Carcassonne, 1218
The Crow
I am a follower of death. I listen, watch and wait whilst it strikes, before I move in with claw and beak to prise forth its spoils. I am waiting now, sat amongst the wet leaves and branches, my gleaming eyes fixed on those below me. I have followed death to both man and beast, but it is man that interests me most. The death of man is so varied, but always hideous, always selfish. Nothing is more selfish than murder. Not that I am complaining, death is always generous to my kind, the carrion eaters.
I watch those below me, unseen but all knowing, my black body shrouded in darkness. The night echoes with my mocking laugh as I crow over these humans. I cannot understand what they are saying, just as they do not understand my call, but still I know their deaths. All men die puking, shitting and crying. It is ugly. But the motives for death are uglier. Whether it is for religion or for revenge, it is still murder.
These men should have listened to my warnings, for I know how they will die.
The Newcomer
“God’s teeth that is a foul brew!” The Newcomer choked, wiping his mouth distastefully with the sleeve of his tunic. “Tastes more like piss than wine.” His companions chuckled as the skin continued to be passed around the group. Each man took a deep draught, hissing with bared teeth as the fiery liquid trickled through their systems. Foul the drink may well have been, but the five men huddled round the fire with the Newcomer were hardened to the taste. The inner warmth kindled by the rank liquid had helped stave off many wretched nights spent battered by the elements.
Nightfall had caused them to halt their return to Carcassonne, forcing them once more to camp outside under a thunderous sky. Each man sat hunched in his cloak with body bent towards the meagre warmth offered by the fire. The rain spat down on them, just as the occupants of the nearby town had spat at them. These men after all were no heroes. Perhaps their cause had once been a pursuit for divine retribution. Perhaps a decade earlier when the fighting had started that had been their incentive, but these men no longer cared. They killed people. Men, women and children. Heretics or not. They killed people who defied the Catholic Church or who defied the King of France. Even the Newcomer lacked the religious fervour of a new crusader. Perhaps he too had merely been attracted by the opportunity for steady employment. For in truth they were fighting for themselves.
The flickering of the flames cast dancing shadows out into the midnight gloom of the forest. Trees loomed tall and straight in the darkness, their leaves dripping wetly onto the group. Mist rolled across the boggy ground, making the weary traveller damp and uncomfortable, whilst rendering a sentry’s watch pointless.
The Newcomer nevertheless surveyed the scene with flinty eyes. His face impassive, the only sign of his unease was the reflexive clenching of his fist against his thigh. He had joined the group only a few weeks before, replacing their dead comrade who had fallen prey to some of the heretics. They would not tell him any details, for the five men that sat beside him did not like the Newcomer. At less than thirty summers old he was too young to be fully trusted, and his handsome and unblemished face was unnatural. His grey eyes were as cold and hard as steel and seemed to pierce through those he fixed his gaze upon. Taciturn and solitary, the Newcomer made no attempts to ameliorate their dislike.
“Ain’t no use lad.” A mocking voice spoke from the shadows. “The forest plays tricks with you. Makes you see things that aren’t there. The best thing you can do for your sanity is just not to look.” This advice was given by a burly man, his face made ugly by a liberal collection of battle scars. The Newcomer’s gaze slipped once more to the forest before moving back to the burly man who was using a dagger to remove the blood and dirt encrusted under his fingernails.
“What do you think is out there?”
“Wolves.” “Heretics.” “Beasts.” The muttered replies came variously from around the fire.
“Demons?” The Newcomer offered. Silence descended over the group broken only by the sound of the rain slapping against leather boots.
“And what makes you say that lad?”
“I’ve heard stories.”
“Ahh stories.” The man’s tone caused his companions to laugh derisively, but the Newcomer continued to hold his gaze steadily. “And is that what brought you here to us lad...stories?”
“I suppose you could say it was fate that brought me to you. Fate and a curse. And of course the poor skills and luck that saw your friend murdered by peasants.” More than one man round the fire tightened the grip on his sword, but the Newcomer continued with uncharacteristic verbosity. “But I do have a story to tell you. One that some of you might already know.” Like any good story teller he stopped letting an unconscious hush descend over the group. When still he did not continue one of the men prompted sarcastically,
“We’re all ears now pup. Tell us your story.” The Newcomer’s lips curled sardonically,
“Certainly.”
The Crow
The instinct for survival is strong in all animals. But man goes to the greatest extremes to avoid death. He will push the capacity of his endurance in order to escape what is inevitable. She had stared death in the face, but still she ran.
It was winter some ten years past now, when this woman made her flight. I was able to follow her progress that night as the moon shone brightly down, filtering through the trees barren of leaves. Her journey through the forest was slow and arduous. The landscape through which she ran was bleak, the ground solid and crisp with frost, and the wind an icy blast. I called at her to hurry, for death was gaining on her. But my cries only seemed to make her more fearful and her movements more erratic.
Why would she not heed my warnings?
The Heretic
Her heart thumped loudly in her chest the sound crashing in her ears like waves hurling themselves against a rocky shore. Her breath whistled through frozen lips and muscles screamed from overuse. But still she did not stop. She could not stop whilst the hand of fear pushed her ever forward through the forest. Frost bitten branches tugged at her billowing dress and snagged the unbound mess of her dark hair. They scratched at her face and hands as she hurried onwards. Tears of fear and desperation clouded her vision and as her foot caught on something she cried out. She fell forward the world spinning momentarily. The impact on the frigid ground jarred her hip and sent ribbons of pain down her leg. She muffled a sob and pushed herself up, leaning heavily on the gnarled stump of a tree. Breathing unevenly, her hands trembling, she caressed her swollen stomach. Relief washed over her as she felt the determined kick of her unborn child against her palm.
In the frozen stillness of the night, over the sound of her panting breath, she heard the gurgling of water. Was it a stream? Or perhaps it was a river? Whatever it was the sound also heralded a settlement of some kind. She was almost free, for surely it would not pursue her there. She hurried towards the sound, stumbling in her haste. She could see the water now and she could hear the grinding of a mill wheel. Hope flared in her heart, easing the fatigue of her body. She gathered her skirts in her hand preparing to cross over to settlement and safety.
But there it was blocking her path, thwarting her escape. A horrid, black and faceless demon, clawing at her dress. She screamed, backing away from its tearing grasp, her feet slipping over the ice covered stone. Her balance precarious, she gasped in fear, as the demon abruptly released her dress. Her struggles propelled her backwards and she fell endlessly down.
She heard a laugh, twisted and cruel, just before the water rushed into her ears, enclosing her in its icy embrace.
The Crow
Religion is not something I or my kind understand. We’re elemental creatures governed by the simple needs of existence. But men are more complex, with belief systems that require absolute conformity.
They dragged her from the river the following morning. I watched as they gawked at her lifeless body, grotesque in its distorted features. Her face was a frozen mask of terror, with eyes wide open, fixed in fear upon the figure of death, and mouth gaping in a silent scream. Her hands were curled into talons as if scratching at her tomb.
The priest refused to house her in his church. He pronounced her a heretic. She did not conform to his beliefs. Whether she conformed to anyone else’s beliefs was of no accord. The priest was the figurehead of the community. His word was their will.
I am a part of nature. My role is necessary in nature’s cycle. But what they did to that woman was unnatural. They hacked at her body and burnt it so that she could not harass the living.
As they burnt the woman a great scream was heard far and wide. It was louder and more terrible than any of my warnings. She was cursing the demon who had laughed down at her, that he would suffer one day for his actions.
The Newcomer
“But I imagine you do not believe in demons or curses. After all you are practical battle hardened men.” No one contradicted the Newcomer’s mocking statement, but the fear and doubt in their eyes was plainly evident. “But I do not believe in demons. Or at least not the imagined denizens of hell. The real demons are men. For it was at the hands of a man that the woman lost her life.” He paused, “The faceless demon that she thought she beheld was but a monk with hood drawn over his face.”
“And is that it? I have to say I had hoped for better.” There was a collective laugh from around the fire, as pent up tension was released. The Newcomer snapped angrily,
“No. That is but the beginning.” His audience were unintentionally transfixed by his tale. Having before that night never heard him speak two words together, his voice was strangely hypnotic in the flickering darkness. “This monk was sent to preach in several villages suspected of harbouring heretics. Away from his monastery he began to be wracked by temptation, and nothing tempted him more than the woman. One night, when he was so drunk he could barely remember his name, he took the woman in force. He moved on from her village with no further regard for her, but when he returned he found her great with child. The full weight of what he had done that night crashed down upon him and he buckled under the pressure. He had to kill her, wipe out his crime and the accusatory look in her eyes. Sensing the danger the woman fled into the forest away from him. There was no need to follow her, no need to silence her, but reason had escaped him. She was a heretic and had used her demonic wiles to tempt him. And so when his chance came, he took it, he killed her.” The Newcomer stared hard into the fire, “The monk knew he could not return to his monastery and so he let his tonsure grow out and became a soldier, a crusader, one of us. He could not convert the heretics and so he would kill them. It would be his penance.” The Newcomer lapsed into silence as his story ended. The men around the fire began to shift and move,
“You need a better ending lad.”
“You are right. It does need a better ending. It should end with revenge, justice for the life that was taken. His penance was not complete.” The Newcomer smiled cruelly as he continued, “I said I do not believe in demons. But I do not doubt that the power of a curse is strong. Neither time nor distance weakens it.”
The Crow
I am not alone in my watch. One man remains alert as his companions drift into sleep. He rises, withdrawing from the fire with fear in his eyes. I watch silently as the shadow follows him. The darkness swallows them up as they move deeper into the forest. I have followed death long enough to know where this will end.
I cry out as something flashes in the gloom startling me. My cry drowns out his desperate pleas and death rattle. The shadow moves silently and swiftly away from the avenue of trees. He walks out wiping the long blade on his tunic before sheathing it at his side. He glances back at the guttering fire before stalking away into the night. The penance was complete. Justice had been served. The curse was fulfilled.
I watch no longer. Swooping down I smell the cloying scent of blood and piss on the damp ground. Secretively I look around. Good, he is all mine. My beak snaps in anticipation.
Historical Note
The Albigensian Crusade was fought in the south of France between 1208 and 1229. It was launched by Pope Innocent III and supported by the kings of France. The target was the Cathar heretics sheltered by the southern French nobility. The Cathars were thought to be an organised church that opposed Catholicism. Their dualist beliefs led them to reject many important Catholic doctrines such as the Trinity and Baptism. The Catholic Church tried at first to suppress the heresy through preaching before resorting to a crusade. The Crusade led to the massacre and destruction of many Cathar centres, such as the city of Carcassonne. However the Crusade was ultimately a failure. A few years after it ended the papacy invented another solution, the Inquisition.
There was a popular medieval tale that told of a monk who was visited by the devil. The devil asked him to choose one of three sins; drunkenness, adultery or murder. The monk chose drunkenness as the least sinful. However he got so drunk he lay with the miller’s wife. Unfortunately the miller caught them and the monk was forced to kill him. The devil thus had outwitted the foolish monk.
It was commonly thought by medieval people, and recorded by medieval clerics, that a stake through the heart, dismemberment or burning would stop a corpse from rising from the ground and attacking the living.
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