Cryptic Mystery...

Crypts are without doubt the best bit of a church. This crypt is entirely imaginary though I did cheekily borrow ideas from a couple of my favourite medieval crypts. The Romanesque crypt capitals from Canterbury Cathedral depict a fanciful array of monstrous creatures, whilst the crypt at Winchester Cathedral has actually flooded in the past.

As the dank water trickled into his nose and mouth he gagged. Pulled from the dark haze of unconsciousness he lifted his head from the puddle and choked, spitting the foul tasting water from his mouth. Disorientated he lay on the damp floor frowning at the darkness of his surroundings and trying to remember where the hell he was.

Acting on extinct he tried to lift himself but his muscles trembled weakly with the effort and he collapsed back onto the ground with an echoey splash. Blinding pain sliced through his head at the movement and he groaned. Bile rose in his throat as the nausea bubbled within him. He retched, quivering pathetically, and a droplet of sweat rolled off his forehead. Hands scratching for purchase he dragged himself across the sodden ground. Finding what felt like a corner he curled himself up against the moist stone feeling drained from his exertions. A feeble hand reached for the back of his head from where the pulsing ache was splitting his skull in two. His fingers found a sticky indentation and he didn’t need a light to know it was his own blood. Swallowing convulsively in an effort to stop a second wave of nausea from overcoming him he closed his eyes.

Exhausted his mind drifted between semi-awareness and unconsciousness. By the time he was able to drag himself off the floor the water level had increased dramatically. Hands groping in the darkness he pushed himself to wade cautiously outwards. Adapting to the gloom his gaze began to identify shadows and the dim outline of shapes. A rush of familiarity caused him to halt in sudden confusion. Brow furrowed he tried to rearrange his memories into some semblance of order.

- The crypt of a church. - October rain’s causing the river to swell dangerously. - The solemn intonation of a tonsured figure. -

Reeling from the onslaught of remembrances which resurrected the pounding in his head, he staggered, the water sloshing about his legs. Breathing ragged he wobbled unsteadily until his gaze latched upon another shape. This one was the most familiar of all.

It was a door. Hope flared to life within him and heedless of his head injury he leapt forward. Hammering on the door with the palm of his hand he yelled out his continued existence. The quiet murmur of the water lapping at stone was his only response. It was then that he knew, though perhaps he had known it instinctually before, that the blow had meant to do more than stun him. Somebody wanted him dead and had at least the forethought to plan that the water would finish the job. He felt a rush of irrational anger. He was going to die and he couldn’t even remember what for. The snarling hybrid beasts watching comfortably dry from their lofty height atop sturdy columns seemed to mock him with their curled lips and forked tongues. He slammed his fist once more on the solid door ignoring the flash of pain across his knuckles and the responding throb in his head.

Desperation seeped through him as pervasive as the chilled water through his tunic. Sliding down the length of the door he crouched on the highest step. Despondent in the knowledge that help would not be arriving he rested his head on his bent knees with a tortured sense of finality.