The Devils of La Couvent (Demons, Nuns, Romance)
(Normally I write for you, my lovely deviants. But over the last week, I took some much needed time off-and wrote something for myself. Enjoy-j)
The wretch shudders into a foul cough. For a moment, I think this is it. Our Father will take him. He’ll ascend directly through the roof of this carriage in a brilliant light. His lungs and rheumatism, they’ll fade in the brilliance of a just God. A compassionate deity who will release me from my bondage.
Spittle parts from his lips as he beats his cane to the floor. I watch him, the lid of my eyes still even as his face turns blood red. His hand shakes, and the couch ceases at once. He draws in, the phlegm collected into a slurry as he reaches for the carriage door and spits. He slams it shut with a snarl as the carriage wheels jostle us both.
All the while, rain sieges against the carriage’s thin walls. A peel of thunder cries from above. It’s the first light we’ve had since the storm started.
“Damn it, damn it all to hell! This blasted driver means to be the death of us both. Godless bastard, cross eyed son of a whore!” says the wretch as his jaundiced eyes set upon me. He smacks his cane to the top of the carriage. Once, twice as he cranes his neck.
“Do you hear me, you bloody heretic? Or has God sought to strike you deaf as well as mute?!”
The storm replies with another clap of electric death. If the wretch jumps, or if the carriage skipped, I can’t say. Instead I clutch the bible in my lap tighter. My nails sink into its leather cover as they have countless times. I close my eyes for one long, silent moment.
Do not be quickly provoked in your spirit, for anger resides in the lap of fools.
Ecclesiastes 7:9.
The wretch scowls at the roof, and mutters a silent curse. He sniffs, and wipes his nose upon his vestments. His eyes turn to me, and hold there for a moment. The flick across my features, fat yellowed orbs in search of secular truth. When he finally finds the scar, his tongue rolls over his lips. He smiles, his teeth as crooked as his collar. When he speaks, it’s in the tinny voice of a carrion bird.
“I’ve heard many, many a good thing of you from the archbishop. It’s true then?”
I say nothing. The carriage rolls on. Deeper into the storm, deeper still as water slaps against the doors. The wretch gives a dry heave of a laugh and taps his cane.
“Aye, a man of few words? Or is it a vow? You know, I see that all the time. With your lot. You take these vows, and you think it’ll make you a martyr. That it? You think there’s some spot reserved just for you in the after life?”
I purse my lips, and grip my bible even tighter as the wretch snorts. He laughs again, and it’s with the sound of bones against rock.
“Damned foolish, that. You know what I think? I think this, all you see before you? It’s hell, boy. And we deserve nothing less,”
He turns to face the window, and the storm greets him with another blast. The carriage rocks for a moment, then settles to the low tug of the road.
“I know better than to claim the mind of God,”
The wretch turns to me, his brow angled in fury. But he stays his words a moment, his eyes flicking back to the scar. He snorts again, and his lips twisted into a cynic’s smile.
“Oh, isn’t that just sweet? After all you’ve seen, and you still claim ignorance? All the wit of a babe fresh off mother’s teat?” he says.
I shake my head, and meet his horrid gaze. “Ignorance is the greatest blessing we can have-and how fortunate you’re far more blessed than I,”
The wretch, he’s about to retort when the wagon begins to slow. The horses whinny, and our driver shouts at them with a Frenchman’s drawl. The carriage rocks once more. A moment later, the door opens. The wretch looks upon the aperture, his jaw still slack. It shuts abruptly, and he turns towards me. He lifts a shaking, gnarled finger as he speaks for the final time.
“You better be all they’ve said you are. Because if you slip even a moment, your tongue won’t be enough to douse the fire,”
He turns back towards the door, and he waves the driver off with a scowl.
@@@
Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.
Matthew 5:5.
The verse crawls to the front of my mind as Sister Vanille meets my gaze. A small thing, her habit hides all but the tinge of her cheeks. Her smile is a slice of warmth that makes the storm outside but white noise.
“I’m so glad to see you Father-erm, pardon. I don’t remember your name?”
The Wretch, his headdress slipping, snorts. “News travels quick as pitch in this hovel, then? Pay your respects. This-” he says as he turns towards me, “-is father Loudon. Trained exorcist, hunter of witches, warlocks-”
“I don’t hunt warlocks,” I say. I step before the wretch, and extend my hand to the sister. She stares at it a moment, then takes it. I grip it tenderly, fearful I’d snap the twigs of her fingers. Behind me, the wretch scoffs as his cane drags against stone.
“Don’t hunt warlocks, you say? And why wouldn’t you? They’re heretics just like the rest of the lot, aren’t they?”
“No,” I reply. I pull my hand away, Sister Vanille’s own jerking back as I do. Her eyes flick towards me, and hold as her hands slip back into her sleeves.
“No?” coughs the wretch.
“No. Warlocks are oathbreakers. They’ve their own after them, and aren’t my concern. The rest however, is true. Cardinal?” I say as I turn to face him.
“Your wisdom won’t be necessary here. I’ll fetch your driver?”
The wretch, his wrinkled continence pinching, stares at me as a street mutt would scraps. The tip of his cane meets the ground once. He shakes his head, and begins to hobble towards the door.
“Oh, no. Don’t want to put the golden boy out, do we? Got all you need, right? Well, so do I. I said I’d see you to the door, and have. Good day monsieur,” he says. He approaches the door, his head pitching back in a snort. He spits by the door, muttering to himself as he pushes it ajar. The wet embraces him, and the door slammed closed behind. I turn back to Sister Vanille-who gazes at me like a startled lamb. She takes a step back, and her lips tremble into a smile.
“Sister,” I say, “Do you know the gospels of Matthew?” I say.
“I uh, I suppose I do. Why Father?” she says.
“Matthew ten-sixteen. Behold, I send you as a sheep into a den of wolves, so be cunning as snakes and innocent as doves. Which of those four are you, Sister?”
“One would hope the lamb?” she replies. There’s a tone to her words, one which makes the last utterance a question. I give her a nod, and hold my hands behind me.
“Excellent choice. I’m the serpent. And together, we’re going to root out the wolves. You can handle that, can’t you?”
I watch the soft, supple nape of her neck as she swallows. She nods, and I return it with my own.
“That’s a good girl. The hour is quite late-I suppose the Mother Superior is aware of my coming?”
Sister Vanille nods, and gives a slight smile. “That she is. She was eager to greet you, but as the evening went-”
“No need to apologize. All children of god require rest for the lord’s work. I assume you’ll show me to my quarters?”
“O-oh, yes Father! I can do that. Do you have any…baggage, or-?” she says as she tilts her head, eyes cast behind me.
I shake my head, and pull my bible before me. “None but this. My things will arrive on a separate delivery. Cardinal Gastone was quite-” I bite my tongue, and exhale through my nose. “-eager to begin our journey. As you could tell,”
Sister Vanille grins, and for a moment I see the blush of her cheeks once more. She lifts her sleeves, and hides the comment away as she turns. “This way, Father. We’ve a room just at the end of the hall,”
She begins to walk, the flat of her shoes clacking against stone. I join her just a stride behind, the candle light flickers casting our shadows long. “I do hope I’m not imposing upon anyone. No one had to give up a room, did they?”
“Oh, no no no! Don’t you worry. We’re a small sisterhood. Just myself, Mother Superior, and three others. You’ll meet them tomorrow,” she says.
We speak not a word more as we shuffle down the hall. It’s but a short jaunt, and before long we’re in front of an sagged, pock-marked door. The iron upon it is thick, with a simple metal loop to pull it out. I eye it a moment as Vanille turns to me.
“It’s humble-but I suppose that won’t bother you?”
“Not at all. Thank you dear sister,” I say. I raise a hand towards the iron loop, but stop as Vanille speaks once more.
“Erm, father? Is it true? The reason you’re here? It’s uh-it’s about the incident the other night?”
I stand still, my head turning towards Vanille. I search her face, every curve and line.
I give a small nod, and watch as color drains from it like water on lead panes.
“Good night, dear sister. Do rest-tomorrow we begin,” I say.
I lift the loop, and pull the door back as Vanille stands there. Eyes wide, staring not at the floor but boring into hell itself. Her gaze doesn’t break until the door intercepts it, snug in it’s frame. I exhale, and turn to face the furnishings.
There’s a shoddy table, with an equally shoddy chair I dare not put weight upon. A single thick candle burns. It’s fresh, without the wax having dropped a single centimeter along its sides. The bed lay shoved in the corner. A gray woolen blanket lay atop it, with a pillow the size of a pillbox. I walk towards it, and press my palm against it. It holds firm, and I suppress a sigh. Instead, I turn, and sit down upon it. I pull my boots from my feet, and lay my head down. The candle flickers along the ceiling, cutting odd shadows. They twist and dance about, shapes indiscernible.
I only rise to snuff it out when my eyes threaten to hold close, and firm. It’s only then I realize my bible is still in my hands.
I toss it upon the table, and don’t give it another thought.
@@@
The pounding at the door bellies the pounder. But it’s not the urgency that bolts me upright. It’s that when I open my eyes to behold the room, it’s still dark.
“Father-father please, come quick! It’s happening!” says a voice beyond the door. I twist upon the mattress, toes deft as they slip into my boots. I rise, and slap my balm against the table. It graces leather and my grip tightens about the book. I walk to the door, and feel for the loop. My hand finds purchase, and I shoved against the wood as it sways.
Sister Vanille, candle in hand, stands in the hall. Her eyes are wide and manic, and beside her stands a plump woman perhaps a year younger. Her features are difficult to discern in the light-but the few I grasp match Vanille’s own.
Pale faced terror.
I turn to Vanille, my brow knit. “Sister? ‘Tis time for morning prayer already?”
“No father! It’s-” she says, her lips a thin line. It’s only then I see the steady, cyclical rise of her habit. Fast and steady. I raise a hand, and grip her shoulder firmly.
“Dear lamb, what’s the matter? Tell me, and tell me true,”
Vanille takes a draught of air, and tilts her head past us. Down the hall. “It’s the mother superior, she’s-she’s sick sir,”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, we thought she had a summer cold. She was irritable, rather snappish at dinner. After I tended to you, I went to tell her you had arrived. But she wouldn’t open the door. And now, she-”
Before Vanille can finish, there came a howl from beyond us. Beyond the darkness of the hall, beyond the landing. It’s a tinny, shriek of a thing that echoes through the stone walls. My head snaps as my ears perk-and once the sound dies, I turn back to the pair.
“Vanille, you’ve done well. You’ve been very brave, you and sister-” I said, turning to face the shadow.
“Fey,” says the shadow. I nod, and turn back to Vanille.
“You and sister Fey have been brave. But right now, I need you to return to your rooms. Bolt the doors if you can, do you understand?” I say, with a hope the breaking of my voice stays in check.
Vanille stares, then gives a slow nod. Her lips purse, and she turns to the other. “Come Fey. Let us back to the beds, yes?”
“Before you go-” I say. I turn back into my room, and bring back the candle from the table. Vanille lights the wick, and the pair abscond at once down the hall. I follow them a pace beyond, the sickly light of our candles nary enough to hold off the dark. They stop near the entryway, at a door not unlike mine.
Fey grips the handle, and Vanille looks back to me. “Father? Do-do be careful please?”
I turn to her, and search for her eyes. Gone are it’s eerie glooms from earlier. In their place resides the gaze of panic. I try to smile, a verse pelting from my lips.
“The lord is with me. I will not be afraid-what can man do to me?”
But Vanille’s eyes don’t falter. Her lips pull tighter as she gives a simple shake of her head. “It’s not mortal ailments I fear, father. Be well, and Christ be with you,”
The door opens, and the pair disappear beyond it. Their door shudders into place, and beyond it I hear the faint whispers only hearsay can birth. I turn back towards the corridor-another scream breaking the peace.
I step forward, my bible tight within my grip as darkness parts from my light.
@@@
I sit, grip still tight upon the book as I watch the bed. It doesn’t rattle, it doesn’t shake. It doesn’t spin within the air. It’s occupant doesn’t float. All of these things, they’re folk tales. The idle chatter of the illiterate and lame. No possession-be it one I’d been privy to or no-ever had such an occurrence. None reported in all the church’s archives held such details.
Possessions manifest in much more mundane ways.
The woman before me breathes as Vanille did. Her habit lays about her body, ripped and tattered. The flesh beneath is mahogany rich, and just as supple. Her eyes, though wide, are voids within the reach of the candle. She moves not a mote, save for her breathing. She hadn’t said a word as I’d knocked, nor spoke after I entered the room. The door, like mine, held fast in it’s frame.
I’d taken to her chair, and pulled it from the table. I sat, bible in my palms as I stared into her unblinking eyes. I couldn’t tell how long we had sat-there wasn’t a window to track the sun. Only the candles, only the both of us. Only the sweltering heat to envelope us both. I had felt it the moment I entered. It caressed, it engulfed. It swallowed me utterly, sweat beading within my collar.
The chair creaked as I straightened my spine. I opened my bible with my thumb, fingers quick to find the exact page I needed. The woman before me, her lips twinged into a smirk. She rises from her bottom to her knees, right at the footboard. Her fingers curl around it, and I watch as her nails sink into the wood. She leans forward at a deep angle, her smirk widening. It’s only as her habit falls from her hips forward that I look upon the holy script.
I raise my hand, and begin to read.
“Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in our day of battle,” I say. The woman lets out a snort, and I hear the stiff mattress shift. I hear the slip of cloth-perhaps the blanket, perhaps her habit. I curl my hand into a fist, my brow arched as I project my voice.
“Be a safeguard against the wickedness and snares of devils-”
“Father?” comes a soft voice, “Father? Look upon me. Do I appear a wicked snare to you?”
“Silence, ‘lest you give me your name,” I reply. I clenched my fist tighter, so much that I feel my nails dig within the flesh of my palm. There’s the sound of soft footfalls, but I don’t look up from my book.
I can’t, not even for a moment. For as I continue to speak, I feel it draws closer. That warmth, so sweltering as I entered, it’s here. Right before me, pouring upon me like the sun itself.
“Jazamine,” comes the voice, “Mother Jazamine. But you knew that already, didn’t you father?”
“May God rebuke them, we humbly pray-”
“Father? Feel me. Lay thy hands on me, and know you’ve nothing to fear. I’m but flesh, just like you,”
“-O’ prince of the heavenly host, by the power of God, cast into hell Satan and all other evil spirits that might prowl-”
“Funny,” says the voice, “You didn’t cast out sister Agatha, did you?”
At the mention of the name, my tongue falls still. The fire in my throat turns to charred coals, and I almost close the book. My mouth, slack and mute, shuts all of a moment. Then it opens as fury bubbles from my stomach, broiling my mind and tongue. Both move to speak.
Both are silenced by the flesh of the sister appearing in my view. By the grip of her hand as it cups the back of my neck. Her thighs envelope me as her legs wrap about the chair. She grips the bible absently from me, tossing it into a corner. The tips of her fingers grace my cheek as she tilts my head-up, up into the dark void of her eyes. She smiles, and taps against a fingertip against my scar.
“She loves you,” she says.
Were I to clench my jaw any tighter, it would snap the word of the pope himself. Jazmine brings her face closer, and presses her lips the gash. Her hands sink as she pulls me into an embrace. Her head finds my shoulder, and when she speaks the voice reverberates inside my skull.
“She still loves you-even now. And she forgives you,”
“She’s dead,” I say. I spit the words out like a curse, and cinch my eyes closed. I take my hands, and grip her hips tight enough to feel the bones. I shove her from atop me, and she meets the ground with a thud. The Mother gives a yelp, her thighs splayed to reveal a throbbing, girthy sex. She frowns, her hand reaching for the meat of her flank as she looks at me. I rise, and walk towards my bible.
“Awfully rough for a priest,” comes the echo in my head.
“Silence your lying tongue,” I shout back, bending to grip the book. There comes a chortle from behind me, one I rise to face. The Mother is perched upon the back of the chair, her girth hanging over the back. The tip drips upon the seat, and she cuts a foxes smile at me.
“So, let me get this right,” she says, “you can believe a man came back from the dead, you can believe in the holy ghost, and demons-but you can’t believe a possessed woman loved you? That perhaps her guest did as well?”
I open the book, and cast my gaze upon it. “Soul of christ,” I shout, “Sanctify me-”
“Oh, do shut up. You claim ignorance to the mind of god, and blindly follow his rites? How can you be sure the words you say will hold any effect upon me?”
“Oh God, Oh Jesus, Hear me-”
“Did you think perhaps the reason it doesn’t work is because all you know is wrong?” says the Mother, rising to her heels upon the chair. Standing as such, her shadow grows long in the candle light. It encompasses me utterly-and blots out the words like spilled ink.
For the second time, my jaw slacks and closes. I shut the book, and shield my eyes from the heat, from the sight before me.
“Father-did you ever stop to think that in all you’ve done, perhaps you made a mistake about us?”
The words beat about my brain, the echo a constant dirge. The book falls from my hands as I clap my palms to my skull, as I try to focus on anything else. On and on it goes, one voice growing to thousands as I try to pray. All of which falls silent as her hand graces my chin, and pulls my face higher.
Her feet are still planted to the chair, but she stands upon it. Parallel to the floor, dark eyes wide as they look to mine. When she smiles, it’s not with malice-nor with lust.
It’s a love only Mary herself could give.
She laughs again, like a mother does when a child warms her. When she speaks again, it’s with her own voice-not the echo.
“It’s okay to be wrong, Father. About yourself, about your work. All I’m asking of you is to listen for a moment. Can you give a sinner that?”
My nostrils flare as I inhale. The Mother superior twists and cavorts her body until she’s sitting upon the chair. Her arms hook over the back of it, and I don’t fight back a glance at her supple bust. Her cheeks darken, and she parts her legs wider. My eyes cast down, and linger for a moment before they snap back.
“Agatha forgives you. She’s not in Hell, and she’s happy. Do you understand?”
My thoughts-once again my own-race to meet my tongue all at once. A thousand things wrestle to escape first, but what comes is the simplest words of all.
“How do you know that?” I say, every word rasping upon the next.
The Mother superior-Jasmine-she smiles and lifts her palms. “Oh, it’s quite simple-she wasn’t possessed. Not by any of us, at any rate,”
“But I-” I start, but my tongue falls dumb beyond my lips. A moment passes, and Jazamine leans forward.
“You gave her all the love you could. And when the church-that fuss of a cardinal and his goons-found out? She cried witchcraft. Because she loves you more than that. All this time, all this belief you have in a loving god-and you thought love was what brought us in? Truly?”
The candle flickers, casting off a brilliant light. Far more than it’s single flicker can contain. In it’s glow, I see Jazamine in full. Her braided hair, the softness of her smile and flesh. The warmth, it’s more than the sweat beneath my color.
It’s her. She embodies it utterly, and it rises with her lips.
“Demon,” I say with a parched throat, “Why would you tell me this? For what purpose? To torture me?”
Jazamine shakes her head, and lets out a laugh. “Do you know what we were before your church cast us in a villains light? Demon, father? It’s a perversion of Djinn. It means being of wind. Truth travels within us. And regardless of the distance, we hear all truths. Would you like to know the final thing Agatha told me?”
Memories play before my mind of her. Of her smile, her warmth not unlike this.
I think about the way Agatha held me. The way she smelled, the way she laughed. Her lips as they met mine, risking excommunication and heresy.
A tear rolls across my cheek, but I pay it no more mind than I do the others that follow.
I answer with a solemn nod.
Jazamine rises from the chair, and the only sound is her steps as she closes the distance between us. She lifts her hand, and speaks as her finger trails across my scar to my lips.
“She told me,” she starts, “that you’re far too into your work. That you look cute with a collar, and without it. And that were I to kiss you, I wouldn’t want to stop. Now why would she tell me such a thing, Father?”
“I…I don’t know,” I say.
Jazamine smirks, and brings her face close to mine. She grips my chin as her fingers deftly reach for my belt. “Oh, I think you do. She encouraged it, really. And you know-I’ve got to see if a serpent like yourself can truly escape a lamb’s lure. Can you, father?”
“There’s-there’s only one way to find out, I suppose,” I say.
She laughs, her lips nearing mine as she whispers. “Then let us see if the tale of that garden holds fast, shall we?”
Her lips press to mine, and I’m engulfed by her. Her warmth, her caress. The feel of her sex against my own.
But not a single part of me burns.