The Fall of Arnon

Chapter 3

The sun beat down mercilessly upon the balding scalp of Father Thomas. His uncovered head shown in the afternoon sun. With a murmur of annoyance, a young lady plunged past him, letting her thick, brown curls waft across his aging face. He turned, his eyes following her retreating form, a look of nonsensical merriment written across his features. 

He reached down into his thick cloak and produced a small piece of cloth. Its worn edges and faded color spoke of better times. Slowly, he dabbed it across his brow in an effort to subdue the effects of the hot day. With a wave of his hand, he retreated into a crowded corner of the marketplace.

A humming, lively place of business with what seemed to be neither rhyme nor reason, the marketplace always buzzed with activity. Only when the moon had dressed itself in the light of the sun and the stars twinkled temptingly against their black canvas, when lamps and candles no longer brightened windows and the town drunks laid down their tired heads upon the hard rock of a stranger's home, did the marketplace become a place of peace and fantasies untold.

The priest let his eyes flutter close and soon the shouts of merchants, the pounding feet, the whimpering of mongrels faded into oblivion. Alone in the stone court, he looked around.

It was a simple construction. A large stone plate surrounded by a bevy of wooden stalls. Their simple structure seemed bereft with no food, no small trinket, and no cloth to line their empty shelves. It was not the simplicity of the layout that distinguished this marketplace from the hundreds that lay across the kingdom, though. It was something far more intricate, something far more majestic. In the middle of it all, untouchable to mere mortals, stood the king of all creatures, above and below, a dragon.

Its golden wings spread like sails above the head of the priest. Scales carefully molten into its sinewy body bid any man dare utter a disparaging remark against him. Talons as sharp as daggers pierced the stone alter it rested upon, and the golden eyes gazed coldly upon its dominion.

It was the golden statue of Arnon, but many simply called it 'The Dragon'. It seemed that long ago there had been a story intertwined with the golden statue, but somewhere along the line, it had fallen into extinction.

One of Father Thomas's greatest strengths was one of stories. If there was a legend, a myth, even an old minstrel tune to hear, the priest was the first person to recount it. It was his passion, one he had spent his life chasing. "A good story is like a good wine, when you tell it one forgets all one knew before and as the years dim the words and tear the pages, it only gets better," he used to say. And, as the words floated from his mouth, the scenes unfolding out of thin air, he could feel himself getting lost in the story, as the distinction between himself and his words began to fade.

When he would begin to relate to a crowd of onlookers or simply to himself, his eyes would close and with every slash of the sword, every kiss of a maid, every roar of a dragon, his body would stiffen, his hand would fly through the air, and his face would light up with a new life.

But one thing troubled the old priest. With so many tales to be told, how could there be one so significant, so mysterious, lost somewhere in the annals of history? Every time he slipped through the crowded marketplace, the great, golden dragon would mock him, its golden eyes drilling through him.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned," a voice close to his ear whispered quietly. He turned around with lightning-quick speed and found himself face to face with a person garbed in a midnight black cloak, its hood concealing an indiscernible face.

"Did you say something?" Father Thomas questioned, his eyes squinting against the harsh sun. It was not a usual thing for people to approach him in a crowded square for the purpose of airing their own sins.

The mysterious stranger shook his head and said, "Not here." And grabbing his hand, the stranger pulled him into one of the side allies aligning the marketplace.

With some apprehension and not a little force placed on him by his captor, Father Thomas followed the man.  Through back alleys, twisting and turning like a maze lined with buildings instead of large, green hedges and covered in cobblestones instead of soft, brown dirt.

Finally, they arrived at what seemed to be their destination. It was in the part of the city Father Thomas rarely visited. Streets lined with buildings falling to the ground from the weight of the years. Rotten wood creaked with every gust of the wind and on every corner, a beggar jingling his cup of coins. With little decorum, the priest was shoved through a door. Its small wooden frame was dwarfed by the immense stone wall that towered above it.

It was a strange sight that met Father Thomas's eyes as they adjusted to the feeble light cast by candles placed into carved out crevices along the sides of the walls. One room, larger than its outer shell seemed to denote, swallowed him into its depths. Rising high above him, the ceiling was lost in a mist of darkness. Old stone graced the sides of the room, and in the midst of its cold, grey embrace sat a large, round wooden table.

The door shut behind him with a resounding thud. The stranger drifted past him coming to a halt behind a large, rather uncomfortable looking chair. Motioning to the chair next to him, the man said the first word he had spoken since leaving the marketplace. "Sit," he stated gruffly.

He waited for Father Thomas to pull up his chair, groaning and protesting, from its place against the table. Then he proceeded to sit.

Father Thomas sat uncomfortably by the side of the black-hooded man. With a glance, he assessed the half hidden face. A flicker from a candle standing in the middle of the table revealed a well-groomed, dark beard, an oversized nose, and two glittering eyes. It seemed all that he was destined to see, for the man turned from him until his face was once again hidden from view.

It was a long time before the man once again deigned to speak. He seemed to struggle with something beyond the priest's eyesight, a thing not unfamiliar to the man of God. Secrets have been and always shall be things of immense value to men. Father Thomas knew of men that had paid a small fortune simply to retain their secrets, but some weights are simply too much for one man to bear.

The priest said nothing as the man began to speak. "I am not a religious man," a phrase often repeated by the guilty. "But I find myself in this position, nevertheless."He cleared his throat and let his eyes drift across the room to the bare stone wall. "You must know, I am not a man to be played with. What I purpose to do, I shall always do. I live by that rule, and I will die by that rule."

Father Thomas knew this was simply a preface to a deed done that could not be justified by the man's words, but he held his tongue.

"You are a priest, so you must understand. I am in the right, am I not?" It was more of a statement than a question.

"You have not yet told me of the deed of which I am here for," his voice laced with quiet testing, he urged the man on.

"Right, yes, of course." His tone had slowly risen from a husky growl to a low tenor. "It was a week ago, exactly. I sell goods from merchants to sellers, a middle-man you might call me. Sometimes, if I trust a buyer enough, I will provide them with a grace and let them pay double the next time they receive a shipment. And, so it happened, I remained gracious. . . until the next time.

"Now, you must understand as all my clients do, I do not allow for any slackness and up until now, I have received none. So, you can see, I could not simply do nothing or when one makes allowances, they may never end. Therefore, I had to act and I had to act quickly and quietly."

A stillness fell across the room. It was almost intoxicating in the short relief it brought from the inevitable end of this confession.

"I arranged a meeting with him, saying I was willing to discuss his debts, and then I killed him." There was no remorse in the words, only what seemed to be a kind of sickening pride. Father Thomas found it strange that such a man would find any need to tell him this. Was this a game he was playing with the priest? And, if so, what could possibly be the outcome of it?

Shock, however, would have been a welcome escape from the sickening crunch of the confession that left the priest wishing only for the sweet relief of clean air and the blazing sunlight.

Finally, two glistening eyes met Father Thomas's soft, brown ones.

"Well?" the man growled.