Grim Dragoneye

Grim Dragoneye

By Caspar Wynne

Thomas stared at the first star to show that night and blinked slowly, his eyes were marbled pink and red like the sky, and heavy black bags hung like hammocks beneath his eyelids. He was realising he had made a terrible mistake. His attention was drawn to his stinging fists, he had without realising been clenching them so tightly his dirty nails had pierced the rough skin of his palms and his fingers had begun to ache as small droplets of blood fell to the muddy ground. His ears burned with the sounds of his wife screaming from inside their little home. She was in unnatural agony as she brought his little baby into the world and it was all his fault. A lone tear shot across his cheek. He had to leave.

The sun had said its farewell for the day and in its wake nights darkness was advancing. He pulled his cloak close to his body and ran down the narrow street. The air was rank after the brief shower and the detritus of everyday life lined the roadside. Grace was a small secluded mountain town huddled against a mighty cliff face to the west and a small forest to the east. The town over looked the fields to the south, which rolled down the valley sides to the shallow basin along which ran the road. It was nearly harvest time and in the last rays of sun the fields were awash with the golden wheat and the leaves of the eastern forest were jewelled with raindrops.

At the heart of the town sat the proud but squat stone church. Its thick heavy door half open revealing a halo of soft inviting candlelight. The Father Robert of Grace was a robust old man with grey hair and dark beady eyes turned from his position in front of the stone alter and studied his irate visitor. “Bartholomew, where is Bartholomew!” cried Tommy, his face a plate of grey and lips deathly white.

“Why Thomas! What ever is the matter?” Asked Father Robert in a flustered tone as he watched the troubled man scour the small church. Suddenly Thomas turned and grasped at the monks robes, their faces inch's apart. A small fleck of spittle was gathering in the corner of the man's lips.
“Where is he?” Thomas whispered desperately.

“He is resting, at his home, he was feeling unwell and left early, but Thomas, please dear Thomas, tell me please what is troubling you” The monk smiled softly, and placed gentle hands upon the man’s shoulders. Thomas just stared at the monk unblinkingly and muttered: “She will die tonight” before tears flooded his cheeks “and it's all my fault”.

Father Robert realised the issue and smiled softly. Molly had obviously gone into labour and Thomas was naturally concerned for her. He took the worried man into his arms and hugged him, “There, there” he cooed they stood for awhile in gentle silence, “I'm sure Molly is perfectly...” Thomas went rigid and thrust himself free from the friendly embrace.

“NO!” he bellowed, eyes wide and wild, “NO! She will die, and I did it” Thomas punched the back of pew with incredible force that made the wood crunch but not break, he raised a quivering finger at the monk, “go to her” he snarled, “go to her and see that she passes on well!”

Fear began to sprout inside Robert, he had never seen a man like this before and he found himself at a loss. He began to gather what few things he needed and placed them in a small bag whilst he never took more than one eye off his visitor. “Are you coming with me?” Robert enquired as he tied the little bag to his belt. Thomas shook his head slightly. It was obvious to Robert, Thomas was beset by demons, his once charming features were gaunt and pale, his black locks clung to his forehead like oily strands and visibly before the monk, the man changed as he descended into fear, panic and rage. Gradually Thomas's head was shaking more notably from side to side, “No! NO!” he stated like a dominant preacher, “You will go to her now! I must... I must set things right!”

Before Robert could reply Thomas had fled the church. Shocked the monk tried to follow but Thomas was to fast, he was heading south Robert realised, towards Bartholomew's house. But as he tried to pursue, skittering slightly on the mud, he heard a terrible cry of torment, and in all his years he had never heard a scream quite like it. It froze him to the spot, and chilled him to the core. It seemed almost unreal, and certainly not human as it rattled the air like a siren. Gathering his fortitude Robert ventured towards its origin, a small wooden hut he knew to be Thomas and Molly's home.

Slowly he pushed the rickety doorway open and there lying upon a dirty straw bed was the paling shape of Molly. To her side stooped the midwife Helen was trying to hand a bundle to the woman. A crimson flower blooming with horrific speed across the crotch of Molly's heavy linen gown. Robert couldn't help but shudder, the ghostly visage of Molly and her ghastly wailing coupled with the heat and stench of her ordeal painted an image not unlike the nightmares from Robert's childhood. There was a great deal of blood. Helen noticed the monk rushed to him thrusting the bundle into his arms with little care. The little weighty package squirmed and kicked, it was the baby Robert realised, he was shocked at Helen's lack of care. The midwife turned her attention back to the bleeding woman on the bed. Gingerly Robert lifted a fold of cloth to expose the little baby boy. He was not prepared for what he was confronted with. The baby was perfect in every way but for one enormous green lizard-like eye. It screamed like a devil, the monstrous eye rolling in its skull.

Before him the midwife battled against the flow of blood, “No! Molly, No!” she pleaded helplessly, but it was to late, the woman strewn on the bed was dead, her face contorted in agony. “Where's Thomas, where is he!” She cried desperately turning to Robert, “That bastard, where is HE!” She stormed out of the hut, leaving Robert alone with the child. For some reason the baby had found some comfort in the the monks face and was smiling happily at him, the green eye fixed on him with fierce interest as if it had a will of its own.

There was a commotion outside, and swung open with great force and the bulky figure of Helen appeared at the entrance, her face a picture of rage and disgust. Behind her stood the slender, aged man Bartholomew, he was trying to talk to Helen, but she was ignoring him. Her eyes were locked onto the little body of the baby. “He's gone, the bastard has gone and left us with his mess!” She bellowed gesturing flippantly at the boy. Robert flinched. She stormed past him and stood beside the departed Molly carefully she picked up the limp hand and held it, Helen took a deep breath. Bartholomew entered the little room and glanced at the child, his face paled at the sight of the eye. He looked to the monk and saw nothing but confusion and fear. The proud Bartholomew began to speak, his voice was thick like treacle, each word was carefully pronounced with clear diction.

“It is true,” he said calmly and reassuringly, “Thomas has left. He has asked me to care for the child till he returns” He raised his arms ready to receive the bundle. Robert looked at the child again, it smiled at him. Slowly he handed the boy over and laid him carefully in the merchants arms. A brief silence filled the room.

“We should kill it” said Helen, each word fell like a hammer blow.

“That would be murder” replied Bartholomew outraged and he drew the child closer to him as if to keep it as far away from Helen as possible.

“Look at it, its the work of the devil!” she retorted angrily turning to face Bartholomew with a cruel pragmatic expression, “It will bring us nothing but trouble”
Robert was repulsed he marched towards Helen with great determination. “To kill the boy would be the work of the Devil” he protested fiercely, hands clutching at his hips and face stern. Helen looked at him, and tried to retort but the force of his glare was fuelled with the righteousness of god and she had no will against it.

“Then I will have nothing to do with it” She declared before making her way to exit, as she passed Bartholomew he stopped with a few simple words.

“Then I ask you do not speak of this to anyone” he pleaded, his soft grey eyes explored her.

Pivoting on her heels she squared herself against Bartholomew and replied with venom: “I will say nothing, nothing until the time comes when something must be said!” and she left with the hut at a pace leaving the little door swaying on its hinges.

The cold night air penetrated the small home and ran its icy fingers up the two men’s backs. They both turned and faced each other, they nodded in silent agreement they would both keep this little child a secret. A still silence fell about them for a short while, until the baby began to cry. Cradling the child Bartholomew bid a good night and left bearing the child.

Alone for the first time Robert turned to Molly's body, he knelt at its feet and prayed. He asked for forgiveness and for protection, he prayed for the soul of the woman before him and for the life of the little boy. As he concluded he rose to his feet and wrung his hands. It had been a strange hour, and something deep inside told him his life would never be the same again.