The Sowing

And somewhere, swallowed up by this terrible place, Cole waits for me.

The memory of the last time I was here cuts through my brain like slivers of hail. Dad had just died. Mom was left to take care of infant Cole and twelve-year-old me. She’d swallowed her pride and begged the Prior to help us give Dad a proper burial and provide a few meals until she could get back on her feet.

I remember how Prior Delvecchio’s face frightened me, his toothy grin, the way he looked at Mom and licked his lips as if he were hungry. There was an electrical storm raging that night and each flash seemed to take an x-ray of his angular face, making it look more like a corpse. Cole wouldn’t stop crying despite how much my mother rocked him. When Delvecchio asked to speak with her in private, she handed him to me and he wrapped his tiny fist around my finger.

My mother and Delvecchio disappeared behind a partition. All I could see were distorted shadows, accompanied by the awful sound of Delvecchio screeching at my mother to get down on her knees and pray for strength. Then the sound of ripping fabric, and my mother’s screams, followed by a slap. The next thing I knew, Mom came racing around the partition, one cheek red, blood dripping from her nose, her torn work overalls exposing a naked shoulder. Delvecchio followed, his eyes bulging and four claw marks across his face. My mother scooped Cole and me into her arms and as we ran out into the torrential rain, Delvecchio’s angry curses drowned out the storm. You stupid bitch. You could have had it all. Now you’ll rot like your husband.

Dad never got his proper burial. His body was incinerated by the state and disposed of in a mass grave. Of course, Mom hadn’t wanted me to see, but I’d snuck away, hidden among the rank piles of garbage, my eyes glued to that wavering heap of tangled, twisted limbs, searching for my father’s face, too afraid to find it and hoping it was all a mistake.

Less than a year after watching my father burn, and probably as a result of the extra shifts she pulled in the mines, breathing in all those toxins, after Delvecchio refused to help us, my mother was dead too.

I wipe the icy slush from my burning eyes. The muscles in my legs strain with the effort of propelling myself up the mound of snow toward the Priory.

Cresting the top of the hill, I pause and stare at the monstrosity squatting before me.

It probably won’t be a good idea to march right through those wrought-iron gates. I’m sure the Anchorites are under strict orders not to let me see Cole. Fine. I’ve gotten through more heavily guarded places than this before.

Although a monastic order that thrives on other people’s pain could prove to be far more dangerous.

I skirt the abbey’s perimeter to a side entrance, then duck behind a cluster of brambles. The prickly branches skewer the falling snowflakes.

Two hooded figures emerge from the door, clad in bright red robes that bleed against the stark snow. Between them they pull a wooden cart heaped with what looks like piles of garbage, including a cache of old robes. They proceed to dump the refuse in a bin and disappear back inside.

My eyes dart to my chron. I still have time before I have to report in. No one will be missing me—yet.

Checking my surroundings to make sure there’s no one else in sight, I scuttle over to the bin and open it. My nose wrinkles. But foraging through trash is something that’s been a part of my life so long, I barely notice as my hands dive in and pull out an Anchorite garment. A few stains, maybe a tear or two, but hopefully no one will notice before I find Cole and get him out of there.

Slipping on the cassock and drawing the hood over my head, I approach the door and try it. Locked. No problem. Good thing it’s one of those ancient jobs, splintering wood and rusty keyhole. A minute later, after a few quick jabs with the pincers in my utility kit, I’m rewarded with a click.

I pull the door open, cringing as it squeaks and creaks. I pause and hold my breath, listening for approaching footsteps. There aren’t any. I exhale a plume of frost and inch the door open a little more, just enough to squeeze my body through, and ease it closed behind me as quietly as possible.

After the blinding brightness of the snowstorm, it takes me a few seconds to get my bearings.

There’s no one around. All’s quiet except for a mournful cadence of far-off chanting that weaves through the shafts of light radiating from the stained-glass windows. Vaulted ceilings tower overhead. As my feet pad against the plush carpet, the flickering of sweating candelabras stretch my shadow down the long, wide corridor—past grand fireplaces with gilded mantels, elaborate hand-knit tapestries, and glass cases filled with jewel-encrusted diadems. The trinkets in this place alone could feed the entire population of the Parish indefinitely.