The Fall of Arnon

Chapter 15

"Amen," Sir Ryan echoed the priest.

"And, you saw no-one?" Father Thomas looked up from the body of the woman, lying there, her face concealed by a dusty old blanket he had scrounged out of the pile of impure filth. 

"No-one," Sir Ryan answered, shaking his shaggy head one more time.  His face looked ashen in the light of the moon. "I ran down the street, but whoever it was must've been an agile man.  He was gone before I even got to the street."

"And you're sure there is no other way out of this alleyway?"

"No. Not unless you're a cat." He motioned with his head up towards the roof on the other side of the alley.  It rose high into the night sky, a foreboding sight against the pale of the moon.

"How did he know we would be here?" Questioned the priest.

"Maybe he didn't. Some murderers like to come back to the scene of the crime. Perhaps he didn't expect to find anyone."

"Then why carry an axe?"

"I don't know. I just don't know, but what I do know is we need to get her body out of here before it starts to rot."

"Right. Although, it may be strange to see two men dragging a body between them through the streets."

Sir Ryan looked around thoughtfully. "You're right, of course," he said. "But what else can we do?"

Father Thomas bowed his head. It didn't take long for the spark of an idea to fly into his mind. "I have it!" He cried. "Your friend... the, the, tall, grim one." He snapped his fingers as if hoping that this would somehow conjure up the tall, grim man.

"The tall, grim one, right." He moved out into the street. "Wait, which tall and grim one?" 

"The angry, tall, grim one."  

"Oh, of course, Sir Storen." He nodded and then disappeared into the night.

Father Thomas had given up trying to feel comfortable in the den of death. He had tried leaning up against the wall, but soon enough the awful smell of rot that oozed from fibers from the stone pushed him away. Soon, all he could do was pace the dark passageway as the body of the old woman still lurked in the doorway.

The stillness of the night irked the priest. The dank, dusty street should be the place where darkness would bring with it the sounds of evil deeds done in the night and lies passed on through the whispering winds, but tonight no wind whispered among the gloomy wood and stone. It was as if death had swept across the street and in its place was left only silence and the cold embrace of the empty evil still lurking about.

Father Thomas stopped and crouched down, his legs aching and his body crying out for sleep. Something he knew would be a long time in coming. Then from far down the empty road, he thought he saw a figure. Small and lonely it crept along, hiding as much in the shadows as it could. To the priest, he or she looked no bigger than a child. Still crouching in the dark, he waited as the figure came closer. Then, like an alley cat, it slipped into the same door, only a few hours earlier he had seen the woman now lying only a few feet from him.

In that split second the priest glanced back at the dead body then turned, making up his mind to follow the figure. Something inside of his head urged him forward, something he couldn't resist. He sent up a quick prayer to God for his protection from whatever evil that waited in the darkness of that place and slipped noiselessly across the acrid dirt of the street.