The Bells of the Abbey

The Bells of the Abbey

by Jason Burner

Jason Burner has a degree in psychology from Purdue University. He chooses not to use his degree professionally out of a selfish desire for having both food and shelter at the same time. He enjoys watching YouTube videos on subjects from astronomy to history to economic principles, and he will admit that he occasionally slides down a rabbit hole of Tolkien lore from time to time. Thank you for setting aside the time to let him share his story with you.

 

Hazil put his shoulder against the door and pushed. Winter winds blasted through the crack pressing tiny pins across every inch of exposed skin. Eyes wide and fully alert, the night air did more than half a pot of strong coffee ever could.

He dared to open the door only wide enough to squeeze through, and then immediately used the heel of his boot to slam it shut once through. There was no one behind him to complain about the draft, but certain habits develop quickly, and for good reasons, this far north. One more tug on the handle, satisfied that his brothers and sisters were safe from the bone-chilling draft, he pulled his cloak tight and made his way across the rooftop terrace, ankle deep footprints marking the path.

This was always the most dangerous part of the journey, so he kept a protective hand draped across the satchel at his waste. Inside held instruments that were absolutely vital to his task, and he was ready to use his own body as a cushion should he slip on the slick snow. It was better to break himself than what was inside the satchel. Those instruments were old, but still quite expensive – things would not go well for him if they were damaged while in his care.

At the other end of the roof was the steps to the tower. Those steps were ancient and well-worn – they could be dangerous, especially this time of year when moisture from the day could freeze at night and make the smooth surface as slick as a wet leek. Hazil stretched out and took hold of the handle of the door – if he was going to slip then he wanted something solid to hang on to. Taking a firm grip on the latch, he placed his foot straight down upon the lowest step and made certain that his footing was secure before braving step number two.

His boot was halfway up when he caught a dark blur at the periphery of his vision. The shadow within the shadows was there and gone in little more than an instant. The wiser course would be to let it go and get straight to his task. There was more than enough work to do before the dawn ruined the sky, but curiosity too often led to the most wonderful distractions. It was rare to see an animal roaming free inside the walls, so it had to be someone, but then again, the mind often played devilish tricks this far out in the middle of nothing. However, maybe it really was someone out prowling. The monks could come and go as they pleased, whenever they pleased. It was an Abbey, not a prison.

Hazil stepped down from the stairs without nearly as much care as he had shown going up. The mysterious blur proved easy to find and had taken on an obvious shape – two legs, two arms, a torso, and a head. This was not his imagination. Whoever was out strolling through the snow was creeping towards the eastern gate. Stealth was not a skill that was often needed at Tolvadin. A tickle of concern began growing inside of his stomach. In his experience, sneaking never preceded anything good, except for the times when it did – this didn’t feel like one of those times.

The shadow stopped beside the gate, which was really just a gate in name only, it would have been more accurately described as something slightly larger than a regular door. The apprehension Hazil felt graduated to full-fledged worry when the mystery monk quickly, but quietly, picked up the heavy crossbeam and wrestled it to the side before opening the wooden postern gate that led outside of the wall.

Where are they going? Why?

The answer was immediate. Nowhere. The person wasn’t leaving. He was letting others in.

Dozens of figures began silently streaming into the keep. The edges of their shadows blended into on another, their boots pounding the virgin snow into the mud below. Hazel couldn’t be certain of what he was seeing. Didn’t want to be. There had to be a logical reason as to why a brother would let so many into the Abbey at this time of night. Tradesmen? No. Too many and no wagons. Villagers looking for shelter from some disaster? Maybe… He watched for a moment longer, not sure what to do, as more continued to slip inside.

At least a hundred and they’re still coming.

It was the glint of moonlight reflecting off metal that set warning bells madly ringing inside his head. Without any thought to what he was doing, Hazil turned and sprinted for the dormitory door. Snow and ice be damned. Draft be damned. Once inside a cry came to him, almost involuntarily and in his voice that barely resembled his own, “TO ARMS! TO ARMS! WE’RE UNDER ATTACK!”

He sprinted down the third story corridor, shouting at the top of his lungs. Doors were opening behind him as sleepy monks shuffled into the hall. It never registered to him to stop and offer any kind of explanation. As it was, his warning didn’t result in much more than leaving a wake of confusion and annoyance behind him.

Undaunted, Hazil ran on. After shouting from one end of the top floor to the other, he made it to the open stairwell and heaved himself down to the middle landing. His boots connected with a teeth-rattling jolt as he collapsed into a roll.

Ohshitohshitohshit

The satchel! He could be reckless with his bones, but never his instruments. Bones healed.

The journey was repeated for the second level with identical results, though when he reached the stairs at the far end, he wisely chose to take them one at a time rather than all at once. The first floor’s warning came with less volume, but it didn’t seem to lessen the effect. Doors opened, but only about half. The men and women stepping into the hallway were the brave ones – the crazies who ran towards the fire, or dug through the rubble searching for survivors, or opened their door in the middle of the night with no questions asked – ready to defend what they loved.

Hazil flopped down beside a first-floor door and the far end of the dormitory. He was sweating and trying to pack as much air in his lungs as they would hold. He understood himself well enough to know that he’d have stayed inside his room, and probably crawled under the bed. He wasn’t a martial monk. He didn’t use his body every day to train like they did. He preferred charts and graphs, not swords and spears.

As his breathing began to return to normal, he started to calm down. Rational thoughts became easier to come by. The first sounds of battle could be heard, a ringing slowly rising like a swelling sea. He could only imagine what was happening outside, and it was terrifying, to be sure, but there was something else there – an energy building beyond the door as men and women – his brothers and sisters, were sucked into the growing storm. Waves were building, and he felt like he was standing out on the rocks staring up at a wall of water about to come crashing down on top of him.

Maybe it would be safe down here in his little corner. The fighting was outside and might stay there, so long as the monks won. Or, smarter still, maybe he could find a better place to hide, not his bed but someone else’s to crawl under. He could climb back up to the observatory, that would be the last place anyone would look for survivors. Go hide. That’s what his mother would tell him to do.

What about his father? What would he say? Would he tell him to run and hide? No. That wouldn’t sit well with the old man. Do something. What? Anything is better than nothing! Damn if he wasn’t the spitting image of his mother, though.

The sounds of battle would undoubtedly wake those in the other dorms, but that kind of warning would be slow. If the intruders, whoever they were, were allowed to essentially face one building at a time, then the monks would be overwhelmed.

Any real chance of surviving depended on fighting back as one, which meant all the monks who could fight needed to be out on the grounds – NOW. Warning everyone meant someone had to get to cathedral and ring the bells – and do it fast. The only problem was that the cathedral was in the center of the compound and between here and there were likely a good number of men with bad intentions on their mind.

Here was his father’s something.

Even the thought of going outside made Hazil’s legs numb. He tried to think of another alternative while simultaneously trying to convince himself that someone else would probably get to the bells before he could and so there was no sense in risking his own life to do it. He spent a few more moments leaning against the wall, resting, and urgently trying to reconsider a decision that was already made.

His mother only wanted what was best for him. His father wanted a son who wasn’t afraid to look at himself in the mirror.

He took a deep breath and slowly opened the door, just a crack. He could see men to his left and a few straight ahead, his right was blocked by solid wood. His chances were never going to be any better than they were right now.

He offered up a final silent prayer and bolted out the door. Three steps in and there was movement from his right side. A blur coming towards him. No chance to even scream.

Hazil felt a burning sting on the side of his head. The blow had not fully connected, but it was enough to knock him off his course and leave him scrambling to stay on his feet. He recovered before a second blow could fall, mainly because his legs were pumping faster than he would have ever believed possible. His original plan called for some degree of stealth in making it to the cathedral. He had hoped by moving behind the buildings he would encounter fewer problems, but that idea had just been tossed. Blood poured down his neck and with an armed man at his back, his only thought was to run for the bells as fast as he could and by the shortest route possible.

So, he did, and for all he was worth. He ran past monks from Bixon-Morr Hall, now fighting for their lives. More and more monks were spilling out to grapple with the enemy. He jumped over the dead from both sides like they were merely fallen logs.

He had only two goals; to reach the bells of the cathedral and to stay far ahead of the man that he assumed was still chasing him. He never looked back to check. No one made any move against him as he weaved in and out of the fray, most were too involved in their own struggles to notice as he raced by.

A hundred paces and then more. The fighting finally disappeared into the darkness behind him, but he didn’t dare slow down, he still hadn’t outrun the ringing of metal and screams of the dying. His lungs were burning, and his side ached, but there would be no rest. His destination was in sight and there were only a handful of unorganized intruders between himself and the great bronze doors of the cathedral. Those doors would not be locked, few were at Tolvadin. There was no real need.

Maneuvering past the stragglers wasn’t difficult, it was a dark night and by the time they realized that he was there Hazil was already beyond them. This meant that they were now behind him. He heard the boots on the paving stones, along with shouts and curses clearly meant for him. There could be as many as four pursuers behind him, five if the man who had gashed his head was still giving chase. It had been a long run from Caulwell Hall, so likely only four. Hazil still didn’t dare look back to check.

He reached the stone steps leading up to the cathedral. The stairs were designed in a wide arc that ran from one end of the building to the other and funneled guests towards the entrance. Hazil easily cleared two at a time, never once thinking about ice.

When he reached the first landing he jumped into the reservoir of the fountain, it had been drained several months ago and would not be filled again until there was no longer any chance of a freeze. This meant that it would stay dry for another month or two. As Hazil jumped out of the other side his boot caught on the edge of the pool. He felt a crunch as he came down hard on his knee. A dozen pins rammed into his joint all at once, but only for a moment. His mind pushed the pain someplace far off. Scrambling to his feet, he climbed the remaining stairs towards the main terrace.

As expected, the doors were unlocked, and despite his fall, Hazil had reached the doors well ahead of the men chasing him. Once inside he sprinted through the concourse and into the main sanctuary. He didn’t know his way around the cathedral very well as he never had any reason to explore it. The sanctuary was dimly lit, as it always was after prayer services had concluded for the day. The only light came from a single row of sconces at the top of the wall where the arched ceiling began.

Two men stood near the alter. The men may have been praying or maybe they were simply here because they didn’t know where else to go. As he approached, he couldn’t determine which discipline the men followed, but it clearly wasn’t martial.

“How do I get to the bells?” he barely had enough air to force the words out.

The two men stared, shock chiseled upon their faces. He must have been a gruesome sight to see with blood massed on the side of his head and running down his neck. There was no time for a proper explanation.

“Now!” he wheezed. Or any explanation at all.

His voice was not one to ever carry authority, but in this case it must have been enough. The fat one snapped out of his trance and answered right away.

“Go that way.” He said as he pointed to back corner of the hall.

“Go down the stairs and take the hallway all the way down.” The tall one added, he was able to speak now but he kept sneaking quick glances at Hazil’s wound and then quickly looking away as if not wanting to give offense by staring.

Dead legs started moving again when the fat one reached out and grabbed his arm to stop him. “Take the first hallway you come to, don’t go all the way down the stairs.”

“Oh, and when you get to the end of the hall turn right and take that hall. It will lead you to the bell tower.” The tall one added while the fat one nodded his head.

The doors of the sanctuary separated with a loud bang. Terror squeezed hard on Hazil’s heart before he even turned to find the source. His two companions stood frozen and staring wide-eyed at the doors before good sense settled back into them, sending all three scattering in different directions as the four invaders quickly caught sight of their quarry and rushed forward like hounds on the hunt. Hazil silently prayed that they would follow the other two men instead of him, which left a pang of guilt, but right now he was needed, and they were not.

He was running again. The sound of his heavy boots echoing off the marble tiles mixed with that of the men wanting to kill him. Any chance of losing them in the church were gone. He would have to find the bells quickly and do what he could because he doubted that the bell tower doors would even have a lock.

He sped down the stairs and took the first hallway that he came to, he could hear the footsteps of his followers around the corner, not too far behind and getting closer. He ran past many rooms that he could have tried to hide in. It was a tempting idea – let better men do the dangerous work. Leave him to making squiggles on his star charts. Where’s the satchel? What happened to my instruments? Oh, damn me to hell, I lost them.

Prior Allmund could hang him later. Right now was all about his left foot and right foot and making them move as fast as possible. At the end of the hall he turned right, where he saw a faded brown rectangle in the distance. He ran on hoping the whole way that he was headed towards the doors to the bell tower and not some moldy supply closet.

Exhausted. He made finally made the door, so he closed his eyes and pulled the latch. A rushed prayer later he opened them, half expecting to see a mountain of white linens in front of him, instead it was a spiral staircase winding up. This had to be the right place, what else could be at the top if not bells? His prayers were actually answered, or this was the cruelest joke in all of creation.

Up he climbed. Up, up, and more up. Unfortunately, rarely used muscles could only offer so much strength, and Hazil had reached his limit long ago, but he was too terrified to notice, until now. The pain in his head hit him in a blinding flash, he hadn’t forgotten about it, but it had not been so intense earlier. The throbbing wound made it hard to focus. The instability of his knee had become a serious issue that threatened to send him tumbling with every other step. There was more damage there than he had first thought.

His mother was with him at every step – right in his ear, scolding him for running out the door, for not hiding when he had the chance…damned fool never should have left the observatory. His father was there just behind her, disgusted that his son was too scared to pick up a sword and fight back.

Neither one was of much help at the moment, so he had to ignore them as best he could. He was being followed, the noise coming from below him confirmed it. The noise also suggested that he had somehow opened ground on his pursuers, if luck held then he may have enough time to sound an effective alarm.

Then what? He would ring that bell for as long as he could. Warn as many of his brothers and sisters as he could before … best not to worry about that. He had to give a warning, but that didn’t mean he had any interest in dying for it. Living was the priority, he just had to figure out a way to make that happen.

Up he climbed, higher and higher until that climb deteriorated to a crawl. His chest heaved and his nose burned. The stairs mercifully ended at a square wooden hatch. He used his cheek and shoulder to push upwards, cold air bit into the wound on his head as soon as he lifted the trap door to the bell tower. He gave a final heave and tossed the door wide open, then scurried to his feet as quickly as he could. Once up he immediately slammed the door shut behind him. He did a quick scan of the parapet and found nothing that he could use to slide over the trap door to keep his pursuers from following him.

There had to be something, but the floor was bare. Still, there had to be some way to keep those men from getting their hands on him. Maybe squeeze the top of his boot into the crack and use it like a wedge? That would take time, and might not even work – then what? No warning. His teeth chattered like he had plunged through ice and into the water below. However, the only wetness he could feel was warm and running down his leg.

Above him was a massive bronze bell big enough to swallow him whole or squish him to paste if it fell. The clapper would have needed two grown men to carry. It was truly a marvel, but one to be explored at another time. Now there was none left to waste. He should have grabbed his boot, but instead he took hold of the thickly braided rope that hung down and gave it a tug.

bong

Weak. Worthless. Was there a trick to it? This was going to be harder than he imagined. Hazil tightened his grip and took a deep breath he heaved on the rope as hard as he could.

BONG BONG bong

Better. He kept pulling as fast and as hard as his arms would allow. It became much easier once he got the bell swinging and found the rhythm. The ringing was like a spike driving into his ears, loud enough to echo throughout the entire valley. Every monk in the Abbey would know that this this call at this hour would mean trouble of some kind. They would all rush out to see what the matter was – help would come.

His victory was fleeting. A crack suddenly appeared in the door. Another surge of panic shoved aside the triumph.

Hazel jumped back and away from the rope. It was too late to try the boot now that a dark haired, dusty skinned man was emerging from the hole and slowly climbing onto the parapet. He looked tired and angry. The man made it to his feet, sword held waist high and ready. He took a step forward, and Hazil took one back. The dance repeated. It only took a few short steps before Hazil had backed himself against the stone wall, he stole a quick glance down. It was over two hundred feet to the ground. Two more men had now joined them. They would not be needed.

With nowhere to go, all Hazil could think to do was hold his hands out in front of him, maybe try and explain that he was just a scholar, a complete disappointment to both parents and absolutely no threat – as if any of that would matter one bit to his murders. He may have even tried begging, if he had thought about it, but a foot of steel sliding into his stomach quickly dampened his wits. Scrambled his thoughts. The next thing he knew he was rolling backwards, his boots coming off the floor.

Suddenly he was weightless, opening his eyes he could see his killer hanging over a stone wall, just staring down at him, growing smaller and smaller with each heartbeat. Hazil didn’t want to die, he wanted to live, but he still couldn’t think of a way to make that happen.