers with more courtesy than disdain. But I see that you are set in your ways, and I do not wish argue about whose path is better.”
“Don’t you, churchman?” asked the herbalist, smiling. “Or do you always give up as soon as the conversation becomes unpleasant? And here I was beginning to think you were different from others of your ilk.”
Duinn tugged on Crastor’s elbow and began leading him away from the table. “Let’s go, Crastor,” he said.
Just then the merchant slapped his palm to his forehead. “Yes Crastor, now I remember, Illyrio’s boy! How could I forget?”
Crastor shook his head. “You’ve got me confused with someone else,” he said, following Duinn.
“Hang on, hang on!” The merchant strode after him. He grabbed Crastor’s wrist and whispered into his ear. “A few of us are getting together tonight at the Salty Dog tavern. Join us!”
Crastor shook him off and hurried after Duinn.
~
The monks were spending the night at the local inn. Having completed their errands, they were to set out on the return journey to the monastery the next day. They had said their evening prayers and retired at a reasonable hour. Crastor lay awake on his bed of straw, huddled under his cloak so that none of his skin was exposed. He was in his dead body. As he brooded, he idly stroked the torn, sagging flesh that hung about the exposed bones of his knuckles. He reflected on his interaction with the herbalist. The man’s manner had been irreverent, arrogant. Duinn had quite rightly pointed out his hypocrisy. Crastor did not want to see the man again, and certainly not tonight.
Yet he had to admit he was intrigued. Crastor did remember him now. He was called Greystone, and he was one of those so-called magicians whom Crastor had traded with on Illyrio’s behalf. What if he really did have some secret knowledge that might help Crastor break this curse? What had he said—there are many paths to God, each with its own truths?
It would be utterly reckless to go. Even if the magician had anything valuable to offer, which seemed unlikely, it was impractical. The monks were sharing a single room. Undoubtedly at least one of them would wake during the night and notice Crastor’s absence.
“Someday he will be an old man, longing for the youth he relinquished, and he will find it easier to defend tradition than to admit his mistake.” Had Crastor become an old man already? No. Dead perhaps, but not old. He could worry about the consequences later. This was a rare opportunity.
~
The Salty Dog was brimming with activity, as one might expect given the influx of visitors to the town. Crastor felt a little out of place in his monk’s robes as he squeezed his way in. Or perhaps it was just odd to be amid such raucous din after so many silent meals in the monastery. Or perhaps he felt out of place being in his living body at night. In truth, he felt out of place for many, many reasons.
Greystone was seated at the end of a long table. With him were a small, squirrely-looking man, a broad-shouldered man with a kindly face, and an old man. They appeared to be dressed up for the occasion, sporting colorful, mismatched robes. Upon seeing Crastor, an enormous grin spread across the magician’s face.
“May I join you?” Crastor asked.
“Of course father, we have been waiting for you!” boomed Greystone. His rosy cheeks positively glowed. He gestured to Crastor to sit in the empty chair next to him. Crastor sat, stiffly.
“I was afraid you would not come,” said the magician, still smiling.
“Yes, well, I had some doubts,” replied Crastor.
“Of course you did! If you did not, you surely would not have come.” The magician proceeded to introduce his friends, whose names Crastor promptly forgot. The old man was familiar to him though. Crastor must have done business with him in the past. The squirrely man passed Crastor a mug of ale that had materialized from somewhere.
“Well this is a splendid meeting,” continued Greystone. “I think it’s been nearly ten years since I saw you, nor heard any news of Illyrio. My summoning spells simply haven’t been the same without his moon sage. And I still get requests now and then for his dried maiden’s bloom!”
Crastor shook his head and held up a hand. “Please,” He said. “I don’t want to hear about how great Illyrio was.”
“Is he dead then?” asked the old man,“Or gone?”
“Both,” replied Crastor, flatly.
“Ah, then it’s as I feared,” Greystone sighed. “Please, permit us at least a little toast to his name,” he clapped a hand on Crastor’s shoulder and did not wait for a reply. Raising his mug, he cried, “To Illyrio! May his magic serve him in death as much as it served us in life.” The four drank, while Crastor waited sulkily.
“So, Father Crastor,” continued Greystone. “To what do we owe the pleasure of your company? Perhaps you would like to continue the conversation I began with your colleague. That was quite a stimulating debate. And I daresay it left an impression on you.”
Crastor picked up his ale and sipped.
The magician went on, “Your friend seems a good man, and well-suited to his occupation. But you… I am not so sure about you. I would wager that you have seen too many miracles to swallow Christian superstitions.”
“Mhmm,” nodded the old man. “Plenty of lads dabble in magic and walk away. But those that come back, they come back for good. Some of us get a taste of magic, and then we can’t go back to the simple life.”
“What sorts of magic did Illyrio teach you?” leaned in the squirrely man, looking at Crastor.
“He taught me very little,” Crastor replied.
“Indeed, we magicians don’t often have apprentices. Magic must be learned, but it cannot be taught,” said Greystone.
“Which hasn’t stopped you from lecturing,” said the old man.
“I merely wish to be useful,” said Greystone.
The old man gestured dismissively. “Ah, you merely wish to hear the sound of your own voice, Greystone.”
The large man snickered.
“I’m full of good advice,” said Greystone defensively. “It’s just that nobody appreciates good advice until they do, at which point they don’t need it anymore.”
“I want to know whether your magic is real.” Crastor cut in abruptly. “Illyrio’s magic was real. Even though he is dead his magic still lingers on me. I have prayed and repented with all my heart but it will not go away.”
Greystone frowned thoughtfully.
“Is that what you want?” asked the squirrely man. “To make it go away?”
Crastor looked down at his ale and there was a silence that even the clamor of the tavern could not fill. The others waited.
Finally, Crastor said, “I don’t know. I don’t care. I’m just tired of hating myself.”
At this, Greystone’s face brightened, even as he donned an air of solemn tenderness. “Dear father,” he said, leaning in, “we would be delighted to show you that our magic is real.”
~
Crastor could scarcely believe that he was deep in a forest with a pack of self-proclaimed magicians. Surely this was a violation of his vows. He might as well have sneaked out to a brothel tonight. It would have been a more respectable use of a sin, and probably a more magical evening.
They were in a clearing amid the oak trees. There was a fire in the center of the clearing. They had stolen the firewood from the tavern. Crastor had protested at this, but Greystone had overruled him, saying, “We are on a divine mission tonight! God will understand that certain sacrifices must be made in our sacred duty to help Father Crastor, a sheep in the great shepherd’s own flock!”
“Besides, for what it’s worth, Greystone was drunk and he overpaid for our ale,” the large magician had said.
As Greystone stoked the fire, the squirrely magician was arranging a drum and a set of small bells. Crastor was getting increasingly nervous. He doubted that these men had any magical power at all. Nevertheless, he was discovering in that moment that he was still quite frightened of magic.
The fire was roaring now. The elderly magician had a bundle of herbs in his hand. “Shall we begin?” he asked. Greystone nodded. The old man lit the bundle of herbs, and walked around the clearing in a great circle, swirling the smoke and muttering some incantations. When he had finished, he threw the herbs into the fire and bowed to it with a sort of overdramatic flourish.
The squirrely magician rang the largest and deepest of the bells. He did so slowly at first, and then he rang it faster and faster, and gradually added two or three more bells, so that by the end he was making an unbearable cacophony. Then one by one he let the bells die, slowing down and down until the last one faded out.
Greystone had taken on a posture of dignified solemnity. He said in a bold voice, “Servants of chaos, do you affirm that you are here tonight of your own free will, or at least of somebody’s free will, and that you are of sound body and mind, or at least of body and mind at an audible hum?”
“Get off the stage!”
“What about a captive will?”
“I affirmed your mother last night!”
All four magicians looked at Crastor. Greystone cleared his throat.
“Yes?” ventured Crastor.
“Servants of chaos, do you vow to uphold the principles of our order, namely to mistrust all outsiders, to distrust all insiders, and to scorn all principles of any sort?”
“Like hell I’d trust you!”
“I’ve got your principles right here!”
“Get off the stage!”
They looked at Crastor.
“Uh… not really, no.”
“Servants of chaos, are you here tonight to fuck the gods, or to fuck the gods?”
“Only on Sundays!”
“They’re lining up for it!”
“Fuck em on both ends!”
“Really, that seems an unfair question.”
“Then with the moon and stars and the sun and daughter as witness, let us dedicate tonight’s mayhem to our idiotic god and to our heartless goddess! May our devotion displease our ancestors and scare off our neighbors. Hail chaos!”
“Or else!”
“Or not.”
“What about thunder and lightning?”
“Dear God.”
“What shall be our incantation tonight?”
“Bujo rajma pali way kungmi”
“Da ski ku yoku”
“Needle boo bee pendle throp”
They went on like this for some time, with Greystone picking out the syllables that were to his liking. Crastor was dumbfounded. He was not sure whether he would be more relieved if these men were truly insane, or if this were all a great practical joke meant to torment him. At least if it were the latter, he could have someone besides himself to blame for this disaster.
“Enough, alright, now we’ve got it. Our incantation will be, ‘No ru ma kee shee more.’” declared Greystone.
“NO RU MA KEE SHEE MORE!” they replied.
“Such is our call to chaos tonight, and never the same call twice. We make a mockery of rules, just as ordinary men make a mockery of themselves trying to enforce to their foolish rules.” A hush seemed to fall over the forest, as Greystone’s acidic voice rose above the circle and was swallowed by the surrounding darkness.
“Most men believe that the world largely makes sense. They believe that most things can be ordered, and that many things are reliable. They obsessively seek explanations for everything they experience. Yet they sense a lurking chaos just beneath the surface of this order. They have put nature in a box and they pretend that she is not always leaking out of the edges. They live in silent terror that one day chaos, that capricious feminine mystery, might bubble up to a frothing boil and come leaking out of them. And that would be simply unbearable, for then a man might do things he does not understand for reasons he cannot explain, and all pretense of order would be lost. He would be forced to admit that his rules and explanations are flimsy things.
“The great struggle of life is not good versus evil, it is the world of good and evil versus the world of chaos. Men wear their systems of good and evil like a veil across their eyes. They insist that the world conform to their rules, and when it does not conform they scream and cry like children. But then like children they are easily distracted from their pain, and they soon forget that there was any problem at all.
“Most men are well aware of these two forces, order and chaos, eternally battling within them. Furthermore they know deep down which one is more real. They know that all their systems are crude inventions. Chaos is the shaky foundation upon which all order is constructed. There is no good and evil, there is only pleasure and pain. The universe does not come with an explanation, we simply pile explanations on top of it. Everything and nothing is inherently sacred. Nothing is reliable. The universe defies explanation.
“Very few men are willing to truly believe that anything is possible. We are the willing few. Only when we give ourselves over to madness does anything truly begin to make sense, because we begin to see the futility of sense-making. Reality is mostly of our own making. And most men would rather live in a box than live in a world full of possibilities.
“True power comes from a refusal to accept anybody’s rules, not even our own. Most men do not even see their rules, they simply assume that nature is the way it appears to be. Men and women relate in the way they do because it’s always been that way. The races relate the way they do because it’s natural. My god is real and yours is false because that’s just obvious. If they were to step back they would see their own rules. And then if they were to step even further back, they would begin to see the entire rule-making apparatus. Now,” here Greystone looked at Crastor, “you may be thinking that we chaos magicians must hate the rule-making apparatus, the god of Order, that masculine energy that insists upon the futile search for cosmic justice. But actually we love it, for it is the source of our power. Our deep respect for the rule-making apparatus allows us to play with rules, and so to play with reality. We refuse to be dazzled by rules, which cause men to lose sight of the rule-maker. We love the rule-maker just as much as we love chaos, and their contradictory coexistence is the closest thing we have to truth.
“As we begin to question the unquestionable, to do the unthinkable, we find that we have more power than we’d ever dreamed. We can—we do—we must—create our own reality! The trick is simply not to take it too seriously. Do not ask magic to explain itself, for magic runs from explanations like a hare from crunching footsteps. The point is to dwell in the inexplicable, to entertain the impossible, and to expect the unexpected. When nothing is certain, then anything is possible.”
As Greystone finished his speech, the sounds of the forest encroached upon the empty silence. Insects hummed, and leaves rustled in a chill breeze. Something stirred in a nearby bush. Crastor suddenly felt his corpse body lurching within him. He began to ache all over as the need to change surged through him. He fought against it. Forcing the urge back down, he felt as though he were holding his breath.
“Music bearer!” Greystone turned to the magician at the bells, “take it away!”
“Nah, you take it!” replied the other. “I’ll hold it down here!”
Then in a surprisingly clear and strong voice, the squirrely magician chanted slowly, “No – ru – ma – kee – shee – more; No – ru – ma – kee – shee – more. ” He hit the drum in time with his song. The melody spanned several repetitions of this phrase. As the singer repeated the chant again and again, Crastor was able to note the beginning, the soaring middle, and the end. One by one, the others had joined in. Once he’d gotten the hang of it, Crastor joined in too, very softly. The tune was rather catchy actually. The three other magicians swayed as they stood around the fire, spreading their arms or raising their hands above their heads. The leader rang a bell, and the chant became a bit faster. A few more cycles, another bell, and a little faster. The magicians were dancing now, jumping and thrusting their limbs in all directions in time with the music. Crastor swayed as well, mainly because he felt a little silly being the only one who didn’t look silly.
The song grew louder and faster. Crastor concentrated on the song and the movements of his body. Soon all five of them were shouting the chant at the top of their lungs, and Crastor could barely keep up it was moving so fast. The dancers leapt and twirled around the fire. Even Crastor hopped and threw up his hands. If this is what his night had come to, then this was what it was come to. He gave in to the insanity of it all. “NOOOORUMAKESHEEMOOOORENOOOORUMAKEESHEEMOOOORE…” he bellowed with the rest of them. The leader rang the bells furiously, and the sound seemed to echo throughout the forest. No, it did echo. A chorus of unnatural voices had joined in with the song.
Crastor stopped. A cacophony of eerie voices rang out all around him. There were high-pitched tinny voices and low, gravely voices. ‘No-o ru ma kee shee mo-o-o-re No ru ma kee shee more’… on and on they sang. Apprehensively, he looked into the darkness of the forest and saw eyes peering back at him. Yellow eyes, great red eyes, and tiny blue eyes blinked back at him. A woman appeared at the edge of the clearing and walked toward the circle. Her skin was green. Her green hair was tousled like a birds’ nest. She wore only a thin rag that left little to the imagination. More green women followed her. Suddenly, a humming, flying thing darted near Crastor’s face. He whirled around to catch a look at it. It was a tiny person with wings and great big eyes. Before he could get a good look, it was gone. Very nearby, a wolf howled along with the song. The green women and the fairies began to dance around the fire.
A tall blue woman appeared at Crastor’s side. Her hair was a mass of water that sprung from the top of her head and flowed down her body. She beckoned him to dance with her, and he did. Her fluid movements were mesmerizing, and her limbs seemed to be unrestrained by joints or muscles. Crastor felt himself following her lead, relaxing as he danced. He danced like no one was watching. An unfamiliar feeling was coming over him. He was having fun.
Tearing himself away from the blue woman, he saw that there was a massive throng of people dancing around the fire now. Some were ordinary people, mostly women and children in strange clothes. Some were absolutely bizarre—goblins and imps and misty, ethereal people who might have been ghosts. A band of skeletal musicians played. The song was no longer their simple chant, though he thought he detected the chant woven through it. The music was sensuous and delightful. The drums enticed his body to move of its own accord. Around him he heard whooping and bits of singing. Amid the crowd Crastor glimpsed the other magicians. He saw the old man by the fire, who was undulating toward it and then back out again, moving his hands as if he were pulling a rope. The fire was swelling to two, three, now ten times its original size. Suddenly the old man threw his hands up, and a great flaming bird rose out of it. The bird burst forth and flew in circles above the clearing. It dragged a long flaming tail behind it. The crowd cheered.
Crastor felt fur in his hand. A wolf the size of a horse was slipping its head under his hand. He patted it, and realized was not in the least bit afraid. He laughed, and then lost all control and began to laugh hysterically. He clambered on top of the wolf, and motioned one of the green nymphs to join him. She climbed up in front of him, and they straddled the wolf together, and Crastor wrapped his arms around her, resting them beneath her firm, warm breasts. They paraded around like that in a circle, towering over the chaotic assembly.
Crastor felt happy and free. He slipped a bony, rotten hand onto the nymph’s thigh. How long had he been in his dead form? He didn’t care and apparently neither did she. Nobody seemed to take the slightest notice of him, except the nymph, who turned around and smiled. Then she looked back toward the fire. Crastor stretched his hand toward it, and he felt its warmth in his palm as if her were holding it. He tossed his hand upward, and a shower of sparks rained harmlessly on the crowd. The fairies dropped a garland of flowers around his neck and he felt its weight and the caress of its petals.
Gripped by giddy recklessness, Crastor directed the wolf away from the fire. It began to trot, and as he gripped its fur, it began to run. Tears welled in his eyes as the cold night air whipped past his face. He felt like they were flying. No amount of underbrush seemed to slow down the wolf. Crastor felt protective of the nymph in front of him. Her small body seemed to fit perfectly into his, and he wished she would stay here in his arms forever.
After running for some time, they came to the edge of the forest and the wolf abruptly stopped. Crastor steadied himself to keep from falling, and then he slipped off the wolf and helped the nymph do the same. They were at the edge of a monumental cliff. It overlooked an endless forest that stretched toward the horizon. The trees and their shadows mingled in the moonlight so that the forest looked like a dark green ocean. It certainly did not look like Ireland. He turned toward the nymph, who was standing behind him with a mischievous smile. She danced backward, away from him. He returned the smile as he strode toward her. She leapt to the nearest tree, and peeked out from behind it playfully. He leapt after her, but she slid around to the other side. Soon they were running circles around it, the nymph constantly out of reach.
Then he heard something in the branches above. He looked up and saw a large black snake slithering down toward him. Aghast, he leapt back. The snake dangled from its branch, its unblinking yellow eyes boring into him. Crastor felt short of breath. Then something gently hit his chest with a thump. He looked down and saw a green fruit rolling on the ground. He glanced up at the nymph, who was carrying more fruits in her arms. She tossed another fruit toward his chest, which he clumsily tried to catch, but it bounced out of his hands.
Impatiently, he grabbed her arm. The fruits fell to the ground and scattered. He wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her in close. Again he felt that glorious feeling that she fit perfectly in his embrace. He ran his decayed fingers up her back and her neck, and through her messy hair. She laid a hand on the cavity where his left cheek should have been. He drew in even closer. Her breath warmed his face. Then her lips were on his.
Then something changed. Her body ceased to be lithe and graceful and became pudgy and stiff. Crastor pulled away. It was the abbot who stood before him now, scowling. Crastor stepped back. He tripped on something and fell backwards. The pain knocked the breath out of him. The abbot towered over him, pointing an accusing finger. The abbot was speaking to him in a booming voice, but it was all muddled and Crastor could not make out the words. Storm clouds gathered over them menacingly, and he heard thunder. Looking around wildly, he saw one of the fruits in the grass next to his hand and threw it at the abbot’s head. “Damn you!” he cursed at the abbot. Just then, the abbot went up in flames, an unnaturally vigorous bonfire just like the one he’d seen earlier. Crastor could feel the heat as he looked on, and the sudden brightness hurt his eyes. The abbot’s skin was melting. Soon the abbot was a charred skeleton with tattered flesh hanging off of it, though still the fire raged. The silent, flaming corpse was still pointing at him.
Crastor felt something on his leg. He looked down and saw the snake. It was wrapped around his ankle, glowing yellow eyes looking up at him as it slithered up his leg. Crastor was panicking wildly now. “GET OFF! GET OFF!” he screamed. He shook his leg in a mad frenzy but the snake just bobbed along with it. And then in the midst of his own screams and the thunder he heard laughing. Illyrio laughing. Voices all around, all laughing at him. A wild, inhuman cackling. The nightmarish laughter pressed in around him. Fear clutched his heart and he felt like it was about to bound out of his chest. It wasn’t real, he told himself. It wasn’t real. Make it stop, please God make the laughing stop. But it wasn’t laughing, it was singing. It was the chant.
Crastor shut his eyes tightly, and then he felt his stomach flip and his whole body felt light for a moment. He did not know where he was and he was afraid to open his eyes. The chanting continued, and gradually the chorus of voices became a few. Among them he distinguished the clear, strong voice of the squirrely magician. Soon it was just the magicians, singing at a moderate pace. Crastor opened his eyes. He was lying on the ground in front of the fire. He propped himself up onto his elbows, and looked down at his legs in front of him. The snake was gone. The fire in front of him was an ordinary fire. It was just the wood from the Salty Dog.
The bell rang, and the song became slower and quieter. One more verse, and it rang again. The song became even more subdued. The song was dying now. The magician’s dancing feet had slowed to a shuffle, then to a stop. Finally, silence reigned.
“Hail chaos!” rang out the voice of Greystone.
“I did this morning!”
“Merry Christmas!”
“Take it off!”
“Dear God,” whispered Crastor.
Crastor heard muttered incantations and saw movement out of the corner of his eye. He perceived that the old man was walking the perimeter again. Perhaps he had another bundle of herbs. Still in his dead form, Crastor had no nose with which to smell it. He sat up. As he gazed into the fire, he felt their gazes upon him. The forest’s laughter still rang in his head, though it was only a memory now.
“Uh, Crastor?” came Greystone’s voice.
“Yes.”
“Were you … uh, were you already like this? Before?”
“Yes,” Crastor assented dully.
“Oh thank heaven,” said Greystone, his voice light with relief.
Crastor stood up and brushed the dirt off his robe. They were all staring at him, of course. He noticed that he was still wearing the garland of flowers. Greystone was wearing similar ring of flowers as a crown. The large fellow seemed to have lost most of his clothes.
“Well,” said Crastor, “whether or not you’re the devil’s servants, you do throw one hell of a party.”
Greystone bellowed a deep hearty laugh. “That’s the spirit, my boy!” He came over to Crastor and playfully slapped him on the back, patting him so hard that Crastor wavered unsteadily.
~
The next day, Crastor explained his absence to the senior monks rather lamely. They had, of course, noticed that he had been out for most of the night. He’d said he couldn’t sleep, and that he’d gone for a walk and gotten lost. Surely none of them believed it, but they did not bother to chastise him.
Between his shock and the lack of sleep, Crastor’s journey back to the monastery felt surreal. He replayed the previous night’s events over and over in his mind. He had asked the magicians many questions, of course. Had it been real, or just a vision? How did it work? Could anybody do it? Did it need to be done in a group?
The answers he’d received were frustratingly simple. Don’t worry about whether it’s real, if you do, the magic won’t work. Magic is like anything else, it takes practice. Yes anybody could do it, but some had more of a knack than others, and nobody could do it the same way twice. There were no books or rules. You had to make it up as you go along. Yes it could—and in many ways must—be done alone, but it’s more fun in groups.
As for Crastor’s little problem, the magicians had no answers. “It doesn’t seem like the sort of thing we can cure,” Greystone had said. “Doesn’t seem like the sort of thing that anyone can cure,” the old man had added. They had seen magical accidents, injuries mostly, but they had never seen anything quite like this.
Crastor got back into the routine of the monastery easily enough, but he felt he had been profoundly and irreversibly changed by the experience. He could not stop thinking about magic. Of course he had never really stopped thinking about magic in all his years at the monastery, but whereas before magic had always brought up confusion and shame, now it also represented exciting possibilities. The peace and quiet he had always prized now felt boring, even smothering. For so many years, he had felt certain how to proceed, but confused about how he felt deep down. Now it was the reverse—he was beginning to feel more and more certain deep down, but more and more confused about how to proceed.
On their second night back at the monastery, the monks finished their evening prayers and then lapsed into silence. As they began filing out of the chapel to return to their rooms, Duinn pulled Crastor aside and said quietly, “the abbot would like to speak to you.” Crastor thought he knew what this was about. However, he was surprised that the abbot himself would be involved. Surely it was not that uncommon for a monk to run off and have a bit of fun now and then. He hoped that this discussion would not take long. His dead form was nagging at him, and his own skin was starting to feel like a rough, sweaty costume that he was desperate to remove.
Finally the chapel was empty except for Crastor, Duinn, the abbot, and a couple other senior monks. The abbot spoke.
“I have been told that you left your fellow monks the night after the market. Where did you go?” the abbot began.
Crastor took a deep breath. Trying to sound repentant, he said, “Nowhere really. I couldn’t sleep, and the bed in the inn was very uncomfortable, so I went for a walk.”
“They said you were gone for many hours.”
“I got lost and it took me a long time to find my way back.”
“You got lost.” the abbot said dryly. “Is that the truth?”
Crastor thought of how Greystone might retort and suppressed a smile. “Yes sir, it is.”
“Crastor, I have heard much about you from the elder monks. From what they tell me, you’ve been a troublemaker for as long as you’ve been here. For Duinn’s sake we have tolerated your disrespectful attitude. But I will not tolerate lies.”
Suddenly, something in Crastor snapped. A fury that he had tried for years to stave off with prayers and penitence came roaring up out of him with a vengeance. The abbot suddenly seemed very small to him, and as insubstantial as the abbot who’d burst into flames before him the other night. Crastor felt god-like, giddy. He could not touch these people and they could not touch him.
“I came here for more than tolerance,” he said. “I wanted answers. And the only answer I’ve ever gotten is ‘Sit down Crastor, and be quiet.’”
The abbot narrowed his eyes. “You have only just begun to discover the teachings. It is natural that you do not understand them. We have tried to tell you, these things take time and patience.”
“Patience! People have been studying Christ’s sermons for more than a thousand years, and yet we’re all still sinners. How long must we be patient before we’ll begin to consider that his solution isn’t working?”
“Now listen here-” began the abbot sharply.
“No you listen!” Crastor cut in, his voice rising to a fever pitch. “You have never given me answers to the hard questions. Christ never had to answer a really hard question. Sure, he died for us, alright,” the monks looked at him in horror, but Crastor barreled on, “It’s not so hard to die for others. But what about killing for others? What about when the kindest thing to do is to let people get hurt or killed? What about all the people he couldn’t save? Isn’t his own damned fault he couldn’t save them? Is all there is to life, a brutal slog toward a salvation we’ll never reach? Christ was a man of miracles, and radical ideas. What if it’s not our job to simply repeat his ideas, but to go further, to propose even more radical ideas? Not just to copy, but to create! If Christ came back today, he wouldn’t recognize you as his disciples, you who would practically kill a man for asking a question about bread and wine, let alone a fair question about love and death! If Christ came back, you’d probably burn him at the stake, because his miracles would upend your damned traditions!”
“ENOUGH!” bellowed the abbot.
“If my questions are nonsense, then why are you so afraid of them?!” roared Crastor.
The abbot slapped him across the face.
“Must I restrain you?!” The abbot was trembling with anger now. He spoke in a low, menacing voice, saliva gathering in the corners of his mouth so that he spat on certain consonants.
“I have never seen such impudence as this! God blessed you with food, shelter, and strength, and you rejected his gifts. You reject our books even as we teach you to read them. There is no place for you here, nor anywhere in God’s communion. I am shocked and disappointed that Duinn has tolerated you for so long!”
“Please, abbot sir, he’s never been like this before,” Duinn said, stepping between them. He turned to Crastor and said, “Crastor, you are not yourself.”
“Am I not?” Crastor looked into Duinn’s face. As Duinn’s comforting influence worked on him, Crastor’s fury ebbed, replaced with desperate confusion. “This is who I have been since the day I came here. This is why I came here. These questions eat at me like a sickness. If God cannot lift this obsession from me, then who can?”
“God can, Crastor,” Duinn said reassuringly. “God heals all ills. All He asks is faith. I know you are capable of faith, I’ve seen it in you.” He took Crastor by the shoulders and pivoted him toward the altar. Gently, he guided Crastor toward it. “It is not we who have the answers. It is God and Christ who have them.”
Behind the altar there was niche with a statue of Christ, surrounded by little statues of angels and saints. Crastor looked up into their eyes, but their empty gazes looked through him. For nearly ten years he had prayed to them and in all that time they were unchanging, unresponsive, silent as the stones they had been carved from. He so wanted to believe that there was magic in them, a kind of magic with the power to relieve him of the aching sense that he was doomed to a lonely and pointless existence.
“How would I know if God has turned his back on me?” Crastor asked quietly.
“God never turns his back on us. He is always available if we are willing,” Duinn answered. Crastor shook his head.
“God loves you, Crastor,” said Duinn.
“No He doesn’t.” Crastor snapped. “He loves one side of me. But He has cursed the other side.”
“God will accept your other side, Crastor. But you must be willing to give it over to Him,” Duinn said soothingly. Duinn knelt before the altar, and he invited Crastor to do the same. “This other side is not the real you. It is not your burden to bear. It is good that you are showing it to us. We may be able to help you overcome it, but we cannot help you if we do not even understand it. More importantly, God can help you overcome it, but only if you are open and honest with Him. No one can relieve you of this darkness as long as you guard it as your own private secret.”
Crastor blinked back hot tears. Partly addressing Duinn and partly addressing the statues, he asked, “What am I supposed to do?”
Duinn responded, “All you have to do ask for help. Not angrily, but sincerely and humbly. God is listening.”
Crastor searched the stony Christ in front of him. Honesty. Could that have been the answer all along? The corpse inside was clawing at him, and he felt like he was suffocating in this body. It would feel so good to let it out. Duinn was right, he had not been honest. He had failed to ask them the most important question of all, the only question he cared about: Can you fix me?
As if reading his mind, Duinn said, “We want to help you break free of whatever plagues you, Crastor.”
The dead thing inside him was shrieking for attention. If he were to keep his secret any longer, he needed to run out of the chapel now. But he did not want to run. Yes, he was willing to try anything. If he was about to be turned out of God’s communion, this was his last chance to seek God’s help. Crastor closed his eyes and folded his hands in prayer. “Please,” he whispered. “God help me.”
Then he stopped fighting against the corpse body, and a wave of relief rushed over him. The change was immediate, as it always was when one side was feeling neglected. The flesh of his praying hands sagged. His frame shrank. The discomfort of kneeling receded, as his knees became bony and lost most of their sensation. Cold air flooded the cavities of his face.
He heard Duinn gasp, stand up and back away. It took the others another moment to gather around him and realize what had happened. One of them began muttering a prayer in Latin.
“WHAT DEVILRY IS THIS?!” roared the abbot.
Crastor lowered his hands but he remained kneeling. For the second time in a few days, he felt eyes all over him. He thought he should answer the abbot’s question, to show them that he was still alive and intelligent. But he did not know what to say. As the pause dragged on, Duinn said, very quietly, “Oh Crastor, please say something…”
But he couldn’t. He felt like something was caught in his throat.
“This is the devil’s work,” said the abbot. His voice rang with a steely passion. “The devil is in you, boy. He has penetrated this monastery but we will rout him out! Mordha, Laighin, take him to the crypt. Duinn, fetch Father Neill. I will make the other preparations.”
For the first time that evening, Crastor was afraid of the abbot. The lump in his throat loosened. “Wait! What will you do? I don’t want to go to the crypt!” Clumsily, he rose to his feet and began backing away from them.
“What perhaps should have been done a long time ago. But I did not realize how dire the situation was. We will exorcise whatever demons have gotten hold of you. Go now with the others, and we will purify you and this place you have desecrated!”
Crastor did not want to go. There was a fierce malice in the abbot’s voice. He continued to back away from the other monks until he ran into the wall. Tentatively, they crowded in around him. Crastor felt defeated. He did not see what choice he had. “Come on, Crastor,” whispered Duinn, turning toward the front of the chapel. Mordha and Laighin came up behind him, and reluctantly, Crastor followed Duinn.
As he fell into line, he turned around and pleaded to the abbot, “Does it have to be in the crypt? Couldn’t we do it here? Or any place where I’m not the only dead man who’s not in a box?”
~
As Crastor lay on a stone slab in the center of the crypt, he remembered an old story his mother used to tell him. In it, a simple man had found a demon who granted his wishes. But the demon twisted his words, and granted his wishes in the worst possible way. Crastor felt a profound sympathy for that man now. He couldn’t quite remember how the story ended, but he was pretty sure it was not a happy ending.
He had never been so exhausted in his life. The exorcism had lasted all night. At first he had been terrified. Not because he believed that the clergy had any real magic, but because he knew they could be cruel. After the initial terror wore off, it actually became rather boring. It was a lot of prayers and chants and splashing of holy water. But wasn’t this what he had asked for? A cure? So he had tried to open his mind to God, and prayed sincerely with the others for the curse to be lifted.
Then the flagellation started. And suddenly he couldn’t care less about salvation. All he knew was agony and the urge to make it stop.
The monks were outside now, talking in hushed tones. The first rays of morning light shone into the crypt. Crastor felt dead on the inside as well as the outside. He thought about the corpse who lay in the stone sarcophagus beneath him, and he felt a strange mixture of pity and envy.
The monks returned. They bound his bony wrists with a rope and led him out of the crypt.
They led him outside, on and on, until they were well beyond the monastery, and still they walked. The frigid morning air gave Crastor’s sluggish mind some energy. He knew the little road they were traveling. This was the way to river. And when they reached the river, what then? Perhaps it would be some kind of baptism. He desperately hoped it was that. He thought of praying, but he no longer had the heart to. As Crastor stared down at his bound wrists, he tried to focus on walking and he tried not to think. He was tired enough that this was not too difficult.
When they reached the river, Crastor noticed that Mordha and Laighin were no longer with them. He, Duinn, Neill and the abbot waited in silence. It was a great wide river. Crastor watched as the breeze tugged on its surface. When Mordha and Laighin returned, they were in a rowboat with a small boulder between them. Crastor’s yellow eyes widened. This was not a baptism.
He looked at the abbot, whose face was full of righteous determination. Then he looked to Duinn, and the pain he saw there was all the answer he needed. He started to back away, but Father Neill still had his wrists by the rope.
“No! Please!” He begged. “I repent! Look, I can change back!” He willed himself into his living form, but it would not come. The rising panic was making it impossible to concentrate.
“It is too late, Crastor,” said the abbot. “We could not save your body but we may yet save your soul, and the souls of all those who might have corrupted by your devilry. With your death and the death of that which corrupts you, God’s house will be purified…”
“Wait, please!”
“…and it will continue to offer sanctuary to the lost souls who seek it…”
“I am a lost soul!”
“…and your sacrifice will be honored and remembered by generations of believers to come.”
“Damn your believers! I don’t want to die!” He began to sob. “You can’t do this. You never even asked me how it happened! Doesn’t that matter?!” He was shouting through the tears. “How can you call yourselves Christians? Wait, please! Aha!” His body was becoming human again. The tattered flesh sealed itself, and became plump and pink. His full head of chestnut hair returned, and his glowing yellow eyes became green and human. “See? The devil’s gone!” Crastor looked pleadingly at the abbot, who looked at Duinn and nodded.
“Crastor, will you take your last rites?” asked Duinn sadly.
“Last rites? From my killers? That is an insult!”
“Please, Crastor,” he said.
Crastor paused, breathing heavily. His whole body trembled uncontrollably. He wiped his wet face on his shoulder, but the tears kept coming. His face contorted. If he said no, they would proceed with the execution that much sooner. “Fine,” he said bitterly.
He did not listen as Duinn said the prayers. The awful reality was sinking in. This was the last time… the last place… the last everything. The ropes around his wrists were much tighter now that his living flesh filled them out.
Too quickly, the little ritual was over. Now they were wrapping his wrist rope around the boulder. He wished they had simply done away with him in the crypt. This was agony, trying to cling to his fleeting final moments.
“Do you have any last words?” asked the abbot.
If he’d had more time, he could have thought of something really clever. Something that would haunt them for the rest of their lives. A small revenge. But he was out of time. So he said the first thing that came to mind.
“Thou shalt not kill.”
The abbot pushed him unceremoniously into the boat. Crastor fell into it on his knees, and struggled to sit up as the abbot shoved the boat off the bank. This was all happening much too fast. Mordha and Laighin were rowing out to the middle of the river now. If Crastor were a larger man, he might have tried to wrestle the oars from them. But he was smaller than either of them. Crastor looked at the three men who remained on the shore. The abbot was making the sign of the cross and saying some prayer. Rage surged through Crastor, rage that he had kept buried since the day he’d cradled his mother’s corpse. Duinn was the worst of them. The spineless coward. The traitor. They had reached the middle of the river now, and Mordha and Laighin were pulling in the oars. Crastor was very aware of his breaths. How many did he have left? Four? Now three? He took one last gulp as they heaved the boulder over the side and into the river.