The Black Chalice by Marie Jakober Page B

of man, the bones of the earth, the cycle of the seasons, the gods within the world.
    “Here in Car-Iduna, you look on it with awe and call it magical. Outside, in the world, where the same magic surrounds you, you trample it into the ground. You seek gods in the sky to escape the earth, and virtue in the mind to escape the flesh. You seek dynasty and glory, making yourselves kings and lords in the fantasy that you can thus live forever, and break out of the cycle of time. And it will seem so, for a while. You will build your great churches. You will see your names written down in scrolls. You will see men tremble when you frown. Your sons will carry on your blood, even if you have to kill their mothers to make sure of it. You will have your way… for a little while. Till another king comes and takes your empire, and another god who claims to be the only god leads his armies against you. Till your bones dissolve in the earth with the bones of those you slew, and you are as forgotten as the wind, your kings not even names in books, and your god a bogey to frighten children.
    “Such is your immortality, for which the world bleeds.”
    A drone began to shiver, and then a drum to beat; in the caverned walls of Car-Iduna it seemed to tremble and echo back, until the walls were alive with the sound. And so the Black Chalice passed from our sight, and I thank God and his holy saints that I never laid eyes on it again.
    And yet it is not gone, and nor are my memories of it, which troubled me all down the years, like old wounds. For the thing is alive, as alive as those who keep it, and as wickedly enchanting, an eternal ambush in the dark of the mind, pulling us back from God, pulling us down into death.
    As Karelian was pulled down, Christ, so easily, with nothing more than the offer of her hand. He took it with a boy’s smile and a brush of his own across her hair, and followed her to her sorcerous bed.
    I went alone to the room which Marius had offered us— utterly alone, for Reinhard and all the rest of the company scattered into I know not what dark places. I knelt on the stone floor and prayed all night, but my prayers failed me, for God was far away and Car-Iduna was all around me. I could not block from my mind the thought of Karelian and the woman, the endlessly changing images of their coupling, and the longing which rose unbidden through all my flesh, the unbearable longing to be there in his place.
    Or, more truthfully, in hers….

FOUR
    The Writing of Histories

    What is truth?
    Attributed to Pontius Pilate
    * * *
    Something must be done, Anselm, I beg you. Something must be done.”
    It was painful to beg. In seventeen years Paul had never asked any of his brothers for anything. He had always been the one to help them, the one who willingly took on more tasks, more problems, or more penances.
    The face of the older monk was calm, but his voice betrayed a hint of impatience.
    “Three times this morning you’ve told me something must be done. There’s only one thing which can be done, my friend. You must go to the abbot, and have this thing exorcised.”
    “And I’m telling you it’s impossible.”
    “Then tell me why it’s impossible, or let me get on with my weeding.”
    “Anselm…!”
    “Listen,” Anselm said, leaning on his hoe and talking to the other almost as if he were a child. “There’s a limit to how much even a confessor may pry into another man’s soul. But I can’t advise you if you tell me nothing. You’re trying to write a book, and you can’t write it properly because your quill is bewitched. On the surface, that seems to me an obvious problem with an obvious solution. But I’m not a fool, Paul. I’ve noticed you don’t take communion. And you scourge yourself so much, I fear it won’t be long before the abbot reprimands you for it—”
    “He already has.”
    “Other brothers tell me you pace at night, and cry out, and while none of us are spies, or wish to be, we live close