Evensong (1 of 2)
Invocation
This story contains themes of religious hypocrisy, sexual predation, and revenge.
Reader discretion is advised.
Montelivano, the gem, sat on a hillside in the Apennine foothills, surrounded by olive groves and stone terraces overlooking the silver ribbon of the Serchio as it meandered through the valleys, winding toward the distant, salt-stained cradle of the Mediterranean. Once called the Pearl of the Serchio Valley, Montelivano now watched the smoke rise.
It was a cold autumn night, and the west wind, thankfully, carried the foul stench of burning corpses away from the Cathedral of the Immaculate Dawn. The cathedral itself had been begun in 1297, but Advent Abbey, seated on the same stone terrace, was more than a century older.
The wind left behind clean air for the devout, their lavender-scented masks a futile comfort after too many days of wear. Cedric was convinced the lavender extract was pointless. The masks had done little good; people who wore them died just as often as those who didn’t. Yet since spring, wearing one had become a symbol of moral superiority. And as a priest, projecting that image was essential to his role.
It was impossible to know how many had died from the plague, or when it might end. All Cedric knew was that hell lay just two miles from the city, where the fires had burned steadily since March. The Immaculate faithful, once renowned for their devoutness and healing prayers, had been no more successful than the masks. Their incantations and remedies, once a source of pride, now felt as hollow as the burned-out homes beyond the city walls.
Surely, the dead numbered in the thousands by now. Cedric wondered how many of the people currently huddling for warmth in the nave would find their way to the makeshift crematorium before the next fortnight. He sat in the first pew, leaning back, eyes turned upward into the vaulted ceiling.
The cathedral rose majestically, its towering spires stretching skyward like hands yearning to touch the heavens. Visitors entering through the grand archway stepped into a realm alive with light and shadow. Golden and silver hues glowed softly across every surface, as though the walls themselves pulsed with divine energy. Intricate frescoes lined the nave, each depicting the Sun, Moon, and Stars—the sacred trinity of creation—painted in luminous pigments that shimmered under shifting light. An enormous wooden crucifix, blackened by candle soot and age, hung suspended among the heavenly bodies.
At the center of the nave, the solar brazier commanded attention. The colossal vessel, crafted from polished sunsteel and gilt bronze, shimmered with carvings of radiant suns, moons, and constellations. From its depth, Eternal Light burned with an unearthly brilliance, casting golden rays that danced across the vaulted ceiling, causing the rafters to cast dancing shadows across the trimetal dome, divided into thirds of one hundred twenty degrees, composed of gold, silver, and platinum. It was said that Jesus himself had ignited this eternal flame in the first age, gifting humanity a beacon to dispel the darkness, and that each temple to the trinity contained but a portion of the original Eternal Light. The Immaculate Dawn was the grandest of these outside Rome.
The solar brazier stood atop a dais of smooth white marble, encircled by a mosaic floor that illustrated the celestial dance of the heavens. Worshippers gathered around, whispering prayers that rose with the smoke of the sacred fire. Myrrh and cedar, burned as offerings, filled the air with a fragrant haze. High above the brazier, an enormous lantern of crystal and gold hung suspended by nearly invisible chains, refracting the golden light into dazzling beams that sparkled like stars across the nave.
Stained-glass windows dominated the cathedral walls. During the day, these captured sunlight, transforming it into vibrant hues that moved with the celestial forces at work on the world. In the evenings, when the moon dominated the sky, the walls infused the nave with an ethereal energy that was almost palpable.
A single bell, high in the most northern spire, tolled a single note, indicating that midnight had arrived. Those attending the Night's Vigil gave quick prayers, crossing themselves in supplication.
Cedric stepped to the pulpit at the center of the nave and turned his attention to the young postulant, Katira, who joined him. She had been at the Immaculate Dawn only three weeks and it was unusual for such a young foundling to take part in the ritual, but she had impressed him with her dutifulness and devotion. And it didn't hurt that no matter how drab a covering she wore, hiding her curves was utterly impossible, and he once again smiled inwardly, with plans to introduce her to wine before the night was over. Cedric wondered how she would be as a lover and felt impatience nearly overcome him.
Both she and Cedric removed their face coverings, but none of the worshippers did, keeping their masks properly in place. He had begun to enjoy the masks for the anonymity they created. And then she began to sing, softly, but melodiously, filling the chamber with almost a whisper of music.
Cedric glanced around at the worshippers, seeing more than half of them mouth the same words. The postulant then sang from the first canticle about Mary Magdalene's tears being gifts to the parched earth as a balm for wounded hearts. A bowl, sitting above the brazier was said to contain the remnants of Mary's tears.
As the postulant sang, her gaze briefly met his, sharp and fleeting, before softening into devotion. The moment passed, but it lingered in Cedric’s mind. He wondered if she would need to be broken. He watched her, enjoying the rise and fall of her breasts as she inhaled the evening air and exhaled the song of the nightingale. The lascivious feelings overtook him again, and he knew he would enjoy corrupting this young girl. Her innocence was so sweet, like nectar before it becomes honey. He promised himself he would taste her ere the night was through.
One of the advantages of being a postulant of the Night's Vigil was that her radiance shone brightest when the rest of the world slept. This was her time, the sacred hours when secrets stirred and shadows carried meaning. It was also Cedric's time—midnight. It was when he felt most awake and alive. Soon, he would spread his seed to another young flower. She would be brought to his chamber, there to learn the ecstasy of moonlight hours.
She continued to sing, her voice a dream. She was not loud enough to wake anyone from the sun worshippers, but not quiet enough to allow any who heard her to drift into sleep. He glanced at her sidelong, shivering as he thought about running his gnarled fingers through the tresses of her luxurious dark hair that, at least for this ritual, remained well covered by her hood.
The postulant became silent, sliding the mask back over her nose, mouth, and chin, and faded into the background, as Cedric took center stage and began reading. For tonight, he had selected a reading from the Silver Veil, the second canticle of the Lament of Mary Magdalene, which recounted the parable of the dew-kissed flower.
At one o'clock in the morning, the north bell tolled once more, signaling the end of the Night's Vigil. The masked worshippers departed slowly, returning to their homes. A handful found their way to the common rooms within the Immaculate Dawn, and some bedded down on the cold floor near the solar brazier. The seven postulants in attendance returned to their individual rooms. Cedric watched as the young singer departed, enjoying the way she moved, and thinking about how he might take advantage of her natural dexterity.
He lit a lamp from the eternal flame and descended into the underground level of the cathedral, passing by shared quarters for the male acolytes, the kitchen, and the dining hall to the laundry where the day's washing lay neatly folded. Cedric grabbed a fresh set of blue silk sheets for his bed and an extra down pillow. The latter item had two purposes. First, he expected to have a guest and, if she chose to spend the whole night, she may need her own pillow. Second, and more importantly, it would be useful for positioning her.
Cedric's quarters displayed his arrogance and indulgence, sharply contrasting with the austerity expected of a servant. It was both a symbol of his rank of bishop, and his own personal sense of style, which some might call ostentatious. It had been the chambers of other priests before him, but it was more adorned with trappings of wealth now than at any point in its prior history. Tucked away in one of the upper levels of the cathedral, it was a spacious chamber, with large stained glass windows and a very rare transparent glass window in the ceiling that gave a magnificent view of the night sky.
A lavish bed dominated the room. Four dark walnut posts rose at each corner, capped with crescent moon finials plated in silver. Heavy indigo velvet curtains, embroidered with gold and silver constellations, draped from the canopy. Piles of feather-stuffed cushions and silken sheets in rich purples and blues added to the bed's opulence, making it fit for royalty rather than a man of faith.
A tall wardrobe stood against one wall, its polished mahogany doors gleaming with silver filigree that traced celestial patterns. Cedric had meticulously arranged his robes inside, each garment boasting extravagant gold embroidery and beadwork far beyond the requirements of his station.
An ebony desk filled one corner, cluttered with scrolls, quills, and inkpots. Letters from influential patrons lay scattered among religious texts, which Cedric treated more as decoration than objects of study. Hidden in the desk’s drawers, bottles of expensive wine, rare spices, and perfumes reflected his secret indulgences.
Tapestries and paintings adorned the walls, each depicting an erotic Mary Magdelene bathed in moonlight as if she were the one being worshipped. These images clashed with the room’s true purpose. In a small alcove, a shrine held candles and offerings of silver coins, polished to a gleaming luster. Cedric had crafted the shrine more as a display of wealth than devotion.
The air carried a cloying mix of saffron, rose, and incense, creating an inviting, seductive atmosphere. The gilded mirror beside the door reflected Cedric’s vanity, positioned perfectly so he could inspect himself before leaving the room. Every detail revealed his obsession with maintaining an image of refinement and holiness, masking the hypocrisy that defined his character.
Cedric stripped the down comforter, quilts, and existing sheets from the bed. He tossed the soiled sheets into a wicker basket in his antechamber for tomorrow's washing, and then made the bed with new sheets. He crossed to his wardrobe, opened it, and produced two containers: a wooden bowl, and a glass jar. He pulled the quilt back, took a pinch of saffron threads from the glass jar and placed them neatly on the comforter, returning the quilt to its position.
He scattered rose petals from the wooden bowl and sprinkled them on the quilt. He leaned down and inhaled the intermixed scents, fluffed the bed-curtains to dislodge any trapped dust, and placed the extra pillow on the bed. Satisfied that this would be irresistible, he let the bed breathe the fragrances, stoked the fire, and sat at his desk.
Stephen B. Anthony is the author of Transmigrant, an epic science fiction thriller, available on both Amazon and Audible. The first seven chapters are available on this website for free.
I like the plague background and I'm looking forward to know what happens next.
Well written story :)