Sanctus. Simon Toyne

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      1

      A flash of light filled his skull as it struck the rock floor.

      Then darkness.

      He was dimly aware of the heavy oak door banging shut behind him and a thick batten sliding through iron hasps.

      For a while he lay where he’d been thrown, listening to the pounding of his pulse and the mournful wind close by.

      The blow to his head made him feel sick and dizzy, but there was no danger he was going to pass out; the agonizing cold would see to that. It was a still and ancient cold, immutable and unforgiving as the stone the cell was carved from. It pressed down and wrapped itself round him like a shroud, freezing the tears on his cheeks and beard, chilling the blood that trickled from the fresh cuts he himself had inflicted on his exposed upper body during the ceremony. Pictures tumbled through his mind, images of the awful scenes he had just witnessed and of the terrible secret he had learned.

      It was the culmination of a lifetime of searching. The end of a journey he had hoped would lead to a sacred and ancient knowledge, to a divine understanding that would bring him closer to God. Now at long last he had gained that knowledge, but he had found no divinity in what he had seen, only unimaginable sorrow.

      Where was God in this?

      The tears СКАЧАТЬ