The Demon Spirit

A frustrated and angry Master Jojonah shuffled down the main hallway in the upper level of St.-Mere-Abelle, the long and grand corridor running along the top of the cliff wall overlooking All Saints Bay. Windows were spaced every few feet to the monk's right, the eastern view, while the left-hand wall was dotted sporadi-cally by wooden doors layered with carvings of intricate detail. Each door told a separate story, one of the fables that formed the basis of the Abellican Church, and usually Jojonah, who had only fully examined a score of the fifty doors in all his decades at St.-Mere-Abelle, would pause and look at a portion of yet another. After an hour of perusal, he might have fully scrutinized a six- inch-square block, reflecting on all of the hidden meanings. This day, though, feeling particularly foul, and in no mood for reflections on his strayed Order, the master just put his head down and rambled on, chewing his lips to keep from mumbling aloud.



He was taken by complete surprise, then, when a man blocked his path. He jumped back, startled, then looked up into the smiling face of Brother Braumin Herde.



"Brother Dellman is doing well," the younger monk informed him. "They believe he will live, and will walk again, though not smoothly."



Master Jojonah didn't blink, his expression holding that angry stare and focusing it, not quite intentionally, on Brother Braumin.



"Is something wrong?" Braumin asked.



"Why would I care?" Jojonah blurted before he could con-sciously formulate a reply. He silently chastised himself immedi-ately, using the unintentionally sharp retort as a personal lesson concerning just how angry and out-of-control he had become. He had erred badly because of that anger and frustration, had pushed Markwart too far. Of course he cared about Brother Dellman! Of course he was glad that the sincere young man was healing well. And of course, Master Jojonah did not want to take his outrage out on Brother Braumin Herde, in effect, his closest friend. He looked at the hurt and surprised expression on Braumin's face, and formu-lated an apology.



Jojonah quickly bit back that reply, though, conjuring another image of Brother Braumin, one of the man lying lifeless in a wooden box. That image surely shook the old man, as painful a thought as a father might have for one of his children.



"Brother Braumin, you assume much," Jojonah went on in-stead, keeping his voice sharp, and loud.



Braumin glanced around nervously, fearing they might be over-heard, for there were indeed other monks in the long corridor, though none in the immediate area.



"Brother Dellman was injured badly," Jojonah elaborated. "Through his own foolishness, I have been told. Well, men die, Brother Braumin. It is the greatest truth, the one inescapable fact of our existence. And if Brother Dellman had died ... well, so be it. Better men than he have gone before."



"What nonsense is this?" Brother Braumin dared to ask, quietly, calmly.



"The nonsense of your self-importance," Jojonah snapped right back at him. "The nonsense to believe that any one man can make a difference, a real difference, in the course of human events." The master snorted and waved his hand dismissively and started by. Brother Braumin reached out to grab him, but Jojonah roughly shoved the arm away.



"Get on with your life, Brother Braumin," Jojonah scolded. "Find meaning where you will and secure your own little corner of the too-big world!"



Jojonah pounded off down the corridor, leaving poor Braumin Herde standing perplexed and wounded to his heart.



And Jojonah, too, was hurting. In the midst of his little speech he had almost succumbed to the despair he was spouting. But it was all for a noble purpose, he reminded himself now, finding again his inner center of harmony, throwing out all the bluster and a good deal of his anger in a great mental belch. He had berated Braumin, loudly, publicly, because he loved the man, because he wanted the man to keep away from him long enough for him to be far along the road with Master De'Unnero before Braumin even figured out that he was gone.



That was the safest course, Jojonah knew, given Markwart's foul mood and increasing paranoia. Braumin had to lie low for the time being, perhaps for a very long time. Given the "accident" that befell Brother Dellman, the course Jojonah had set Braumin on, with his talk of Avelyn and the faults of the Church and his visit to Avelyn's sacred grave, suddenly appeared to Jojonah as incredibly selfish. Battered by his own conscience, he had needed Braumin's support, and thus, in his desperation, had pulled the man into his se-cret little war.



What consequences that might hold for Brother Braumin Herde stung Jojonah profoundly now. Markwart had won, it seemed, and he had been a fool all along to believe he could beat the powerful man.



The blackness of despair crept up around him again. He felt weak and sick, the same sickness he had known on the road to Ursal, as the strength and righteous determination ebbed away.



He doubted he would live to see the great doors of St. Precious.



Master Jojonah's brutal treatment left Brother Braumin standing stunned in the long corridor. What could possibly have happened to so turn the master around?



Brother Braumin's eyes widened; he wondered if that had indeed been Master Jojonah he had been speaking with, or if, perhaps, Markwart, or even Francis, had taken control of the man's body.



Braumin calmed quickly, dismissing the notion. Possession was difficult enough on the unsuspecting who had never been trained in the use of the stones. Since Jojonah could use the soul stone, and use it well, he had definitely learned how to manipulate his spirit in such ways that would prevent such intrusion.



But what, then, had happened? Why had the master, after all these days, spoken so angrily and rudely to him? Why had the master practically disavowed all that the two of them had tried to accomplish, all that they considered Avelyn to stand for?



Braumin thought of poor Dellman and the unfortunate "acci-dent." Whispers among the younger monks hinted that it was no accident at all, but rather a coordinated maneuver by De'Unnero and the other two monks who had been working on the wheel with Dellman. And that line of thought led Braumin to only one answer: perhaps Jojonah was protecting him.



Braumin Herde was wise enough, and understanding enough of gentle Master Jojonah, to put aside his hurt and believe that to be the case. But still, it made little sense to him. Why would Master Jojonah change his mind now? They had already discussed in length the course this quiet rebellion must take, and that course was not one of great risk for Brother Braumin.



The monk was still standing in the long corridor, staring out the window at the dark waters of the cold bay below, musing over the possibilities, when a sharp voice from behind startled him. He turned to face Brother Francis, and in glancing around, had the dis-tinct feeling that the monk had not been far away all along. Perhaps Jojonah had known of Francis' spying, Braumin hoped.



"Saying your farewells?" Francis asked, smirking with ev-ery word.



Braumin looked back to the window. "To whom?" he asked. "Or to what? The world? Did you think I meant to jump out? Or perhaps you were only hoping as much."



Brother Francis laughed. "Come now, Brother Braumin," he said. "We really should not be arguing amongst ourselves. Not when such possibilities loom before us."



"I admit that never have I seen you in so fine a mood, Brother Francis," Braumin replied. "Has someone died?"



Francis let the sarcasm slide off his shoulders. "It is likely that you and I will be working together for many years to come," he said. "We really must learn more of each other if we are to properly coordinate the training of first-year students."



"First-year students?" Braumin echoed. "That is a job for mas-ters, not immaculates ..." As soon as he heard his own words, Brother Braumin could see where this all was leading, and he didn't care for the path at all. "What do you know?" he asked.



"I know that there will soon be openings for two masters at St.-Mere- Abelle," Francis said smugly. "Since few of the present group seems worthy, the Father Abbot will be left with difficult de-cisions, perhaps even waiting until those worthy in my class are promoted to immaculate in the spring. I had thought that your as-cension to master would be assured, given that you are the highest-ranked immaculate and were chosen as second on the most important mission to Aida, but truthfully, it seems a bit doubtful." He finished with another laugh and turned to leave, but Braumin wouldn't let him get away that easily. He grabbed Francis roughly by the shoulder and spun him about.



"Another mark against you?" Francis asked, eyeing Braumin's hand on his shoulder.



"What two masters?" Braumin demanded. He could guess easily enough that one of the departing masters would be Jojonah.



"Did not your mentor tell you?" Brother Francis replied. "I did see you speaking with him, did I not?"



"What two masters?" Braumin demanded more urgently, rug-ging hard on Francis' robe as he spoke.



"Jojonah," Francis answered, straightening and pulling away.



"How?"



"He is to depart on the morrow for St. Precious, to accompany Master De'Unnero, who will become the new abbot," Francis was all too happy to explain, and he did indeed enjoy the crestfallen expression on Brother Braumin's face.



"You lie!" Braumin yelled. He fought hard to hold control, re-minding himself that he should not openly appear distressed by Jojonah's departure. But this was more than he could bear. "You lie!" he said again, shoving Francis so hard that the man nearly fell to the floor.



"Ah, my temperamental Immaculate Brother Braumin," Francis scolded. "Another mark against your possible promotion, I fear."



Braumin wasn't even listening. He shoved past Francis and started down the corridor, first in the direction Jojonah had gone, but then, too hurt and confused to even think of confronting the man at that time, he spun about and walked briskly, then broke into an open run, to his private room.



Brother Francis watched it all with great amusement.



Despite his protests, Brother Braumin knew that Francis was not lying. The Father Abbot had struck against Master Jojonah, it seemed, in a way that was at least as effective as Brother Dellman's accident. With Master Jojonah far away in St. Precious, an abbey whose stature had been greatly diminished by the death of revered Abbot Dobrinion, and under the watchful eye of wicked De'Un-nero, Father Abbot Markwart had all but neutralized the man.



Now Braumin better understood the treatment Master Jojonah had given him in the corridor, the abrupt dismissal and disclaimer of all they had hoped to achieve. Braumin realized that the man was defeated and despairing, and so he put aside his own hurt and anger and sought out Jojonah, going to the master's private room.



"I find it difficult to believe that you would be stupid enough to come here," Jojonah greeted him coldly.



"I should desert my friends when they need me most?" Brother Braumin asked skeptically.



"Need you?" echoed an incredulous Jojonah.



"Blackness has come to your heart and spirit," Braumin pressed. "I see your pain clearly on your face, for I, above all others, know that face."



"You know nothing, and babble like a fool," Jojonah scolded, and truly it hurt him to speak so to Braumin. He reminded him-self that it was in the young monk's own interest, and so he pressed on. "Now be gone, back to your duties, before I report you to the Father Abbot and he pushes you even further down the list of promotions."



Brother Braumin paused and considered the words carefully, and then he came to a new understanding. Jojonah talked of the list of promotions and his place on it, and relating that to their last dis-cussion before they had met in the corridor, Brother Braumin could then see another course that the older man was following.



"I had thought that despair had defeated you," he said quietly. "I came to you only because of that."



His change in tone profoundly affected Jojonah. "Not despair, my friend," he said comfortingly. "Only pragmatism. It would seem that my time here is ended, and that my road to Brother Avelyn has taken an unforeseen twist. That bend may make my journey longer, but I'll not stop walking. However, it would seem that our time of walking together has reached its end."



"Then what am I to do?" Braumin asked.



"Nothing," Master Jojonah replied somberly, but without hesi-tation, for he had thought through this situation quite carefully.



Brother Braumin gave an incredulous, even derisive, snort.



"The situation has changed," Master Jojonah explained. "Ah, Braumin, my friend, I blame myself. When I learned of the plight of the Father Abbot's unfortunate prisoners, I could not keep away."



"You went to them?"



"I tried to go to them, but was stopped, and roughly so," Jojonah explained. "I underestimated the Father Abbot's reaction. In my foolhardiness, I overstepped the bounds of good sense, and have pushed Markwart too, too far."



"Never could compassion be called foolhardy," Brother Braumin was quick to put in.



"But still, my actions have forced Markwart to act," Jojonah replied. "The Father Abbot is too strong and too entrenched. I have not lost my heart or my way, I assure you, and I will go against Markwart openly when I deem the time is right, but you must promise me here and now that you will take no part in that battle."



"How could I ever make such a promise?" Brother Braumin firmly replied.



"If you ever loved me, you will find the way," Master Jojonah replied. "If you believe in what Avelyn says to us from his grave, you will find a way. Because if you cannot make that promise, then know that my road has reached its end, know that I will not follow the course of opposing Markwart. I must be alone in this; I must know that no one else will suffer for my actions."



There came a long pause, and finally Brother Braumin nodded. "I will not interfere, though I feel that your request is ridiculous."



"Not ridiculous, my friend, but practical," Master Jojonah replied. "I will go against Markwart, but I cannot win. I know that, and so do you, if you can put your bravado aside and be honest with yourself."



"If you cannot win, then why raise the fight?"



Jojonah gave a chuckle. "Because it will weaken Markwart," he explained, "and publicly raise issues which may find a root of truth in the hearts of many in the Order. Think of me as Brother Allabarnet, planting seeds in the hope that, in days when I am no more, they will live on and bear fruit for those who follow my foot-steps. Think of me as one of the original craftsmen at St.-Mere-Abelle, who knew that they could not live long enough to see their vision of the abbey fulfilled, but who went to their dedicated labors anyway, some spending their entire lives working on the intricate carvings of a single door, or cutting the stone for the original foun-dation of this magnificent structure."



The poetic words struck Braumin deeply but could not push him past his desire not only to wage battle, but to win. "If we truly be-lieve in Brother Avelyn's message, then we cannot stand alone," he said. "We must take the fight - "



"We do believe and we will, in the end, win out," Master Jo-jonah interrupted, seeing where this was going and knowing it to be a fool's ending. "I must hold faith in that. But for both of us to go against Markwart now would set our cause far, far back, perhaps beyond retrieval. I am an old man, and feeling older by the day, I assure you. I will begin the war against Markwart, and against the current way of the Church itself, and that will perhaps entice some of the Order to begin looking at our routines, our supposed tradi-tions, in a new light."



"And what is my place in this hopeless war?" Brother Braumin asked, trying to keep the sarcasm out of his tone.



"You are a young man, and will almost certainly outlive Dale-bert Markwart," Master Jojonah calmly explained. "That is, for-going any unfortunate accidents!" He didn't have to speak the name of Dellman to conjure the unpleasant images into Brother Braumin's mind.



"And then?" Braumin asked, his tone growing more composed.



"You will quietly spread the word," Master Jojonah replied. "To Viscenti Marlboro, to Brother Dellman, to all who will listen. Building on the little I will accomplish, you will find allies where you will, but take great care to make no enemies. And above all," Jojonah said, moving to a corner of the rug beside his desk, then pulling it back to reveal a secret compartment in the floor, "you will protect this." He took the ancient text out of the compartment and handed it to a wide-eyed Braumin.



"What is it?" the young monk asked breathlessly, understand-ing that he was holding something of great importance, that this old book was part of the reason for Master Jojonah's surprising decisions.



"It is the answer," Jojonah replied cryptically. "Read it quietly, secretly, and then hide it safely away and put it out of your thoughts. But not out of your heart," he added, patting Braumin's strong shoulder. "Play along with Father Abbot Markwart's games if you must, even to the extent of ambitious Brother Francis."



Braumin's face screwed up with incredulity.



"I am counting on you to become a master of St.-Mere-Abelle," Jojonah firmly answered that look. "And soon - perhaps even as my replacement. It is not out of the question, because Markwart wants to give open signs that he is waging no private battle against me, and our friendship is widely known. You must find your way to that spot and spend your years in ways that will place you in line for a position as abbot of one of the other abbeys, or perhaps even in line for the position of Father Abbot itself. Aim high, my young friend, because the stakes are so tragically high. Your reputation re-mains impeccable and impressive beyond Markwart's inner circle. When you have attained the pinnacle of your power, however high that might be, then secure your friends and decide how to continue the holy war that Brother Avelyn began. That might mean passingthe book and the dreams along to a younger, trusted ally, and fol-lowing a course similar to mine. Or the situation might call for you and your allies to openly wage the battle within the Church. Only you will know."



"You ask much."



"No more than I have asked of myself," Jojonah said with a self- deprecating chuckle. "And I believe that you are a finer man than ever was Jojonah!"



Brother Braumin scoffed at that remark, but Jojonah shook his head and would not back down. "It took me six decades to learn what you already have placed firmly in your heart," the old master explained.



"But I had a better teacher," Brother Braumin replied with a grin.



That brought a smile to beleaguered Jojonah's sagging face.



Braumin turned his attention to the book, holding it higher be-tween himself and the master. "Tell me more," he insisted. "What is in here?"



"Brother Avelyn's heart," Jojonah replied. "And the truth of what once was."



Braumin eased the book back down in front of him and tucked it under his voluminous robes, close to his heart.



"Remember all that I told you of the fate of theWindrunner, and hold that in comparison to the former ways of our Order," Jojonah explained.



Braumin hugged the book even tighter, giving a solemn nod. "Fare well, my friend, my teacher," he said to Jojonah, fearing he would never see the man again.



"Fear not for me," Master Jojonah replied. "For if I were to die today, I would die contented. I have found my heart and the truth, and have passed that truth on to able hands. We will win out, in the end."



Brother Braumin came forward suddenly and wrapped the large man in a great hug, holding it for a long, long time. Then he turned abruptly, not wanting Master Jojonah to see the moisture that had gathered in his eyes, and rushed out of the room.



Jojonah wiped his own eyes and quietly closed the door behind the man. Later that day, he, De'Unnero, and a score and five young escorts set out from the great gate of St.-Mere-Abelle. It was a formidable force accompanying the would-be abbot, Jojo-nah noted, twenty-five monks -  fourth- and fifth-year students, herecognized - wearing heavy leather protection and well-armed with sword and heavy crossbow. The old master sighed at the sight; he knew that this group was more to ensure De'Unnero's immediate and absolute dominance at St. Precious than to protect the would-be abbot on the road.



But what did it matter? Jojonah did not feel as though he had much fight in him; the road to St. Precious seemed imposing enough.



He hesitated as the gates of the abbey swung closed behind him, wondering if he should go back in and confront Markwart openly, should make his last stand here and now and be done with it, be-cause he felt very mortal this day, as though he was running out of time.



But he felt weak and sick, as well, and did not turn about to go and find Markwart.



He lowered his head, in shame and out of sheer weariness, and gradually tuned in to the speech that sharp-tongued De'Unnero was giving to all the group, himself included. The man barked commands about how they would proceed, a marching order, pro-tocol for the road, and he insisted from one and all, particularly from Jojonah, for he moved right up to stand before the man, that from this moment forward he be addressed as Abbot De'Unnero.



The title assaulted Master Jojonah's every sensibility. "You are not an abbot yet," he reminded the man.



"But perhaps some of you need practice with assigning me the title," De'Unnero retorted.



Jojonah held his ground as the man crowded forward.



"This comes from the Father Abbot himself," De'Unnero stated, unrolling a parchment with a snap of his arm. On it was written Markwart's latest edict, proclaiming that henceforth, Brother Marcalo De'Unnero would be known as Abbot De'Un-nero. "Have you anything else to argue, Master Jojonah?" the man asked smugly.



"No."



"Just no?"



Master Jojonah didn't back down, and didn't blink, his gaze boring holes into the accursed document.



"Master Jojonah?" De'Unnero prompted, and his tone ex-plained what he was waiting for.



Jojonah looked up to see that wicked smile, to see that De'Un-nero was, in fact, putting him on trial in front of the younger monks. "No, Abbot De'Unnero," he said, hating every word, but realizing that this was not the fight he wanted.



With Jojonah put in his place, De'Unnero motioned for the pro-cession to begin, and so they marched, in precise order, to the west.



It seemed to Master Jojonah that the road had just become much longer.