Temples at War

Early on in my career as an aspiring writer I wrote a novel called Cult about a group of people who gathered in an old ruin on a Scottish island and held religious rites that were meant to bring back their saviour from the land of the dead. It wasn't that bad in my opinion for a first attempt, and there was some good stuff in there. However it remained unpublished ( and will do so for evermore) and stayed in a box for years, only to be dipped into occasionally for inspiration or any other reason that came to mind. It was just as well that I did. I have since then managed to gain two short stories from this manuscript, one of which is the following, and another, which at the last moment I decided not to include in this collection. Maybe next time.

This story was the prelude to the book.

As an additional note: this story was one of two previously published in Tales from the Green mantle. The other was Wolven, included here as Wolfsbane.

Black velvet smoke filled the air above the smouldering heaps that cooled slowly as day rotated into night, the line of termination still far out into the bay.

The crow, healthy in size and appetite, landed gracefully atop the largest of the heaps with seeming indifference to the heat below. It began it's pre dinner grooming with the air of a high born gentleman preparing to meet his guests for luncheon. Changing over to attend to the other wing it momentarily lost it's balance, claws slipping on the overdone flesh, pulling a ribbon from bone in one clean movement. It cried out, startled, flailing out wildly with it's wings until it gained a better, firmer hold.

Two humans watched the creature perform it's pantomime with silent, thoughtful interest. One of them was all of seventy years old, though you really could not tell from looking at him; five foot six, with fine white hair that billowed around his skull in a snowy hallo, stood on the grass verge of a sheer cliff that plummeted a hundred and twenty feet to the waves below.

The other, standing further away, nearer the remains of the bonfires, was the younger of the two by four and a half decades, blond, six eleven, and in debt to the other with his life. Both were different, but their differences were dressed by the same dark red mantle that concealed from head to foot when the hood was raised.

The crow, finished with it's grooming dived strait into the main course.

'See how brother crow devours the still warm flesh of our friends and enemies alike'

The younger nodded respectfully.

'See how he separates bone from meat with ease? He consumes while defiling what was once living'

The bird shit on a chin. The younger laughed.

'He shows a natural disrespect for the dead with much grace. But, my young friend, is it wrong? Is he evil?'

Younger hesitated. He sensed a trap, and to fall into it was unthinkable.

Silence from the Elder.

The boy thought hard for a moment, before opening his mouth to answer.

'It is neither wrong nor evil. The bird is only one of it's kind'

-there was a crash in the undergrowth-

'It is living within its nature, doing what it has to live. What its shape demands'

His master stood still, seeming to regard the oncoming mob and his imminent capture with mocking ease. The boy, not hearing the villagers, mistook his masters lack of reply for disapproval, felt his throat dry up.

He wanted to turn from this sight of carnage he now faced at the Elders unspoken behest. He wanted to turn and look at his masters face, those hard but caring eyes, a look that he never seen in either of his parents faces, a look that said to him that he was wanted. That he was worth something to someone. That he was special, Only his sister had any feeling of love for him; her death at the hands of the insane witch finder general robbing him of even that.

He wanted to, but he could not, lest he saw an expression of anger on that beloved face.

When the Elder finally did speak his voice was much quieter, further away with not a trace of emotion.

'Are we humans any different son? Is it on our hearts and souls to do likewise? Are we built to care and love thy neighbour?'

He spoke these last words with a tone of disgust, as if the tongue that uttered them found them distasteful.

'Remember the teachings of wars fought and torture committed by those of the new church. Of the attacks of the poor knights of Christ on our own Temple, people who saw the folly as we did, as we do..'

anger began to seep into his words.

-The approaching men suddenly fell silent as the first heaps of dead came to their sight. Knees buckled and two men went down with a meaty thump, another turned away and vomited-

Younger did indeed remember. He remembered the sound of metal on stone as swords were drawn; the screams of agonized outrage in the inner sanctum echoing throughout the castle. The crowded hallway, a living tide moving with the boom of the waves below. The boneless thud of the dead or dying, their blood soaking the magnificent tapestries and making the hard floor oily; slippery to those panicking. The cracking sounds as more men poured in around the fallen, swords slicing, pikes impaling

He remembered himself freezing up entirely as the presence of death came ever closer towards him, the sudden vice-like grab that came from nowhere, followed by a bewildering array of twisting passages, then out into the fresh air.

A flush of guilt burst within him at the memory. The very fact of his survival at the cost of so many others. Another, stronger feeling overcoming this lapse of faith. Love. Love for his master and mentor who had risked his own life to save his. These two emotions mixed uneasily within him, making him feel light headed. He fancied that the breeze would soon carry him away to some far off land, a realm of imagination and neon spirits in spirals and sound unreality.

Younger bit his lip. The sharp pain bringing him back to here, planting his feet solidly on terrafirma.

'No' he answered

'Good, then you have learned all that I have to teach. You are a diligent student, worthy of my succession.'

The Elder then lifted his hands to the sky, and placed his blessing on the one who would keep his memory alive, and, one day would bring them back into strength again.

He then stepped off the cliff, leaving his last words engraved on the boys mind forever.