Hallowed Be Thy Name – Hrishi Ram 1544 A. D. England It was a distant sound – the flow of the river. I was able to hear the hoot of an owl perched on some tree. For all I know, there lied nothing beyond the wilderness of the forest but a lone castle, where hounds kept a late night vigil around the premises and soldiers guarded every tower of the castle. There I was with two soldiers on each side of my shoulders, dragging me through the lone corridors. I lifted my head with whatever strength I had and saw the beautiful dark night sheeted with dense fog. Yet there was no sight of a single cloud in the sky. I coughed and my chest took a stinging pain and I tasted the blood in my mouth. With no strength in my body whatsoever, I closed my eyes and prayed. The soldiers came to a halt suddenly and dropped me down on the cold floor. I opened my eyes and coughed once again. Behind me they walked and I heard a sharp clang of a metal door. With no friendly face for miles to search for, I gathered myself in a corner and wept. Indeed it was a rotten prison cell for a rotting man. There was no food to eat, nor any blankets to cover me from the cold winds of the night. The window was high above and merely showed in any light. I searched my surrounding and my eyes gathered a horrifying image. Eyes, dark red eyes looked at me from the shadows of the prison wall. My strength dropped finally when I coughed and my diseased lungs couldn’t take the pain any longer. Death, in the end, is nothing but a submission of the mortal body in front of the Lord before finally incarnating in some other species. I thought. “Yes. But death will have to wait…” A cold voice lingered near the dark wall opposite to me. Out came a creature walking on all fours. His face was wrinkled and marked with spores of fungi growing on his forehead. His hair was unwashed and had stuck together. He wore a long tunic with the stench of all the garbage of England and a pair of breeches with the same conditions. He was a human, surprisingly, and he stood in front of me with his dark eyes pondering over me and feeling my miserable condition. “Be brave. Hear my voice.” he spoke softly. I do not know when sleep arrived. But when I woke up, I was not where I was supposed to be. It was still a dark place with candles lit all around the walls. The present situation startled me as I saw not the bars of the prison cell, but a group of men with dark hoods over their heads. In front of me was the sign of the cross surrounded with more candles around it. Men hymned softly and some recited a verse from the Bible. A man came near me and offered me a hand. On taking it I shrieked for it was the same man who had presented himself in my cell, only his face seemed moderate with no fungi growing around his forehead. “Who are you and where am I?” I asked. “Death will have to wait…” he said instead and poured water from a chalice upon my head. At first I assumed it to be wine for the dark contrast the light from the candles gave, but once tasting it I realized it was blood. My body shivered as the cold blood ran through my head. The hymn stopped and I was able to hear a faint voice. It was a moan and several cries of pain that swarmed around me and pierced my head. Amidst the screams and the shouts, I heard the voice of the man who ran blood over my head. “You shall not be victorious. The power of Christ condemns you to prevail. Hear my voice. You shall not be victorious. What is your name? Answer me.” From the dark roots of my heart, a voice came not of me, but someone far more superior and evil. It took hold of me and I answered under his spell, “I am Azorg.” I looked at the man, with some of my senses still under my command, and he was shouting at me. “Come out, I dare you. For he is finally blessed by Christ. Come out and be gone.” My ears and my mouth were not mine anymore. So I was not able to hear the chants and the words. Finally, something ripped out of my body and I lay on the floor unconscious. I woke up and saw the faint rays of sunlight pouring out from the window. A priest sat beside me as he mumbled the prayers from the Bible. He looked at me and smiled. “Rest now, my child. There is no castle, nor any soldiers to haunt you anymore. Devils play tricks on your mind. They drag you into the dark and leave you to rot. You were possessed by Azorg, the evil. Had it not been Father Bartholomew, you would have died a terrible death. It is he who performed the exorcism. Ah! Gods bless him. Here is he.” I turned my eyes and looked at the figure dressed in a proper Catholic fashion – and it was the same figure I was hallucinating about in my prison cell.
Posted on: Sun, 07 Dec 2014 14:30:00 +0000
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