Every nook and cranny of the monastery they searched. They searched, but they did not find. Neither in the library, nor the infirmary, nor the cellar, nor the scriptorium, nor anywhere else among its stone chambers did they locate the one whom they had lost. They descended into the cellar and the crypt, and even searched the lower tunnels and the sea-caves beneath the cliffs. At last they went down into the town below and made inquiry, but no one had seen him. The monk was gone. He must have journeyed forth alone. There could be no other explanation. He had simply left Whitehaven, the monastery upon the sea's sounding shore.

            Why would anyone willingly leave? In order to eke out a primitive existence elsewhere, your years shortened by hardships? After all, to be a monk of Whitehaven is a most sought after life. Whitehaven’s halls and corridors are a wondrous complex, meticulously built by monks of a former age. Her walls rise sturdy and elegant from the seaward promontory, and her high towers command the horizon. The sheer cliffs upon which she rests are a formidable discouragement to the sea-raiders who rove the vast waters. The construction is remarkable, suspending her over a steep defile where waves crash furiously into the grottos below. Exactly what moved mere men  construct such a dwelling in so impossible a place, the annals do not say.

            The monastery rivaled a small city. That is why the absence of a monk could go unnoticed for days. The absence in this account was a peculiar one, and it had gone unchecked many hours too long.  

            Before dawn, when the the ancient chants, the praises of splendor, are to be chanted in darkness, monks enter the chapel and get things ready; they the light candles, mark the book, and file silently into their places. This they do every day. Yet somehow no one noticed that the prayer stall in the back row remained empty.

            The Rule says that such an absence should be tolerated, but the monk must be disciplined. Occasional failures of this sort will typically be found in a novice. It is not so much that the others failed to notice. They just did not bother about it. The usual assumption is that a monk must have overslept in his cell.

            The chant commences, as always it does. Monks keep the appointed hours, regardless of whatever may befall the world.

            The next day, at noon meal, the other novices began to wonder over their companion’s whereabouts.

            His soup had gone cold.

            They speculated and whispered about it.

            Neither did he show for supper later that day.

            Some brothers were concerned about him. Mind you, I say “concerned,” not worried. Monks do not worry. They were concerned because, except for fasting days, young men do not skip meals, certainly not twice. They went and checked his cell again. There was no sign of him. 

            No longer could they safely ignore it. They alerted the novice master. The novice-master had them search the monastery entire. Search they did, but find him they did not. The monk was gone. For that youth, whom once I was, had left his monastery and was traversing the earth. 

            It was not just for curiosity’s sake. Another cause altogether lay beneath it, something born of a human desire not in keeping with our divine calling. That is why, after this first entry, I must return to the beginning, lest anything of self-censure be omitted.

          A monk should pass happily from this earthly existence to his eternal reward, retaining no personal notoriety whatsoever, his name lost “in blessed obscurity.” Usually this is how his last years find him, but there are unfortunate exceptions. Take my case: most assuredly, such a blessed departure is now become impossible. Far from returning to an anonymous monkhood, several kingdoms have been petitioning for my arrest and trial. Therefore I say to you: let the realms curse my name, but henceforth have this testimony read aloud in holy defiance of the powers of this age. Preserve these pages, my brothers, even unto the last days of the world, rescuing them from innumerable wormholes, conflagrations and floods; and even oblivion itself, for they proceed from the worthiest of devout houses: the Monastery of Whitehaven on the cliffs of the Kilurian shore, the years when King Graham ruled the Aels, and Abbot Cromna was obeyed as Godmouth throughout the known realms.

That was when such dire events yet lay hid in the counsels of Providence. At that time Whitehaven had long known peace.

          There were then those various pathways along Whitehaven’s narrow-ledges which overlook the wave-crashing sea, and a certain wiry old monk, (whom you all remember), was making way along them on the third day. He went over many steps and around stone towers, across wooden bridges creaking, down spiral stairs, and through a number of corridors descending and ascending, stepping up at last to a terraced patio, the cloistered garden. A few brothers were at work there: tending the white rose bushes, repairing masonry, and cleaning and sweeping. They knew the shuffle of his sandals, the ruffle of his habit, and the rattle of his beads.

           He was Zadoc the novice master.

          Usually he would have some kind word for them, but not this time. He was in a terrible hurry, and monks should never be in a hurry, especially not an elder. He passed them by without even a glance, his gaze downward, his arms folded under the billowing sleeves of his tattered habit. Nothing hindered his thoughts. Nothing distracted him.

           How should the matter of the missing monk be discussed with Abbot? He furrowed his brow and stroked his beard which was thick and hoary. 

On the other side of the monastery, in the grand chapel, the Abbot was prostrate, spread cruciform on the floor of the sanctuary. Over the altar smoke still hung in the air: a fragrant cloud dissipated, yet lingering from the worship offered earlier in the morning. Neither sweet nor flowery, rather the scent was strange and unearthly, as though it belonged to another world.

           Brother Zadoc shuffled into the chapel and looked about. Incense still swirled slowly, but the aromatic cloud was vanishing. Abbot got on hands and knees, took up his crutches and set them both vertical so they stood upright. The religious lord pressed and pulled himself upward. Although only middle-aged, the effort was considerable, even with arms having become strong for it. Zadoc went and assisted him. Abbot thanked him.

          “Waiting left me some time for contemplation. Do you still get lost a bit, Brother, or turned round, coming from the other side?”

         “Apologies, my lord Abbot, the trek from the other side—it does require more time—not because of my years. Rather on account of my wandering thoughts.”

“Wandering thoughts? –Or the pondering of higher things. Your mind has insights few could realize. That I do guarantee. Doubtless, one realization eventually overtakes us all, never ceasing to effect even lesser tasks. Yes, one may want to get lost in this place…beloved as it is.”

         “Our Whitehaven is indeed, ‘of turns many and well-trodden,’ as the poets say…and yet a maze beloved.”

         “—and a home majestic. But she is a labyrinth, trouble for some in a way not intended. Most people have all the wide world to get lost in. We have this monastery, by Heaven. Thanks be that no novice can get lost in her for long.”

          “I am sorry to say; the brothers have thoroughly searched her. Our missing monk is no longer in these sacred precincts. He must be wandering somewhere out there, along the shores, or else inland: the woodland paths or further North. That’s the concern indeed. The earthly mazes will have far worse dangers for him than this monastery.”

          “Worry no longer, brother. I say to you, angels have been watching over him. Certainly you too must have detected his problem. Wouldn’t you admit that, even before he forsook us, he was already lost? He was lost in the forest of his own mind, being the kind of monk who thinks too much. He gets lost in the mystery of things and guards not where his feet take him. What say you, think you he was unhappy here?”

            “We never percieved him to be unhappy. He would forget meals when a manuscript lay before him.”

             “My guess is that he became lost in spirit, as novices often do. Too much study is weariness to the flesh Beginners become susceptible to the Saturnian influence: developing Melancholia. He must learn perseverance. So all the monks do eventually learn it: they are assuredly not perfect, not even one.”

            “Yet I dare add: that to you, Abbot, the Lord has yoked a formidable task: that of shepherding them all...but believe also, Heaven favors you.”

            “Heaven favors me? That note savors of too much assurance, Zadoc. We prayed for the wayward novice all night. The Good Shepherd has heard our prayers, and I have been offering thanksgiving. He brought the lost lamb back to us already. We intercepted the lad returning.”

            “God be praised. What in the world happened?!”

            “He must have got hungry and had misgivings about his adventure. Too often it’s the belly that brings souls back to reason. He was endeavoring to go unnoticed, as if his escapade were nothing.”

           “Monks cannot just come and go as they please, my lord.”

“Aye… and we must hear his answers. But now be at hand and advise me. We will learn if he yet has a mind to submit to our Rule. If he does, you will let him in on our little plan. Tell him everything. May it amaze his curious mind and turn him back here to his own brothers.” 

              Abbot began to work his way across the chapel. He went along the twelve Maurobic arches, his crutches, Click-clock, struck against the tiles, altitudes of crenelated ceiling and pine gables echoed the sound.

              Brother Zadoc went along. The furrows of his visage were deep, a sagedom of wrinkles, and his wooly hair was white as snow. He glanced about, his eyes sharp as an eagle’s. Soon he caught sight of the wayward monk sitting there in a corner stall. The fellow in question had covered his head with his cowl, the monk’s hood, wishing to remain unidentified. He tilted his head as in contemplation. He hoped to sit there unnoticed.

             Other monks had already gone to attend their labors.

Zadoc did not miss the game.

“Novice Jacob!” he called out in his raspy voice. “Abbot Cromna will speak with you now.”  

             Abbot and Brother Zadoc reached the center aisle. Zadoc genuflected, as do all monks. Abbot did not genuflect. He could not. Even with crutches, a past injury in his knees prevented him, so instead he bowed a deep bow, the action of slow and careful reverence.

               The young monk maneuvered out of the choir-stall and hurried over. He doffed his cowl, bowing a cursory bow. His gesture of respect revealed something. Scratches decorated the monk’s tonsured head. The work of some forest thicket no doubt, signatures of the recent misadventure somewhere beyond the monastery.

Abbot noticed the scratches, but said nothing.

             The three monks stood there before the sanctuary: Abbot Cromna, old Brother Zadoc, and Jacob the wayward novice. Somewhere above the ceiling’s intricate stonework, in the cleft of the rocks, maritime doves were cooing.

            Abbot spoke. “Brother Jacob, your friends have been looking for you. May God who is All-knowing not count your waywardness. We should discuss things, you and I. –not today however. But do stick around, will you? You may speak your mind freely with your Abbot and with Brother Zadoc here.”

             The monk did not presume to look squarely at them.

             Abbot leaned forward on his crutches. He gazed a ponderous gaze up into the spaces above.

              Jacob lowered his eyes.  “. . . Master.”

           “Whatever you were doing in those woods, my son, you will explain to us, yes...but explain…later, not now. The mind of a monk should always return to God first. Do you understand?”

            “I understand, Master.”

            “Therefore return your thoughts with us. You are far from perfect, admittably, but you are nevertheless accomplished in learning for your age. Therefore Brother Zadoc and I would know your thought on something... a bit of a mental puzzle that we have been pondering lately... A young monk with fresh mind like yours might be of assistance. Wouldn’t you agree Brother Zadoc?”

            “Even saplings have been known to yield worthy fruit, my lord...on occasion.”

Abbot took a deep breath. “We propose this: most folk do not accept anything “far-fetched,” especially something they cannot clearly see. That is to say, namely, they trust only what they can witness with their own eyes.”

 Jacob paused thoughfully and attempted an explanation. “—what I saw in the woods...the brothers must be calling it far-fetched, but—”

            “Keep focused...Jacob. Whatever went on out there will be addressed later. Put aside yourself for now. We have, in strict, an inquiry that is critical. And it is something that will interest you. Consider this a kind of in promptu quiz. Are you ready?”

           “May I prove ready, my lord...”

            “I will lay it out before you. It is about seeing—and believing. The proposal is this: "Brother Jacob...if I told the brothers that a dragon had landed upon the bell tower this morning, how many would believe my extraordinary claim?"            

           “They will be quite slow to accept it ...especially things that sound far-fetched.” Brother Jacob proceeded. “-if something extraordinary be believed...hmmm. There’s no doubt men are skeptical about many things beyond the range of the everyday, and will refuse to believe anything far-fetched. Master, the most part of my life, and now my submission-years, have been here, up on these cliffs, thinking monkish thoughts with monks. By now I have become unfamiliar with the everyday thoughts of men.”

            “Not at all… Jacob. Monks are drawn from the ranks of men. So take an example from common life. Even monks use the expression: “When I see it with my own eyes, I’ll believe it...”

            The novice pondered a moment.

            “—see it...all the glory of the world? Shouldn’t a monk be happy enough to read of it in books? That’s what must have gotten into this monk. Desire to see the world, with my own eyes...yet sic transit gloria mundi, all the mundane display will thus vanish away. Going after earthly and mortal things, vainglory, not thinking of THE glory everlasting. A knavish thing, what I did, going off like that...abandoning all the brothers. Permit me to remain a monk. Let me make up for my offense by the lowest chores and penance.”

           “Yes...you remain a monk...and we’ll see that you make up for it soon, be assured. But you are slow to follow my instruction. I repeat: our question has nothing to do with you. Right now something of high state vexes us. So consider the proposition squarely: most folk, even monks, rely too much on the visible, as they say, ‘seeing it with their own eyes.’ ”

            The novice paused, suspending his thought for a moment. “You want an answer from me, master, because of my mental athletics? –which have scant yielded anything. I already have come up with something, but I am surely too--”

          “Then divulge it, but remember humility.” 

            “As you say, master. Yes, I do grant the proposal, that such must be the case. How insightful the race of men –and how NOT! Most folk trust whatever is right up front...and that only. They see nothing beyond it. Isn’t that how a magician gets away with his tricks? …and men see how little of what’s really going on. Recently the old purblind hermit reminded me of something: what’s most valuable in life, human eyes do not see.”

            “The old hermit? He said that? Then rightly spoke that old raven. Heaven has a crystalline wisdom...and a contradiction: physical sight is a lesser prize. Faith is the blessed way.

     Blessed are they who have NOT seen, and have believed.

Do you fathom the meaning, Jacob? They are the words of the Lord himself.”

             “Visible proof: something for the physical sciences and mundane learning. That’s all good, but as my Abbot knows, not what Heaven rewards.”

             “Right. Now then; check this proposition: recall the individuals whom our Lord first called, those who sojourned with him. They were men of faith...no? They were blessed in faith. But we wonder if less so than often imagined. We propose this: they had faith, Jacob, but not as great as we monks.”

             “Master, do you speak in riddles? The Apostles walked with God himself, and He lived in their midst.”

           “We know that,” he answered. “...but listen here: take something that is visible: any particular action that is a visible action. Men view it and usually know what is going on. Does such viewing require anything of faith? Not at all; nothing special found there. The same is true for those who actually saw the Christ and his miraculous works, back in the days when He walked the earth. Was great faith necessary for them? No, they saw miracles and they accepted what Revelation teaches. We, on the other hand, we have NOT seen such things in our time; but we do believe nevertheless. So then: were the Apostles themselves, although blessed, more blessed than we monks, today in this last age of the world? Not at all! We have NOT seen. Blessed are they who have NOT seen. That’s us! We possess a blessed faith more than they! How can that be? We have learned to walk by faith, not by sight. The insight, I fear, leads to something of a paradox.”

           “Yes, my Lord Abbot... a paradox: defiance of common wisdom. In this matter it goes against the common notion seeing is better than believing. However, may I dispute with you on the Apostles? I say this: they also must have had greater faith than at first supposed. For they saw a man, outwardly a typical carpenter who eats bread, toils, sleeps, and all the rest, but they were informed that the same human was in fact the one true God: invisible become visible: The Incarnation. It must have seemed ludicrous to most folk in those days. Even in our time it is still “a mystery.” Wouldn’t such a thing, seeing God in the flesh, take just as much faith, if not more? The Apostles were at least equal to us in faith.”

            “How true...you have made an excellent counterpoint, -well said. But careful, boy...with us monks you are safe. Not with others. The great clerics would take insult at your gainsaying. Better to feign ignorance with them. You would easily match them with that little Mercury in you. Pray ernestly lest you pride yourself on it. We wish to use your monkhood.

            Hold those thoughts, and turn now with us to another matter...

Monks and all servants of the Lamb should not esteem miracles without some caution. Wonders do arise that cause people’s eyes to widen; the visible miracles men often claim to witness, all the commonly known and famous ones: impossible rescues, complete and permanent healings, levitations and invulnerabilities, telepathy and bilocations, solar and lunar phenomena, future visions and apocalypses, and many others. Monks in due time accept and recognize them ...provided that the Soothfold does not object. Correct?” 

             The novice only responded with a nod. Why did the Abbot treat on these things, being so obvious an instruction?

           Old Brother Zadoc, who had been listening, suddenly interjected.  “Abbot himself has become privy to extraordinary news, Jacob. —news of a great miracle.” Wrinkle-faced of many winters, Zadoc’s faded brunnel habit hung on his wiry frame, his eagle-eyes were stabbed with wisdom He looked at Abbot and Abbot nodded to him, giving the go-ahead. The old one fixed his gaze upon Jacob. “Ready your mind again, Jacob. Of this you may speak to no one. Hear it: raising the dead is no longer something we may dismiss for saints of legend...”

           There was a sudden flapping of doves rushing off somewhere above. “Mirabile dictu, a simple priest has found the power in his hands!”

           “A priest...raising the dead?”

Abbot now spoke, but in a whisper, as one who wonders. “With chosen prayers, with incantations long forgotten, a certain priest performed a resurrection ex monumentis. Through his hands Heaven restored someone who had been in the tomb over a year!”

           “Were it a trick of some sort,” remarked Zadoc, “our experts would have detected it.”

            “—nothing else can explain it!” said Abbot. “Other resurrections were done as well, everything in the presence of infallible witnesses. They have testified to what they saw.”

            “By the saints, a priest can do that?” Jacob asked. “Which priest? Is he one of ours?”

            There came no immediate answer, yet a reluctant pause. Abbot glanced over his shoulder.

           “The priest remains anonymous. We admit that he is prudent to do so. He has shown his work to few others, to the Soothfold in strict.”

          “My lord Abbot...that one of our Ammouric priests can raise the dead...I need to see it to believe it. He must be a holy priest indeed.”  

           “Dutiful...he is said to be dutiful,” Zadoc said. “but holiness of a noteworthy sort his superiors never reported. Heaven-above knows why the power is granted him. Why should so obscure a cleric be chosen for so famous a miracle? In centuries long gone Heaven wrought such wonders through simple men, unimportant to the world: shepherds, hermits, obscure pilgrims, that the power of Heaven be unmistakable.”

            Zadoc lifted his head, voice steady and certain.

          “Aye. And mark this: when such a gift, long dormant as a buried star —flames forth again, we accept what we cannot understand.”

Abbot gazed off somewhere to distances interior. The pigeons cooed a soft cooing.

           “There is something else,” Abbot said, furrowing his eyebrows and frowning.               “There has been a proposal. It is something strange, something ...diabolical!” He leaned in close to Jacob. “Listen to me, Brother Jacob. You have heard of the Friars of Whigg on the continent, have you not?”

            “I have, master. They are our brothers in Christ.”

            “Indeed they are, Jacob, but they are also proud and bitter rivals. May God shed his mercy on them. Some of them have unhealthy obsessions. They say this miracle-worker of a priest...they say...that he should use his power to help the endangered realms of the world. The Friars say: let him raise certain deceased personages, men who know how to draw upon mysterious forces. Let him raise men of famous repute long dead.”

             “...famous men...you mean; from long ago, from a previous age?”

           “Yes, but peculiar men: powerful lords. They want him to use his miraculous hands on the wizards of Nystol!”

            At that exclamation the whole flock of pigeons in the dome above was stirred to a panic of flapping flight. Then was there a long silence.

            “Raise them…? I doubt that Heaven would ever approve that! Restore wizards long extinct?” Jacob exclaimed. “Nystol’s many towers were desolated. Flames consumed them all, their libraries and all magic scrolls. It was Divine Justice!”

Abbot and Brother Zadoc exchanged uneasy glances.

             “—not all wizards... And not every scroll did the fires destroy.” Zadoc warned.

             Some shadow just then passed over the three.

            Was it a cloud drifting over? Jacob looked, but could not determine the source. Abbot hesitated.

            “This priest—” He turned and whispered to Zadoc. The elder nodded back. A theologian’s mind was required on such matters:

             “...it is written,” Zadoc said in his dreamy yet precision-voice, “both the righteous and the wicked will rise at the Resurrection. That’s right, the wicked also shall rise. You see, Jacob... there are certain gifts, that, when Heaven bestows them upon frail mankind, no conditions against their usage are decreed. Heaven freely gives them. Freely may they be used, be it either in wisdom or in folly. A priest may, with this power given, restore whomsoever he wishes. He could wake the wizards from their pagan sepulchres, the sweet incense of Heaven drifting across their bony nostrils.”

              “—ushering them back from the abyss!” Abbot looked away so as not to display his consternation.

             “Unto what possible end...?” Zadoc said. “Yes, you are wondering.” His eyes flashed with a stare that penetrates souls. “It would be this: by their powerful spells the wizards could not only restore civilization, but also push back the troll-horde. Once and for all they could overthrow the creature of the North, the deathless master of the black realm.”

             “You mean all that hearsay about the ghost-creature in Nzul?”

 It was no mere fable. The Dire of Melancholy, a powerful Archdruid of an unknown race, ruled the distant feudatory of Nzul upon Northernmost Whitehawk. His influence reached much further. He was the darkest prince of the age. The ancient wizards had countered his horde, and though they had driven them back, the creature had proved impossible to destroy. Rumour had it that he slept in his impregnable fortress. The wise knew that he slept not.

Abbot was searching Heaven with his eyes. He glanced around in suspicion as if his words were too loud.

             “Several high clergymen have agreed to the plan. It sounds reasonable, but I warn you, there is something profoundly unwise with this sort of “practical” thinking. I am amazed at how many monks and clerics have acquiesced. How can they even think of abusing a power that only the Lord can give? If He gives power to raise the dead, would He not also grant the authority to banish that apostate creature, and drive him back to the pit without resorting to ancient magic?”

            “The Friars do not realize,” Zadoc added, “how awakening long-extinct wizards of the hopeless epoch would be...catastrophic... achieving much worse than that creature of Melancholy could ever himself do in the world. They must be corrected.”

             Abbot declared: “As Godmouth and Eldane of every Whitehawk Kingdom and all the Furthlands beyond, I must act.” He paused in the carefulness of a grave command. “You Jacob, will be our voice. We bid you write a philosophical tract; use all your first-hand knowledge. Spare no precise language, nor couch cozy words. Spill as much ink as you need, tearing into the demented theologies of those Friars.”

              The Abbot and Brother Zadoc disclosed other things to Jacob as well, things that most novices would not comprehend. I cannot here divulge all of it. Suffice to know this: I was to write out a detailed argument against the folly. They considered me the right pick, even though I had left the monastery and come back. You see, among all the monks, I alone had encountered an actual wizard of Nystol.

           “Get to work on it; that will keep you clear of trouble.” Abbot abruptly turned away. He and Zadoc made way back across the Grand Chapel, crutches clicking as they went.

             The maritime doves were no longer cooing.

Within days your servant completed the tract in Latin and submitted the pages to Brother Zadoc, and he looked it over for errors. It was published the week I left for Hordingbay; my first and only divine treatise: Jacob of Whitehaven: De Resurrectione Magorum. Two winters have since passed.

             The wool-frocked Friars of Whigg, our theological adversaries, of course got a hold of it, as we intended. They opposed my admonition as a quarrelsome display, angrily scratching out in writing that I was a heretic. These brothers professed that there was nothing at all wrong with disturbing the dead...not if it’s for a good cause. They were quite out of their depth. Do honest people imagine that such an ingenious and evil spirit could be overcome with a little magic? 

             The ancestors titled him “the Dire” for a reason, you know. True, many are the tales men have told of that “Archdruid” who sits upon the Throne of Melancholy, but does anyone know the real story on him? Contrary to the presumption of the Friars, him did no wizard of Nystol ever challenge, not as far as the histories indicate, and that was back when their magic was at full measure. Let the wizards remain condemned to oblivion; their restless sleep beneath desolated Nystol. We who are believers need not their magic. Could we ourselves not move mountains with but a mustard seed of faith? I myself went against that mirthless prince of Melancholy, and without magic, and not only have I been to his court, but I have returned to tell of it. The Friars, the “great intellects” of Whigg, remain safely within their own library of seven ivory parapets, fattened on sumptuous fare, reminiscing holy poverty in woolen frocks. They were kind to me, I admit, but they never actually espied that unholy minion, nor the troll horde.

            They have no clue what’s out there.

            Months away and miles across an unforgiving wilderness and icy wasteland, there is a place accursed, where civilization’s exiles sit beneath the aegis of an infernal archon. It is the frigid region beyond the Northern forests, where is bounded the not-very-hospitable principality of Nzul. And there, overlooking it all, stands the impregnable fortress, the dreadnaut known as the Arc du Baffay.

Just to get there is a task treacherous. One must make the trek to Hordingbay in order to sail to the continent. But arriving at Hordingbay means first traversing the forest that “forgives no traveler,” an endless maze of trees tall and magnificent, whose primordial form hints from a time beyond human memory. Their swaying tree-tops are visible from here, announcing the entrance to a vast and true wilderness.

Those who have never been through the terrain refer politely to those pine-forests as “The Timberhills.” But from of old the mysterious vastness was called “the Lokken,” a fearful name that has persisted in several languages even unto this late age of the world.

              It extends all the way to the remote Northward shores of the grand island. So before this monk tells about the hellish dungeons of that villainous overlord, or treats on the long-robed wizards of Nystol, let me admonish the monks who are new. Go not into that forest. Take it from someone who knows. Seek no familiarity with the charm of those woods. And do not think to go in a just little ways. It is no place for a monk’s meditation, only his doom.

             Doom found me, my friends, a doom that is worse than death. We monks, more than anyone, know that there are things worse than death. Doom was the price I paid for my folly, a folly begotten by Pride. To have left this monastery, without permission, was indeed Pride. To go where angels fear to tread was Folly, and to journey blindly across tangled horizons was Doom.

             The truth entire I now dare present to you, brothers, be it with or without your pardon, omitting nothing; knowing full well that I could burn at the stake for what I am about to divulge. But it is the best way to furnish you some peace of mind, for in your hearts lingering doubts over me must certainly remain. 

              Forgive therefore the plainness of my account. Monks are taught to adorn neither themselves nor their words; we make no display, wearing only habit and rope. All created things we count as of less worth than the life to come.

             I exhort you therefore in reading of these things to weigh not only our common weakness, but the sad end of all things unless we monks, each one of us, accomplish some worthy reparation for this world so forgetful of God.

            With that warning, and trusting only in the mercy of God, let us now begin.

 

 

 

The storm was heralded by the great winged Agathodaemon Ambrosius, the lion-headed, who stood on the summit of a mountain in command of the winds and recited the seven hundred seventy-seven unwitten verses.

 

Thannato Excorpus

 Prophetiae Mercurii Yod

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      A Storm Approaches          I   

The testimony of the wandering monk, masterful at the quarterstaff, who traversed lands treacherous and unknown, entering realms mysterious, and encountered many fantastic beings: it was not for treasure, or fame, or some earthly accomplishment that he went. The Spirit from on high drove him into the wilderness, there to oppose the very chamberlain of Darkness, the ancient creature within the impregnable Arc du Baffay...