The Forbidden Pool

Working quickly in the darkness, his eyes adjusted well since his long stay in the utter darkness of the forest, Mikel used his sword to cut the pattern of a beggar's cloak, one that would conceal his body and his face. So dressed he walked more openly towards the village proper hoping that none would question the hanging sword that was impossible to hide even under the cloak.

Darkness almost so bright as dawn to his eyes alone covered the land until dawn in truth came. The walk had been long and slow, for no amount of disguise would hide large patches of blood soaked into the material. The coming of dawn brought worse with it, the coming of people. All spared him no more than a glance, and for a moment he wondered if perhaps one might pause to offer coin or alms. None did, and strangely he felt unsure whether it was good or bad.

If the pool was near, these people would perhaps know.

That thought dragged his feet forward, shuffling, staggering and hoping those who saw took him as no more than a leper, for indeed he was of sorts, and yet worse. From a distance he had seen a structure, a barn by the look but atop it a giant bell... a church, he hoped.

There were few people on the streets yet, but still Mikel felt eyes fall upon him and watched as people turned aside to avoid him. Disgust, not for those he saw but for himself, rose in him, but Mikel soldiered forward until he was knocking loudly upon the doors of the church.

It was some minutes before the door was answered, long, worrisome minutes.

"One moment, one moment," an aged voice called, followed by the sound of locks sliding out of place. "Come now, what's the-" the voice broke off suddenly as the old man opened the door and looked upon a man he assumed to be a leper. "Come, sick brother, come and rest yourself within."

Mikel feared to speak openly yet, and allowed the man so hunched with age the two walked quite the same way to usher him to a bench on which he could sit or lay, as was his wont. He chose to sit.

The priest walked off and returned shortly with some cold porridge and bread and a pitcher of water. "Eat and drink, my child, it will add to your strength."

"Thank you, father," Mikel responded with an untested and raspy voice. "But I warn you that what you are about to see is worse than you might expect."

The response was a nod that said the priest had heard the line often enough before. Mikel shook his head but reached up and pulled the strip of cloth from before his face. The old priest gasped and stumbled a few steps away, dropping the bowl and pitcher in the process of raising open hands to his face. "The gods preserve!"

"I am sorry, father," responded the human horror who knew not that his eyelids were not the only wounds that bled. The old priest looked on a face that bleed from creases in the forehead, cracks in the lips, the edge of the mouth, across the cheeks, beside and below the eyes, adding the look of sickly makeup to a face already clumped with skin so dry it could almost pass for tree bark.

"It is I who am sorry, dear child of the gods, for I should not have responded so." But he did not move to clean the mess made or replace the lost refreshment, or even to come nearer the man.