See No Evil- Chapter 2, What Dreams May Come
Igrayne stood atop an overturned crate in the city square. Painted on this crate was an image of a keg with three x’s across the body of the barrel, the image dusty and tarnished against the slatted pieces of wood. Before her, several dozen rows Mordenshire’s citizens huddled closely to hear her words. Their bleary red eyes, slumped shoulders, and vacant stare told their story. The crowd moseyed about anxiously and she smiled easily at them, putting to rest weary nerves. From that point on, they were fish on the hook.
Her presence was an alluring paradox. On one hand, she spoke with a gentle calmness. The ease and tender nature of her words floating across the crowd like a quiet breeze moving grass. Then in the next sentence, she had the command presence of a general. Her faith and conviction evident in the message.
She’d been at this for several weeks now. Making the fliers by hand and praying to Ezra that someone, anyone would acknowledge them. It wasn’t always immediate success though. The first time she mounted this overturned, shoddy crate to spread the path of the pure heart, no one showed.
The first breakthrough came at the first rays of dawn, five days after she’d started this journey of faith. She was just packing up, feeling the sting of a rejection in her efforts once more, when a motley crew of two men and two women groggily emerged from the inn which neighbored Igrayne’s preaching crate. The shared words with each other that brought a reddened blush to Igraynes cheeks, as the men’s hands worked their way up the women’s skirts, drunken grins plastered stupidly on their faces at what they knew was to come.
She sighed. How nice it would be if this were a husband and wife enjoying each other’s company and keeping the vigor of their marriage alive. But no, this was the typical wild flings and trysts she had targeted this part of town for. The inn that doubled as a well-known brothel and gambling house was in direct view of her station. It was here at this crossroads of debauchery that she strategically decided to place her preaching crate, for it was here she felt Ezra needed her most.
As the revelers walked past Igrayne without so much as a nod, luck, or perhaps divine intervention struck, literally, as one of her fliers conveniently drifted downward from the sky and spiraled like a leaf on the wind directly into one of the women’s face. She let out a muffled groan, ripping the parchment from her tired visage and crumbling it into a ruined ball within her fist. She glared irritably upward to the figure standing atop the preaching box, as did the rest of her companions.
Igrayne offered an apologetic smile. “So sorry, ladies and gentlemen. Didn’t mean for the Grand Scheme to ruin your evening. But since we’re here…” Igrayne offered a curious glance and motioned to the parchment the woman was getting ready to toss away. Perhaps it was Igrayne’s beauty, or perhaps just something about her presence, but one of the men seemed mildly convinced enough to take a look. Red rimmed, hung-over eyes strained to focus on the words, though one part in particular stood out for upon reading it the man’s face went from a hazy grin to a more serious and nearly guilty countenance.
“Come to me, all of you who are weary and carry heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Let me teach you, because I am humble and gentle at heart, and I will give rest for your souls, for my burden is light. Cry no more, for I shall cry for you instead.”
This struck a chord with the downtrodden folk of Mordent who has suffered in poverty and hopelessness for so long. They sought relief in the spoils of the physical world to escape their pain. The promise of a simple, gentle release from their burdens and troubles, however much a last-ditch effort, seemed worth a shot. For nothing else had worked, so why not Ezra?
The sinful group remained to hear Igrayne out, reluctantly at first, though by the time she had finished her sermon, the transformed look on their faces told of a warmed heart that likely hadn’t been felt in some time. Igrayne left them with a final plea, not admonishing, not judgmental, simply a request…“As Ezra does not condemn you nor do I. Go now, and sin no more.”
This statement of liberation and forgiveness moved something in their souls. Slowly, the glistening rim of tears formed under each set of eyes, and as the pairs departed with their hands to themselves, Igrayne could hear quiet sniffling. They say word of mouth is the best form of advertising. This must be true, for the transformed sinners told their friends, who told their friends, who told their friends, and it was not long before Igrayne’s sad crowd of zero was soon dozens. Within a few weeks’ time, the sleepy, vacant churches of Ezra’s Pure Hearts were bustling with activity. The joyous and redemptive message caught on like wildfire to the beleaguered people of Mordent.
At then center of it all was Igrayne to thank as the guide which led these searching souls there. Choirs sung joyful hymnals, and like dirt washed away by rain, the grip of darkness slowly began to erode from Mordentshire. But the forces of darkness are at work as much as those of light. Success without being tested is hollow like a blade not yet tempered through the fires.
The joyful sound of the choirs floated upon the mists to the Fiends ears. It was unbearable, screeching in his ears like a thousand nails on a chalk board, their piercing wail driving him mad. Since his embarrassment years before, the fiend had spent day and night in it’s rotting hollow, obsessing over the when and how of his revenge. Igrayne’s success was just a further slap in the face. Every soul she turned from darkness was and embarrassment to him, a reminder of his failure to stop Raven’s message. The fiend was a crafty sort though, and perhaps with the right amount of finessing, Igrayne’s success would be her undoing.
By now, Igrayne’s reputation had grown immense. Gone were the days of preaching in the public square that stunk of animals and stale ale. Now she occupied a space in the local church, which thanks to her efforts sported brightly shone marble floors, intricately made wooden pews, and a full congregation every fifth day that clung to her every word….though she still kept the ale crate that started it all. Perhaps the Fiend though could exploit Igrayne’s newfound celebrity status. After all, it was the clinging to the material world that he’d used to plunge Mordent into sorrow to begin with.
He came to Igrayne in her dreams, as often those tempters and defilers do. In the first night of her nocturnal vision, she was a figure of great wealth and influence. Igrayne moved through the crowd of Mordentshire effortlessly, she was beloved, people smiled and waved, praised her and praised Ezra. The church, once barely more than a wooden hovel of a few rooms had grown into an immense, pristine cathedral, with spires that spiked high into the heavens, fingers pointing up to praise Ezra. Igrayne felt the warmth the crowd felt in turn towards her. The elation of taking her audience on a journey of the heart, and seeing the emphatic nods in a sea of people who listened to her words on a regular basis. But alas, it was not to be.
Igrayne knew the trappings of the material world were a detour, and illusion meant to derail her from her righteous path. Most importantly, she knew these were not her visions, but the images put there by an alien force meant to tempt her from her modesty. Her success was grand already, yes, but it would never become the center of her efforts. Nor would she make idols of riches where instead could be idols of her savior. Upon waking, she pushed the idea from her mind, however pleasing the image may have been.
On the second night, again the fiend appealed to Igrayne’s inner longings. In this vision, she saw into her future. She was a successful anchorite as always, middle aged now, with the first signs of time passing upon her face. Years had passed since her humble beginnings, and through the turning wheel of time, she noticed something missing she’d hoped to be there. She was alone, unmarried, without children, no one to love her in the physical sense, the raw emotion of a lover’s touch to set her heart on fire.
The empty, dreary feeling of loneliness tugged down at Igrayne’s heart like an anchor. Had she really given up so much of herself that she would be without companionship in it’s truest form? It was then, when the feeling of her solitude was at it’s peak, that…he…strode into her chamber. The most handsome gentlemen she’d ever seen. He was dressed in regal finery of green and white, the tails of his coat neatly hanging over a fit framed body. He strode to her with such confidence that she felt the tingling anxiety of desire. As the gentlemen reached her, his hand brushed away a lose strand of her from her face. His touch was lightning, and Igrayne could feel her desire about to spill over, her face buzzed where his hand rested on her skin.
“You deserve happiness, Igrayne. You deserve love, passion…you’ve given so much. And now I’m here to give to you in return. No one should be alone with all this burden to bear”. The gentlemen’s voice was silk moving across a bedsheet. Soft and alluring, barely audible as he whispered into her ear. Her eyes locked with his. Yes…she did want this, she did want companionship, and love, and to go to bed being held tightly at night. His lips moved towards hers, brushing gently for a split second. Igrayne’s eyes began to close, leaning in to embrace this wild moment.
And that’s when she saw it. Something ever so subtle just before their kiss locked. Tiny, reptilian slits for the gentlemen’s pupils. Black and dark as the night. They reflected in the candlelight like an animal’s do in the brush, lingering just outside the campfire’s glow. Igrayne yanked her head away from him.
She said up straight in her bed like a bolt of lightning, chest rising and falling rapidly in heaving, gulping breaths. Her nightgown was soaked through with sweat, and she looked frantically from side to side, taking a few moments to get her bearings. Realizing she was safe and in her bedchambers alone, her pulse finally slowed from it’s race. Something caused her hand to gingerly touch the side of her face though. The feintest sense of an electric, tingly feeling still lingered on her flesh where the “Gentlemen’s” hand embraced her.
Within the dark void of the mists, the fiend paced back and forth in rage. Twice now were his efforts thwarted. He couldn’t stop the message from being delivered. Nor could he get Igrayne to fall to the vices of greed and lust. Sometimes, to do things right, he thought, you need to do them in person. With that, the grotesque, contorted hand of the fiend reached out, parting the mist veil that separated this primal evil from our world, and stepped forth into the hollow. He would corrupt Igrayne if it was the last thing he did, for there is one vice that holds sway over human hearts more than all…