Voices

VOICES

Jane Hartenstein

SMASHWORDS EDITION

PUBLISHED BY:

Jane Hartenstein on Smashwords

VOICES

© Copyright Jane Hartenstein 2011

Smashwords Edition License Notes

All rights reserved. This ebook is for personal enjoyment only. No part of this book may be re-sold, given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person please purchase additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading the book and did not purchase it or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this book are fictional, purely a product of the author’s imagination, and are not based on any real individuals. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or business establishments, are entirely coincidental. However, the illness portrayed is real and this work is meant to portray the reality of mental illness as it impacts the lives of individuals and their families.

To Steve who had faith beyond my own

and especially to the individuals and their families

who must live with the voices in the hopes that

others will hear their voice if not the voices they hear.

CHAPTER ONE

1100 A.D.

There was an aura about the tattered threadbare hood; a magnetism that would have drawn Henri even if his voices hadn't insisted. As the young monk pushed back the gold-hinged lid of the reliquary that held the holy treasure, he could smell the sweet woody fragrance of old cedar and knew that it was the essence of the Holy Land itself. The carved wooden box in which the remnant of fabric was stored attested to the veneration with which the ancient relic and its now beatified owner was held. He rubbed his fingers across the intricate carving on the surface of the box where an unknown artisan had carefully depicted the crucifixion. Henri paused for a moment to marvel at the precious box and its age. The chest was rumored to be made from timber hewn from the very tree used for the Savior's cross over a thousand years earlier.

The monk’s hands shook as he reached into the box with both hands and gently lifted the holy relic; the cape of Saint Martin. It was said the faded length of wool had once been a calf-length cloak draped about the shoulders of a royal cavalry guard. Now it was soft with age and dust that rose like battle-field smoke from its folds, creating an ethereal cloud in the dusky interior of the chapel.

The cloak’s original crimson color had become faded and worn by the years and the hundreds of hands who had lovingly touched it in hopes of a miracle. Now its true color was visible only in the carefully folded creases where sun and rain had never penetrated. All that remained of the original cloak was the hood and the tattered ends that would barely cover a monk’s shoulders. Yet to Henri, it exuded the same warm sense of security and holy purpose that surely must have enveloped the handsome young army officer who had worn it so long ago.

Henri lifted the dusty cloth from its box, momentarily catching the loose bell-shaped sleeve of his rough monk's robe on the reliquary’s amethyst-encrusted clasp. He held the tattered cloth up to the dim light forcing its way through the chapel's thick lead glass windows high above him asking a silent blessing on his mission. A smile crept across his youthful sallow face as his ink-stained fingers rubbed the sturdy weave of the fabric. Suddenly the voices came to him, startling him out of his meditation and making his heart pound against the simple wooden crucifix that hung askew on his chest.

Yes, put it on, it is yours to wear. The chorus of mysterious voices again echoed in his ears.

They had been growing louder lately, coming from everywhere at once yet nowhere in particular as their commands reverberated inside his head. It was impossible to point a finger at them with any certainty but somehow he knew they lived in a place of darkness that would forever mask their identity, hiding their faces from mortal sight. Whether they were men or women, young or old, or even how many of them filled his head with their hollow echoing words, he couldn't be certain. He knew only that his voices were compelling and insistent, telling him fantastic tales with such veracity and conviction that he had to believe them.

Henri had come to trust the words his voices spoke to him as surely as he believed in the Holy Book itself and certainly more than the murmured comments of his prayerful brothers in the monastery. As the strange sounds grew louder the voices had begun to intrude on his own thoughts, making one idea collide with another inside his head until his thoughts all ran together like the tangled grapevines that grew in the abbey’s vineyard.

Eventually Henri had come to listen for the voices and their constant banter, worrying when silence replaced the constant din of words. He had come to depend on his unseen chorus to warn of danger and tell him what other people were thinking. He relied on them to tell him what he should do and what he should say, no longer believing or trusting what his own senses and reason were telling him. Their guidance was worth the anguish and humiliation he felt when the chorus ridiculed and demeaned him, laughing at him as he tried to complete the brush strokes in the manuscript just as the domineering voices dictated.

Gently Henri pulled the holy relic over his honey blonde hair, flattening the limp strands against his high forehead and long straight nose obeying the voices’ command to wear the cape. He was certain he could detect the salty taste of human sweat and pain on his lips when the hood passed over his mouth and settled on his thin shoulders. He reached over his head to pull up the cape and adjusted it carefully so that it completely covered his monk's tonsure. The wool settled over the top of his head where soft downy fuzz had replaced the clean-shaven skin as was required by his holy Brotherhood.

The young monk turned away from the high alter where the open reliquary box sat and walked to the chapel wall where he could see his reflection in a silver ornament; a mirror with a silver border depicting the Ascension of Christ. He stared at the face reflected in the polished surface with its border of bare-footed silver angels in flowing robes and instead of the monk in the floor length brown robe that stood before it, he saw a young cavalry officer wearing the sacred hood.

See how well it fits you? It was made for you! Again the voices filled the young monk's thoughts. You are, in truth, Saint Martin of Tours. Slowly Henri nodded in agreement.

Brother! What are you doing?

As the sound of the unfamiliar earthly voice broke into his thoughts, Henri straightened his shoulders, assuming the proper military stance and bearing that became a ranking military officer of the Empire. He turned to see who had interrupted his meditation and watched as a heavy jowl-faced man wearing a monk’s robe similar to his own pushed open the massive bronze gate that separated the gallery from the immense eight-side main chapel in which Henri stood. I fear you are mistaken, Brother, I am Martin of Tours, a soldier of God and the Holy Roman Empire.

The rotund brother stepped inside the ornate gate ignoring the intricate design of grapevines crafted by skilled artisans and instead stared at the slight youthful monk wearing a tattered cloth on his head. His mouth dropped open and even his jowls began to shake in disbelief. What are you doing? That is Saint Martin's cloak! The cappa is never taken from its place of rest except on the holy saint's feast day! No one is even allowed to touch it!

Brother, you must remove the sacred hood immediately! The beefy monk could have been the same age as Henri or years older. Although just as pale, his fleshy fingers were soft and clean. He wore the same simple brown floor-length robe of the church, tied at the waist with a rough-grained hemp rope from which a wooden cross dangled. But unlike Henri, the crown of the heavier man's head was freshly shaved, leaving only a fringe of hair to encircle his bald pate. I am Brother Ubert. I am responsible for the security of the church’s holy relics! What will I tell the Bishop?

As Henri straightened up and threw back his shoulders, maintaining a correct military stance as befit a soldier of Christ, the voices again echoed in his head. He wears his tonsure like a fallen halo. The fool doesn’t even understand that you are Martin of Tours, champion of the church and our Lord, albeit a poor excuse for one! The painful laughter of ridicule again drowned Henri’s thoughts and reverberated in his ears.

The monk who called himself Ubert stared at the hooded man standing firmly in front of him. Brother, you must remove the cloak, the Bishop will be very angry! Little beads of perspiration were beginning to form on the fleshy monk's forehead despite the chill of the darkened church.

Henri thrust the hood back off his head, letting the ancient cloth settle in dusty folds on his shoulders. I am Martin of Tours and this is all that remains of my cloak. Our Lord wears the rest of my garment. As a man of the church surely you must know of my service to our Lord. The voices reprimanded Henri for his impatience with sharp words that cut him to the quick and he reminded himself to be more understanding of those who were slower of wit.

A trickle of sweat ran down Ubert’s puffy cheek and disappeared into the fleshy folds of his considerable jowls. He stared at Henri for a moment then began shifting his considerable weight from foot to foot straining the leather straps of his sandals. His small piggish eyes darted from the dusty folds of the relic to the piercing brown eyes of the unkempt monk standing in front of him, eyes that calmly met his own and communicated the monk’s resolve not to part with the cappa. Ubert opened his mouth to speak but when no words came to cut the heavy incense-laden air, he turned abruptly and ran out through the exquisite Chapel that had witnessed the coronation of every emperor since Charlemagne had first placed the gold crown on the head of his own son.

Henri could hear the slap of sandals on the stone floor and the creak of the gate where the bronze vines continued to grow in perpetual iron tangles accompanied by Ubert’s cries for help that echoed off the towering marble walls of the octagon shaped sanctuary and reverberated high above in the massive vaulted dome towering overhead unstilled by the golden mosaics that adorned it.

As the sound of Ubert’s footsteps faded in the distance, the voices suddenly emerged from their darkness and again Henri’s thoughts were scattered, strewn like the dry leaves of the oak trees in the cooling winds of September outside. Well done, Martin of Tours, the voices softly reassured him, you are a strong defender of the right and just. You must guard against such doubters and disbelievers. They wish to harm you just as they did in Utrecht.

Yes, yes, I must be wary of the blasphemers. Henri lifted the hood to cover his head once again, savoring the way it shut out his surroundings and swaddled him in semi-darkness. I know they watch me; they want me to falter and let down my guard but I won't let them, I swear it on all that is holy! I will obey the Lord’s commands! I will cast out the devils and expose those that do evil!

When Henri turned around the heavy set monk had suddenly reappeared in the archway by the gate. It seemed to Henri that the fleshy brother had only just left the chapel but then Henri was used to this strange phenomenon. It often happened when he was listening to the voices. A day could turn into a minute and sometimes the minutes disappeared altogether just as they had this time. Now the silly monk who had called himself Ubert was standing in the doorway doing his strange dance, shifting from one foot to the other and fumbling with his crucifix. Beside Ubert stood a man much older than him dressed in a long dark robe that even in the dusk, Henri could see was made of a much finer weave and texture than the one Henri and Brother Ubert wore. Henri studied the older man as the breeze from an open door somewhere in the gallery stirred the delicate skirt of the man’s robe. Even in the dim, hazy light Henri could see the immense gold pectoral cross with the single brilliant red stone sparkling against the older man's chest. He instinctively looked down at the graying man's hand. The heavy ring adorning the second finger of the wrinkled and spotted left hand pronounced him a bishop.

See, I told you! That's exactly how I found him, Bishop Theodaire. He's still wearing the relic of Saint Martin! The bulky monk began his nervous dance between the Bishop and Henri, sidestepping first one way then another, his eyes moving back and forth between them, not sure of where to look first. I told him to put the cappa back but he says it belongs to him! I tried your worship, truly I did, but he just wouldn't listen!

I'm sure you tried Brother Ubert. Bishop Theodaire's voice was edged with exasperation. His eyes narrowed momentarily as he took in the specter of the young monk standing before him, an ancient piece of faded cloth askew over his head.

Theodaire had spent his life making decisions and resolving problems much bigger than this minor irritation. Ever since he was a boy he had had a talent for resolving complicated issues, always making certain that it was resolved to his benefit. If Theodaire had been the first born son instead of the second, he would have inherited his father’s land. But he was destined for the church by virtue of his birth order.

As it turned out he had gathered much more wealth resolving the theological issues of wealthy landowners and minor royalty than the agricultural problems presented by a few measly acres belonging to a minor Count of the kingdom. Ubert, the fool, should have taken care of this and not bothered him. Theodaire had more lucrative issues to address. That is the cappa of Saint Martin you wear, my son, please remove it. Theodaire’s deep bass voice, more accustomed to reassuring bereaved widows, especially wealthy ones, than wayward monks, was calm but insistent as he reached out long thin fingers to claim the tattered remnants of the hood.

Beware, Henri! He will steal your hood, he is jealous of the service you gave our Lord! The voices shouted their warning in Henri's head once again, reverberating in his thoughts and scattering them into irretrievable pieces. Henri’s thin body stiffened instinctively as he took a step backward, bumping up against the altar and sending the flames atop the long thin tapers in their gold candlesticks flickering wildly.

Get back you ungodly usurper of the Lord's chosen! Go back to your traffic in worldly vices. I am Martin of Tours, sworn to defend the true way. I defend the poor and share my worldly possessions with them. I don’t covet the gold and silver that belongs to Christ’s church!

Henri saw his accusations register on Theodaire’s face that was growing whiter by the minute. Slowly Henri lifted his arm to point a thin finger directly at the sparkling pectoral cross on the Bishop’s chest. You sell absolution of men's worldly sins like so many cabbages in the marketplace; a single piece of silver to cleanse the greed of a thief, a piece of gold to wash the blood from a murderer's hands, a jewel to forgive the worldly lust of holy men!

Instinctively, the Bishop touched the ruby on this crucifix. Brother Ubert, go get Count Edouard. Theodaire held the angry monk still wearing the cape in his steady gaze.

Ubert looked uncertainly from the steely-eyed Bishop to the strange man adorned in the garb of Aachen's most popular and revered saint. It's alright, Brother Ubert, I can manage, just hurry.

Reassured by the Bishop's calm voice, Brother Ubert stumbled through the archway and the slap of his well-sandaled feet against the cold marble floor could again be heard as he ran down the center aisle. Above him, perpetual flickering candlelight from an immense bronze chandelier reflected off the Latin inscriptions in gold leaf that encircled the ceiling high above the altar.

Charlemagne himself had sat on the second tier of the chapel on a simple white throne carved from a single block of perfect marble. From there the Emperor gazed down on this very sanctuary at the gold frontispiece and heard the mass twice daily. Bishop Theodaire was certain Charlemagne had never had to deal with such foolishness as monks breaking into reliquaries.

At least it was the worthless remains of an old cape and not the gold or jewels housed in the church’s treasury. Such wealth was not created by the selling of wheat or flax. It took skillful maneuvering to acquire the wealth that this cathedral and holy order had accumulated under his ministration, almost as much finesse as the Great Emperor Charlemagne himself had employed to create this center of wealth and power.

Even though Aachen was Charlemagne’s home, it was still an isolated settlement on the slopes of the Ardennes Mountains; far enough inland that the marauding Norseman who invaded from the sea to the North didn’t often bother to pass through to access the inland waterway leading to the rest of the continent and the Mediterranean Sea beyond. The town still had the reputation of being little more than a wide spot on a decaying Roman road, nestled between the Meuse and Rhine rivers, until it became the home of the cape of Saint Martin of Tours.

The tattered rag, now venerated as a holy relic, was really more for the benefit of the public who relegated status and importance to a city based on a significant religious presence, especially if it was housed in an imposing setting. Without the cape, Aachen and its exquisite chapel would be just another church instead of the force to be reckoned with that it had become, due in part to the revenue generated by visiting religious pilgrims anxious to see Saint Martin’s cape. It wasn’t until after Charlemagne’s death that his own bones, now housed in the main sanctuary, became the chief attraction.

The cloak of Saint Martin that had been obtained at great cost by Charlemagne’s family had itself grown in importance as the years went by. It was credited with a number of miracles, some duly recognized in the church archives; some whispered from ear to ear, that never failed to give hope. It was said that when people prayed at the altar and gazed up at the carved reliquary where the hood was ensconced, mysterious illnesses disappeared overnight, the blind were suddenly able to see once again, and barren women became fruitful. The cappa and its mystical powers began to draw pilgrims from all over the empire, desperate to see tangible evidence of holy mysteries while they fervently prayed for a miracle of their own. To the person, each desperate pilgrim poured a substantial portion of their worldly wealth into the church's coffers as added insurance. It had made Aachen rich and consequently an important center of power that provided the only unity among the warring factions that divided the country.

A special religious order had even been founded for the express purpose of guarding and caring for the revenue-generating relic. It came to be known as the chaplaincy, denoting its sacred duty to the hood, or chapeau, and it was to this order that Brother Ubert and Bishop Theodaire had dedicated their lives In Bishop Theodaire's eyes, the tattered cloth now covering the stringy hair of the thin monk was directly responsible for at least one miracle; the revenue that continued to fill his order's coffers.

Bishop Theodaire carefully hid his hands inside the long draping sleeves of his robe as he watched the strange young monk in front of him. The youth didn't appear to be all that dangerous, in fact he looked rather harmless, a little odd perhaps but that happened frequently with the novitiates when they first joined the order. The discipline of fasting and seven daily offices requiring prayer at specified times starting at midnight often left those unused to the rigors of a life in the church weak from hunger and confused from being sleep deprived. Theodaire noticed that occasionally the youth would glance up at the vacant air over his head and his lips would silently move as if he were praying or perhaps talking to himself.

The young monk even nodded his head as if agreeing with whatever thought occupied his mind at the moment and he gestured as if to make a further point to himself. He seemed very serious and involved with whatever preoccupied him, not at all like that buffoon Brother Ubert, the Bishop thought. Perhaps his choice of Brother Ubert as guardian of the cappa had not been as wise administratively as it had been politically and financially. When the bumbling Ubert had shown less talent for reading and writing Latin verse than consuming the order's food stuffs, Theodaire had reassigned him to the order's Infirmarium and its adjacent distillery. The ravenous monk had shown little talent and even less dedication when it came to administering to the sick and injured that filled the Infirmariums beds in hopes of a poultice to heal a festering sword wound or a decoction to bring down a lingering fever.

With no patience and a nauseous aversion to blood and suppurating wounds, Ubert was quickly relegated to the distillery and tasked with the growing and preparation of medicinal herbs. Nor had this proved any more successful. One of the brothers had caught Ubert devouring the store of freshly harvested greenery on one of the twice weekly fasting days required by the order.

The fool still couldn't tell mandrake from mugwort, either by sight or taste. When Theodaire had threatened the inept monk with expulsion, Brother Ubert's wealthy family had made a substantial donation to the Chaplaincy, thus assuring their oafish offspring of a permanent place in the service of the Lord. He was promptly placed in charge of the reliquaries; at least he couldn’t eat those.

It had been a relatively easy assignment, or so Theodaire had thought, considering the number of militia and assorted Counts and their entourages who always seemed to be in attendance.

The Bishop shuddered thinking of how easily the security had been breached here in the chapel. How safe was the engraved silver box containing Charlemagne’s long leg bones that rested high above the main altar or the intricately carved ivory box that was the final resting place of one of the emperor's arm bones? The two bones were all that remained of Aachen's founder after the financially strapped King Otto III had ordered Charlemagne's remains disinterred and sold off, bone by bone, to the various religious agencies willing to pay any price for a true relic. No, the Bishop decided, no matter how well-connected Ubert's family was, it wasn't worth the political repercussions, not to mention the financial loss, if any of the relics or the precious reliquaries in which they reposed were stolen. He would have to find another place for Brother Ubert.

CHAPTER TWO

In here, Count Edouard! This way! Theodaire heard the winded voice of Ubert just outside the chapel. The only other sound was the slow steady creak of