Deus ex Machina
by T. J. Young
part 1
Elias paused, listening. His acute sense of hearing told him someone was coming, but he couldn’t see them yet. He pulled his cowl over his head and quickened his pace. He wanted to reach the shrine before nightfall, preferably without attracting any undue attention.
Two travelers appeared around the next bend. Farmers, apparently, judging by their muddy clothes and the cart they were pulling. Elias stepped off the road to let them pass, keeping his head down. He hoped they would ignore him. But, alas, he was wrong.
“Ahoy there, father,” said one of them, hailing him. “A blessing to you this day.”
Elias gave him the merest nod, avoiding the man’s eyes. He lifted his walking stick slightly, hoping it was the right gesture.
The farmers stopped, their cart blocking the road. Elias noticed there were several coffins piled in the cart. Were they undertakers of some sort? He tried to remember what he had learned about these people, what their customs were, but his memories were clouded with pain.
“Are you heading to the shrine, father?” one of them asked. He had an open, kindly face but his eyes were narrow and suspicious.
Elias nodded again, shifting his feet uneasily. Did they suspect? He thought it unlikely; they were a technologically unsophisticated people, that much he knew. They were not likely to guess his origins.
“If you’re headed that way,” the farmer continued, “you’d better hurry.” He pointed up the road towards the mountain pass. “You see those clouds? That’s a storm coming. And from the looks of it, a nasty one too.” He sniffed the air. “You can smell the rain already. Probably snow up in the high country. Heavy snow. Are you prepared, father? Do you need anything? We don’t have much, but we could spare a blanket if you needed it.”
“No, thank you,” Elias said. “I have my cloak.” He lifted his arms to show them, glad now that he had stolen the thing. “I wish you well, brethren, but I must be on my way.” He turned and began making his way through the roadside grass, trying not to look like he was hurrying.
“Ah well, as you like it, father,” the farmer said. “You’re wise to be careful, what with the plague about these days.” He gestured at the coffins in the back. “These are unhappy times, father, dangerous times. Full of death.”
Elias stopped. A chill ran down his spine. Plague? Had he inadvertently brought disease down on these people? No, it wan’t possible. He had been fully examined and cleared. It must be a natural event. A microbe of some sort. Still, his stomach clenched with guilt.
“There’s the monastery up ahead,” the farmer called down to him as he walked away. “You could shelter there I think. They generally welcome travelers.”
Without looking back, Elias waved his hand in acknowledgement. The man’s mention of the monastery made him recall that their culture was based on belief in a divine overseer, emphasizing humility, self-sacrifice, and brotherly love. Admirable values, he thought bitterly, or at least they should be. Gaining the road again, he strode away as quickly as he could.
“Talkative one, isn’t he,” he heard the farmer say as he left them behind.
Once around a bend, behind some bushes, Elias paused and looked back to make sure they weren’t following. Although he couldn’t see them, he could hear the cart’s wheels creaking, growing fainter and fainter. Satisfied, he resumed walking towards the pass. The shrine was on the far side, and if the farmer was right, he needed to get over it before the storm hit. While his cloak was warm, he doubted it would be enough if it snowed.
“Just what I need,” he thought, “a storm.”
He hadn’t wanted this assignment, had protested vigorously against it; argued it wasn’t necessary, wasn’t right, that it was too risky. “The item was probably never even found,” he had said. But his objections had been overruled.
“Our decision is final,” the Council had said. “You are going.” And that was that.
He looked up at the sky. Just as the farmer had predicted, dark clouds now obscured the sun and he could see sheets of rain hanging below them like veils. Thunder rumbled in the distance. Already the mountain pass was invisible, hidden by mist and clouds. This was no summer storm. It was autumn now and there was a definite chill in the air. The farmer was right, Elias thought, death is nearby. He increased his pace until he was almost running.
* * *
The monastery of Saint Adolphus had been founded centuries earlier, at a time when religious worship was considered dangerously subversive. As a result, the monastery looked more like a fortress than a place of worship. It stood on a rocky outcrop high in the mountains near the Magra pass, its tall towers and crenellated walls offering substantial protection to the monks and pilgrims within, as well as giving the monks a commanding authority over the pass itself.
In past centuries, the monks had taken advantage of their position to charge travelers a toll for the privilege of going over the pass, but this practice had been abandoned in more recent times. Now, with plague rampant in the towns and many people having died or fled the region, there were few travelers.
One of the older monks, Brother Kellen, stood at a window high in the south tower, watching the storm. Rain mixed with snow lashed the walls and the twisting road below. Occasionally, flashes of lightening lit up the low clouds and thunder cracked overhead. He was watching a figure moving up the road, heading for the monastery gate.
The figure was wearing a monk’s hooded cloak, but Brother Kellen knew that all of his fellow brethren were inside, waiting out the storm, so the figure must be a stranger. He pitied the man, whoever he was. Even from a distance, he appeared bedraggled and weary as he struggled up the muddy road. Curious as to who it could be, Brother Kellen went down to the gate to greet him.
When he arrived, the man was just inside the entrance hall, his cloak dripping on the stone floor.
“Welcome, brother,” Kellen said.
The man nodded without speaking. He carried a tall walking stick and his cloak, which was too big for him, hung wetly on his body. His face was nearly invisible underneath his hood. Kellen’s curiosity grew. “Where are you from, brother?”
“I have come a long way,” the man said. “I was heading to the shrine, but the storm intervened. May I shelter here until it passes?”
“Yes, of course. We can sit by the fire in the refectory. Follow me.”
Kellen led the stranger into the large hall where the monks took their meals. It was empty at the moment, but a fire burned in the stone hearth in anticipation of supper. Kellen pulled one of the benches over to the fireplace and, together, they sat for a while in silence, enjoying the heat. Kellen thought the man’s reticence odd, but it was not for him to judge.
Finally, his curiosity getting the better of him, Kellen spoke. “You are on a pilgrimage to the shrine, brother? Are you ill? Do you seek its healing power?”
The man had thrown his hood back, baring his head, but he kept his face turned away, looking at the fire rather than at Brother Kellen. “I am not ill,” he said after a moment. “I wish simply to observe its power. I have heard of its miracles, but I hoped to witness one for myself. To renew my faith.”
“Ah, I see.” Brother Kellen looked the man over carefully. A monk who openly expressed doubt was unusual. The man was youthful in appearance, but Kellen noticed that his hands were gnarled and veined, as if he had been a laborer at some point. Odd, thought Kellen. Monks typically were apprenticed in their youth, and spent most of their lives studying scripture; their hands, like Kellen’s own, were softer, paler.
“You are in luck, brother,” Kellen said. “The relic is actually here at the moment, not at the shrine. It was brought here several days ago by the Abbot. The plague is bad on the far side of the pass; many of the monks there have died. The relic was brought here for safekeeping.” Kellen said this with a note of pride in his voice; obtaining the relic, even temporarily, and for such a grim reason, was a coup for the Abbot and the whole monastery.
The man’s head made a sudden, jerking movement, as if he were startled and tried to suppress it. For the first time, he turned to look at Kellen. “The relic is here, you say. In this monastery? Now?”
Kellen returned his look evenly. “Yes.” The man’s startled reaction was understandable, but there was something odd about his face, Kellen thought, a queer look to his eyes, as if they were misshapen. It made Kellen feel uneasy. It was not unheard of for unscrupulous men to pose as monks when they were not. “What is your name, brother?” he said aloud.
The man hesitated, then said softly, “I am called Unwin. From the monastery at Enferlin.”
“Ah,” Kellen said, “you have indeed come a long way.” He gave the man a second look. Enferlin was known for its unusually harsh teaching methods and practices. That must explain his hands, Kellen thought.
“The plague,” the man said, “has it been here already?”
Brother Kellen crossed himself vigorously. “No, brother, we have been fortunate. God has spared us for now, but the villages and towns on the far side of the pass have been emptied, and there are rumors of many deaths in the ports to the east.” Brother Kellen’s face became troubled and his hands fidgeted at his sides. “Some say God is punishing us for our sins, but it is hard to believe that God would be so harsh. Many have died, and they include many young children, who are surely blameless.”
Kellen’s voice faltered and the stranger looked at him again, pain and sympathy in his strange eyes. Perhaps he, too, has lost someone, Kellen thought.
“Do you know the story of the relic?” he asked, to change the subject. “How it came to be here?”
“No,” the stranger said, in the same soft voice. “I have heard bits and pieces, rumors, but never the whole tale. Tell me.”
Kellen nodded and leaned forward eagerly. “It is a strange tale indeed. One of the great wonders of the world. Five years ago, one of our brothers, Jeremiah, was crossing through the pass. It was a stormy day, much like today; snow was falling heavily. Jeremiah was near the top of the pass when he saw a bright light shoot across the sky. He thought at first it was a falling star, but then he heard a loud roaring sound, like the crack of thunder, and the light flashed too bright for him to look at it. He had to cover his eyes for a moment and, when he opened them again, he was vouchsafed with a divine vision.”
Brother Kellen paused and crossed himself, noting as he did so that the stranger, oddly, did not follow suit. Kellen frowned, but thought the stranger might simply be tired or inattentive.
“The vision was of a divine chariot,” Kellen continued, “glittering with silver and gold, even amid the snow and the clouds. It was surrounded by three winged angels. Jeremiah, overcome with awe, fell to his knees and wept at the sight, but the angels ignored him. A cold wind blew down off the mountain, and Jeremiah began to freeze. He got back on his feet and slowly made his way forward.
“The angels were doing something, but Jeremiah could not tell what; it appeared to be a ritual of some kind. As he drew near, he could see a fourth angel lying in the snow, as if injured, and one of the angels was ministering to him, holding over him a silver cross and praying.”
Again Brother Kellen paused to cross himself and, this time, the stranger copied him, much to Kellen’s relief.
“One of the angels looked up and saw Jeremiah. There was a flash of light, and Jeremiah felt himself pushed backwards by a divine force. He fell and, for several minutes, his sight was obscured. When finally he was able to move again, the angels and their chariot were gone. But they had left Jeremiah a great gift: the healing cross he had seen the angel using remained behind, half-buried in the snow. Jeremiah gave a prayer of thanks and took up the cross, bearing it reverentially down the mountain. He and his brethren thereafter built the shrine, where the relic has been housed ever since.”
Kellen bowed his head and said a silent prayer. The stranger also bowed his head, but he appeared to Kellen to be more sorrowful than reverential. He had closed his eyes and his shoulders were slumped in dejection.
They sat for several minutes in silence, as the fire crackled and the stranger’s cloak began to steam. Rain drummed on the roof and, somewhere above them, a bell rang the hour, although the refectory remained empty.
“The relic’s healing power is truly miraculous,” Kellen said eventually. “We owe God a great thanks for His gift,”
“Indeed,” Unwin said, his voice hollow and emotionless. “You are right.”
“Many pilgrims have been cured by it of all manner of diseases. Broken bones, fevers, stomach ailments, leprosy, blindness, the smallpox... Even the plague is no match for its power. With so many sick recently, one can truly say that it has arrived at the time of our greatest need.”
The stranger nodded.
“I myself have been cured of several aches and pains by it. And its fame is spreading. Every year there are more pilgrims, from farther and farther away, even from across the sea. I shouldn’t wonder if the relic will someday change the whole world. The Abbot thinks that we may vanquish the plague one day and all other ailments with it forever. That Eden may be upon us at last.”
Kellen’s face was filled with hope, but he noticed that Unwin did not seem to share his optimism. He remained slumped in his chair, his whole body seeming to bow under a great weight.
“The whole world,” Unwin echoed softly, more to himself than Kellen. “So many saved who might otherwise have died.” He fell silent once again, adjusting his cloak around his shoulders and edging a little closer to the fire.
Kellen watched him for a while, wondering at his apparent sorrow, then said: “The ways of God are mysterious, but He is ever merciful, brother. I will pray for you.”
Unwin nodded but said nothing.
“The storm may last all night,” Kellen continued. “You are welcome to stay here if you like, but I’m afraid we have only very poor accommodations.”
The stranger made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “That is no matter. I can sleep anywhere. I thank you for your hospitality.” He turned to look at Kellen and there was a haunted, pleading look in his strange eyes that made Kellen feel an obscure pity for him.
“I would like to see the relic, if I may,” the stranger said. “I have journeyed so far and for so long. Now that I am here, I feel an urgency to look upon it. Can you show it to me now?”
Kellen, taken aback, frowned. The request was highly unusual. As a holy relic, the cross was not to be used for idle purposes. When it was at the shrine, it was brought out only at specific intervals, with great ceremony, after mass had been performed. Although the Abbot had not yet established any procedures respecting the cross while it remained at the monastery, Kellen instinctively felt that the dignity of the object did not admit of casual viewing. The stranger should know that, he thought.
“The relic is kept in the chapel under lock and key,” Kellen said stiffly. “Only the Abbot may open it. Tomorrow, after morning mass, you may approach him with your request.”
The stranger dropped his eyes. “Of course.” He shifted in his chair, his shoulders hunching as if he were uncomfortable. “I apologize for my impatience. I do not wish to cause offense.”
Kellen acknowledged the apology with a slight incline of his head. “When you are ready,” he said, “I will convey you to your room.” He then bowed and left, leaving the stranger staring vacantly into the fire.
* * *
Copyright © 2025 by T. J. Young
