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The Black Chapel - noah mclaughlin
I II III IV V VI VII VIII IX X XII
A large, dark chapel stands upon an old and well-worn hilltop just an afternoon’s walk north from the West Bank of Bridgeville. Or rather, the dilapidated remains of that chapel now stand here. It is summer, and during the warm days the sun shines brightly and the breeze blows just enough to keep one cool as the people of Stephen work hard in their fields and in the streets – unless the goddess Lark is unhappy, and then Sol is hidden by clouds. The beasts and the birds of the wild roam freely and almost gaily, and every living thing in the kingdom seems to find peace – even happiness.
But all of that is superfluous. Peace is for the living. Suffice it to say that for the mortals of this grand old kingdom, the summer is a pleasant time. And suffice it to say that such pleasantness sickens me.
So it was, just this morning: such a healthy air had invaded the city that I was forced away from what I can still remember as a young, bustling town that verged on the edge of utter corruption even centuries after my death. In such times, whenever escape feels necessary, I can give myself such an illusion by coming here, to this crumbling black chapel.
Do not think of me as a ghost. Do not think of me as even wholly dead. I have been cursed to endure this wretched unlife for the rest of eternity by powers far beyond your puny comprehension. It is something that I have come to accept; though to this day I believe it is the hatred that I harbor for my decrepit condition that keeps me somehow “alive”.
There was once another like me. Feel no pity for his lost and torn soul – he deserved his fate as well as I. I am a murderer, a thief, a conspirator and assassin, the most despicable of creatures to walk in the same space as humankind. And so was Nicholas. We did not know each other, really; but I saw his birth into death, his horrible transfiguration. I suppose one could say that I even caused it. Strangely, it delighted as well as disgusted me. It is a tale worth telling.
It began here, in this wreckage of what was once an incredible and awe-inspiring site. When one reaches the base of the hill upon which the ruins stand, there is a hush that seems to fill the air so suddenly it unnerves even the most stalwart warriors and most pious holy men. The wind ceases, but it actually feels cooler that the usual summer day. The bright sunlight dims, and there is not one animal to be seen, save perhaps the occasional midnight-black raven who alights upon the ruins and caws at an approacher maniacally. It is here that I find my existence most bearable. Most say that this is an evil place, the dwelling of a forgotten and evil god whose presence still lingers here. They do not feel comfortable even discussing what has become a legend after so many centuries, a wispy dark fairy tale to scare your children into behaving.
It is truly a black chapel. Its very walls – through lying in crumbled ruins – are still an untarnished and flat black, absorbing all light and warmth. The shadows cast inside by the walls are pools of the deepest night in which still exists a small essence of the dark power that once resided here. I do not approach these pools of darkness when I come here: we have come to only an uneasy peace, the black creations that we are.
Nicholas, however, found this place far more comfortable, more enjoyable. But he did not come here for sanctuary: he helped to create those cold, loathsome shadows. He was a great priest of Kraz, the black god of assassins and death; and he was a great assassin. I knew him solely by name and reputation, and simply because we shared the profession of thief and murderer. It was here, so many centuries ago, when Bridgeville was still young and collapsing, when this chapel was ageless, erect and whole, that Nicholas made his covenant.
To be merciful, I should have killed him. But I had been walking this unlife for more than two hundred years then, and mercy had very nearly left my being completely. All I can do is relate this story to you now. It is a sad one.
But shed no tears for the damned. We need none.
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copyright november, 1999 noah mclaughlin