The Truth
14 Jun 2024 - Transcribed by Paul TurnerBrother Fennick’s neck was sore from checking over his shoulder as he made his way to the woods at the edge of the village. He rubbed the muscles holding his egg-shaped head, hoping to soothe them, but moreso to use up the anxiety coursing through his veins. It did little to help. He put out his small lamp and did what he could to pull up the ends of his robes to keep them from getting dirty. That was how he got caught last time. The older brothers made him dig new latrines for that particular indiscretion. He was unsure what they would do if they actually knew why he was going out into the forest at night.
The woods still scared him. The branches twisted from every angle, like long fingers reaching for his very soul. He could feel the cool night air brush his ankles. Fall was nearing its end, and many of the brothers expected snow within the next week or so. As Brother Fennick made his way, he felt the strain of his eyes as they tried to capture as much light as they could. His ears also worked diligently, trying to discern the snapping of twigs underneath his feet from the animals of the forest, the poachers tracking the animals, the wardens tracking the poachers, the discarded children tracking the wardens, the animals tracking the children, and so on ad infinitum.
Eventually, Brother Fennick found the clearing he was looking for after an hour of carefully making his way through the trees as well as his own trepidation. At the center sat a great tree, with a stone tablet embedded in its side. The bark had begun to grow around the stone itself, and it was breaking along deep cracks set in its surface. The tablet had an image of a man, much older than Brother Fennick, with a great beard and eyes without pupils. He stared through Brother Fennick in a way that both terrified and excited him simultaneously.
He knelt in front of the tree, and clasped his hands in front of his face. This night, like many before it, Brother Fennick would betray his vows to the village. Believing in an unknown god in itself was not unusual. Worshiping it while ignoring your own was another issue altogether.
“Mister God, I have returned again.”
Several branches of the tree swished and swayed as a gentle breeze blew through the forest. It sent a chill down Brother Fennick’s spine.
“Mister God, I think I have discovered something about your nature. It came to me while I was listening to one of the villagers confessing about the impure thoughts they had about a particularly tall stalk of wheat or something. Your shrine is here, deep in the forest. Another thing is hidden deep within us all. The truth.”
Brother Fennick paused, waiting for some sign of confirmation. When nothing happened, he took this as a sign in itself, and continued.
“So you are a god of truth, but one that is buried deep within ourselves. To that end, I have brought the items I believe will help.”
From within his robe, Brother Fennick pulled out an unmarked bottle, a roll of parchment, a quill, and some ink. The moonlight shone off of the bottle, highlighting the dark liquid inside. He pulled the cork with his teeth and inhaled deeply. His heart raced. He looked at the implacable face of the stone tablet again and nodded to it before throwing the bottle back. It burned as the dark liquor made its way to his stomach. Only seconds later, he had finished the entire bottle. He recorked it and set it aside. Warmth spread through his fingertips.
As the alcohol coursed through him, he smoothed out the parchment on the ground and tested the quill. It dried quickly, and he smiled to himself. Then he looked at the tablet again, ignoring the cracks in the stone and tried to focus on the overall depiction of the god. It stared at him in return, offering no clue to any thoughts it might have towards his present course of action.
Brother Fennick maintained eye contact as his quill dragged across the page. He could feel the bumps of the fibers. He hoped he was using enough pressure, but he had faith it would work. He would not let something as small as illiteracy keep him from the truth of the inner self. The moonlight dipped through the clouds as he continued to write, bathing him in equal parts darkness and light. By the time he finished the page, it had either been hours or like thirty seconds. In his inebriated state, it was difficult to tell.
His eyelids grew heavy, and he was beginning to drool down his sleeve. In a few moments, he slumped forward and passed out. A few minutes later, his body began to convulse, and Brother Fennick choked on his own vomit. He died believing in the power of his inner truth, though he would never know the words he wrote.
Years passed, and though the villagers were saddened by the passing of Brother Fennick, they were troubled by the words he had committed to parchment. At first, many scoffed at the idea of it. They chalked it up to the ravings of a drunk lunatic. Many outright laughed at his so-called truth. In time, those who doubted them left and those who remained held fast. They searched the woods trying to seek more answers, but they found none.
In time a new church was established. The Church of Fennick, known in Crimson Rock as the source of the Truth-Bringers. They carried the words Brother Fennick divined emblazoned on banners, sewn into their sleeves, and carved into the archways of their city centers. It was a gospel, a calling, and above all. It was their truth. The truth.
“Sometimes you raw the dog, and sometimes the dog raws you.”
–Brother Fennick, Posthumous Founder of The Church of Fennick
THE END