When What is Right is Wrong
A Legions of Lyric adventure
7:03 am ,Sowenmoon 24th, 456 NE Shrine of Lanaril, Cuntberry Cathedral, Naurlinz, South Wisana Territory, Jaboa
While visiting the Cathedral Esther is sent by Prioress Jenn Hough to fetch some mugolio for the mutton from the old dry cellar below the Bishop’s residence.
“It is beneath the Bishop’s there. You will see the cellar doors there at the back corner next to that little magnolia. I did tuck it away a bit so as the Abbess wouldn’t help herself again. Right under the stairway, bout chest high, is a loose stone, it be behind there.”
Crossing the yard below magnolias she picked up a fallen flower. With its white purity, its fresh and subtly sweet smell the blossom lifted her spirits. Refreshing and simple after the last few hectic days. Uplifted she felt a resounding and sacred purity infuse her.
The whole compound was resplendent in the glory of her gods. Even the ancient cellar doors gave off a sense of tradition.
In the coolness of the large cellar she found the wax sealed crock stashed where Jenn had said. When replacing the stone into the cubby it pushed too far. There was a click followed by a slow grind as a low stone slab slid down just below the course of the replaced stone.
A vague conversation could be heard coming from beyond. It was two people, a man and a woman speaking in Mercantile. The woman had a definite Bithean accent. The other was deep velvety and familiar. The voice of Bishop Greer. Both voices were too muffled to be understood.
Ahead, a low narrow pass was draped with cobwebs. Thick dust coated the floor. The bottom landing of a narrow spiral stair faintly showed with diffused daylight from somewhere above. The conversation had lulled to be replaced by snorting sounds then some ahs and mm hmms. Sniffle, snort. The conversation then resumed with alacrity.
The thick dust muffled her footsteps. as she moved forward and up the stairway with thoughtless curiosity. At the ground floor, Esther peeped into a dark room.
By the aroma fanning into her broad and discerning Nander (think Neanderthal) sinuses she could identify the scullery of the Bishops residence.
The voices came from still further up. Ester looked out the small window as she went up the narrow steep spiral stairway. She could see the Prioress across the yard tossing scratch for some chickens. The old woman looked up at Ester and gave an intensely serious yet approving look. With a slight nod the elderly nun innocently resumed her fowl engagements.
Bat dung coated the steps and she heard them chitter somewhere above. At the Second Floor she peered through another peep in a small door.
The Bishop Greer was there. The other person was an edge of the shadowy back of a tall athletic woman in a white satin blouse. The scents of the Bishop’s musky cologne mixed with the woman’s complex floral perfume. There was another smell. It was new a bit like blood but blended with something akin to lye, fear and lust.
She could now hear clearly. Conversation was of a new book that the Bishop kept thumping with an enthusiasm that caused his jowls to quiver. There was a pinkish powder rimming his nostrils. His jaws clenched in small spasms.
“I will begin a translation into Mercantile then Bithean. Those permissive minded blasphemers will love it. This will be printed and distributed amongst the masses, especially teachers and community leaders. For, if this is the first book the downtrodden read, that they study, that they are shepherded into taking into their heart, the slow grind towards Our Master’s goal will accelerate with pawns that believe their oppression gives them the privilege of revenge without limits. Duty of conscience can and will be played like the pipes of the sewers. The rats will follow us out and do our bidding even as we guide them into their own grave. My dear… we will use the downtrodden to rise and, being the dupes that they are, bring down any who oppose us. When scum floats to the top, we scrape it off. They will have wholeheartedly sold themselves into it… turning them on each other with paranoia and fear. Just thinking about it gets my blood pumping.”
The woman had moved from view. Her dulcet voice placed her further across the room.
“Indeed your blood is…pumping Bishop.”
“Well I have appointments. Shall we do what we did last time?” the Bishop responded smirking and raising an eyebrow.
“Get yourself ready…pig! ” the woman replied with a harshness contrasting its previous sweetness that startled Esther. She never had thought anyone would speak to a Bishop that way. She felt shame for it.
The Bishop turned with a look of anticipation and walked out of sight. She heard a door open but did not hear it close. The tall woman had moved again. She bent over doing something at the desk just out of sight. Sniffing noises again followed by a girlish giggle. She moved off followed by the slam of a door.
Esther stood stunned in her guilt of secrecy and slowly absorbing this paradigm shifting revelation. Her heart and guts pressed together uncomfortably stressing her reason. The Bishop was loved and respected. People thought he was near a saint. But this…what was happening? It seemed to sordid, profane.
She snapped from her conflicted feelings with the sound of, what seemed to be a crack of a whip. This was followed by the Bishop crying out, “Thank you Mistress!”
“You will do as I say my little schnitzel. No more touching. No more of your naughty games.”
“Yes mommy.” the Bishop responded in a sarcastic subservience.
Another crack of a whip against flesh this time. It was answered by a barely suppressed howl.
“Do not be derisive my flaccid schnitzel.” She cooed coyly. “Now put this in your mouth.” She stated matter of factly.
“NOW, ON ALL FOURS!” The woman’s voice rang out like a cruel and patronizing mother. Esther realized that her voice now had an Uleoin accent. “Yes, yes mistress…” came the Bishop’s voice, barely audible through some sort of gag.
The words and sounds of Bishop Greer and the woman with a malleable accent made the chaste Lanarilite’s skin crawl. She felt nauseous with her heart’s shock at a revered Bishop performing such heinous acts.
The woman’s first accent was not from Naurlinz. It was Bithean from out east. Then it was Uleoin. And yet, it was familiar; someone she knew or at least had interacted with.
Esther stopped contemplating. She had to act. Her heart had made a coalition with her gut. She knew what was right. She knew what she must do.
The rusted latch took a bit of searching to find and some significant strength to move.
On long unused hinges, she slowly pushed open the door with a soft grating sound. Pausing to listen, she heard only masculine grunts and pants and a feminine titter. “Do it again!” the woman commanded. The disgusting grunting resumed louder. She calmed herself with square breathing. Sure that their own unsettling sounds were all the two occupants heard, she stepped in.
The bats above began to stir and squeak.
With two more steps on the, thankfully, thick sound dampening ornate rug the suspect book was in her hand.
The serious weight of the moment was strangely exhilarating. Her senses sharpened as if in battle. This was a battle of souls not flesh. Something odd caught the corner of her eye. On the large tidy desk lay an ornately framed hand mirror. On its surface was a small pile of pinkish white powder, some thin lines, some remnant lines of the same and a short silver tube. Next to it a small glass vial was open. It contained more of this powder. A tiny silver spoon sticking up from the bottom of its upturned lid was adjacent. She reached towards it then decided to leave it. Stealing was not ethical. Then quickly grabbed the vial, popped the lid on and shoved it in her sash with the book.
“Oh Lord, what sort of haphazard path have I stepped upon?” she whispered.
Another whiff of the woman’s perfume scent teased her mind. She had scented this woman before. But where?
She turned to leave with her heart racing. She noticed a few of the bats flutter into the office. With no reasonable chance of getting them out, they would have to be left.
“Lanaril, maiden of honour, may your light protect me in these dark times.” She silently asked.
Two more steps, soft grating sound and she was back in the dusty stairwell scampering back to the cellar amongst squeaking and a confetti of black wings. Her speed increased as her tension over took her caution. In the shadows she smacked hard against the first secret door. It was closed. She frantically felt around for a latch. Nothing. She shouldered the obstruction with her Nander strength. Nothing. She pushed away any worry of how it came to be closed. Those thoughts were pointless now. She had to get out of here. She went back up to the ground floor door that opened into some sort of dim lit scullery. She found the latch easy enough. With a hard yank the latch released. Its corroded handle snapped off in her hand. She pushed gradually harder, despite her urgency. The door opened a few inches and stopped. She pushed a bit harder. Something was in front of the door and it moved with the low groaning of wood on stone. Just a bit more and she could squeeze through. Another push and things got worse. A leg of the furnishing caught on a divot in the floor causing it to stop hard and buck. The tinkle of porcelain against porcelain stopped her pushing. A pregnant moment of dread was amplified by a crescendo of falling dishes. Their shattering continued with a few moments of wobbling starts and stops that seemed eternal. She quickly closed the door and scuttled upwards, thankful that that the dusty stone below her feet was muffling her heavy pace. The bats in the stairwell seemed to have mostly settled but a few still flapped around, easy enough to ignore. Passing the office door, she noticed the lustful sounds had stopped. She quickly peeped in. The woman stood naked in the shadowy doorway to the adjoining chamber silhouetted by light behind her. Esther could see she had what looked like a whip in hand. She stood still, listening. Subtle movements of her head indicated she was watching the two bats flit about. Almost yelping with surprise, Esther pulled a bat from her tangled hair. Turning, she looked from the small window. The yard was empty, no Prioress. Not knowing what to do she then went up. The stair ended at another door with hinges on her side and a ladder going up to a hatch cloaked in cobwebs and hanging bats. The peephole only showed darkness. Below, somewhere in the building she heard someone hustling down(?) stairs. She slowly opened this door. Shelves of linen blocked the way. She jumped back as a cascade of bundles of folded white cloths fell in front of her causing dust to billow up in the dim light. It was the back of a linen closet. She could almost reach the narrow wooden door ahead but to get through she would need to break apart the shelving. She could hear the Bishop and woman talking (undecipherable) in loud urgent voices. Their voices coming up through the wood floor planks indicated how much sound could travel from below. Reasoning that sound from above would be just as audible, she slowly closed the door and looked up the ladder that lead to the hatch above her.
She ascended slowly hoping to not disturb the bats. The bats burst out into a swarm again with some catching in her hair. Scrunching her eyes and taking a deep breath as she reached up and turned the rusted latch. Its fasteners pulled out of the rotted waterlogged wood. It then popped from her fingers with a slight arc before it began to fall. She snatched it from the air. Shouldn’t drop it for fear of making noise. There was no place to set it. She stuffed it in her pocket. Bracing her broad back and stout thighs against the sides of the shaft with her feet solid on the ladder rung she pushed up. Nothing. The scent of tar and its stains around the seam, it was adhered in place or maybe latched atop as well. She pushed with gradually increasing force. Sweat broke out across her forehead running down in streaks through the dust. The ladder rung was beginning to crack and sag but still held. Just when she thought it was hopeless, the screws on the rusty hinges pulled free accompanied with the sticky snap of the tar releasing. Her arms shot upward as it suddenly popped open, flipping aside. Daylight from the morning sky washed over her.
“Blessed be the light.” she sighed in relief. She quickly genuflected and popped her head out. With a commanding view she saw no one in either of the side yards. Saw no one in the windows or cloister of the refectory to the west nor the carriage house to the east. To the north she could see deep down into the grotto where a boy dug methodically through a pile of stone rubble amongst the seep springs and ferns. With the Cathedral looming above her to the south, she climbed out at the end of a tarred walkway running atop the roof peak’s length. Low wrought iron balustrades flanked by the gabled roof with terra cotta tiles sloping to the yards then another thirty feet down. After climbing over the west balustrade, she scooted down the tiled slope backwards and on all fours to its edge. Hoping to climb down, she lowered herself down till she hung by the verdigris copper rain gutter and contemplated how she was going to get to the wall just beyond an arms-length in from the eve. If she could get to it, the cut stone wall was climbable. Additionally, she realized her feet were hanging in front of a window. Likely a window in front of the chamber where the duo had engaged in their carnal acts. She felt herself lower with a jerk as the copper trough began to sag in spurts as its anchors gave way one by one. At a pause between a drop she could see into the window. The naked back side of the Bishop was streaked from lashings was hastily covered as he pulled on his vestments. Before the vestment dropped, a skull and bones tattoo on his rear end caught her eye. The gutter let lose with surprising quietness. Still clinging she swung down in a sideways arc.
Then she hit the hard brick walkway with a puff of dust from her sullied habit. Reflexively she rolled absorbing some but not all of the shock. As she stood up and crouched looking for any observers, pain shot up her left ankle. Staying close to the building, she quickly hobbled into a side entry of the Cathedral. Passing a few lower clergy and acolytes engaged in conversation, she tensed. Eyeing them closely out of suspicion, her hand unconsciously went to her pommel. Nonplussed and barely looking they nodded with an innocent “Bless you Chaplain.” and continued on. Relieved but still girdled with suspicions she unconsciously released her pommel. With the relief of true faith she made it to the shrine of Lanaril. At the alabaster altar she knelt with her sword point down in front her and lowered her head in prayer. The dust from the secret stairwell drifted onto the floor around her. Feeling her exhaustion from the last several days of challenges hit like a ton of feathers, soft but heavy. Closing her eyes she prayed in the morning light. Knowing that doing wrong had been right.
She had taken great risk for a book… even though she was illiterate.