Бесплатный фрагмент - «Closing the soul of history: Revel collection» 2

«Closing the soul of history: Revel collection» 2

«Even in the deepest darkness there is hope for the light.»

The trouble is the venerable (Latin Beda Venerabilis) -the English monk-Benedictan, theologian, historian and writer. The first scientist who used the reckoning «from the Nativity of Christ» (Anno Domini). (c. 673–735)

Introduction. Celtic rune

«Even in the deepest darkness, there is hope for light.»

Bede the Venerable (Latin: Beda Venerabilis) — an English Benedictine monk, theologian, historian, and writer. The first scholar to use the dating system «from the birth of Christ» (Anno Domini). (c. 673–735)

Introduction

Celtic Rune.

On the blessed day of Easter, when the bells rang out through the streets of Revel, reminding the congregation of the miracle that occurred in Jerusalem when life triumphed over death, the hearts of the townspeople were filled with joy and hope. In the pharmacy located on Town Hall Square, there was an atmosphere of peace and tranquility. Warm sunlight streamed through a small window, making the dust particles floating in the air appear as golden sparks.

Apothecary Jens Burkhardt, waking up, raised his head and looked around. Damn it, he had dozed off, and just now, when the ancient tome, bound in darkened leather, concealed secret recipes, forbidden spells, and mysterious prophecies recorded by dozens of laws of alchemists and magicians, was finally in his hands. He had searched for this book for sixteen long years across Europe, and it turned out to be right next door, in the library of the neighboring town of Tartu. The double price paid to the courier for speedy delivery weighed heavily on him, but the book was worth more than any precious trinket. And now, as soon as he opened the tome, sleep overcame him — it was the strain with which the scholar had longed for this book.

The alchemist was sure that hidden within these pages was the formula for the prima materia. Not that he sought to turn lead into gold — no, the pharmacy provided a stable income, and greed did not consume his soul. His faith in Christ gave him the knowledge that immortality had already been granted to man by God. His true dream was to create a universal medicine — a panacea for all ailments. The air, filled with the anticipation of a miracle, lingered in the room, illuminated only by the dim light of a candle. The scent of herbs and medicines mingled with the smell of old leather and dust, creating an atmosphere of mystery and antiquity. Burkhardt’s heart raced in anticipation of a discovery that might change the world.

To shake off the drowsiness, Jens washed his face with icy water, invigorating him as well as strong coffee would. After brewing a whole pot of contraband coffee, he offered a silent prayer for the blessing of his endeavor and opened the book once more. Jens Burkhardt leaned over the ancient tome, his fingers carefully turning the pages covered with mysterious symbols. The heart of the alchemist raced in anticipation of a discovery that might change the world. But, it seemed, it was not meant to be today to delve into the ancient work. An unexpected knock at the door, familiar and recognizable, announced the arrival of an old friend, Wolfram von Palen. Something was clearly amiss, for a visit at such a late hour did not bode well. The apothecary sighed and went to open the door.

«She’s burning again,» Wolfram said as he entered the room.

On the chosen one’s arm, the Celtic rune flickered ominously — three intertwined spirals, symbolizing the past, present, and future. This sign, obtained by him through magic, served to warn the knight of impending danger to the city from dark forces.

«What could it be? The city is calm right now,» Wolfram asked, his voice filled with concern.

«Calm?» Jens scoffed. «Peace is just an illusion. Darkness is always nearby, ready to break free at any moment.»

Warmth and light filled Revel on this festive day. Tomorrow, an Easter fair was to unfold in Town Hall Square, promising a gathering of people coming from all over Livonia.

«We need to be on guard,» the knight said, rubbing the magical sign that pulsed restlessly. «Let’s listen to what these merchants and onlookers are gossiping about. Perhaps we’ll hear something useful.»

The apothecary, a man with a curious mind and an insatiable need for new adventures, nodded.

«Do you remember the innkeeper at „The Herring’s Tail,“ the red-haired rogue known as Cunning Hill?»

«He won’t miss a single word spoken over a mug of ale in any corner of the tavern. We need to warn him to pay attention to what will be said about the manifestations of dark forces.»

They postponed their plans until morning, deciding to enjoy the last moments of peace over a cup of coffee. But fate, as always, had its own designs on them. The door, though oiled with particular care, creaked open, and destiny itself decided to disrupt their tranquility. An icy air, as if from a tomb, swept into the room from the corridor, causing the friends to shudder.

From the darkness emerged a black cat with eyes filled with green fire. «Gezeke?» the knight and the apothecary breathed in unison, recognizing their old acquaintance, the witch cat.

She gracefully stepped into the circle of moonlight, and at that moment, the candles extinguished as if by magic. Silver sparks danced across her fur, and in the blink of an eye, a slender brunette with the same piercing green eyes stood before them. Since a diploma for noblemen was considered superfluous at that time, Baron von Palen read with difficulty. Jens Bertrand took it upon himself to read the text aloud:

«Greetings, gentlemen,» the girl purred, and without further ado, the friends embraced her. Years of shared trials and adventures bound them together.

They had to brew the coffee anew. Settling by the fireplace with hot mugs, they prepared to listen to Gezeke’s tale.

Her lair, the Land of Dreams, lay beyond the realm of reality, where everything was ephemeral and changeable, where the laws of the universe turned to dust. There, in this abode of chaos, Gezeke felt at home. Long ago, this cat-girl had helped von Palen rescue his companion from the clutches of oblivion, the one who shared the burden of the Chosen with him. To avoid wasting words, Gezeke said, «This was sent to you by Vannenumei,» and handed them a scroll of parchment inscribed with the writings of the ancients. The legend written there spoke of events from years past, of how it all began and what led to the start of this new story.

Since a diploma for noblemen was considered superfluous at that time, Baron von Palen read with difficulty. Jens Bertrand took it upon himself to read the text aloud:

The secret of the Revel towers: stone tears of love

«Faith, chain of dogmas, is dead. Only a free spirit can see the true face of God.»

— Master Eckhart, Dominican monk. German theologian and philosopher (c. 1260 — 1328)

Johann from Hilten, Monk and heretic

Johann von Hilten, the third son of a poor nobleman, was not born for the sword or the plow. He was a child of books, in love with the silence of libraries, where the smell of old tomes intoxicated him more than any wine. The words of ancient sages wove in his mind like threads in a whimsical tapestry, and by the time he stepped beyond the threshold of the Dominican monastery of Saint Mary, his worldview was already as solid as a granite rock.

Johann was not made for silence. The ideas overflowing in his mind demanded an outlet. There were moments when, finding no listener, the monk spoke to himself. Soon, his passionate speeches began to provoke gossip and sidelong glances. The word «heresy» hung in the air, thick and sticky like a spider’s web. The abbot, Johann von Schaumburg, was a wise and measured man, but even he could not ignore the growing tension. To avoid open conflict, the prior of the Dominican monastery decided to send the young rebel far away, to the city of Revel, where his old friend, Prior Dietrich von Derpt, was in charge.

Dietrich was known for his strictness and unyielding will. It was said that he could set even the most lost sheep back on the right path. Johann von Schaumburg hoped that the harsh climate of Revel and the iron discipline of the monastery would cool the ardor of the young monk.

The thirst to preach, to share his thoughts, consumed Johann von Hilten from within like a flame. He dreamed of the glory of the great orators of the past, but his own words stumbled and fell, like crippled birds, crashing against the wall of misunderstanding from those around him. His soul burned, like red-hot iron, at the indifference of his fellow believers to anything but the desire to fill their bellies.

And in that moment of despair, when the darkness of madness thickened around his mind, a whisper, ancient and seductive, rustled from the depths of his tormented soul. The enemy of mankind offered a deal, and Johann, blinded by the desire to become a spiritual leader and teach people his truth, reached out to the darkness, selling his soul.

Nightmare in the Merchant’s House

On that fateful evening, when the cog from distant western lands dropped anchor in the harbor of Revel, no one could foresee the impending horrific events.

Under the bright autumn sun, Dietrich and Johann disembarked and headed to the merchant’s house. Bewitched by the monk’s speeches, the merchant invited him into his home, unaware that this visit would mark the beginning of a nightmare.

In honor of Dietrich’s happy return, a festive feast was arranged. And so, as wine flowed like a river and laughter filled the hall, Johann of Hilten rose from the table and began his devilish sermon. His words, like sharp daggers, pierced the hearts of the listeners, sowing doubt and fear.

In the spacious hall, the heart of the medieval house, where life once thrived, trade flourished, and noisy feasts were held, now a suffocating silence reigned. The faces of the merchant’s daughters, illuminated by the flickering candlelight, resembled masks frozen in a grimace of primal terror mixed with some twisted delight. The older sisters, as if possessed, stared at the heretic with wide, unblinking eyes. In their souls, once pure and innocent, heretical words and forbidden excitement now intertwined, clouding the girls’ gazes and making their breaths rapid and shallow.

Margarete, the merchant’s beloved stepdaughter, felt the icy fingers of fear tightening around her heart. She could not believe that this man, once a servant of God, could spew such vile, blasphemous words. Beside her stood Hermann, the apprentice and student of the merchant, their hands intertwined. The young couple had long loved each other and dreamed of marriage. In their eyes, filled with horror at what was happening, a spark of defiance still smoldered. The younger daughters of the merchant, paralyzed by fear, huddled close to Margarete, who had replaced their deceased mother after her death in childbirth.

The old nanny, the girl’s godmother, as if awakening from a centuries-long sleep, raised her shriveled hand, entwined with veins resembling winding rivers and mountain ridges on ancient maps drawn on parchment. The wrinkles on her face formed ancient runes. Her lips moved, and words flowed from them in a language that had not been heard in these lands since the elves left the forests.

The air around trembled. A mysterious force enveloped the enamored couple, weaving into a protective cocoon. The heretic’s spells fell away, and the young people felt as if the tight noose of a gallows had been removed from their necks, replaced instead by a gentle silk scarf woven from hope and joy.

A black cat writhed at the feet of the former monk, as if possessed by a demon, emitting a guttural hiss. The merchant’s loyal dog transformed into a fierce Cerberus, bristling and growling menacingly, baring its fangs to protect its young mistress.

The air in the hall buzzed like a taut bowstring ready to release a poisoned arrow. A fairy, shining like the embodiment of light itself, hovered in the air, showering the renegade with a hail of dazzling sparks that burned into his essence. Her laughter, once gentle like the chime of silver bells, now sounded sharp and piercing, like a blade plunging into the heart of the former monk. Victory was within reach.

At that moment, the floor beneath them trembled, cracking and splitting apart. From the gaping abyss erupted a sulfurous whirlwind. The renegade howled in pain, his body contorting and stretching, merging with the otherworldly force. When the whirlwind dissipated, a monster rose in its place, its skin resembling charred bark, and where its eyes should have been, there were gaping voids leading into an unfathomable emptiness.

From its mouth, lined with sharp, dagger-like teeth, dripped black saliva, eroding the stone floor like acid. Clawed paws, resembling the roots of an ancient tree, left deep furrows on the stone tiles. The monster let out a deafening roar that shook not only the walls of the hall but also the hearts of all present. The walls of the hall were ensnared by a thick network of cracks, like a spider web ensnaring its prey.

Men, once proud and strong, found themselves on their knees, their hearts pounding with terror, and their lips whispering incoherent pleas for mercy. The ladies, deprived of consciousness, fell to the floor, their beautiful faces twisted in grotesque grimaces of madness, while their silk and velvet dresses scattered around like vibrant butterflies, resembling the fallen wings of exotic moths. The faint-hearted breathed their last, unable to endure the nightmare, their lifeless bodies frozen in silent testimony to the horror that engulfed the hall.

The fairy, gathering her last strength, attempted to defend herself, but the creature was faster. With inhuman fury, it clawed at the radiant figure of the fairy, tearing her apart like a doll. A burst of silver sparks, like the final breath of a dying star, shot upwards and slowly faded into the embrace of darkness, leaving behind only emptiness and despair.

In the final moment, gathering the remaining fragments of her strength, the kind sorceress waved her hand, and an invisible wall appeared between Margarete and Hermann. Their bodies began to change, bones hardening, skin roughening, turning into cold stone. They screamed, but their voices drowned in the roar of battle, like raindrops in a raging sea. In an instant, they became two towers connected by a fortress wall made of the same limestone as the walls of Revel. This wall, born from their love and sacrifice, became an indestructible shield, protecting the city from enemy sieges for centuries. The Long Hermann Tower and the Fat Margarete Tower stand as eternal symbols of the struggle between light and darkness, loyalty and hatred, life and death, rising above the city like silent guardians. And even in this tragic outcome, there is a victory: their love was not destroyed; it was elevated to the heavens and immortalized in the memory of the people.

Viimsi, September 2024

Gesecke’s story

The last words of the legend faded, and a tense silence filled the room. The friends exchanged glances, awaiting the continuation. The witch took a final sip of her cold drink and, after a pause, continued the story:

— Vannemuyne, the wizard and guardian spirit of our lands, the one who remained for you in the world of Dreams, still watches over his people.

She surveyed those present with a keen gaze and continued: