Clergy has a minion!

John Doe the Dead Person

The air outside was deafening. For the last three days and nights, shouts had risen up from the square, protesting the changes that had been made. Curfews that had been put into law in the last week were promptly broken; noise limitations had been shattered in mere moments. It didn’t matter, the Father was permitting the citizens to rage for now, but as soon as he willed it, the clergy would pounce and those who would not comply with the new regulations would be punished severely. These were the riffraff of the city and they would not be missed by the pure.

The changes were made to clean the streets, which had begun to smell of piss and decay and death, all smells which offended the senses of the pure, and thus offended those of the Lord. The walls of the city had been built long ago when the first Father had drawn the boundaries of the promised land. They stood as they always had, strong and unbreached, protecting the faithful who lived within from the thieves and demons, murderers and devils who chose to dwell without. The safety had a cost, however, in the population limitation. There were only so many apartments and the the builds could only be built so high. In recent years this had become a problem, as it did every so often. Many of the protesters were the unlucky denizens who had the misfortune to live on the streets. Some were not.

One man in the crowd, the one wearing gray despite the sea of colors around him, was in the latter category. Brother Paul was not sending up a shout or cheer with the rest of the protestors, but stood quietly among them, looking up at the Father and his brothers in the balcony of the monastery, which was the center of the city. He watched them watching as he stood as stoic as the walls of the city despite the shoving he received as men and women jostled to get closer to the ivory gates. Around the square were the strongest of the brothers who had taken up arms to keep the peace and protect the clerics within the confines of the monastery. At times, a protestor would run at one of the men in the hooded cloaks, and be wrestled to the ground until they regained their senses. Others would be dragged away if the calmness did not return to them. This was the way order was maintained and the word of the Lord obeyed.

Brother Paul turned away when the other monks vanished inside, and looked toward the many blessed citizens who had remained in their homes out of respect for the traditions of Jericho and respect for the Father and the Lord. The faces of innocent children peered through the iron bars as they looked from their window toward their peers on the street and in the square. They were the righteous ones. A few of the pure were on the street but kept their distance from the throngs of the protestors, pulling their children away from joining the excitement and crossing themselves in the three locations: head, mouth and heart. They folded their hands as the most noble citizens did and left the square as quickly as possible to continue their day.

Paul moved again, wishing to better observe those who might be cleansed of the sins in which they were currently partaking. He was a Baptist in the monastery. A vow of silence he’d taken as a novice also permitted him to take confession and give penance. In fact, he was the only cleric currently permitted to give penance to the sinners of the city. He took confessions, but he also observed the followers of the Church and provided penance to those he deemed most in need of salvation.

He moved through the crowd as though it were a dance, despite the current of motion pressing him back. Most moved from his path, but some did not. Either they didn’t notice him, or held such little regard for those who had taken the oaths and sworn their lives to the Lord that they rebelled in any way they could. One woman, filthy and wearing rags which had worn and torn holes into the most immodest of places, had the audacity to spit at his feet and spew the vilest language she could muster. The words were as offensive to the Lord as they were to Brother Paul, and one of the guards was soon upon them, and removed from the protest. Offenses were not taken lightly in the city.

Commotion broke out as a man, possibly the woman’s husband but more likely a lover she had taken into sin with her, wrapped his arms around the larger monk’s neck. Chaos ensued; men and women threw punches and grabbed at one another’s clothing, cobblestones were pulled out of the road with fingers badly bloodied from the trauma of rocks and shoes. Violence pulled the guard to his knees as he became a most unfortunate shade of violet. More monks swarmed to help their brother as Paul watched in silent contemplation. Many in the fight were injected with the calming serum, while others were dragged out sight of the protest, to the back of the monastery. Blood stained the purity of the square and with the termination of the fight came an ebb in the shouts, which lasted long enough for the voice of the Father to call out over the city.

“The curfew will be going into effect in one hour. In one hour, the gates of Jericho will open and any who wish to live without the rules given to be by the Lord himself will be permitted to leave. They will close at midnight, and any who remain in the streets of the city will be made to confess their sins or forcibly removed, by their own choice. In one week, we will hold a communion for those who remain pure in the eyes of the Lord and in the heart of the city of Jericho. All are expected to attend. Go now and live in peace and wellness in His eyes.”

It had been seven years since the last communion of Jericho had occurred, after the last shift in laws when the current Father was placed upon the holy chair. One week was a short time to wait. Content that the protests would end and the city could be cleansed by the novices over the coming week, Brother Paul returned to the shadows of the city and moved unnoticed in them back into the monastery. They would need to prepare for the coming ceremony.

Knife scraped against the whetstone softly, but the echoes around the chamber vibrated and built until each slice was deafening. It might have rivaled the shouts that had rung in the streets hours before, were it not buried deep beneath the monastery and protected from the ears of the pure. Although the sounds that took place in the chamber – rattling chains, shrill screams of agony, the sharpening of blades – offended the Lord, they were necessary to maintain the purity of the city, and so the noises were muffled and hidden. No one should be able to hear another’s confession.

When the monk was satisfied that his instrument was tuned to perfection, he stepped toward the man who had initiated the violence.

“Confess,” a monk behind Paul commanded, allowing his voice to sound as Paul’s would have.

“Or what? The Lord will protect me,” the man retorted, spitting in the faces of both brothers.

An answer was not needed; Brother Paul could show the man what the Lord would have to protect him from, and teach the man that he did not determine the Lord’s will or deserve His protection without words. If a picture was a thousand words, an action was a novel.

A strip of flesh was carved from the man’s chest and placed onto a sheet of white satin lining a woven bowl. Prayerful cries were made to the Lord and to the Father, but in the confessional, neither could hear the words spoken.

“Confess.”

Across the room was a hall and through the hall were many more protestors and fighters and breaker of curfew. Although some would confess and receive a merciful penance, others would be given a penance of exile and a few of those who confessed would be provided with the same treatment as the unrepentant. Confession simply ensured the sinner would be brought before the Lord when the confession ended. This man was too arrogant, too blasphemous in thinking his interpretation of the will of the Lord was more accurate than that of the Father. With each bite of flesh that the knife took from him, his prayers grew louder. Eventually, his voice broken and the wind left him, however. The Father’s will was done: the offensive words were silenced.

The knife was cleaned in holy water and a new bowl and drape were brought as Brother Paul moved down the hall to the next sinner to hear their confession.

They came from far across the city as the bells of the cathedral rang out. Built into the monastery, communion was the only time the public was permitted into the grounds and the church was opened. The decoration was extravagant; nothing was too grand for the Lord’s temple. Windows colored with dyes dappled the walls and floors with brilliant colors as the sun shined through. With folded hands, the citizens of Jericho entered, heads bowed. The youngest children would not be receiving communion today, but for many it would be their first. The past week had seen physical cleansing of the city streets, but also spiritual cleansing of the people as they prepared for the event.

The monks watched their people filter in in perfect lines and genuine order. The Father would be presiding, with the clerics receiving the communion first. Each piece had been prepared throughout the week, and been baked the morning before and its sweetness and holiness would flow into the people and last as long as the Lord willed it to. They sat in twelve bowls on the altar for the blessing and bestowal.

The Father’s voice called out to bless the pure who had come, and the infirm who had not been able to arrive. He assured the crowd that novices would be delivering the holy food to those not among the gathering. With that said, he turned to the brothers behind him, and the entire clergy stepped forward as one to make a blessing over the communion. Each brother received his piece before the general public was admitted forward, and as each bite was placed on the tongue, the Father reminded the citizen:

“The body and flesh of the Lord”