The Book of Ephrael

CHHHHHH   AAAA!

The match hissed alive, burning a sphere in the dark, clandestine chamber beneath Antwerp. A young man sat patiently, awaiting his instructions.

On the wall before him hung a small gold cross. On the table, lay a map. A letter. Something else. Around him were three cloaked figures, their accents at odds yet joined in cassock. The first spoke, no louder than a whisper—

“Henceforth, you shall be known only as Ephrael." 

The young man bowed his head. He understood. 

The cloaked figure before him continued. “They say in that realm, no cross has ever stood unburned, nor altar unprofaned. Where men of faith pray in caverns, fearing for their lives.” He leaned in closer, for a moment revealing his eyes. Within the candlelight, Ephrael saw only dread reflected back. “’Tis a godless place.”

The figure turned to the table now, picking up a dampened letter stained with many years of handling. “His last writings bore great distress,” he said, retreating behind his hood once more. “They spoke of monsters. Creatures not from any scripture of civilized man.” He swallowed before he could finish his thought. “Children, it is said, have been slaughtered in their sleep. Entire villages, devoured. We fear for their souls.”

“They were last witnessed in Macao,” another voice murmured. “Rumor holds them past the coasts of the Kingdom of Ming, in an uncharted archipelago beyond the boundary of all that is known to us.” 

"Your charge is simple. Locate Father Godric and his disciples, and bring them home,” the second continued. “One fortnight hence, you shall board a vessel under Portuguese merchant charter. Sail to Goa, then Macao. There, you are to seek a man by the name of Liao. He will bring you eastward, following the shores of Cathay until you reach the edge of the world."

“How shall I make my return?” Ephrael asked, breaking his own silence. “Which passage is appointed unto me?”

"Rest assured, one shall be appointed with time." 

"Then please tell me, what is it that awaits me there?" 

The figures only exchanged weary glances. “We know not. What lies beyond those gates, only God does.”

Finally, the third figure handed him a tattered crimson ledger. “The names of those souls whom you are to seek are recorded within. You mustn’t allow this out of your sight.” With that, the men withdrew, and he did too. 

“Unlike that heretic, you will not stand alone, Father Ephrael.”

Ephrael said nothing at all. Boots creaked against the floorboards where the rats lived. A chapel bell tolled heavy from someplace above. A final nod was exchanged, the candlelight snuffed, and nine long months passed.

♱

He found himself in the harbors of Macao. Where the winds carried the reek of seaweed and smoke, mingling with the sweat of laborers colliding with him as he hurried through the narrow travessas. 

“Ho-sio! Ho-sio!” “Desculpe! Desculpe!”

Ming junks and Portuguese caravels drifted abreast in the crowded quays. Atop the hills that hugged the city, a single white chapel and its golden cross watched from above. Ephrael prayed from below. 

He prayed for safe passage. He prayed for success in his mission. He prayed that peace and salvation would be granted to those terrified souls. Yet for reasons unknown, he couldn’t focus. When he opened his eyes again, the clear view of the chapel was gone. In its place stood a shadow gazing down at him. 

“Are you Liao?” he asked.

The sun-tanned Hokkien guide gave a light bow. “We depart tomorrow.”

Ephrael stood to meet him.

♱

A thousand meters ahead, through humid mist and pungent sea salts, a shore appeared. A solemn crimson gate rose from jagged cliffs and black pines.

“This is as far as I go,” Liao called out against the waves hitting hull. “I bid you well, Padre." Ephrael thanked him. 

As he stepped off and trudged to shore, a final message from the guide. The last he heard before the sea overtook his voice. 

“A land of beasts awaits you!”

Ephrael stepped forward, book in hand, as he crossed the gate into the realm of monsters.  

Ephrael 1:84