“Oh Father, how long must we wait?”

            The abbot had been on his knees for over an hour, and he could no longer feel his feet. The cold stone was now warm, and he felt the temple floor had blended with his flesh and they were one.

            “Have our prayers fallen on deaf ears? I know that to you Father, man’s years are but blinks to your fathomless ages. You have spread out the world on the tip of your finger, but have you grown blind to our tribulation? We are weary and our holy torch is growing cold, the flames are diminishing with each passing season. Our land is changing its shape, and new orders are sprouting up like weeds. Do you not care that your followers are dying off?”

            His words reverberated off the high walls, and then there was silence. His head was bent down and his eyes were shut fast. He let his ears fall away and listened with his soul. Speak to me, I beg you.

            The silence without was also a silence within, so the abbot opened his eyes and spoke again.

            “You must know of the words of the cardinal, Father. His seat has ever been one to revere and respect, yet he has founded an order that will surely be the destruction of your own! His church of Gago draws away your believers, and yet you do nothing? In the old days you would send an agent to do away with the scourge. And now? Are your humble followers to be your agents?”

            His voice was trembling, and the chamber filled with his shouts.

            “Your word is law! But we are simple believers, not enforcers! Command me Father! Help me to understand!”

            He collapsed to the floor and let the sobs heave from his mouth like vomit. After he was spent he looked up with his aching eyes and looked at his god in the eyes. The once golden altar was shrouded brown beneath a millennium of dust. Above a flaming bowl, a large brass orb hung from chains. Sitting upon the orb that represented the world was the holy icon, a lamb with seven eyes. It stared back at the abbot and drove a pin of madness into his head.

            “Yes,” he whispered, “You spoke to me in dreams when I was young, and in signs when I was older. But now that I am on the threshold of your kingdom you are silent. You spoke to Xerxes a thousand years ago, and he filled the Abadom with your words, and this temple was built to house them, and now you are silent. You ordained that we never open the book and never touch it, and we have abided. What great punishment that would bring! But you are gone. You have left us to cling to your image and despair as the world is corrupted! Yes, I will have an answer now.”

            He tried to pick himself up but he fell over. His legs were beyond him, and he had to drag himself to the base of the altar. There was an opening and five steps that led down to a small door. He pulled himself to the door and bowed his head in one last prayer.

            “I know what I do is forbidden, and if you love me then you will understand this trespass. I do it because my faith is waning and without it I am a hollow shell. Forgive me.”

            He could feel his legs retuning. He stood and felt the iron door with his trembling hands. Reaching into his robe, he removed a long silver key. To his right, in a niche, there was a bowl of blessed water. He dipped the key and then let it slide into the door’s keyhole. He heard a hushed a sound from beneath the ground of counterweights dropping and the door slid open.

            The air was putrid and the abbot reeled, holding the wall for support. He stared into the darkness and listened for a warning. He heard nothing. Taking a torch from the wall, he went back up the steps and looked at the icon.

            “I have to know, Father. If I look upon your words and feel the pages with my fingers you must surely strike me down. For if you do not, then you are truly gone and my life has been in vain.”

            He lit the torch from the bowl of flame and returned to the dark passage beneath the altar. He knew the chamber which held the holy book was not far beyond the door, and he took slow steps. As he advanced he saw old paintings on the stone lit up by his torch. There were the cloudy spirits that planted the world’s first seeds and the beasts that were the ushers of the end times. There was the glorious birth of the Son, and His death at the hands of wicked men. There were fiery avengers and a great flood. There was the revelation to Xerxes and the building of the temple. Then the walls dropped away as the narrow passage opened to a small room with a low block of stone in the center.

            Resting on a small wooden stand was the book of Abadom, the sacred text which chronicled the words of the old god. The abbot was holding his breath, standing transfixed as he stared at the book and recounted his lifetime of devotion. He took one step towards it, about to ask forgiveness one last time when suddenly an arm coiled about his neck, a hand smothering his mouth.

            A raspy voice whispered in his ear, “Think your final thoughts.”

            The abbot squirmed but was contained and panic overtook him.

            “Be calm, prepare yourself for eternity.”

            The abbot fought harder as he struggled for air. The arm released his neck, and as he took a deep breath a knife edge was swept across his throat. His body was thrown aside and the knife was wiped with a cloth and tucked away. The assassin picked up the fallen torch and took the final steps towards the book. He looked down at it and smiled broadly.

            “So this is their holy journal.” He placed the torch on the stone block and seized the book with both hands. “Strike me down you old goat!” Great peels of laughter erupted from him then. The assassin raised the book above his head and called for his ancestors to look upon on him. Then he tore off the dusty cover, and, refusing to see what was written, he began to eat the pages. They were dry and bitter, but he stuffed himself, and when he had consumed the last page he dropped the empty cover and walked out. He cupped his hands and drank from the bowl of blessed water.

            As the assassin left the large chamber he turned and looked into the eyes of the holy icon. “The age of wanderers and false prophets has passed. The path is laid for an era of truth. Good riddance you ridiculous lie.” Then he was gone, and the lamb’s seven eyes gazed upon an empty room.

 
Please note: This is a self-contained chapter in a book I'm writing. If anyone has any interest in reading the other 35 pages, I'd be happy to share them