Work in progress –
Brother Tomas the monk wore a coarse habit of black broadcloth with a belt of elegant but simple gold-line rope. Light poured into the study hall through a stained glass window which showed Jesus chastising the money lenders in the temple. The savior held a whip and was beating one of their number as angels looked on approvingly.
Gaviota Monastery was a majestic eminence on the last stretch of otherwise undeveloped California coastline. The room itself was spare, furnished with only one long table and bookshelves along the walls. At one end was a book stand originally intended for the Holy Bible. It had been re-purposed, and now supported a yellowed tome, a rare printing of the ill-famed Malleus Maleficarum which translates as “Hammer of Witches”. This was the ancient church's guide to the suppression of witch craft, written by the insane inquisitor Heinrich Kramer. He wrote with rage and bitterness over the acquittal of accused witch Helena Scheuberin.
The Kramer text condemned women for being subject to corruption by the Devil. Father Augustus, current abbot of Gaviota monastery, deliberately put the text there upon the Bible stand. To his mind, Helena Scheuberin was guilty as charged, Kramer was a genius, and the Maleficarum deserved restoration to the prestige it had once enjoyed in Christendom. The monk Tomas did not agree with the disposition of his abbot, but he didn’t argue, for it was forbidden for a man of the cloth to quarrel with his superiors.
Even had he been inclined to dispute, the monk was in no position to engage intellectual battle. He was under quarantine, ravaged by fever, and he knew death was near. The pain had become unbearable, and he had no medicine, no hope of recovery. There was only a choice between day after day of suffering in his last hours, or the quiet sleep of death. He prayed and wept and prayed some more until he finally chose the latter. Yes, death would bring peace, death would bring solace and the company of saints. Or so he hoped.
Two shiny clean syringes lay upon the night stand. Each was loaded with 2 milligrams of fentanyl – as much as would fit on the tip of a pencil. According to his calculations there would be no need for the second dose...
This chapter is work in progress!
This is Chapter Four of Anthropocene Memoir: Ghost of the Forgotten Snows, an installment novel by Geof Bard.
Earlier versions of chapters 1-3 first published on Medium.