Our Sins in Silver

Chapter one Lucifer Curse It Sterling - Pt. 1 Some years before the Holy Wars I’d been holding the quill for so long that my fingers stung. How much time had passed since they’d locked me inside the scriptorium? Squinting at the singular flickering flame that illuminated my work, I noted the wax pillar had shrunk to the third hour mark since I’d lit its wick. My strained mind was fraying like a rope, and I realized I’d lost track of how many clock candles I’d burnt through. Had I ceased counting for the sake of my sanity, or had I reached the stage of my punishment where time was beyond my comprehension? A rebellious groan rumbled up from my stomach as if my internal organs were rubbing against one another to spark any sensation that wasn’t hunger. My lips cracked from thirst, and my eyelids screamed for the chance to shut, even for a moment. The words on the parchment before me blurred. Even the simple task of dipping my quill tip in the inkpot was painful, my muscles shaking violently as if it were Christ’s cross I held and not a feather. The prospect of copying yet another line of scripture might as well have been torture of the highest degree for how my body screamed in protest. I’d copied Psalms 40 countless times over. The stack of parchment on my desk was so thick it would make for a suitable pillow. If only I could sleep. But at this stage in my delirium, it was beyond me. When I closed my eyes, all I could see was Psalms 40, written in my hand and in my own heart’s blood. Though my will was made strong by the Spirit of the Lord, my limbs were certainly not. My hand tremored, making my lines unintelligible. I could scarcely hold the quill anymore. I’d been laboring at my desk for so long that the calluses on my writing hand had rubbed raw, leaving my flesh angry and abused. Bright beads of blood streaked down my quill, discoloring the black ink and making my script run muddy. I cursed low under my breath, then allowed the bloody quill to fall from my grip. Sagging into my chair, I stared up at the ceiling beams as I rubbed my aching fingers. It wasn’t the pain that bothered me. Pain was a part of being alive. It was natural. What it wasn’t, though, was something to be glorified or revered as an act of piety. That opinion had landed me in this predicament in the first place. The abbot certainly hadn’t appreciated my objections following Brother Peter’s sermon. “Those who seek Christ should practice self-flagellation for the duration of the time it takes one to recite Psalms 40,” he’d said. “For only those who share in the sufferings of Christ can be saved.” It’d surely been a miracle of God that I’d kept my mouth shut while I’d been made to listen to that dribble. Following the sermon, the abbot announced to the senior monks that he expected the practice to be incorporated into the lives of all citizens of our abbey. Self-harm was to be observed regularly in between prayers, meals, and labor hours. That was when I could no longer hold my tongue. Groaning, I rubbed my temple with my uninjured hand. What a fool I’d been. Keeping my head down and maintaining my silence outside the domain of my library—and its adjoining scriptorium—was not only expected of me in my position as a monk, but it also helped maintain my cover. If they discovered the true purpose behind my fierce pursuit of the senior-scribe position, I’d have more to worry about than bloody fingers and sleep deprivation. The other monks likely viewed my punishment as merciful. A monk in a lower position would have likely received a flogging. I knew the abbot better than that. He was a ruthless man who emanated a power that caused everyone to approach him with the utmost caution, scraping and bowing like lambs approaching a lion. So, it didn’t surprise me one bit that the sermon on self-flagellation struck a chord with our exalted leader. The man was a slave to discipline and order, and he seemed to take a little too much amusement in ensuring he maintained such things. His punishments were creative. I’d give him that. He knew how seriously I took my work as the senior monk in command of the abbey’s scribes, clerics, and illuminators. Even after the day had finished and the others took their meals and went to prayer, I’d stay in the scriptorium and slave late into the night, pouring over manuscripts and transcribing scriptures. I didn’t just enjoy my work—it was my one true love and my heart’s devotion—for what was a more powerful tool than humanity’s incredible development of language and communication? With books and education, we could spread the teachings of Our Lord to future generations. As I stared down at my shaking fingers—stained with ink and blood—a lump swelled in my throat. The abbot was taking something close to me and trying to make it ugly. Corruption in the church wasn’t a new notion to me. It’s why I’d taken my vows in the first place. Neither was it uncommon for men like the abbot and Brother Peter to share harmful and inhumane ideals. That’s how the holy text had been poisoned over the centuries, and I aimed to expunge such cruelty from our teachings. Most men of authority within the church would see it as blasphemous to even suggest altering our scriptures. So, I had to sneak around like a criminal. I suppose, in a sense, I was committing a crime. What I was doing was certainly blasphemous. Heresy. If I were discovered, I would likely pay for my sins with my life. I feared no man, nor pain or death. What I feared was the possibility of not dying a martyr. I couldn’t help but wonder whether I was truly doing God’s work. And was it men like the abbot and Brother Peter who had strayed from the path of righteousness rather than myself? It was nearly impossible to separate God’s will from his disciples’. If I was mistaken, and my time spent in this mortal coil was only ensuring my place in purgatory, would it be worth it? Yes. The answer would always be yes. Regardless of God’s will, we needed a more modern, humanitarian version of our teachings. Even if He was as cruel and unforgiving as the texts taught, the children of God deserved to live their lives without the constant worry of being struck down at the slightest error. They needed hope, not more discipline and fear. Steeling my resolve with a deep breath, I reached for my blood-crusted quill but paused when footsteps in the hall sounded. They halted, and the silence was followed by the jingle of keys and a heavy clink as the lock’s tumbler turned over. The next moment, the door creaked open, and a familiar face appeared. Relief washed through me at the sight of my apprentice. “Brother Elijah.” The young scribe was a mousy thing, with nervous eyes that flicked around as if he were on the lookout for ghosts and devils. “Brother Godfrey. Thank God you’re alright. It makes me sick knowing you’ve been in here for three days. I tried to free you earlier, but I had to break into the abbot’s study for the spare keys. That proved an arduous task.” A coalescence of rage and horror burned in the back of my throat like bile. “Th–three days?” The young monk, who was on the cusp of manhood—sixteen, maybe seventeen, by my estimation—sighed. “I’m afraid so.” I blinked rapidly, my eyelids burning like fire. I knew I’d been isolated for at least a day, but three? That was just cruel, even by the abbot’s standards. Much longer, and I’d have perished. “And he intends to keep me in here longer?” I croaked. Elijah’s brow etched with thought, the candlelight casting his boyish features in flickering strips of shadows. “I don’t think he intended to keep you in here this long. He left days ago on urgent business and didn’t tell anyone the reason for his sudden departure. He said he’d be gone only half the day, at the very latest back before yesterday’s morning mass.” The news that the abbot had made yet another business trip didn’t come as a surprise. He was always gone, and rarely told anyone the reasons for his sudden trips. To visit neighboring monasteries, or perhaps the bishop, no doubt. “You look relieved,” Brother Elijah said with a frown. “Don’t mistake me. I worry for him,” I lied. “But I am relieved. I was thinking my punishment had less to do with my objections to Brother Peter’s romanticization of self-harm and more to do with the unauthorized alterations we’ve been making to the books we’re due to distribute in the spring.” “No one’s said a word. They’ve kept their silence.” I scoffed lightly. “They’re monks. They keep their silence about most things until they are made to speak.” “You can trust us. We’re all loyal to you and the cause, Brother.” Guilt wound through me like a serpent. If my sins were uncovered, I wasn’t the only one who’d be thrown into the flames. My apprentice kicked at the floorboards as his cheeks stained red. “Sister Catherine has been worried about you. She’d been pushing me to free you. You should have seen her face when I told her I found the keys. She wanted to accompany me here, but I thought you may not want her to see you like this...” His voice trailed off, and the shade of his blush deepened. My heart twisted in my chest. Catherine was a nun in the abbey, sweet and kind, and she seemed to follow me like a shadow on the rare occasions I strayed from the abbey’s scribe hall. I enjoyed her company, but I didn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea. I was a sinner—there was no denying that. But there were specific vows I’d never break. “I don’t like what you’re insinuating. I have never said or done anything to suggest—” “What I meant is that I’m sure you don’t want any womenfolk to see you as you are,” the scribe added hastily, cutting me off. “Because you look like a corpse.” He wrinkled his nose. “Smell like one too.” “Oh. I see.” Rising slowly to my feet, I clutched the backrest of my chair while I tried to steady my wobbling legs. “I should bathe.” Concern tugged at the corners of my apprentice’s mouth as he eyed the way my legs bowed, struggling to support me. At well over six feet, I was hardly a small man, especially for a monk who toiled at a desk all day. I didn’t enjoy feeling this way. I prided myself on being a durable man, yet here I was, barely able to hold myself up. “What you need is a healer,” Elijah said, starting for me but backing off when I waved him away. “Maybe you should let me call for Sister Catherine. She’s been training in the hospitium with the abbess.” “No,” I said in a tone so sharp, the poor boy looked like he’d been struck. “Forgive me, Elijah. I’m weary. I want nothing more than to throw a bucket of water over my head, find a crust of bread, and crawl into my bed.” I stumbled across the room, pausing in the doorway to pin my apprentice with a hard look. “Tell no one about this.” “What about the rest of the nuns who’ve been asking about you? You’d think you’re the pope himself by the way they fawn at your mere mention.” “Meet them with silence. You’re a monk, so no one will think it odd.” “What about the other scribes? You’ve been pushing them away. I know it’s because you don’t trust them to keep your secrets from the abbot. Even if questioned, they wouldn’t give you away. And you know how we Catholics are about dishonesty. ‘Liars, their place will be in the fiery lake of burning sulfur. This is the second death.’ Revelations 21—” He didn’t finish. The words caught in his throat at the scathing look I leveled him with. “Do not recite the fate of liars to me, boy. I am well aware.” I steadied myself against the door handle, turning my gaze away from him. “You don’t have to be frightened, Brother. I know you are. But you’re right. Much of our scriptures have been altered. Corrupt leaders of our church have rewritten much of our text to suit their selfish purposes—mostly to maintain their power through fear. I do not fear Hell, and neither should you. Not while our purpose remains pure.” I bit my tongue until I tasted blood in my mouth. If only the young monk knew I was distancing myself from the rest of the scribes out of guilt, not distrust. I knew the God we worshiped would never punish my men. They were good. What worried me was that I was risking their comforts on earth. If we were found out, I doubt they’d die beside me. Instead, they would be tossed out of the abbey and left to starve right alongside most of the population beyond our walls. “I don’t deserve your loyalty,” I said bitterly after a long pause. “I’m afraid I’m condemning you, and our fellow brothers, in my pursuits. Ultimately, it’s selfish. Unfortunately, there is no undoing it now. But at the very least, you shouldn’t celebrate me for my sins.” “You’re wrong. You’re the most righteous sinner I’ve ever met. It’s inspiring, Brother Godfrey, to see a man of the cloth question the Word of God as we have it recorded, to not follow the law of man, but the teachings of Our Lord. Isn’t that what Jesus Christ did?” I closed my eyes as I tried to steady the erratic thrum of my heart. Not only were my colleagues defiling scripture at my beckon, but they were now breaking several articles within the monk’s book of principles, The Rule of Saint Benedict. God forgive me. “If I do not appear for work tomorrow, continue overseeing the transcription of Deuteronomy. Omit any passages condoning slavery and r**e. If you’re uncertain whether something should remain, come find me.” “Yes, Brother.” “Good man. I bid you goodnight.” “Brother Godfrey?” I glanced over my shoulder at him one last time. The young monk had never looked so troubled. He worked his lower lip into a pulp, his eyes downcast to the floor. “What is it?” “Do you think we will be discovered? I fear the abbot's wrath.” My stomach knotted. I feared the same thing. Instead of saying this, I forced a smile that didn’t reach my eyes. “What matters is that our efforts are righteous in the eyes of the Lord. And if He views our mission as a sin, then Lucifer curse this place, Elijah. Lucifer curse it all to Hell.”