A day hath gone since water crash'd upon
the slopes above the city, flooding all
the streets, canals and buildings' storeys low,
and whilst the streets did flow with current's might
the Chaplain opened his cathedral's doors,
for steps that keep the chapel over street
prevented it from flooding like the rest
of all the structures by the centre square,
and let the panick'd populace inside
to shelter those who manag'd trek the streets, 10
wherein they sang to pass the time and keep
their frighten'd children up with spirits high,
and shar'd what little bread the baker brought,
and little meat from butcher, and so on
until the floods receded from the streets
to fill canals, whose sluices now are up
to channel water more toward the streets
of poorer districts for a second time
this year t'relieve canals and mitigate
what further damages may still occur 20
upon the richer districts ere it's done.
The Chaplain, having usher'd out the last
of those remaining in his chapel now
decides to close and lock the church's doors,
for with the floods subsiding may he have
his privacy again. He turns toward
the chapel and he ambles past the rows
of pews along the wall to far of right
to enter past a portal in behind
the dais, to a corridor where he 30
ascends a stairwell to another hall
the bedrooms of his nuns and friars branch
from, where he takes a ring of keys from in
his pocket, picking out the proper key
and proper door to twist the instrument
inside to open up into a room
wherein the Doll is lying on a bed.
Returning keys toward the pocket same
and making sure his dagger's still conceal'd,
he sits upon the bed, observing her; 40
she hathn't wash'd in days; her hair is slick
with grease and sticks the tufts together o'er
her face, so mark'd with streaks of makeup black
that's run from tears she's shed these passing days.
He puts a hand upon her ankle bare
which causes her to flinch, as finally
she notices his presence in the room.
"I'm sorry, Chaplain," now she says to him.
"I'm sorry that I ever doubted you
would be the only one to care for me. 50
I thought for but a moment—maybe hop'd—
that someone else could love a foolish whore,
but I was wrong and now I wallow here,
just like the little girl first you met
who hid here when her parents fought at home."
The Chaplain holds his tongue upon this first
of thoughts that comes to mind, for doth he know
she's speaking of our Preacher, though she won't
deliver him such words so traitorous.
Instead he nods his head and says to her: 60
"I know, my daughter dear, this cruel Earth
would never give a prostitute repose.
And truly thou'rt unlov'd by all but me,
as none can see thee truly as thou art,
except myself who's known thee longer time
than any who're still living to this day,
and lov'd thee for a time identical."
He changes here the subject, testing her.
"But tell me, dear, these days hast thou been here,
refusing t'even speak to me—of all 70
the people in this city—what hast thou
experienc'd up here within this room
I've sav'd for thee since ere thy womanhood?
Thou must have heard the waters rushing round
the church that fill'd the streets and flooded all.
And possibly there's something else which thou
wouldst like to ask about, if there's at all."
The Doll sits up and hugs her knees to chest
as much she can, so swollen with her babe;
she stares with pensive eyes upon her thumbs 80
now hook'd together, biting bottom lip.
The Chaplain places hands upon his lap
to hide a certain something rising up
upon the sight of th'woman's thighs expos'd
behind her shins beneath her risen skirt.
"I had a dream. . ." she says, which breaks his gaze
and reverie to focus once again.
"I had a dream the Preacher spoke to me,
or rather he address'd a larger crowd
so loud his booming voice did almost wake 90
me from my slumber; yet I know I slept,
for he is dead, I'm totally aware."
The Chaplain furrows brow and says to this:
"Dost thou remember what he spoke about?"
She shakes her head at this, confirming t'him
she dothn't know the deed our Preacher did.
He presses on, continuing along
the topic of our Preacher now brought up,
for with the Coven's failure he's devis'd
another plot to end protagonist: 100
"Thou didst a deed of good by sending him
to south of here, and if he'd better known
he would've stay'd within that coastal town.
But still did he return upon the road
and though tis strange to hear, he did survive
Assassin's strike on unsuspecting flesh—
and likely kill'd him, for I've heard him not—
with little but a cut upon his side,"
which he could see had bled when Preacher came
to him, surpris'd he had surviv'd th'attack, 110
and making certain t'him by what had dried
that Preacher was a demon same as he.
A momentary glow returns to Doll
within her sparkling eyes until she nods
and swallows down her throat a growing lump.
"I told him of his baby in my womb;
instead of cheering for his fortune great
he lash'd his hand to slap my countenance."
The Chaplain clicks his tongue, inhaling deep
through teeth with widen'd mouth to hide his glee. 120
It's only once he hath control again
upon the corners of his twisting mouth
doth he reply to her: "I know thy pain,
for what thou suffer, so do I as well,
as this is how we've link'd throughout the years
like beads of rosary, but holier,
for we are living—we are made of flesh."
He pauses now before continuing,
concern both false and real all at once:
"Do tell me, child, when thou gave the news 130
to him, didst thou intend betraying me?"
The Doll's two eyes both widen now at this
most treacherous of accusations dealt.
"I never. Nay! I'd never leave your side—"
"A falsehood spoken!" doth he interrupt.
"I've known thee long and treated thee with love
and educated thee within these walls.
Don't think that I can't tell when thou omit
a piece of explanation or decide
to altogether tell untruth to me. 140
I see the lie that's caught between thy teeth—
like stringy meat thou'st chew'd so carelessly,
despite I ask'd thee not to take a bite—
and give, with kindness, but this single chance
t'repair this damage thou hast wrought on us."
The Doll begins to cry and nod her head;
through sobbing she's unable form the words,
but Chaplain knows she's said enough with this
and so he says: "I thank thee, young one, for
atoning for this sin thou brought to me. 150
As well shall I forgive this errant act
and take a pity on thy poorest self,
for thou art forc'd to bear a babe alone."
He tilts his head, pretending thought. "Unless. . ."
The Doll dismounts the bed and falls to knees
with fingers laced together now to beg:
"O, anything. Pray anything at all.
I'm under your command if only you
should help to guide the rearing of my babe!"
He takes her hands in his and now he says: 160
"Perhaps I'll make of thee a loyal nun
if such is what thou'dst wish for me to do."
She nods and thanks him, but he pushes back
her shoulder ere she wraps her arms around
him fully, to resume his monologue:
"But I require thee to finish what
thou started where Assassin's failed us.
I think perhaps, despite thine argument,
the Preacher'd still allow thee close to him."
He pulls the dagger out from pocket's pouch 170
with hilt to her. "So stab him in his sleep,
and that will finalize thy placement here."
The Doll now shakes her head at this request,
explaining this impossibility:
"The Preacher never sleeps," she doth reply.
"He'll lie awake in bed or putter round
his house and chapel, but he never sleeps.
Not once in all eight months I've known him for
hath but a single wink come over him.
I wouldn't get this chance you ask of me." 180
The Chaplain finds this int'resting, but still
it changes nothing, so he draws the hilt
away t'return within his pocket with:
"If such is true, I should suppose thou'lt not—"
The Doll, more desp'rate now, relays that she
could find another time to stab our man,
perhaps when he is turn'd away from her,
for as the Chaplain said, our Preacher should
allow her still t'approach him close enough.
This satisfies the Chaplain, who hath grown 190
so weak since Preacher did arrive in town,
for though in him he's sens'd the pallid blood
identical t'his own, there's something else
within those foulest veins that drains from him
the vigour once he had; and though he wish'd
so generous to share this human stock
with but a fellow demon—rare to find
upon the Mother's surface—now he sees
this Preacher devil is descended from
the fay as well, and must be purg'd for this 200
in order that the Chaplain's life's sustain'd
by ridding him of this contaminant
and bringing back the flock from which he takes
his nutrients of sin to keep him young.
A coughing fit takes hold at thoughts of age
and sickness that the Preacher's brought to him,
and though the Doll concerns herself with this,
the Chaplain pushes her away until
the vi'lence ends and copper's on his tongue
and stains his palm a wet and brilliant red. 210
He hides away his hand within his sleeve
and draws the dagger with his other out
to place upon the bed, but keeping hold
with palm to press it flat against the sheets.
She glances at the dagger, then to him,
whereat he says: "Then all is settled now.
At ev'ry eve thou'lt go to Preacher's house
and wait until eventu'lly he comes
returning from wherever now he is,
and then thou'lt thrust this dagger in his back." 220
The Chaplain smirks as here the subject shifts:
"But first thou'lt need to take it from my grasp.
Thou know this game—remember how it goes?"
The Doll, upon her looking at his lap,
now notices the bulge that's risen up
and nods her head, for she remembers well
this game they've play'd since she was just a lass. 227