The Fickle Winds of Autumn

Father Steadman rubbed his fingers deep into the smooth arms of his canopied seat as he looked out with an uneasy concern at the sea of troubled faces which filled the Great Cathedral of Burisdon.

He could not remember ever seeing its sacred expanses so busy - except perhaps on oecumenical days of high ceremony - but it was not the robed dignitaries of religious office who had gathered beneath the vaulted ceiling of its splendid carved stone nave, but the humble weight of his parishioners who had squashed themselves into its cavernous fold - and they had not gathered there in celebration, but in a clear and obvious state of panic and fear.This content © Nôv/elDr(a)m/a.Org.

The grand ornate columns and rich flow of delicate light from the patterned windows contrasted sharply with the general state of dishevelment of the assembled peasants, burghers, and yokels. Some had not even had sufficient upbringing to remove their hoods or the damp autumn coverings from their heads when they had entered the hallowed building; and from his position on the raised dais which dominated the western end of the nave, he watched as the swirling drifts of vapour steamed up from the anxious heated heads of his worried flock.

The earthy smell of the muddy fields and livestock they had worked that morning, combined with the dirt from the roads they had travelled to attend the meeting, meant that the decorative brass incense burners were working overtime in an attempt to cover their odour. Their anger and concern had only added to the stench of their drab wet woollen clothes; and although the pomanders struggled bravely, unerring in their sweet smoky task, his nose told him that they were fighting a losing battle.

His trained eyes missed little, even in the midst of such a thronging crowd, as he noted which ringleaders might spark trouble, and which were simply frightened out of their own good senses.

There was certainly no disguising the fact that the meeting to discuss the latest appalling witch attacks had not gone well.

Several minor clerics had addressed the frustrations of the crowd, but their words had only served to inflame the situation. The unruly congregation had cowed and intimidated them, leaving the blanch-faced priests to shuffle away from the lectern while trying to shrink and hide themselves inside the deep folds of their own robes.

A general murmuring discontent had bubbled and boiled over into a shouting, jostling anger and fear of abandonment, and those with the loudest voices were keen to make their views known.

“You must act now!”

“Please help us!”

“Just last week the village of Upper Thorndale was attacked. Men, women and children left for dead!”

“It will be us next - you mark my words!”

“All the cattle we had raised for the winter market died suddenly in the night - and we dare not eat their flesh, for the smell of witchcraft still lingers on them.”

Their angry voices reverberated out across the vast sacred chamber and struck a chord deep in Steadman’s memory.

In his younger days, he had seen such panic and urgency many times: during the long nights before the morning of an important battle, when even the most experienced soldier would snap and argue; squabbling with each other under the tense burden of the coming fight.

He thought he had left these strained, restive scenes far behind him for the peaceful forgiveness and quiet of the Church; but he now understood that he had simply exchanged the onerous task of saving lives in battle, for the heavy responsibility of saving souls for all eternity.

The restless anger of the congregation grew louder and more palpable. The assembled clerics were greatly outnumbered by the ordinary folk; several looked around and edged towards the doors, while a few turned to look up at him and the other six members of the Church hierarchy who sat with him up on the dais.

He took care to survey the scene with a calm and devout exterior while he weighed his options. His soldiering days had taught him that a good general should never show emotion or fear to his troops; but his weary body had begun to betray him, and his haggard face could not hide the fact that the last few weeks of worry had taken their toll. The sleepless nights of concern for his flock, the people who trusted him and looked to him for guidance and protection, had robbed him of his usual mental vigour and focus.

Lately he had also noticed that his hair, like the rest of his jaded body, had grown thin and acted in sympathy with the plight of the common folk and the attacks that they faced, as it greyed prematurely around his temples.

Why had the witches attacked now?

After all these centuries of seeming peace?

Could Brother Lanqvist’s discovery really be true?

Was he the right man for the coming task?

Was he capable and devout enough to oversee it?

Was it truly the will of the Great Surrounder that he should be given so heavy and burdensome a responsibility?

Further anguished shouts rang out as the crowd became more fervent and impassioned; the jostling turned to pushing; their anger threatened to spill out into violence even within the hallowed walls of such a sacred space.

The years had passed, but the adrenaline still surged through his beating blood. No matter how pious his new station in life, he could not prevent his old feelings - the need for urgent action - from rising up within him.

His limbs itched to be able to take part in the debate himself, but his role as Patrex forbade it - he should not address the audience directly - it was not seemly, it was not tradition.

But these were not normal times and a good general should always know when to bend the rules of engagement.

Perhaps he should stand and try to calm them?

But then, how much could he really tell them?

He was no magikant.

Did the Grand Harmonist really know what he was doing?

Would this so called “Cleansing Spell” even work?

And they couldn’t risk treachery - what if the witches discovered their plans?

Near the front of the dais, the little round, ruddy-faced provost from Witton Hedley stood up on one of the pews and bellowed out above the general din:

“Even the Grand Harmonist has deserted us! We sent to Puristad for his help - but he had already fled!”

A furious uproar surged through the crowd. A sharp splintering crash punctuated the tumult as an urn and its pedestal were knocked over and destroyed.

He could no longer sit idly by and let his congregation suffer like this; he must act; he must calm and comfort his flock and quell this hostility; they were his responsibility and he must fulfil his devout duty.

The secret was already seeping out. Any attempt to deny it now would only cause more suspicion and provoke the aggressive crowd further. He must risk telling the congregation their plans in order to calm these frightened and desperate souls. Besides, the ceremony would take place tomorrow evening - there was hardly enough time left for betrayal now.

He stood and moved in an open gesture toward the edge of the rostrum, forgoing the distant safety of the lectern, out towards the people themselves, and sensed the very warmth rising up from their huddled bodies.

“Brothers! Sisters!” he began, motioning with his hands for the rowdy mob to give him the opportunity to be heard. “Please do not lose heart!”

His voice, so used to giving orders on a battlefield, still retained the vigour of his youth; commanding enough to be heard, but offering a warmth of reassurance to those who heeded its calming sound.

Surprised by his direct approach, and soothed by his fatherly tone, the vast room quickly fell into a respectful silence.

“We have called a meeting this day, not just for you to air your grievances, but to inform you of the steps we have already taken to ensure your safety: for, you must know that your safety, both spiritual and physical, is always at the forefront of our minds.”

A sea of expectant eyes gazed up at him; he felt the anxious weight of their hopes hanging in the echoes which bounced beneath the stone ceilings.

“The Grand Harmonist has not fled - we have summoned him to aid us all in these most disturbing times, to bring an end to these dreadful and appalling attacks. He has been instructed to carry out the Great Cleansing Ritual - and has assured us that this spell, performed under favourable conditions, will be enough to rid us of this atrocious pestilence of witches; and, if fully successful, should put a stop to these attacks forever.”

A hushed murmur rippled through the anxious crowd.

“My beloved flock, I urge you not to speak openly of this news, but to take comfort from it and understand our need for secrecy. We must remain vigilant and place our trust in each other and the will of the Great Surrounder, and then soon our distressing troubles shall be brought to an end once and for all. Please be assured that your beloved Church will never desert you. You can rely on our eternal support and protection in this and all matters, as ever.”

A stifled silence hung across the rarefied air of the nave as the congregation paused for a moment to absorb his reassuring message. The echoes of his words still sang undisturbed in the far corners of the arched vaults. Neighbour turned to neighbour to discuss his speech and a low buzz of conversation grew and filled the sacred edifice once more.

A few of the more desperate or pessimistic tried to make their views heard again.

“But what about my cattle?” shouted one.

For a moment, Steadman was concerned that the room may erupt once more into a frenzy of raised voices, but the placid tone of his soothing communication held firm and steadied the swelling tide.

“Please be assured we are doing all we can. Soldiers have been disbursed across the region for your protection; return to your villages and farms and continue in safety: our troubles will soon be brought to an end.”

These final pacifying words from their spiritual leader seemed to have the desired effect. The congregation murmured but appeared content and several turned to slowly begin dispersing through the great Eastern Doors, with low mutterings amongst themselves.

After these first few, the rest followed, and the Great Cathedral began to empty. Most simply turned and filed out through the bulky ornate doors, anxious to get back to their fields or livestock; others hurried to make what preparations they could with makeshift weapons or a cluster of superstitions remedies.

Several of the women, who still retained memories of the old ways, bowed their greying heads towards him in tacit obedience as they departed.

Steadman offered a silent blessing on them all, and, as the last few members of the humble congregation withdrew and the minor clerics also took their leave, he turned around to face his fellow members of the Pleiad who remained seated on the dais near to him.

His mind turned uneasily once more to Brother Lanqvist’s discovery.

For all the difficulties of assuaging the public, this was the meeting he was least looking forward to: for his years as Patrex had taught him that smoothing over concerns of the common folk was one thing, but controlling the emotions of his own fellow priests, and especially those of the Church’s highest office and rank, was quite another.

“Gentleman,” he said, indicating a door to the side of the aisles: “shall we adjourn to my Chambers? I have some disturbing news which I need to discuss with you all, and it would best be done in private.”