Aulisyn

Aulisyn

Erzsebet Carmean

Pendletyn & Bromptyn

Copyright © 2024 by Erzsebet Carmean

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permission requests, contact the publisher.

The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, or products is intended or should be inferred.

Cover photograph by elenavagengeim

Cover fonts and images licensed for use by Canva Pro

E-book and print formatting by Atticus Pro

Pendletyn & Bromptyn Literary Press

http://penandbromptyn.com

First Edition 2024

Contents

Preface

Dramatis Personae

1.Demesne

2.Institute

3.Demesne

4.Institute

5.Demesne

6.Institute

7.Demesne

8.Institute

9.Demesne

10.Neither Here nor There

11.Institute

12.Demesne

13.Neither Here nor There

14.Institute

15.Demesne

16.Institute

17.Neither Here nor There

Endnotes

Online Resources

About the Author

Preface

"I, Brother John Clyn, of the Order of Friars minor and of the convent of Kilkenny, wrote in this book those notable things which happened in my time, which I saw with my own eyes, or which I learned from people worthy of belief. ¹ And in case things which should be remembered perish with time and vanish from the memory of those who are to come after us, I, seeing so many evils and the whole world, as it were, placed within the grasp of the evil one, being myself as if among the dead, waiting for death to visit me, have put into writing truthfully all the things that I have heard. And lest the writing should perish with the writer and the work fail with the laborer, I leave parchment to continue this work, if perchance any man survive and any of the face of Adam escape this pestilence and carry on the work which I have begun."

Added later, in another hand, Here it seems that the author died.

Dramatis Personae

Elicot Demesne

Waite Family

Mischa Waite, reeve of Elicot and father of Eliza

Griselda Magdeberg Waite, wife of Reeve Waite and mother of Eliza

Mischason Waite, eldest son of Mischa and Griselda Waite

Hincmar Waite, son of Mischa and Griselda Waite

Eliza Waite, eldest daughter of Mischa and Griselda Waite

Leonie Waite, daughter of Mischa and Griselda Waite and married to Osric

Jack Waite, Reeve Waite's bastard son and youngest of the Waite children

Deceased Waite Children, Aledred, Marucious, twins Valeria and Valentin, and a first Eliza

Blind Men

Ethelred, missing both eyes

George, suffers cataracts

Partridge, born sightless

Additional Characters

Saint Millicent, canine patron saint of Elicot

Osric, husband of Leonie Waite

Ingiltrude, deceased mistress of Reeve Waite and mother of Jack

Cassian Quinn, prospective husband of Eliza Waite

Father Demarco, priest of Elicot Demesne

Deacon, deacon of Elicot Demense

Mr. and Mrs. Brown, parents of an infant who died in a fire

Bartholomew Hackler, vile loudmouth

Constance, mother of Rebekah

Rebekah, young daughter of Constance

Bellumfort Institute

Employees

Lothar Teryan, founder of Bellumfort Institute

Lowell Sixsmith, Director of Bellumfort Institute

Sarah Sixsmith, wife of Director Lowell Sixsmith and former EIU

Wenlock Bayeux, Ossuary Security Guard

Peter Tenenbaum, Ossuary Engineer

Hezekiah Landgrave, Ossuary Surveillance Technician

Ones (First Year Emotional Input Units (EIUs))

Eliza Waite, Medieval EIU

Violet Marsleigh, 1860s EIU

Cindy Bergstrom, 1950s EIU

Pamela Claes, 1960s EIU

Brittany Jensen, 1990s EIU

Sums (Fifth Year Emotional Input Units (EIUs))

Deianira, former friend of Sarah Sixsmith

Unnamed girls who lead Initiation

Neither Here nor There

Aulisyn, a mysterious woman

Three Chopt, a town in Ossuary

Sandrine, a horse

Unnamed villagers generated to populate the Three Chopt simulation

Chapter one

Demesne

Seven lepers laughing, Eliza thinks. She is crossing the bridge that unites Elicot demesne with the estate’s fields; beneath her, the river surges against boulders and the stray rot of a fallen tree as she thinks, six spindles shrieking, five fathers weeping, four fields fallowing. Woolens to wash await Eliza, while Eliza awaits her next thought, a thought which pleases her by being three trees taunting, two, two tombs tattling, one for her and one for me, walking harvest-wise across the bridge.

Eliza Waite, daughter of Elicot's reeve Mischa Waite and his wife Griselda Magdeberg, sister of more siblings dead than alive, is aware of silence. The villeins working the vines nearest her have stopped singing and larding their baskets with grapes. Despite her mother’s prayers and penances, Eliza remains a stubborn dropped stitch in the fabric of the community. It is not a lack of faith that isolates Eliza; she fevers for illumination and is certain she will have it. She says her Pater Noster, recites her Ave Maria and spends silent hours in communion with the holy dead. Eliza is a fond supplicant of Elicot’s patron saint, Millicent, and not just on her own behalf. ¹ The night of Leonie’s wedding, Eliza knelt at the reliquary to pray for her sister’s health and fertility. She brings flowers to the chapel, begging intercession for the lame and the blind. There is none more anxious than Eliza to behold the relic on Feast Days and kneel before the glorious, incorruptible paw of Saint Millicent. Eliza sins in her pride, to believe she is favored by Millicent; it is a sin she does not confess, not even to herself.

Eliza is aware of her alienation as she moves from row to row, seeking her father amongst the trellised, old-growth vines. The family mule nuzzles her as he emerges from one of the rows. Eliza picks up the lead; the animal flaps his ears but follows without complaint. It is easy to get a mule to love you, Eliza thinks. It is all in the vegetable leavings and apple cores. At the farthest row of vines, a girl younger than Eliza puts her hands on her narrow hips and says, Well, does this mean you are finally handfasted?

If you refer to my mule, he is far more a man than any who would wed you, Eliza says. The girl’s whined retort goes unheeded. Eliza sees her father at the edge of the hayfield; with him are her brothers, Hincmar and Mischason, as well as Leonie’s husband, Osric. Eliza grips her basket more tightly and something of her mood transfers to the mule, who balks. As she coaxes the animal forward, she whispers, Gentle Virgin, help me to endure that braying red-faced Osric.

What brings you from your mother’s well-intentioned sermons? Reeve Mischa Waite asks.

I am to fetch grapes to make verjuice. ²

Osric takes the mule’s lead from Eliza. She releases her hold but not before making it clear she is allowing him to take the lead, not freely giving it. The vinegar of verjuice goes well with your demeanor! he laughs.

Reeve Waite hugs his daughter. They are both aware that in the not-distant future, Eliza must be wed. She will pass out of her father’s care into another home, a dowry paid to recompense this nebulous, and to Eliza, terrifying husband. There is an incongruity in the direction of this flow of money; should not the father be paid for the heirs by which the other man profits? This is Leonie’s opinion. Eliza’s opinion is that her sister is cleverer than Osric and the dowry paid him should have gone ten-fold to her.

Reeve Waite steps back from Eliza. Sit, he says. The men take seats on a nearby log. You, too, Eliza. We are discussing law. There is no place on the log for her, and Eliza sits in the field’s stubble.

Yes, Osric says. Let us show little Eliza how men rule. We can correct her errors.

Her father’s gaze stifles Eliza’s response, as well as Hincmar’s laugh. Mischason smiles at Eliza, for which she is grateful. Neither of them will ever be called as a judge, Mischason because he is too kind and Eliza because she is not a man.

The case today concerns a death, Reeve Waite says. "Our goal is to determine the amount of wergeld due to the dead man’s kin and, importantly, who should pay. Allow me to state the facts. ³

"In a town there is a well on a man’s property. The well is of the expected construction, with a prop and lift counter-weighted by a stone to raise and lower the bucket. The property owner is a good Catholic, allowing the townspeople use of his well. ⁴

On a fine day, much like this, a man idles next to the well. He is distracted; by what none will ever know, for he is the victim. The perpetrator goes to draw water. This man is also distracted, for his wife is ill and they fear the loss of the babe she carries. When the perpetrator lowers the bucket, the falling weight of the stone takes the victim to his maker.

Eliza smiles a bit to see Mischason cross himself, knowing the ill-fated and imaginary victim will be in his prayers tonight. Osric stares at Eliza. It takes horror to bring such a sweet smile? he asks.

No, she rejoins. I smile in anticipation of your imminently worthy judgement.

Well, Osric, the reeve prompts, How do you judge?

The perpetrator owes the balance of wergeld. He alone is responsible for the death.

I disagree, Hincmar enjoins. It is also the fault of the landowner, for leaving his well open to ill-use.

Would you have the town lack water? Reeve Waite asks.

That would be a sin, Mischason says. Charity is the heart of faith.

Where was the landowner during these events? Eliza asks.

The landowner was in church, kneeling in prayer, the reeve answers.

Hincmar stands. If ever one looked a reeve, Eliza thinks, it is him. The sound of workers singing bawdy lyrics fills a brief silence.

It does not matter where the owner was at the time of the death, Hincmar grumbles. He is responsible for the well and must pay a third of the wergeld. The remaining two-thirds are required from the man who is the direct cause of the death.

On what grounds do you divide the compensation thus? the reeve asks.

The stone did not fall on its own, and if the landowner was more discerning, neither man would have been at the well, thus preventing the death, Hincmar explains.

Does this seem a reasonable judgement to you, Mischason?

No, Father. It is uncharitable to lay guilt at the landowner’s door. The pious man was in the chapel at the time of the accident. The entire wergeld falls to the perpetrator for his lack of attention.

Is your decision not tempered by the perpetrator’s fear for his wife? Reeve Waite asks.

Eliza itches at her legs where the sharp, dry hay is irritating her. Hincmar has not returned to his seat on the log, and she takes his place. The mule follows her and annoys Osric by snuffling at his hair.

A man must not hide behind his wife, it is weak, Osric says, batting at the mule’s inquisitive muzzle.

How rule you, Father? Mischason asks.

Eliza has not yet given her opinion, Reeve Waite says.

She starts at the sound of her name. Mine?

Yes. I am interested to know your thoughts. As is Osric, given he knew you were in error before I stated the facts of the case.

Osric clenches his teeth, his jaw tightening in a way Eliza hopes will break a tooth. A rabbit bursts into the clearing, sees the people and stops. Hincmar kicks a stone in the rabbit’s direction. As it bounds away, Eliza begins to speak.

Father, was the victim of average wisdom and sound intellect?

Yes.

Did the perpetrator have a complaint with the victim, a reason to wish him dead?

No.

And the landowner had no desire to harm the victim?

None, the reeve answers.

It is my opinion that no one owes the full wergeld. A man is a creature of reason, and the victim was of sound mind. He knew the workings of a well. It would have served him to have applied his reason and stood out of the way of the well stone. He is not a cow, which may be expected to dumbly stand as water is drawn.

Pisse-mire! Osric says. ⁵ Eliza would have the victim’s family get nought.

I did not say that. Eliza feels Mischason put a hand on her wrist, knows he seeks her restraint. You did not allow me to pronounce my judgement.

Well, get on with it, Hincmar says. We have work to do.

As do I. Father asked my opinion and I will give it.

Go on, daughter.

The victim and perpetrator should both have exercised better forethought. I rule that the perpetrator owes one-third of the wergeld. The third is for his part in the accident, which he could have prevented – probably would have prevented – if he were not distraught. I agree with Osric that a man is not excused from guilt, even when his wife is in peril.

She agrees with me. God in heaven, it is a miracle!

Reeve Waite gives Osric a look that wipes the smirk from his son-in-law’s face. Is that all, Eliza?

I rule that the landowner is free from all payment. Not for his piety, as kind Mischason suggests, but by the rights of the well-being of the town. To hold him accountable for even a portion of the wergeld may result in him closing his well to town access. I cannot weigh the life of the victim above the thirst of his neighbors.

The reeve stares at Eliza. He pulls at his mustache, a sign he is considering his words. I’ve shocked him, Eliza thinks.

Well, Father? How say you? Hincmar prods.

I rule with Eliza. Her questions were direct and well-applied to the facts. Her division of wergeld is just, given that the two men were, as she said, ‘not cows.’ Moreso, I am gladdened by the consideration given the townspeople, as a fair law exists for the good of the community.

Eliza claps and smiles. Osric, I thank you for your attempt to show me my errors. I hope you accept the lesson I’ve given you in exchange. Osric’s clenched fists are not overlooked by either Eliza or Mischason, who rises from his seat.

We should return to work. Mischason offers a hand to the embarrassed, threatening bulk of Osric. Let us not waste the bounty of the Lord’s Day.

Yes, we have heard quite enough female inanity, Hincmar says.

Gather your grapes and return home, Eliza, Reeve Waite says. Mother will displeased to know I have kept you away from her hearth to practice law.

Yes, Father.

Eliza stays seated a moment, pleased with her own quick mind. Why is it, she wonders, that Father’s intelligence skipped his sons to land in the useless ground of his daughters’ minds? It is another of Leonie’s opinions, and today, Eliza agrees.

Eliza carries her basket of grapes to the cemetery. The Waite family plot houses the mortal remains of four generations. Eliza does not question where the Waite family lived and died prior to Elicot; her curiosity, when it arises, is to wonder which of her dead kin are safe in Heaven and which are in Hell. On the way to the family plot, she stops at the grave of her father’s mistress.

Ingiltrude, Eliza says. Mother does not suffer utterance of your name. I pray to the Virgin Mary for her to forgive you and cannot help but imagine the Holy Virgin, nibbling at Mother’s stubborn grudge! A blue jay hacks out his unenviable song. Eliza brushes twigs and dirt from the headstone. Mother sees you reflected in Jack’s face, which saddens her. Despite this, she loves him as her own. Jack is a good boy, quiet during sermon and kind to animals.

Feeling the conversation at an end, Eliza goes to greet her siblings nestled in the hallowed ground. Although she can read the engraving on only one of the tombstones, she knows who rests where. Aeldred is in the most recent grave; he was a happy toddler, the ninth and last child born to Griselda. He drowned at three years, seven months and five days old. It was Leonie who found him tangled in the reeds. It was Eliza who heard his last words.

‘See my little turtle, Zaza?’ That is the last thing you said to me, Aeldred, remember? Eliza kneels to kiss the little boy’s tombstone. In Heaven, I will look at your turtle as I should have here on Earth. Speak well of me to the other angels, though I do not deserve it.

Eliza passes by Valeria and Valentin, stillborn twins. She sets a grape on the grave of Marucious, dead of spotted fever at four years, six months and eight days. I am sure you would have been my favorite older brother, she says. Please don’t tell Mischason.

She reaches the tombstone she can read. It is here that she sets down her basket, sits on the cool moss and leans against her sister’s headstone. How fare you in Heaven today, Eliza the First? Would that we could trade places. Mother will not be happy when I arrive home late. She prays I marry as soon as Father can make a match, even if they pay more dowry to my husband than to Osric. For the benefit of my soul, of course. Eliza makes a frustrated sound. Osric is a bore. That our sister is forced to share a bed with him is proof that Hell exists. Don’t fret at me! I am only making an allegory, not blaspheming. This is why Mother loves you best of her Elizas; I am sharp tongued, whereas you are silent.

Eliza arrives home just as the Day Star rises. She watches the bright streak lifting its glory to the Face of God. There are no other stars that behave as the Day Star; even the moon herself does not dare to go so high or move so quickly towards Heaven. The Day Star is odd, too, in that it both rises and sets in the East. Leonie has odd ideas about why this is. Two hours in the stocks cured her of those ideas, or so their mother thinks. Eliza knows differently. Leonie maintains her belief that the Day Star is man-made, like shoes, flails and houses. Leonie’s profanation did not abate when Eliza reminded her that the Day Star is in the tryptic at church and that church paintings show Heavenly truths. Leonie rebutted that the paintings are man-made, the pigments and the frames crafted by humans. In the tryptic, Christ wears a robe, Leonie said. Surely women wove the robes Christ wore when he was human, which precludes the cloth in the painting from representing a Heavenly truth. Is it not possible that man crafted the Day Star and painted it by the by, same as the robes on Christ? Eliza could not find a crack in Leonie’s argument and for this murmured extra Ave Marias for a week. Were Leonie a son, she would be either reeve or heretic. The Day Star disappears into the clear vast sky.

Eliza! little Jack cries, his happy voice reminding her that actions, not thoughts, are what her mother expects.

Did you miss me?

Yes, little mother! He grabs at the grape basket. Grapes!

Here, have a bunch. They are a bit sour, so do not eat too many or your tummy will hurt, Eliza says.

Jack sits on the ground. He eats the grapes by lifting the bunch to his mouth to nibble one at a time. This is followed by the spitting of seeds to the accompaniment of much childish enjoyment.

What kept you? Griselda Waite is standing at the threshold of the house. Her arms are folded on her chest and Eliza thinks, one mother remonstrating.

The mule wandered away and I brought him back to Father. I hurried to get the grapes but then stopped to pay my respects at the cemetery.

It is goodly to honor the dead but godly to respect your mother’s wishes.

Eliza looks at the ground. An inch worm is standing on his end, slender body swaying here and there. We are all seeking something we cannot find, she thinks.

Stop spitting like a distempered goat, Jack. Griselda disappears inside the house, returning with a mortar, pestle and bucket. Grind and squeeze the grapes. It does not matter if the seeds stay; this is for cleaning, not drinking.

Eliza sets the basket of grapes next to her brother. The little boy plucks a grape, stuffing it into his mouth and thinking himself sly. Spit it out, son. Griselda scolds. You are to juice them, not eat them.

"You’ve just told him both to spit and not to spit," Eliza says.

This impish spirit pleases your father, God have mercy on him, but how it worries me. Griselda wipes her hands on her apron, turns and enters the house. Well, Eliza? Get in here. The flax does not draft itself.

Eliza takes a deep breath. It is at spinning that her mother is most inclined to moralize. Oh, she thinks, this will be a fiery sermon. She sits on the bench beneath the high, narrow window, picks up her distaff and spindle. Griselda is carding flax with sublime violence.

This exemplum is well suited to a selfish girl who takes walks instead of returning home as requested. ⁶ Griselda slaps a handful of flax on her card and yanks it through the comb.

I am sorry I tarried, dear Mother.

Do not ‘dear Mother’ me.

Yes, Mother.

Griselda yanks more fiber through the card. She wishes that is my soul, Eliza thinks. She wishes to weave me into an entirely different kind of girl.

God created sheep, dogs and wolves. Griselda begins. To each, he assigned a purpose. It is a purpose fitted to the nature of the beast. The wolf, inhabited as it is by selfishness and shameless hunger, is engulfed in the Devil’s work.

Did you expect God to create wolves simply to starve? Eliza asks with an impish smile.

I expect nothing of God; he expects much of us.

And yet it is selfish and shameless to eat. How is it that you can put leeks and chicken on our plates, given you are not a wolf?

Griselda sighs and, holding her bunch of fibers, turns to Eliza. I love you, child. I’ve loved you since your first cry. Please, please listen and understand what I am trying to teach you.

She and her mother look at one another; the only sounds are the soup boiling in the pot suspended over the hearth, the whir of Eliza’s spindle. Griselda returns to carding. Eliza thinks, if I am the wolf, it is because God made me so.

The dog is kin to the wolf. Griselda says, returning to the exemplum. Unlike the wolf, dogs are motivated purely by God’s love. There is no selfishness in a loyal hound. Saint Millicent proves this, thanks be to God.

Amen.

A dog is a guardian, a protector. This is his purpose. Sheep, however, are made for wool to clothe us against winter. The wolf, motivated by evil, would steal our sheep and have no distaste for our spring-thawed corpses.

It is good that we have surcoats and blankets aplenty. Eliza replies. ⁷ Blessed be the wool of sheep dead two seasons ago. Blessed be the wool that I could stuff in my ears.

Please, Eliza, that is the nonsense you must – must! – restrain.

I am sorry.

That is what pains me. Now, let me finish the allegory. The sheep are innocent, feeding on the grass sown by Him. Their placid, sinless nature entices the wolves. God in his infinite wisdom and care gave us dogs to guard the sheep. Do you understand?

It is well explained, Eliza says.

When the beasts perform the labors of their purpose, God protects them.

Even the wolves?

Even they.

It would be a blessing for the sheep for God to smite the wolves, Eliza says. Then we would not need dogs, although that would be a pity.

It is not the natural order of things to have sheep without wolves. It is His intent that we learn from evil how to be good. Griselda sits next to Eliza and lays the haft of carded flax on the bench. Finish this before nightfall.

Is my lesson complete?

You vex me, child.

I vex myself. I should be like Leonie, Eliza thinks. She hides her light without extinguishing it, whereas I combust.

How does the exemplum apply to you? Griselda smiles softly, smoothing her hand over Eliza’s cheek. Her look is pleading, and Eliza promises herself to give the answers her mother wants, even if they are not the truth.

I have a God-given purpose.

And?

It is my purpose to worship the Holy Trinity, to obey my father, and cherish my mother. It is my purpose, she thinks, to be a dowry and die in my lying-in. ⁸

Good, sweet Eliza, good. We will train the wolf out of you. By the grace of the Virgin Mother, you will go as a lamb.

An ewe, Eliza thinks, I will go as a heavy-uddered ewe. All women are, eventually. We are permitted neither dog nor wolf. Eliza fumbles her distaff and in reaching to retrieve it, knocks the haft of carded flax to the ground. It is tangled, everything is a tangle.

You are the clumsiest girl! Now that needs to be brushed out. Griselda rises from the bench and pauses. Eliza stops gathering the dropped flax, arrested by the same noises that stilled Griselda. It is a panicked clucking and battering of wings. A hen? Eliza thinks. In the chimney? She stands and a mess of distaff and spindle join the fibers on the hardpacked dirt floor. A chicken falls out of the chimney and into the boiling pot of soup. ⁹

Mother and daughter rush to the hearth. The chicken gives one kick, one flap of a wing and is still. Witchcraft! Griselda whispers. She falls to her knees, dragging Eliza with her.

Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women.… Eliza mouths the words without hearing them, fascinated by the bizarre fate of the hen. …of thy womb… Worse, she feels a bubble of hilarity rising in her throat. …now and at the hour of our death. Amen. Eliza covers her face with her hands, hoping to look pious and hoping to hide her smile.

Are you laughing? Griselda genuflects. Leave my sight, wolf cub! I will not have you draw more witchery to us with your evil laughter.

Do you want me to defeather our boiled guest?

I want you to be out of my sight. The kitchen garden needs fertilizing. Griselda crosses herself yet again. Gather dung, daughter, and reflect on your immortal soul.

Pushing the wheelbarrow, Eliza walks to the grazing field. Goats chew their placid way through the afternoon light. The goats also shit, in their placid way, and she takes the spade out of the wheelbarrow. My immortal soul, she thinks. Having obeyed her mother’s wishes, she sets the thought aside. The weather this past week was sunny and dried goat pellets are plentiful. She shovels them into the barrow, crisscrossing the field at random on her search.

Eliza!

Leonie, Eliza calls back. She dumps another load of pellets in the barrow and watches her heavily pregnant sister approach. Are you here for the delightful offal?

No. I am here to talk with my dearest elder sister. She kisses Eliza on the cheek.

Osric is home from the vineyard?

Yes. I’ve left him with Hincmar and tankards of beer.

Your marriage saddens me.

It shouldn’t. Leonie holds one hand under her belly and awkwardly sits on a boulder. I never understood the sacrifice of the Virgin Mary until I fell pregnant.

Is the baby kicking?

Constantly. He is a feisty little man.

Eliza chucks the spade into her wheelbarrow. It lands with a thud and a pungent whiff of droppings. It may be a daughter.

Pray to God that he is not! A woman is born cursed.

Thanks be to Eve, that wench.

The girls laugh. Leonie is sixteen years to my seventeen, Eliza thinks, yet she is much older in every way that counts. "I