"And I will prepare destroyers against thee,
Every one with his weapons:
and they shall cut down thy choice cedars,
And cast them into the fire."

The following is a translation of a vellum scroll found amongst the possessions of German Field Marshal Hermann Goering after World War Two. Archeologist Elijah Blackthorn is convinced of the scroll's authenticity, though the Vatican is skeptical. The Nazi leader made it part of his notorious art collection, unaware of the testimonial worth of Abbot Galen's assertion. Stored in a root cellar of Jean's Chalet near Narbonne the relic box and the scrolls were taken to the Nazi Reichsmarschall when the Germans invaded France in 1940.

Accidentally shipped to Barcelona after the war, a dissident to Franco gave the relics to a Dominican priest in Barcelona. After the death of Father Juan Carlos Jesus (an associate of swashbuckling Native American explorer Dr. Elijah Blackthorn), the objects were willed to the archeologist. The translation isn't perfect and Dr. Blackthorn has substituted modern phrases to make the text flow better, so you students beware. Vatican scholars point to such minutiae as the Abbot employing the technique of Mos Teutonicus: a method of boiling flesh from bones more than a century before the practice was used as evidence the document is a fraud. Dr. Blackthorn points out that Abbot Galen could've heard of a primitive version of this scheme. Blackthorn never promises to be without error, just to offer the material for review. At times, his creative license may be a tad overdone. He offers this information as only a footnote to history and a minor lesson, if not verification of any relic. You students must decide for yourself.

Dr. Enoch Marsh
M.I.T.
Miskatonic Institute of Technology

In the year of our Lord, 860, the Vikings came to our monastery. Seated in southern France, such a possibility seemed unlikely for a Benedictine Abbey. When the giants from the North sailed through the Pillars of Hercules on some fool's errand to attack Rome, they diverted north and attacked France. Why? Common theory is because we were there.

I leave this record as penance for my own conscience, as my death draws nigh. In time, the pages will rot in the relic box and with them, my sins. I acted as I saw fit, and God will support me in the Day of Judgment. Surely, following the Rule of St. Benedict all of these years will count for service.

After the hordes of Norsemen put ashore at Roussillon they sacked Narbonne, but avoided the monastery in the hills, yet not the nunnery nearby. Their savagery was unmatched even in legends of the Celts ravaging Rome centuries before the birth of our Lord. There seemed little planning or thought to the horrid rape of both land and person, yet they marched on. Such pell-mell activities caused them to be overextended beyond the seasons fit for sailing home.

Winter arrived, and the savages took to quarters on an island in the Camargue in the Rhone delta. Often, they ventured out not afraid of the cold, but resting and rebuilding. Before a grand confrontation with Frankish forces in the spring, they remembered us.

Unlike the hated barbarians of Celtic, Frankish, or Germanic birth, these men of the North weren't hindered with fear of a house of God. We in the cloister heard terrible tales of rape, murder, and pillage from afar and thought ourselves safe. Never would we have imagined that these men would come for us with no concern for their eternal souls.

With insane fury, the giant men of Yngvar's group broke down the doors of the monastery. With my bad hip, the result of an ill-healing break when I was a child, I regarded myself blessed to reach the sanctuary. Tales spun by those pitiful survivors of their touch said Yngvar hunted far, wide, and long over revenge for their leader's father, Ragnar. When vile Ragnar tried to invade the territory years before some wrong must've been done to him in these men's minds. Inexplicably, that was good enough reason to sail from their distant homelands to destroy all in their path.

In the main sanctuary of the spacious church Brother Simon loomed in front of the altar. I placed the long bar across the double doors with the din of the savages outside the stonewalls, and limped up the aisle. Brother Simon, sporting hallow eyes and an enormous frame, looked quite the figure of the guardian angel in front of the relic box.

"Brother Simon!" I called to him. "Help me with the saint. These animals will not defile the head of John the Baptist."

Brother Simon nodded, his massive hand resting on the secure wooden relic box behind him. Simon, a person of Frankish blood, was once a pagan warrior. Taking up the cowl for our Lord, Simon's eyes were ablaze at the sound of war. I could take the barbarian out of the fields, but could all of the Holy Water in the fount wash the blood of warfare from his hands?

The shiny V-shaped wooden shrine was devoted to the relic in the house of St. Jude, patron Saint of the oppressed. Inside the black, decorative container rested the actual skull of John the Baptist. Faithfully handed from priest to priest, authentic and true, many miracles were attributed to it. John's friends, the Zealots, stole the head from the wife of Herod. A few of them converted, and avoided the final skirmish of their brothers at Masada. The skull, endowed to each generation of Abbots, fell into my hands and I resolved not to let those bloody brutes have it.

Unfortunately, this day the Saint didn't see fit to endow us with his grace. I hurried to the area beside the statue of our blessed Mother. Near the shrine, but down several steps from Brother Simon, I threw back the rug that concealed the escape hatch to the tunnels below. The doors of the sanctuary burst inward. Hundred of candles jumped at once as if struck by the exhaled, fetid breath of Satan himself. No creatures reeking of brimstone entered our church. However, gracing our presence were giant, hirsute men with the smell of sweat, stale wine, and intestines on them.

Brother Simon froze, no longer trying to lift the dark chest. He knew it was too late once one of the barbarians threw a Bible into a stained glass image of the tablets containing the Ten Commandments. Brother Simon faced down the advancing men with no alarm in his green eyes. They stopped running and throwing hymnbooks, perplexed by our stationary demeanor. Each Viking invader was thickset and heavy with muscles. No amount of clothing, furs, or armor could mask this feature superior to any man in our area. Some wore smooth metallic helmets; others let their manes of bushy hair fly free. A few possessed beards so thick I could scarcely see that they possessed eyes. On a few of them, I could even discern necklaces. My heart leapt when I thought they wore the cross, but soon it was obvious that the emblem lacked the top bar...a 'T' for their god, Thor.

These first fighters parted, and a man no more vile or scary than the others strode forward. The only thing that set him apart was that he sported reddish hair and the men provided him room to move. Assuming this their leader I resigned myself to meeting my Lord that day and maneuvered back on my game hip as best I could.

"Priest?" the red haired giant asked, in a broken Danish that I comprehended. "What is here that is so valuable? We heard you have a soul prisoner here who works wonders?"

Brother Simon's fingers drummed on the box, giving the importance of the object more credence. Certain heathens believed the soul resided in the head. Perhaps this is what their commander meant, but I don't know for true.

"For those who believe in the Love of Jesus Christ, the Head of John the Baptist can restore the sick. Miracles are never a show." I told the man I wagered was Yngvar.

The giant roared with laughter, and his men followed suit. A cacophony of voices rebounded in the top of the church bearing no semblance to the placid tones we sang for Vespers.

"I would see this miracle!" Yngvar exclaimed, gesturing with his left hand. An iron battle-axe pumped at the ceiling, and then at the Viking in the front of the band. "Go to him, Erik!"

The Viking farthest down the aisle raised his two-edged sword, cocking it back to strike, as he moved toward Brother Simon. In the corner of the left eye of this man was an ugly scar healed over. This Erik was no stranger to battle.

Though stalked, the big monk bestowed no sense of fear. Brother Simon, powerful and brash, stood firm before the heathen host. His courage made my heart race as he reached behind the relic box to seize the iron cross from the altar. With the rough gait of a warrior heading into the lines of combat, the Frankish barbarian who took up the cross for peace took up the iron cross for war. Perhaps it was due to the bemusement of the charging Erik that Brother Simon executed his mission so well. Rushing ahead fast the man in the monk's habit dodged the swinging blade, ducked low and swung the iron cross up like an axe. The Norseman stood, legs apart, braced to deliver a deathblow to the monk. This is why the cross bearing the arm of Jesus Christ buried itself in the groin of the Viking. The thud of the wound, the squelch of iron into flesh, was punctuated with the gasp of the Vikings.

Instant astonishment registered on the barbarian's face, but Brother Simon didn't let the moment go. He swiped Erik's big arm down making sure the sword couldn't rise again, and withdrew the cross from the crotch of the Viking. With no hesitation, Brother Simon gripped the cross with both hands and sank the other arm of Christ in the forehead of the Norseman. I imagine Erik wished he'd worn a helmet, but why should he? We were men of God. What harm would possibly come to him in this place? When Erik turned to his comrades, cross in his forehead, Simon took up the heavy broadsword of the Norseman. With more ease than I believed possible, Brother Simon sliced Erik's head free from his shoulders.

Erik stumbled and fell back to his buttocks spewing founts of scarlet into the hazy candle smoke. I expected the barbarians to swarm over Brother Simon. As God is my witness, Yngvar's men laughed and clapped their weapons on their armor. Dumbfounded, I watched as they paid a tribute to the gall of the powerful monk. This accolade was short lived for they drew swords and charged ahead. Brother Simon, though armed with the sword of the fallen Erik, perished valiantly in the crush of warriors flooding the aisle and leaping over benches.

I shuffled back near the trap door, looking longingly at the relic box as the immense red haired man strutted towards the shrine. The Vikings kept their distance from me, probably plotting a slow death ceremony later. I fear my infirmity rendered me less than sport for killing in battle. Yngvar soothed a meaty hand across the wooden box and then reached to his belt. He drew out a small dagger or dirk, as I hear them called. In moments, he sliced the waxen seals, slit the belts, and found himself still denied. With a shrug, he swung the handle of his battle-axe, shattering the edge of the relic box.

The hairy men crowded around their leader, wanting to see the head of a Christian Saint as if it were about to speak. Yngvar turned to them, holding the skull, minus the jawbone. He held it up and smiled a horrid grin of jagged, dark teeth. Yngvar advanced a few steps closer to me and placed the skull at my feet gently. With his smirk intact Yngvar reached into his trousers, withdrew his manhood and passed water on the skull. He laughed a deep, guttural way that was meant to insult. After he finished relieving himself, Yngvar spoke to me.

"That is what Odin thinks of your god!"

With that, Yngvar raised his boot and crushed the skull of John the Baptist into dozens of fragments. For good measure, he pummeled the pieces further, pulverizing the shards into dust.

"Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord," I said to Yngvar, trying to screw up my courage. Not being a short man myself, I turned my eyes up to see into this beast's face. "You will not escape His divine wrath."

Yngvar grunted, "You say we are barbarians, yet who keeps the dead in their temples for trophies? Not us. Tell me, priest, why do your serve your god?"

I hugged my arms tighter to my body. "I have served the Lord all my life. My eldest brother inherited the farm. My other brother became a soldier."

"Where could you go, but to your Lord?"

The closer he came the heavier the scent of barley-based ale became. I stepped back to the opening in the floor that they didn't see in the shadows and accused him.

"You cannot fight the world. You are strong now, but you cannot reign forever."

Yngvar grinned his awful expression again. "Who plans to? That line may work on weak men who fear death. You see, man of Christ, I know a secret." He stepped near and raised his axe. "There is no such thing as tomorrow."

I made the sign of the cross, as a war cry of "Wotan!" filled the sanctuary. Taking a step backward, I dropped, avoiding the axe and vanishing from their sight. The escape hatch emptied onto a gentle slope thus letting me slide into a lower chambers of the monastery. Those fiends would take days to find another way in, and the opening I escaped through was slender. None of them would ever be able to fit. I hid in caverns beneath the monastery, and fled via tunnels dug for the privy until I heard silence. The cool air of spring welcomed me like the kiss of God.

A force of Frankish infantry warded off these men, and they receded from our shores. Once back up in the main sanctuary it was left to me alone to make sense of it, as the rest of the brothers were dead. Either by immediate murder or crucifixion, all of them were gone to their Lord.

The villagers who longed for deliverance, and a sign from their resident Saint would be at my door soon. This is why I took up the head of Erik and deposited it in an iron pot. The fluids inside were water, vinegar, and wine, but I wasn't making spirits. The procedure of boiling Erik's skull in these liquids would strip away the flesh.

God, forgive me. I repaired the relic box, and it soon held something for the villagers to respect. The Lord provided a replacement. In the months that followed a boy lame in the legs walked; a blind man was cured; and all was better after a fashion. Many boys left orphans after the raids of the Vikings came to me and entered the cloister. Likewise, the girls spared were absorbed into the convents farther north. In time, God provided for us as always. He showed that destroying the head of John the Baptist by these pagans couldn't bring about what they desired: the destruction of his soul. Miracles are derived from faith, no matter what the substance of the box. John can rest his grace on whomever and whatever he chooses.

It must be noted that the Vatican denies the authenticity of the manuscript and scoffs at the translation by Dr. Blackthorn. In good faith, Dr. Blackthorn donated the Head to the Vatican before they turned cold to his theories. They refuse to allow carbon dating tests or any sort of other study, leaving the legitimacy of the skull a matter of faith.

Dr. Elijah Blackthorn, however, caused a stir by releasing photographs of the skull. He wants the Vatican to explain why the forehead of the Baptist is cleft, marred by a rough hole.

No comment has come from the Holy See. None is expected.

Copyright © 2003 by Steven L. Shrewsbury