Underneath the Monastery
12 Apr 2024 - Transcribed by Paul Turner
Artist depiction of the view from Mega Monastery’s guest restroom.
On the highest hill overlooking the Urchin Coast in the eastern reaches of Crimson Rock sat an ostentatious monastery. The monastery, known as Mega Monastery, was known far and wide because it maintained the largest and best preserved archive in the known world. Because of this, many scholars and researchers travelled far and wide to become an acolyte of the church. They proudly walked up the winding stone steps which always gave the impression that it had something to prove by how many twists and turns it took to reach the top. Several people died while traversing the steps due to the lack of railing coupled with vigorous conversation.
The clergyman who ran Mega Monastery, Father Wyland, was well loved in the region. He often bragged about how He used to be an acolyte himself and loved to regale listeners of His times doing the noble and godly work of transcribing new copies of ancient volumes. Those acolytes toiled far below the surface, away from the prying light of the sun. As they have for hundreds of years.
Morrison noticed his candle was close to going out. He reached into the drawer of his simple wooden desk, one that matched the dozens of colleagues he worked with, and pulled out a fresh one. It fit snugly into the holder as he licked his fingers and put out the old candle stub. As he lit it, he looked to his fellow acolytes. Each in the matching robe of auburn, they were furiously scribbling, desperate to put out as much volume as they could before the shift ended. His gaze wandered across the room. The ceiling was low. No braziers were hung. No garish decoration was to be found anywhere. He wondered how far under the monastery they were. With no windows, they had to rely on Subchamber Assistant Henwick to inform them when the shift was over.
“Acolyte Morrison, do you require assistance?”
The icy voice of Henwick spurred many of his colleagues to write even faster. Morrison was pretty sure Henwick did not like him very much.
“No sir, just letting my eyes adjust to the new candle is all.”
Henwick scowled. “I don’t like you very much, Morrison. You do realize there are countless faithful who would commit heresy just to sit where you are? Don’t you want to be here?”
“Yessir, of course sir,” Morrison lied.
The truth was his parents gave him little choice in the matter. Once he finished seminary, Morrison had hoped to return home and open a small church in his village. Instead his parents sat him down in the tiny one-room home they shared and were blunt. They wanted to be as man and wife again, and they did not relish the thought of having a grown son staying under their roof while they were trying to blow it off nightly (as well as on some mornings). Morrison was crestfallen, but it had solved the mystery of what he had previously assumed were prowling bears behind the house at night. His father had pulled some strings, and Morrison was given a one-way ticket via the next trading merchant to the Mega Monastery. They showed him the door, and the prowling bears were back before he reached the end of their meager property.
“I’m sorry, Morrison. It appears I am boring you now. Perhaps you would do better… in the Reflectory?”
An audible gulp was heard from several of the other acolytes. Morrison noticed most of them had stopped writing and were sharpening their nibs instead to listen.
“No sir. I mean, I’m sorry sir. I’ll get back to it right away.”
“See that you do,” Henwick hissed.
Morrison let out a quiet sigh as he dipped his nib, thankful that he got off relatively unscathed. Then Henwick cleared his throat and Morrison desperately wanted to shrink into his robes to disappear forever.
“Acolytes! Acolytes! May I have your attention, please? It has come to my ever observant eye that some of you may need a reminder as to why you are here.”
“We, the chroniclers preserve history. For without history,”
“We are nothing,” finished the acolytes in unison.
“And without purpose?”
“We are nothing,” they chanted as one.
“And without salvation?”
“We are nothing,” they finished.
“Very good. Very good, indeed. The Monastery is generous. I am generous. Acolyte Morrison?”
Morrison sometimes wondered if he could ever sit still enough that no one else would ever be able to see him. The rising heat in his face told him this attempt would not be fruitful. His eyes met the cold dark pupils of Subchamber Assistant Henwick’s.
“Can you close your book?” He paused before continuing again. “Would you please close your book? I need you to just please close your book.” Henwick’s voice began to rise with each word. “Will. You. Close your book!” He finished his last word with venom as the veins in his neck became apparent.
Morrison looked down at his book, which had been closed since Henwick first addressed the room.
“Sir, my book is closed.”
“Yes, very well. Because of my great generosity, I have decided that you will be given the right to look upon the Father while your colleagues finish the day. Please begin at once. I will fetch all of you once the shift has completed.”
Morrison’s stomach sank. Looking upon the Father meant that he would not be able to do any more transcription work for the remainder of the day. This meant his stack tomorrow would be even larger. He’d be lucky to finish at all. If his quota was low by the end of the week, the real punitive measures would start.
The desks in the room that he and his colleagues used were arranged in a circle save for the location at the northern part of the room. At least, it was the part they assumed was north. Where a desk would have completed the symmetry of the room, instead sat an ornate and ancient rug. Many acolytes believe the rug is the very one Father Wyland had gifted the order of acolytes upon his ascension to Church Regent. The acolytes of times past had decided to honor his gift by having it sit in the very room they toiled in, available for all to use.
To further give thanks for Father Wyland’s generosity, a portrait of Him was erected in front of the rug. Acolytes were invited to gaze upon his visage when their work had been completed. However, Morrison had only ever seen it used as punishment. As he stood on the rug, his eyes adjusted to the relative darkness away from the candles. The portrait came into view, as though it apparated from the walls. The gilded border still shone in spots, but the Father himself had seen better days. Years of candle smoke had accumulated ash across the picture. No one was deemed worthy enough to touch His likeness. So instead, He appeared nearly headless as Morrison looked on and waited.
It was not the first time Morrison had been punished in such a way. In reality, he did not mind it terribly. Part of him even hoped to feel something from the experience, though he never did. Instead, he would pick a part of the Father’s robe to focus on or simply let his eyes relax as if to peer beyond it somehow. His knees began to ache, and his ears filled with the sound of scratching nibs and the occasional cough. Time became meaningless as his bare feet settled into the same spot as many others had done before.
Morrison could not be sure if he even blinked when Henwick returned to announce the shift had been completed. The aches in his joints assured him of the passage of time. He looked forward to returning to his cloister with the other acolytes and sleeping in his rough straw bed.
“Morrison, a moment if you would,” hissed Henwick.
Morrison crumpled inside somewhere deep down. It was not the first fracture, but it felt poignant nonetheless. He stepped over in front of Henwick, who looked well rested and well fed. Up close, he was able to see the thinning hair Henwick had expertly combed to try to hide it. He smelled of sulfur and some chemical Morrison could not quite place.
“We’re a family here at Mega Monastery, Morrison.”
He waited and stared at Morrison, who took the hint after an awkward pause.
“Yes. A family, sir.”
“And as a family, we should lift one another up. A rising tide raises all ships and whatnot. However, I want you to keep something else in mind.”
“Sir?”
“Removing the dead weight also raises the ships just as effectively. You may go.”
Back in the cloister, Morrison sat on his bed and buried his head in his hands.
What am I doing here?
Maybe it would be best if I just left. I still have a degree after all. I could find another church, maybe some mom and pop shop instead.
“Hey, Morry,” said another acolyte.
Morrison looked up. It was Acolyte Penny. She had changed out of her work robe into her sleeping robe. The two were almost identical except the sleeping robe tended to be scratchier. She pushed back her dark hair revealing an undaunted face, but one which seemed full of secrets too. She had been here longer than Morrison, but he was not sure by how much. He sat up.
“Don’t let Henny get to you.”
“I wasn’t. I mean, I was just-”
“He’s always a bit weird with the ones he gets a crush on.”
“No, I was just… What?”
“Yeah, Henny gets like that with the ones he gets a fancy to. You should be happy though. Means you might be movin’ up in the world after all.” She chuckled a little while looking past him.
“You can’t expect me to believe that asshole likes me.”
“Don’t expect nothin’. Just sayin’. Good night Morry!”
With that, Penny left Morrison. He was depressed before. Now he was bewildered too. Morrison tried to ignore the ridiculous thought, but it stayed with him as he changed and got into bed. The thoughts continued as he slept. He had learned to fear Henwick during his shift, but now Penny had brought unbidden thoughts into his sleep.
He dreamt of being enveloped in Henwick’s voice. The words slid through his body, leaving holes behind. As he leaked blood from each wound, Henwick appeared and plugged each of them while cackling. Then he leaned in and whispered sweet nothings into Morrison’s ear. Morrison awoke in the middle of the night, choking. He realized at some point he had stopped breathing and got up to get some water. The communal bath was down the hall from the Acolyte bedchambers. The smooth stones of the floors were cool under his feet. He scratched at his chest and arms where the robes touched. After relieving himself, he grabbed some fresh water and splashed it on his face.
The next few days were a blur as Morrison tried his best to transcribe without any interruption. At times, he would keep two candles lit to avoid the chance of another going out. He even attempted writing with both hands to try to get ahead of pace, but it did not help as much as he had hoped. His output tripled. Then, three days later the tightly wound spring snapped when he heard the icy voice as he was getting ready to leave.
“Morrison, a moment?” Hissed Henwick.
“Sir? I believe Acolyte Munroe needs me.”
“I’ll be brief, I promise.” Henwick curved the ends of his mouth upwards as he spoke. It made the motions of a smile, but Morrison was fairly certain Henwick had never learned to do it properly. The effort of it made Morrison anxious as he continued. “I just wanted to say how grateful I am that you took my words the other day to heart.”
He reached out a pale, flabby arm and rested his grubby fingers on Morrison’s shoulder. Morrison did his best not to recoil.
“In fact,” began Henwick, “I just received the most delightful news today. Due to my appreciated efforts in motivating your cloister, I am to be promoted from Subchamber Assistant to Senior Subchamber Assistant of Filing Operations. Today was my last one overseeing the Transcription wing.”
“I uh… That’s great?” Henwick stepped closer to Morrison. Morrison wanted to shift uncomfortably, but he felt stuck. As Henwick leaned in, Morrison felt the flop sweat begin to pour. Henwick whispered to him.
“Of course it is! And I’m so glad to know that after a few rough months, I finally reached you to motivate your work. Keep it up, and maybe in a few short years you’ll be a Subchamber Assistant yourself. Anyway.”
Before Morrison could scoff at the very thought or say anything else for that matter, Henwick had turned and left. He closed the door behind him. Morrison stood alone, a strange mix of emotions washing over him. Why did he push himself to stay here? What was he even doing?
When Morrison returned to the cloister, he found Penny standing in the hallway. She eyed him with a devilish smirk.
“So’d he finally make his move?”
“Did you mean any of what you said the other day?”
“Me? What’d I say?”
Morrison lowered his voice to a strained whisper. “About Henwick! About any of that!”
“Nah, I made it up.” She said it with nonchalance as she checked her fingernails for ink stains. Morrison wanted to be infuriated, but in truth he was just tired. “But buck up, someone here likes you. That much I know.” She smiled and walked away.
Morrison stood in the hallway for a few moments. Maybe he was not cut out for life in a big city church. Maybe it would be the end of him. Maybe there were worse ways to go though.
THE END