STEVE LEECH X
CED VIVIEN
Prose
THE GETAWAY
The good folk of Windmere won’t risk an eternity in purgatory, nor will they chance gaol in this mortal life, so their reaction to William Roy and Jeremy Barlowe’s anti-clerical flyer, published in 1528, is largely muted. However, with its talk of untold powers of the Pearl Moon, the pamphlet excites the less noble folk who whisper its teachings in the safety of the stables and meadows.
These villagers believe they can cleanse their sins and commune directly with God, away from the prying and puritanical local priest. The celestial event foretold by Roy and Barlowe is their salvation. When it comes, they seek deliverance on the banks of the murky pond, “Ghost Lake”.
They’ve learned that the Pearl Moon graces the night sky but once every 985 days. If the cloud cover is light, the villagers will see a lustrous yet bruised thumbprint of the moon high above the fir trees. Tonight, they see the sign. They tiptoe to the water’s edge as midnight shadows smudge and blur their features, providing much needed camouflage. Nervous chatter stills to a hush. No whispers. Not a murmur.
The villagers shiver. It’s not just cold. It’s apprehension. They know not whether the apparition will appear this night, nor whether it will anoint them, redeem them with the Pearl Moon’s enchanted beams that they hear so much about in the teachings.
Slowly, slowly, a misty specter emerges before them. They inch towards it, wading cautiously through frigid water. As it takes shape, its fluid yet faceless form floats above the cragged rocks. They stifle gasps. Its elongated arm stretches out. Out and up. Rawboned fingers flicker and flex, silhouetted against soft halos of moonlight. The villagers wait, motionless. Fearful but faithful hearts beseech the ghost to bring the moon’s soft light towards them. O purify our souls!
It's done. The ghoul takes its leave scratching at fragments of damp sky and inky trees. Has it been worth it? Prayers abound: please protect us, disciples of the pamphlet, of the Pearl Moon Rising. Each villager makes the sign of the cross and begins a long, sodden trudge home. Strides lengthen at the thought of warm hearths, bowls of broth and goblets of mead. It remains unspoken, but each one secretly knows that this pilgrimage is well worth the risks. For despite the treachery, each now has another 984 days to blaspheme, frolic, and make merry.
AN END TO THE EXPEDITION
I awoke disturbed at my own bright mood so soon after the separation. After tending to my unavoidable morning business, I decided a luncheon out would clear my head, so I went to the café on the plaza near the powder tower. It used to be Breçite’s—you know the place. The garçon there’s attitude towards me has cooled considerably, but that’s only to be expected, I suppose, given everything that’s transpired.
I ordered a glass of small beer and a sausage plate with brown mustard. It was, as you would expect, superb, the beer smooth and mustard sharp. I saved the knackwurst for last since the knackwurst there is so large, and thus the main attraction. I am also, as you well know, particularly fond of a knackwurst as good as theirs.
I sliced off a third and had it poised, devoid of mustard, upon my fork when I saw the remainder moving on the plate. From this portion, a spider emerged. The creature was aged, its eyes and bristles clouded with white. One leg ended short at the first joint, but the dauntless beast nevertheless stood firm on the greasy plate and seemed to embrace the day.
It spoke, and I barely heard the words–“Freedom! Freedom!”–before it coughed softly, rolled over, and died. Its withered limbs curled up in the noontide sun.
