Scream It Until You're Coughing Up Blood - An Early Medieval Punk Fairy Tale

7. Church Hymn for the Condemned

In the forest of hands, you soon lose the track of time. Day differs little from day and night differs little from night; the stars in the sky are as they have always been, and the summer's last breath lasts to no end. The sun gives you warmth aplenty, the brooks and rivers quench your thirst. Wherever you go, there you find fruit in the bushes, and leaves that are edible, and nuts, and all the other bounty of the woods. Therefore, there is no hunger for you, no basic want that would go unanswered.

Your host - the peculiar, sharp-toothed creature - soon stops paying you any significant attention. When you are near, she shares her bounty with you, and sometimes you catch her staring at you with those eyes that hide an intent you do not understand. But nothing ever comes off it, no conversation, no intimacy. Although you slowly set up a place to live near her den in the cusp of a stone hand, you never feel close. There are days when a sense of longing overcomes you, and you promise yourself you will follow her through her strange trails, but you never live up to that promise, and maybe are better off for it. Nothing in the woods threatens you, but in your gut you feel there are places where you should you go, groves that grow dark and tangled, where hands grasp at each other in a display of frozen anger. She prowls in their gloom, and perhaps belongs to it.

Therefore, you spend your time on different matters and different wanderings. You grow to know the beasts of this peculiar forest - the wolves and stags, and all the small game, and all the birds. For most of them, you do not have a name, and as there is no one to talk to about them, you let them be unknown to language. In that, you grow to recognize a kinship of sorts with them.

The neverending succession of summer days and nights is not worldly, and even as you are, you recognize that the place you have wandered into does not entirely belong to the temporal you fled from. Perhaps you should feel concern over that, but even as it buds, on the fertile grounds of worry in your mind, it never sprouts and grows. Something prevents it - distantly, you know it is the bracelet you wear, the one that allows you to think clearly and wander carelessly. You check on it every day, to see if it is as green and fresh as it was on the day she snapped it over your wrist. The way you are may be wild and may be inhuman, but at least it is simple. It is so much lighter on you than knowing the name of things, and knowing that name to be something terrible and awful. Here, you do not have to worry.

You leave your mirror wrapped in cloth and try to never come close to still water; it is not that you are afraid of your reflection, you keep thinking to yourself. You simply do not want to look at it. Why would you, after all. Here, no one can see you - and as such, there is no reason to be concerned about appearance. Your host lives wild, and you think of growing to be just like her. One day, you will forget, and then you will be finally free. The last shadows of memory, words without meaning and faces from the past you refuse will go away, and you will live like a wild beast, in one neverending today.

For that blessing, you pray.

You leave some of the forest's wealth at the feet of the shrine to Saint Etheria, and ask her to steal away from you the weight of memory. As you do not know that many prayers, you repeat a few you still remember. Speaking is a strange sensation, and a loathsome one too. When words come from your mouth, you remember more - and for that sake, you have to pray more. Her crudely painted lips do not answer your pleas, but you see something in her eyes, some glint, that allows you hope that she wants to watch over you and listen to you.

One night, you dream of her. The candle she carries in her hands gutters out, and in the last sparks of its light, she turns away and walks off into the distance. When you wake, you realize that she is not the Saint that will grant you your wish, and you need to seek more. With that goal in mind, you set out.

You find the next shrine on the same day. On a birch log, there is a figure of a Saint bent under the weight the boulders the heathen martyred her with. Her name you remember to be Suplicia, and she watches over the young. You repeat your prayer to her, and leave at her shrine berries and nuts. When you come to visit her the next day, they are gone, but her gaze hardens, and her smashes hand contorts itself into a rebuking gesture. She does not want to deal with you. You pray for forgiveness, and doubtful that you received it, set further out.

Next is Sanit Claudia, painted with ochre and soot on the side of a broken stone, once a finger. She holds a sword raised high, and her eyes judge all - she died praying for justice and she is the justice of the Saints. You consider praying to her, but she points the tip of her blade at your throat and you realize that she has little patience for criminals such as you. You pray that she sees the wronghood of her dismissal, and carry on.

Saint Clara is little more than a splash of moss growing over the trunk of a hand, but you recognize her with no difficulty. But she is dead, lichen growing over her limbs, and wants nothing to do with you. You understand her - the Saints are people, and even they deserve rest at the end. You leave her be.

From her abode, you fail to find the way back to your host's den, so you sleep under a shattered hand, between twisted fingers. A few wild creatures come to watch over you, and you are thankful to them.

In the morning, you find another Saint. Corvo is his name, and he watches over the exiles of all manners. You would pray to him, but he hushes you gently. Painted at his feet is the man he loved, sleeping, and he does not want you to stir him. It is a shame, too, because you find him beautiful in a way, but you know he will never be with you. Still, in his kindness, he points you to a secret path and you follow it through, making your way through thick growth and rubble of many broken limbs.

At its end, you come face to face with a Saint you do not know. Her halo is gold and fire, and blood drips from her fury-twisted face. Her hands clutch a sword, but unlike the one wielded by Claudia, it is not judgement, but retribution. You would talk to her, but she does not want to listen to you. She is after someone, and you don't know where he live, so she will not aid you. Still, you pray for her victory - but when she learns what you are after, she chases you off with a foul curse. Impressed as you are, you flee.

The road takes you deeper into the woods, where the hands join above, like some great canopies. In the darkness below, you almost miss the next Saint, painted with the richest oils of the world. He is unadorned, and carries nothing. You know that his name cannot be spoken, and when you pray at his feet, he caresses you like he would a child. But he has too many wards in his heavenly abode to take you in, and so he tells you that you must go alone. You do that, although the memory of his touch never leaves you.

But the next Saint helps. She wears a tattered cloak, and her flesh is black and white, marked with ink. She has no respect to anyone and in truth, she may be a Malefactor in disguise, having simply stolen the halo, but in her eyes you see something that you can't quite express, but which feels you with all the longing and all the envy in the world. Yet, when you try to pray for it, you can't find a name, and so she laughs at you. You endure her mockery.

She wears an iron chain for a necklace and tall boots, and she cuts her hair short. Her fists are never open, and always clutch a stone or a brick. Even though you don't think she has a name, you know what she is the patron of. She watches over the powerless, the angry, the ones who lash out. She is the Furious Saint.

You should be praying to her more. But there is not enough anger in you. And besides, the gift you ask for is the one she will never give. After all, Saints like her never forget, and nurture indignation like the holiest fire. You tug at the bracelet around your wrist, and when she gives you a long look, you let it be. She doesn't judge you for that. But you know it's not what she chose. Instead, you take her advice and keep on walking, because she promises you that there is something you will find in just a moment or two.

The next shrine you chance upon is unfinished. It's a slab of rock, like a tombstone. Near it, there is a creature crouched - a man so withered he may as well be a skeleton, nothing but skin tightly woven around frail bones. His beard is pristine white and drags a feet after him, and in his hand, there is a brush with which he calls into life a Saint.

He laughs as he works, because his is a joyous travail.

He is the first man you see in days or weeks; and yet, although you know you should be worried, you should be concerned, none such feelings come. There is something about him that is blessed; a man who allowed so many Saints to come to visit the temporal cannot be vile; or at least should not be. An aura of holiness surrounds him - he wears it like a mantle. It's the scent of spring flowers and the touch of peace, so grand that you are concerned that you should not be approaching him. That you are without that sacredness that would be required to approach one such as him.

Someone's voice - like your own, but not exactly - tells you that you should not close on him. That your presence is a taint his will not abide by. But the voice is weak, and the armband on your wrist heavy; the sound of his laughter drowns it out.

Still, you think you would disturb him, but he notices you before you can leave him be and motions that you should come close and watch his work - after all, it is such a wonder that he wants it to be shared. The Saint he paints too enjoys company - he is a talkative sort, and the moment he draws his lips, he tells you oh so many things. He tells you of his martyrdom, and of the beauty of the abode of the Saints, and of how men squander faith, and how beautiful the world is once you understand its purpose. There is no end to his chatter, and the painter chuckles at all of it in pure mirth.

You remain silent. In truth, the Saint's words bring you scant comfort and you feel them to be laced with falsehood. They are too easy and too smooth, unlike the fury you felt just moments ago. He notices that and lectures you that anger does not build, that anger is a poison, but you dismiss those concerns. You don't feel anger and you don't feel happiness. You just feel calm and all you ask from his is that he would give you this calm for all the time to come. Obviously he refuses, and before you can argue with further, the painter finishes his work and walks away. Preferring his company to the Saint's, you leave too.

Together, you wander for a long time. He doesn't speak to you, but instead hums to himself a cheerful tune, one that manages to lift even your own spirit - and so, you feel a pang of sadness when it abruptly cuts as he comes across a large rock. It's a tip of a finger, cracked at the second joint, fallen to the ground. Its sides are covered with lichen, but he scrapes it off quickly and reveals a white, smooth surface. He seats you on a trunk of a nearby, fallen tree, and primes the surface quickly. Then, he goes quiet for a moment, staring at you, frowning. When he turns back to his work, brush already in hand, he does not hesitate. With a bold gesture and a burst of laughter, he starts to paint.

Mesmerized, you watch the lines he draw curve towards each other, gain shape and substance, until you realize what it is that he is calling into being. It's a benediction. You watch him paint the Furious Saint give something to you, something you do not want, do not deserve and do not know how to use. A blessing you will carry out of the forest of hands and into the world that awaits your return.

A cold wind chills you and you realize that your stay here will not last. Not long. But long enough for you to fight for a gift that shouldn't be earned. The Furious Saint will give to you…

[ ] The Benediction of Rage and Refusal.
A spark of anger sets fire to the soul. It's not strength. It's not toughness. It's refusal to stop, even if you know you really should. It's telling the world 'no', even when it breaks your bones. You will be a berserker.

[ ] The Benediction of Madness and Lies.
It's the art of the Malefactors, lying to the world so well that it believes you. It's wisdom that brings little joy and power that they teach to be false and vile. But she is a Saint and she teaches that too. You will be a witch.​