The Nameless Day

“We don’t push on through this evening?” Thomas said.

Marcel gave him an exasperated look. “And you think that you could push through another eight or nine hours of what we’ve just endured?”

Thomas’ mouth twisted in a wry grin, and he shook his head. “I thank God I have made it safe this far. You must have needed to travel very fast very badly to dare this pass.”

Marcel glanced at Marcoaldi and Bierman climbing unsteadily out of the cart. “We all had pressing business, my friend.”

He moved off and Thomas sank down in a relatively dry spot. He leaned his back against the rock of the cliff face and tried to relax his cramped muscles.

Lord God, Wynkyn had done this four times a year? May Saint Michael grant me such courage.

Then he sighed and let his thoughts drift, and, as the guides helped the guards unpack provisions and firewood from the lead cart, drifted into a grateful doze.

They ate about the roaring campfire, talked, ate some more, and then Thomas led the entire group in evening prayers before they retired for as much sleep as they could get on the cold, hard ground. The older men slept in the carts, but Thomas took the blanket offered by one of the guides, and rolled himself up in it, lying down close to the fire. He lay awake a while, cold and uncomfortable, but very gradually he felt himself drifting into sleep, and his last conscious sight was of one of the guards moving among the horses, making sure their hobbles and tethers were secure.

He woke sometime so deep in the night that the fire had burned down into glowing coals. There was complete stillness in the camp—not even the horses moved or snuffled.

He blinked, not otherwise moving, and wondered if this was a dream. The night had such an ethereal quality…

Something moved to one side, and Thomas lazily turned his head.

And then stared wildly as a shadow leaped out from under the rock face and thudded down on his body.

Thomas opened his mouth, although he was so winded—and so agonised—by the weight of the creature atop him that he did not think he could—

“Make a sound, you black-robed abomination, and I will gut you here and now!”

Thomas stilled, his mouth still open, and stared at the face only a few handspans above his.

It was incomparably vile, if only because the creature had thought to assume the face of an angel, but had been unable to accomplish the unearthly beauty of one of the heavenly creatures. The face was vaguely manlike, although the eyes were much larger and were such a pale blue they almost glowed in the fading firelight. Its chin was more pointed than a man’s, and its forehead far broader and higher. Its skin was perfection: pale, creamy, flawless.

But there the beauty ended. At the hairline, among the tight silvery curls, curled the horns of a mountain goat, and when the creature smiled, it revealed tiny, pointed teeth.

“You see only what you want to see,” it hissed, and then shifted its weight slightly. Thomas groaned, for one of the creature’s—the demon’s!—clawed feet was digging into his belly, and another cut through both blanket and robes and pinned his right upper arm so agonisingly to the rocky ground that Thomas thought it might be broken.

“Uncomfortable, friar?” the demon said, and laughed softly. “Waiting for an angel to save you? Well, where is your blessed archangel now, priest? Where?”

“Get you gone, you hound from hell!” Thomas whispered, and the creature lifted its head and tilted its face to the moon, shaking with silent laughter.

As it did so, its features blurred slightly, as if the demon only wore a pretty mask to tease Thomas.

Thomas realised that something truly frightful writhed under that facade.

Suddenly the demon dropped its head so close that its lips touched Thomas’ forehead. “Your God and all your bright collection of saints and angels will not help you now, priest. It is just you and I—”

Thomas fought back equal amounts of nausea and fear, and managed to speak. “In the name of the Father, and the—”

The demon lifted the clawed hand holding down Thomas’ right arm and slammed it over Thomas’ throat, making him gag mid-sentence. He twisted his head from side to side, desperately trying to breathe.

“I ordered you not to speak!” the demon said.

Thomas managed to lift his right arm—Lord God, the pain!—and grabbed at the clawed fingers over his throat, but the demon was the size and weight of a pony, and he could not shift it. Instead, he felt the demon shift its weight so that more of it bore down on the leg on Thomas’ belly, and he almost passed out from the torment.

The demon snarled, and shifted its weight again, easing the pressure on both Thomas’ neck and belly.

“I know what you are doing,” the demon said. “We all know! You think to take Wynkyn’s burden on your shoulders, you think to take his place. You pitiful creature! We have been free too long now to submit again to the seductive songs of the Keeper—”

“Who are you?” Thomas croaked. “Who?”

“Who? Who?” The demon hissed with laughter again. “I, as mine, are your future, Thomas. One day you will embrace us, and throw your God—” he spoke the word as the most foulest of curses “—onto the dungheap that He deserves!”

“I will never betray my God!”

The demon’s mouth slid open in a wide grin. “Ah, Thomas, but will you be able to recognise the manner of temptation we will place in your way?”

“I will never betray my God!”

“You think to hunt us down, Thomas,” the demon said, very softly now, “but one day…one day…you will embrace us.”

Suddenly the demon lifted its head, and stared across the rock plateau as if something, or someone, had caught its attention.

It blinked, and cocked its head, its horns catching a shimmer of moonlight.

Then it looked back at Thomas. “You think to lead the armies of righteousness against us, Thomas. You think to be God’s General. Well, one day, one wicked black day, you will crucify righteousness for the sake of evil!”

Then the fingers still about Thomas’ neck tightened to impossible cruelties, and Thomas blacked out.

“Thomas? Thomas? Good brother, only a friar used to the hard couches of his priesthood could possibly sleep so well on this stony ground!”

Thomas opened his eyes, felt the hand on his shoulder, then jerked up into a sitting position, making Marcel reel backwards onto his haunches.

“My God, brother, do you always wake this anxious? It must be the shock of hearing the bells for Matins in the middle of every night!”

Marcel was trying to make a jest of Thomas’ reaction, but Thomas was in no mood for jests. He got to his feet, wincing at the pain in his arm and belly, his eyes skittering about the campsite.

“Thomas?” Marcel half reached out a hand, then thought better of it.

Some of the others, including the two Biermans and several of the German guards had stopped what they were doing to watch Thomas.

Everything seemed usual; there was nothing to indicate what had happened to him last night.

Thomas looked back to Marcel, who was staring at him with a concerned face.

“Thomas…Thomas, what is wrong?”

Thomas took a deep breath and calmed himself. “A demon haunted this camp last night, Marcel.”

“What?”