The Treasures of Heaven (standard:drama, 2006 words)
Author: Gavin J. Carr	Added: Oct 05 2008	Views/Reads: 3370/2180	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
It is the eighth century and on an island monastery off the west coast of Britain, Matthew, a young monk, must make a frightening choice. The Sea Wolves are coming - vicious raiders that will stop at nothing in their mission to plunder and kill. Mat

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

The door to the chamber shakes. It seems to Matthew that the locking bar
must give soon under the barrage. 

“Wherefore, if God so clothe the grass of the field, which to day is,
and to morrow is cast into the oven, shall he not much more clothe you, 
O ye of little faith?” 

One of the Brothers, seated nearest the door, hitches up his cassock and
runs. There is nowhere to go but back to the dead-end of his cell. 

*** 

It sometime seemed to Matthew that he had been on the monastery for a
lifetime. But then he would remember Brother Erasmus and realised it 
was nothing. 

Erasmus was hump-backed, like one of the leviathans that swam the sea
around the island. He did not know his age, but he knew exactly how 
long he had been a Brother. Scores of vertical lines were scratched 
onto his cell wall, one for each midsummer he had been in the Order. 

Forty-eight marks. 

Matthew knew this, for he had often counted them by the light of a
tallow candle. He sounded the numbers as the monk instructed him, his 
breath warm and rank on his back. 

Forty-eight marks. 

A litany in the long nights he was an oblate. 

One...two...three...four...five...six...seven... 

Thoughts of home and family kept him warm on the coldest of nights.
Their heat undiminished by the pain and the grunting of Brother 
Erasmus. 

Two years after he had arrived at the monastery Matthew's brother had
visited him. When he had left, Tom had been a handsome lad of seventeen 
and filled with hope for the future. 

The Tom that turned up had been almost unrecognisable. A shiny, puckered
burn scar marred his left cheek, pulling his mouth into a sneer. His 
eye was a washed-out white, his left ear red and weeping. He was near 
starved, dressed in louse ridden, mud stiffened rags. 

They were dead, he had told him. 

Tom had been courting, visiting the baker's daughter down the street
when a fire broke out. He tried to rescue them, but had been overcome 
by the smoke and heat. 

A neighbour had rescued him from the flames and for a time death was
very near, he said. In his delirium Tom had seen mother and father and 
knew they had gone to a better place. A place where there was no 
suffering, no pain. 

Tom came to envy them. The fire had eaten his hands and left him lame.
He lived now on pity. Pity tasted exactly like bile, he said. He had 
had his fill of pity. 

Matthew had looked at him then and said nothing. His sneering mouth made
him look cruel in the sparse light from the cell window. After a moment 
Matthew saw that he was crying. Tears rolled from his right eye, 
caressing the unblemished skin of his cheek. His left eye stared 
lifelessly, its milky-white translucence seeing nothing. 

The Lord had abandoned them, Tom said. 

The year after Matthew and the other children were taken, the priest had
returned. It was as their father had predicted. There was not enough 
seed for the harvest and there was famine. The year before, in their 
hunger, they had swept the forests, dells and streams of fish and game. 
Now there was nothing and the villagers were dying. Father had vowed to 
make a stand. There could be no taxes that year. Mother Church must 
feed its children. 

The men-at-arms had come in the night, Tom said. They fired the thatch
and disappeared into the darkness. They had been made an example of. 
God's judgement. 

Matthew had wanted to leave the monastery then. There was no anger, only
a deep disgust that flipped and squirmed inside his belly like the 
worms of the grave. Tom had stopped him. 

He watched as his brother, half-starved, crammed the poor bread and
cheese of the monastery into his mouth. Was he mad? he asked. The world 
was a terrible place. When Matthew was taken it had been difficult. But 
they had come to see it for what it was. A blessing. Matthew would 
never have to worry about the clothing on his back or the food on his 
plate. There would always be a roof over his head and someone to nurse 
him in sickness. He would be a fool to give that up, said Tom. 

But the Church had murdered his family. How could he forget that? 

Tom had reached forward and grasped his brother's arms. The fingers of
his right hand were rough and callused. His left, soft and over-smooth. 


The world was a terrible place, he said again. It was greed that drove
men to sin. The Church, although inspired by God, was the work of men. 
If people truly believed then things could be changed, he said. Things 
could be different. Only good people could make a good Church. 

Stay and make a difference, Tom had told Matthew. Teach them that greed
and gold are not the way. Ye cannot serve God and mammon. 

*** 

The money sacks are empty. The gold has been devoured, hidden where the
Abbot knows it will never be found. 

“...Therefore take no thought, saying, What shall we eat? or, What shall
we drink? or, Wherewithal shall we be clothed?...” 

Wood begins to crack and splinter. Panic is in the room, as palpable as
Matthew's heart-beat. The sea wolves have arrived. 

“...for your heavenly Father knoweth that ye have need of all these
things. But seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; 
and all these things shall be added unto you...” 

The door crashes open. The man who enters wears an iron helmet, crested
by a pair of outstretched eagle wings. His face is dark and sun licked, 
his beard as fine as. He carries an axe in his right hand, its blade 
stained red with blood. His arms are thickly muscled, the blue stain of 
tattoos like the sensuous coils of serpents. 

As he steps over the threshold he touches the iron hammer around his
neck, calling on Thor's protection against the powerful magic of the 
White Christ. 

“W-We are poor brothers, sworn to poverty,” says the Abbot. “We have no
gold or treasure.” 

The man steps close until they are almost touching. The sea wolf towers
over the monk, fixing him with his needle stare. 

“Give us gold and we go. No gold, then we burn you alive in this hall.” 

At this moment all are united by their dilemma. All know where the
treasure is hidden, have swallowed their share. Yet all know the word 
of a sea wolf is nothing. Their bellies will be cut as a thief will 
slit a fat purse to free the gold within. The stones ringing with the 
music of coins even as it is soaked in their blood. All curse the 
Abbot, for all know that silence is their only hope. 

Two more wolves join the flock. They grab the Abbot and hold him over
the table. 

Brother Simon, overcome with terror, grips the dais until his knuckles
are white. He does not look up from the illuminated letters in front of 
him. He is shouting, as if the Lord is deaf and cannot hear his pleas. 

“T-Take therefore no t-thought for the morrow: for the m-morrow shall
take thought for the things of itself. S-Sufficient u-unto the day is 
the evil thereof.” 

The wolves laugh. One of them raises his axe. The Abbot closes his eyes;
death is on its way. 

“Enough!” 

A man stands at the door. His helmet is of the finest workmanship, free
of the blossoming of rust. His sword would buy three horses or eight 
comely slaves. 

“There is nothing here,” he says. “It is as they say. They are poor
Brothers. We have searched and there is nothing. Come, there is no 
honour in killing unarmed men.” 

The sea wolves look doubtfully at their Lord. Their faces dark at being
deprived of their sport. But they obey and the Abbot offers a silent 
prayer. 

Matthew knows what he must do. He rises to his feet; the coins shifting
in his stomach, making him feel sick. 

It was as Tom had said. Greed drives men to sin and the Church is the
work of men. He will teach them that greed and gold are not the way. 

He tells the sea wolves where the gold is hidden. 

When the dagger slips into Matthew's belly, his Brother's bellies, he
thinks of God and mammon. He thinks finally of the treasures in Heaven. 


The End. 


Tweet