Parasite Dawn - Part 6
Bartholomew Cawl had to make a house call. Not for faith, or for final rites, or any of his usual duties.
No. He needed information. History. And only the elders of Donstorf would have what he needed.
If
they had what he needed.
For he only had a few writings. Scrawlings, really. Of something that had happened over a century ago. More. It seems few records were ever really kept of why the Ettenswood was not safe to venture into, why it was cursed. He knew that superstition. And he knew a little bit more than most in the village.
But not as much as the Elders. They'd have a bit more to share.
For he had concerns. Suspicions. He couldn't be a totally certain about it. It was more gut feeling than solid evidence.
But he was bound by his oath to the faith, as a priest, to investigate anything that may be of harm to the souls of his flock.
The younger folk were of no help; though most gained the superstitions of their elders, none new anything about the
whys
. And if what he suspected was true, they were the most vulnerable.
And if his worst fears were true, they were the greatest threat.
He needed to know more, and so he found himself before the door of an older building in the village. Not the oldest, but it befitted the people who lived there.
Wizened, if not always as wise as people thought they were. Bartholomew had on more than one occasion played the part of second opinion because of less-than-sound advice given by these old folks.
But for the most part, their tales had kernels of truth, and their memories were longer than anyone else.
He knocked on the old wooden door, spared the same degree of darkening as the rest of the wooden house and the shingles of its roof.
He heard a throat clear, grunts of aged exertion, and hobbling footsteps across a creaking floor.
The door opened, and a man stood in it.
He would've been quite stocky and tall once, but now in age, he had a hunch that lowered him nearly a foot.
One of his eyes had gone blind, leaving it glassy and grey, but the other had a sharpness to its brown hue, even if it wasn't always quite looking at whoever he was talking to.
His grey hair was a dishevelled nest, but at least it was clean. And yet, he had only a thin layer of facial hair to break up his heavily wrinkled face.
He still had all his teeth, save for one of his canines, replaced with a wooden substitute, drilled into his jawbone.
As usual, he was wearing grey flax clothes, pants and shirt both. The only real colour he had on him was his red handkerchief, which was always tied around his left wrist.
"Oh? Father Cawl? What can I do for ya?" he asked, sounding hoarse in the throat, but sharp of the tongue.
"Mister Creedmoor," Bartholomew greeted. "May I come in?"
"Anything for you, Father," the old man beckoned, gesturing inside.
"You want ta know about that?"
"You and your wife are some of the oldest people in the village, and your memories are as sharp as ever."
Bartholomew was sat with Mister Creedmoor and his wife in their central room; a living space, kitchen, and dining room, all in one. Their home was not very large, and it certainly looked old inside. Clean, well kept, but old. Cobwebs clung to the rafters and corners where the old couple could not reach.
Missus Creedmoor was sitting next to her husband. Compared to him, she had a more refined look to her, sitting straight while he slumped a little, quiet and composed with her hands in her lap.
Her green eyes were both a little cloudy, her eyesight not as good as it used to be. It didn't stop her putting on her sky blue clothes, immaculately kept. Her curly grey hair was still springy, but her face had certainly lost its pliancy, as wrinkled as Old Man Creedmoor.
Both wore simple silver rings, denoting their matrimony.
But while they seemed so different in appearance and mannerisms, both were prone to that same fanciful advice.
"We do our best to remember what our ancestors passed along through the generations," Missus Creedmoor assured with a dainty nod.
Mister Creedmoor took a swig of ale, his equivalent of water. No matter how much he drank, he never got more than a little tipsy. He cleared his throat again.
"So it's something old, huh? And not advice," the old man remarked.
Bartholomew nodded.
"I want to know about the Ettenswood. People aren't to venture in there. It's not safe. But why?" the priest asked.
Both the Creedmoors furrowed their brows, looking serious.
"Long ago, before our time, by a few generations, something supposedly plagued this village and the lands around it. Got inta people's heads, made them do things, made 'em crazy," Mister Creedmoor began.
"It wasn't a disease, it was something else," Missus Creedmoor continued. "Something evil, terrible. It put ideas into people's heads, made them worship it."
"It?" Bartholomew inquired.
Mister Creedmoor shrugged.
"Whatever it was. Unfortunately, our fathers didn't tell us much," he admitted.
"Only that they fought to the heart of the evil and burned it out, and all who fell to it. Left nothing behind," Missus Creedmoor added.
Bartholomew listened quietly, and thought.
"Is there anything in particular you know about this 'heart'? A location, perhaps?"
They both shrugged this time.
"Somewhere in the forest. But I don't expect to find anything there, and we wouldn't know where to look," the old woman explained.
"Our forefathers probably didn't want people goin' lookin' fer it. And they probably didn't leave anything behind to be found."
"But is it perhaps possible that this evil is back?" Bartholomew ventured. "Or at the very least, may be on the verge of returning?"
The Creedmoors looked at each other, and then laughed; Mister Creedmoor's a harsh chuckle, Missus Creedmoor's a dainty little giggle.
"Oh heavens no. Whatever it was, it was destroyed long ago. And as long as people don't go too deep into the woods, there's no risk should any of this evil have somehow survived. Nothing wrong with a bit of caution," Missus Creedmoor assured.
"An' burnin' down the whole forest ain't the best idea. We do get wood from it, and game, and other things. Just don't go deep and you'll be fine," Mister Creedmoor explained.
"But in the event this evil does return, what should we look for? If it sends people crazy, how?"
"Why do you ask? Do
you
believe it has returned?" Missus Creedmoor inquired.
Bartholomew shook his head with a small wave of his hand.
"I don't know. Just concerns really. Behaviour I'm not certain of. A gut feeling that I haven't been able to quell."
"Well, yer gut feeling's a good thing, but take it from me, a gut feeling ain't infallible. Sometimes it makes a mighty mistake," Mister Creemoor stated.
"Perhaps you need to take a break, Father Cawl," Missus Creedmoor suggested. "I'm sure the village can survive without your sermons temporarily."
"Thank you, I'll keep it in mind," Bartholomew answered diplomatically.
"Anything else you'd like to ask?" Missus Creedmoor offered.
Bartholomew shook his head.
"No, thank you. You've been most helpful," he said, rising from his seat, and dipping his head politely. "May the spirits guide your way."
He quickly made a gesture of blessing, and left the house.
The Creedmoors hadn't been as helpful as he hoped. And they were certain Donstorf wasn't in any danger. And admittedly, they may have had a point. He really had no tangible evidence that anything was amiss.
Still, he could not shake that gut feeling. A sense of warning.
Some of his interactions with a few people these past few weeks had left him concerned. But without real evidence, it was little more than paranoia, and unlike some dullwitted preachers who'd proselytise at the first whiff of 'evil and malcontent' even when it was their own prejudice at play, Bartholomew was loathe to act out without the facts.
Forming a witch hunt over people who may be innocent, or at most, guilty of harmless sins, was the last thing he wanted.
But still, his instincts were demanding that he act. On what, he didn't know, and that was the problem.
There was perhaps only one other option, but he dared not leave the village. Not until he was sure.
That's when he ran into Regina Graff.
She was a young thing, barely twenty summers, short hair with an auburn sheen and lingering freckles. Her face was narrow, but she was pretty. Not that Bartholomew was remotely interested, but he wasn't blind to good looks. It was in fact important to recognise, to see if someone was using their looks for ill aims, or if someone was suffering owing to perceived ugliness.
She dressed modestly, reflecting her shy nature, sporting dull green shirt and skirt, a little baggy and kept meticulously clean. It also helped hide her skinny frame, which Bartholomew suspected she was self-conscious about.
Her leather boots were muddy, however, so she had likely come back from the Miller farmstead.
She was going there to deliver books to their son, who was studying to go to a school in Mollorn. He showed an aptitude, and instead of insisting he help on the farm, which he does, his parents did their best to find him books to learn, a rare opportunity.
Otherwise, Regina often assisted Bartholomew with less clerical tasks at the church. And she was just who he needed.
"Oh, Father Cawl!" she exclaimed, but even then, her voice was small and timid. "I didn't expect you to be here."
"I was just making a visit. But on personal matters. Matters which I could use your assistance with," he answered.
Regina raised a brow.
"Oh? What is it you need, Father?"
