The Dreaming Demon Read online

  “I shall give you a choice, sir. Follow me in this amazing discovery, this adventure of the mind, spirit and body. Or stay as you are in your current existence. You may read this book. It is Ferdinand de Castile’s journal. It may not leave this library. You will inform me of your decision in the morning.” With that she turned and left me alone, the black book lying on the top of the desk.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Ferdinand de Castile

  I made myself comfortable and looked at the journal. I was apprehensive of the propriety of spending the night at a lady's house, but under the circumstances I thought reading the diary was of utmost importance. As my hand reached for the journal I felt dizzy. The world contorted and dimmed, as if viewed through the wrong lens, and my ears were filled with a screeching sound. After an instant the world was returned to normal. I attributed it to tiredness combined with excitement and rang for the maid to bring fresh tea and something light to eat. I took the journal in my hands. It was very old. I ran my finger up its spine and then opened it on the first page. The hand writing was steady, solid, acquired from many years of practice copying manuscripts of ancient writers and books of prayers alike.

  It read:

  “In the year of our Lord 1592.

  May God have mercy on my soul. For what I have seen, for what I have done and for what I now will not do. I have seen darkness.

  I myself have seen the ungodly in great power and flourishing like a great bay tree. (Psalms 37:36)

  I have been sent here as punishment. He who sent me here, I refuse to speak his name, may he be cursed for all eternity, for he tricked me and used me to inflict great pain and suffering upon those who were innocent as children, sent me here to be silenced. To be punished and to be purified, and thus returned into the embrace of our Lord.

  Oh Lord, oh my God. You used to speak to me. You used to fill my heart with joy. With love. With mercy. Oh my Lord, oh My God, where are you now?

  Oh Speak Lord, for thy servant heareth. (Samuel 3:9)

  But you are silent Lord. Why?

  The Abbott said that when I speak next it must be to confess my crimes. Long I have remained in silence. But it has occurred to me that this is not the way. I have written to him that silence is my penance. He believes this to be sufficient admittance of my part. I am allowed now to walk the atrium and gardens of the monastery. I am allowed to attend mass and I am allowed to work in the library. I shall record as much as I can here in these pages. For they can silence a voice, but never a book.”

  The maid left the silver tray next to me, startling me. I got up and circled the desk to stretch my legs. The journal was written by Ferdinand de Castile, who was slowly descending into madness as he was writing it. Parts of it were religious ramblings, others completely incoherent. But I would persevere through for I sensed that among the ravings of an ailing old man, it hid a terrible secret. I took my pipe from my pocket, sat next to the fire, and put some finely cut tobacco in it. I lit it and continued reading.

  “There is only silence now. My Lord used to sing in my heart. For the love of my Lord I crossed the waters, I crossed the vast ocean to find new lands. To bring His word to people who had not heard Him speak before. This new land was an Eden. But, unknownst to me, devils and serpents walked the land and some wore the skin of the servants of our Lord.

  I walked the land far and wide, went to places that had just come under Spanish authority. The natives resented that intensely, but I spoke to them and conversed with their elders. I talked about Our Lord Christ and sought to learn of their gods. In time they came to trust me. They held me in high esteem and revealed to me some of their sacred books, written on deerskin. They were written in a strange language but the elders taught me and I could read parts. Other passages they read for me. One night the eldest of the elders took me by the hand and led me to a cave. He would show me, he said, one of the most sacred texts, known only by a few and seen by fewer.

  It was a very old manuscript, its once vivid pictures faded. I could not read the complex hieroglyphs so the elder read them to me. He spoke of a city built by a god who had descended from the heavens in a flaming chariot. The city had been populated by the children of this god who looked like men but were not. It was a place of wonders and nightmares, a place that warped the laws of nature, a place where normal men could lose so much more than their mind. This city and its inhabitants held great wealth and power over mortal men. Tribute poured in from far and wide as the city’s power was great and reached from one sea to the other. Gold, jewels, textiles, coca and slaves arrived in great numbers.

  But great power and great wealth corrupted them greatly and the serpent people became feared and despised in their tyranny of men. Whispers of blood sacrifices spread, human sacrifices in such numbers that the steps of the great pyramid temples ran red with blood. Of such, and other unholy practices, rumours spread. Unspeakable things started to happen in the city and the natives avoided going near. Evil festered and spread until the tribes united and rebelled against their oppressors, catching them unaware. They killed every last one of the serpent people, threw their bodies into pits and burnt them. They left the city and no one ever returned. It was an evil place to be avoided, its name forgotten. Soon the jungle took the city, covered the roads and the houses and the great palaces and few remembered where it had stood. Even fewer spoke of it. But it was said that the god who made the city still remained there, sleeping, dreaming, waiting to be awakened…

  I thanked the elder for his story and explained that it was no god that fell from the sky but Lucifer or one of his demons. For it is written in Isaiah:

  How art thou fallen from heaven, O Lucifer, son of the morning. (14:12)

  I told him that there was only one God and his son our Lord Christ. I preached with such fervour that the elder begged me to stay and teach the tribe the true faith. I agreed with one condition, for a plan had formed in my mind. In my youthful arrogance and naivety I thought that this knowledge had been revealed to me for a reason. I believed that, with the grace of God, I could find this city and expel the demon, like St. Patrick in Ireland, expelling the snakes and demons, like St. Frances in Arezzo. This act of God would show His Glory and the natives would all turn to Him. The suffering and cruelty that was heaped upon them would end once they were in the bosom of our Lord and Church.”

  Darkness had fallen all around me and the fire was the only source of light. An uncharacteristic chill for the time of year clung in the air. I stoked the fire vigorously, rejuvenating the light and warmth in the room. As I poured myself some brandy I started to remember the name of Ferdinand de Castile, mentioned in conversation with one of my professors and other colleagues one evening. I will omit the conversation here, but from the footnotes of religious history Ferdinand de Castile’s name was dragged out, also known as “the dreaming monk.” He had returned from the Americas a wreck of a man, and retired to a monastery to pass the rest of his life in solitude, writing down prophecies which all came to pass. He had walked out of the dungeons of the Inquisition unharmed.

  I read of how Ferdinand de Castile asked the Indians to take him to the City and they repeatedly refused. Eventually he managed to convince them, and after much fanfare and pomp a party was formed. Ferdinand de Castile gave a detailed account of his long and difficult journey inland.

  “As we approached the place where The City should lie we were stopped by a tribe of Indians, who were legend even for my guides. They called themselves ‘The Keepers of Serpents’ and were much surprised by the colour of my skin, never before having seen a white man. They did not allow us to go to The City saying that to go is to die. After this, much discussion took place between the guides and the village elders, very little of which I could understand. The phrase ‘Chosen One’ came up many times. In the end my guides explained that the elders had debated long amongst themselves. The guides had told them that I was a priest of Christ. This God was a benevolent God, which chose to sacrifice himself to save the wo
rld instead of demanding from the people to sacrifice to him their most precious possessions, including their children. The Indians seemed to embrace the idea. “But is this God strong enough to fight the Mother of Serpents?” the elders asked. I assured them that He was.

  They shook their heads and replied “We shall see.”

  They also declared that the Mother of Serpents sleeps, and in her dreams selects her chosen ones. This they could not stop. I should be warned that they would not permit the Serpent people to spring once more on the face of the earth. Thus warned and alone, I walked into The City.”

  I turned the page with anticipation but the seams had been ripped. The pages had been removed, the whole section missing. I looked carefully through the journal in case the pages had fallen out and were tucked away.

  What had happened in The City? What had Ferdinand de Castile found? How had he returned to civilization unharmed? The pages were missing. Nothing had happened, I told myself. He had found a deserted city, crumbling to dust, the last inhabitant long dead. But if that was the case, what had disturbed the monk so?

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The Inquisition

  THE monk’s diary continued after the missing pages. I read on, hoping to learn of his fate.

  “I fell to the Bishop’s feet and begged forgiveness for my folly.

  For the price of wisdom is above rubies. (Job 28:18)

  I gave my confession and told him everything. I told him about the stories and the books of the natives and how I had found my way to The City.

  Oh Lord, be my saviour...

  In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth.

  And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep (Genesis 1:1).

  I have seen the darkness. I have heard the voice of the abyss. I know of the cold void between the heavens, the darkness between the stars. And the darkness knows of me...

  Behold this dreamer cometh. (Genesis 37:19)

  Among you a prophet, a dreamer of dreams. (Deuteronomy 13:1)

  The Bishop heard my confession. More evil came out of this than I ever thought possible. He ordered that all the writings of the natives, all their idols be gathered and burnt. That they be converted, by any means necessary. Any that would not were heretics. Demons and heathens walk this land. It was his duty to turn it into a garden of Christ. As for the rebellion of the natives against the serpent people it would be erased from memory, lest they got ideas of rebellion again. Burn everything and all will be forgotten.

  I protested. The Bishop turned against me and said I should not speak, that I was polluted by unclean spirits. I was sent back to Spain to be purified by the Inquisition.”

  As his story progressed it was evident from his handwriting that his health, physical and mental, was failing. His bold handwriting was now a spidery jolt.

  “The inquisition wished to speak to me. The Bishop informed them that I was possessed, a heretic. They asked me for my account of what had happened. This time I was less naïve. I had had all the time during the crossing to think and my companion whispered to me. I told them nothing of the natives’ legends, the journey to The City or about the serpent people. Nothing about my companion. I told them we had fallen out with the Bishop over his treatment of the natives. I readily agreed with all the questions about the faith that they asked me. I was a servant of the Church. In Faith and Doctrine I bowed to the teachings of our Church.

  The inquisitors were taken aback. I was clearly not a heretic. News about the Bishop was trickling back to the motherland. Others were complaining of him and his cruelty to the natives, both clerics and secular authorities. Some of the inquisitors were men of the world, knew how politics worked. They did not believe any of the charges. Some others wanted to investigate whether I was possessed.

  During the long nights in my cell, It swirled in my mind. It was not as strong as It should have been. It was far away from Its sire and Its home. And It was alone. It could not take my mind over, but I could not be rid of It. It shuffled through the knowledge in my mind and talked with great persuasion to our jailers

  It said to them: if you think I am riddled with demons then give me a trial by fire.

  I shuddered even as the words came out of my mouth. Some of the inquisitors looked at me with pity, as if I had finally lost my mind after the long months of imprisonment.

  But the words had been spoken and I was taken to a great pit alight with the burning fire of bright coals, a mighty furnace. In front of the inquisitors I was cast in. They waited for the flames to die down.

  When they did, I climbed out, my garments gone but not a hair on my head burnt. The men screamed in fear. They cried out how I was possessed, how only the devil could work such witchcraft.

  It turned my head and I looked into the eyes of the Chief Inquisitor. He then spoke on my behalf.

  “Brothers, silence. Why is it the devil that works such acts? The Lord is mightier than the devil and His works greater. Does not Daniel tell us how God protected the three Jewish boys in the furnace and not a hair on their head was harmed? The trial was to prove our brother’s innocence. And innocent he is. Let him walk free henceforth and let us all praise Our Lord.”

  There was much noise and much confusion, but none dared oppose the Chief Inquisitor. There were some who thought that, be this work of God or the devil, there is no need to provoke them further. To be certain, the Inquisition sent me here to this remote monastery to quietly reflect and rest.

  I have spent thirty years in this place. My time grows near. News reaches us from the Americas. Disease and cruelty are decimating the natives. I pray for forgiveness for my role in their suffering. My prayers go unanswered. The natives have unleashed a terrible revenge for those who lie in sin with their women. An unspeakable disease the soldiers carry back to Europe. They are punished, as I am punished, for deceiving the Keepers of the Serpents so long ago.

  I have been a stranger in a strange land. (Genesis 2:22)

  So have I, the dreamer whispers to me.

  The shadows grow longer. Autumn has turned to winter.

  Out of the depths I cry to you, O LORD! (Psalms 130:1)

  I have not heard your voice for so long...

  I dream of the void. It is like an eternal womb. I dream of The City in its old glory with its tall bright temple. The priests are sacrificing defeated warriors, sons of men, tearing out their beating hearts. The steps of the pyramid run red with blood. I dream of the serpent people, watching, with filed pointed teeth, painted faces, wearing vibrant feathers in their headdresses, pelts of jaguars they have killed with their own hands. They look like men but they are not men. This I now know well.

  Oh my God I cry in the day time, but thou hearest not; and in the night season and am not silent. (Psalms 22:1)

  The Abbott has come to me this morning. He has bowed before me and kissed my hands. He has asked for my forgiveness. He believed when I first came that I was possessed. Now he knows I am a holy man, a living saint. I do not argue. It is important to him, so I forgive him. I make him swear that when I die my body will be buried in lime and my tomb not opened for a hundred years.

  I am a worm, and no man; a reproach of men, and despised of the people. (Psalms 22:6)

  Oh my sweet Lord, please speak to me. I know that my sins are great, but I need forgiveness and I have not heard your voice for so long...

  My God, My God why hast thou forsaken me? (Psalms 22:1)

  I was in the darkness alone for a very long time. Only the dreamer was with me. Is the dreamer me? Am I the dreamer? We are not one but we are not separate. It keeps me company, whispers to me of wonderful things, of monstrous things, of things of the past, the present, the future. In the night It cries out to the void in vain. No one ever replies. I cry out to my God. No one ever replies. We are alone.”

  Those were the last words in the journal. I put it down. It was breaking dawn and I went to bed as if in a trance. I dreamt of a strange void, dark but fil
led with stars. I could hear a strong beating heart vibrating through it. I saw the dreaming monk in his cell consumed by flames that never touched him. And in their great City the serpent people with filed teeth and painted faces, wearing feather headdresses and jaguar pelts cheering on as their priest worshiped the Mother of Serpents and ripped out the hearts of defeated warriors in her honour.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The Expedition

  I woke up drenched in sweat. It was already midday. Upon meeting Lady Athelton I started apologizing for missing breakfast but she stopped me. It was understandable, she said.

  “So what is your decision?”

  “My decision? It does seem that this is the original journal of Ferdinand de Castile. It is an interesting story that he tells. There are a number of history and religious scholars that would be interested.”

  Lady Athelton’s laughter filled the room. It was a pleasant laughter like cascading waters but there was a hard edge of jagged ice to it.

  “My dear Albert,” she said, “I am not interested in the academic merits of the book. I am interested in mounting an expedition to the Americas to find this lost city.”

  The surprise must have shown on my face for she laughed again.

  “A lost city full of gold, jewels and untold riches. Even if there is no gold, we will find knowledge. We shall reveal to the world a new civilization. Not to mention all the new territories, fauna and flora that will be discovered along the way.”

  As she said it, it did not sound absurd, an expedition based on the scribblings of a man who, if not insane when he began writing the journal, certainly was when he finished it. All the new discoveries that could be brought to the Academy of Sciences, the Natural History Museum, even the British Museum. The glory and advancement for a scientist. Maybe even a knighthood?