** Note about what you are about to read. At the writing workshop I attended, at one point, we were directed to look at pictures scattered on a table, pick one, and write a scene in fifteen or twenty minutes or so. I looked, and found a picture of a cloister hall, perhaps not a cloister but a Moorish palace? (not the image you see here). The beauty of the architecture struck me, as did the lighting. However, what struck me most was the sense of emptiness in the hall. I sat down to write, and here you have...THE CLOISTER
The days had been quiet of late. Sister Marguerite had grown tired of watching from the walls of the cloister, her sanctuary. Sounds no longer echoed, and she passed her days quietly, tending the garden and praying.
The halls were not traveled, for there were no more. Father Emilio returned every day before sundown, and would shake his head sadly. Sister Marguerite would nod her head, and serve the père the meal for the day, a simple soup and fresh bread.
This afternoon, she waited as usual, watching from the walls. Father Emilio should appear on the road, and he would be alone, as always.
Today, he was not.
He hurried up the road, pulling his wagon behind, a draped human form clearly visible alongside the usual bundles of cans and packages of food and supplies.
Sister Marguerite hastily descended the narrow staircase and crossed the hall to the reinforced gate that protected the cloister.
“Open the gate, Sister, for God’s sake, open the gate!”
Sister Marguerite paused, her fingers resting on the heavy mechanism of the lock. She peered through the small pass-through and studied the père.
“Father Emilio, I ask forgiveness, but you must show me.”
“The sun is setting, Sister, please!”
Sister Marguerite’s suspicions increased.
“Father, you must show me.”
Impatiently, Father Emilio opened his robe and exposed his body. His thin frame appeared unharmed, no obvious wounds.
Sister Marguerite averted her eyes only once as he demonstrated that he was clean. She turned her eyes to the cart.
“What is there, Father?”
“Sister, I beg you, give me entrance! The sun will set any moment!”
Truly, the walls around Sister Marguerite were golden with the fading sun.
“Father, you must show me who you have brought.”
Father Emilio’s hands closed his robe, and he looked at her imploringly.
“Please let me in, and I will explain all.”
There was a small noise from the cart, and Sister Marguerite saw the bundle of rags move.
“You must abandon the body.”
“Sister—she is only a child. We can help her!”
“No. I will not open the gate until you have saved her soul.”
“Sister—please—we can help her!”
“I will not open the gate until you save her soul, Father.”
The sunlight had all but vanished, and the halls were no longer orange, but growing cooler in palettes of blues and grays. The torch she had lit in the dining hall did not provide any comfort.
Father Emilio banged on the gate, almost weeping.
“Father, do it! I will pray for you and for her.”
Sister Marguerite, neglecting to drop to her knees, crossed herself and began her prayers.
Father Emilio gave her one last imploring, desperate look before whipping the cloth from the stirring body.
The child, a young woman really, lay as if sleeping. Angelic blond hair curled gently around her face. Pale limbs shifted slightly. One detail marred her beauty: two mangled marks on her neck.
Father Emilio made the sign of the cross. From his belt, he withdrew the large wooden cross which dangled on small wooden beads. He kissed it, and then unwound the leather thong which bound the two points together. He now held a long, sharp wooden stake.
The child suddenly stretched, and her eyes opened. Blue. She turned to face the père.
Before she could smile, or speak, the Father raised his hands over his head, and thrust the stake into the child’s breast.
Her shrieks were terrible.
Sister Marguerite doubted only a moment as she continued her prayers, but then the form began to crumble, and she crossed herself as the blood drinker died.
Sister Marguerite unlocked the door, and pulled the cart inside as Father Emilio gave the crumbling corpse her Last Rites.
He brushed the ash away from his robes, and glared at the Sister.
“We can try to cure them. We must try!”
Sister Marguerite shook her head sadly.
“We can save only their souls, Father Emilio. Ashes to ashes…”
Long after Sister Marguerite had wheeled the cart down the darkened halls to the kitchen, Father Emilio remained at the gate, praying that the body could be reclaimed from the evil as easily as the soul.
[this is MY story, and if you steal it, mutherphucker, I will HUNT you down.]
