Sweater Project

Many years ago in a village in the Bordeaux region of France, an unusual event occurred. You will not find mention of it in the history books, nor will you find any mention in the journals of that time. So terrible was the memory that it was purged from all but the most secret written records. But it has been passed down from generation to generation as a warning, and a reminder.

In early spring, it looked as though it would be a good year for the village. The winter had been surprisingly mild and many predicted the best crop in memory would be harvested that autumn. The villagers took account of their situation,and they found themselves blessed.

The first sign of something amiss came when the monthly merchant carts did not appear in May. Since the founding of the village, the merchants of the nearest city would pack their carts and bring them down into the valley and set up a market in the village square. Every last person in the little hamlet looked forward to the stores of staples, the unattainable silks and woolens, and the news of the world that the merchants would bring.

Not in May. The villagers sat in the inn, looking out at the empty square. An awkward silence permeated the air. Was there war, or famine in the country?There had been no hint of such disaster the previous month; what then could keep the otherwise constant merchants away?

One stout farmer, Jacques Anjou, decided to saddle his mule and make the two day trip to see what had happened. The baker and the butcher packed him five days’ rations in a saddle bag. That Saturday morning, his wife kissed him and held up their son to wave as Jacques trotted up the path which lead to town.

That evening, the villagers were startled out of their sleep by cries in the square. Every door flew open and every lamp was lit as they looked out and saw the gaunt and bloody face of Jacques staring madly through disheveled hair. The poor man was nigh hysterical. Wine was brought, and after he had a chance to recover himself, Jacques explained that he had been barred in his passage through the forest by a demonic apparition.

Just before twilight, he explained, he noticed a wild boar through the trees. Being cautious, he set the flint of his trusty old musket and kept a keen eye on the beast as the mule trotted on.

As he crested the next hill, he was distracted from his watch on the boar by a grisly sight. The road before him was splattered with gore. In the middle of it all was a splintered mass, evidently the remains of a merchant’s cart. This was why the market had not come to the village; there had been a slaughter.

Suddenly, the boar caught wind of him, it snapped its hoary head up and fixed Jacques with a gaze that pierced him to his very soul. “The eyes! The eyes!” he cried. “They burned like embers, like flame!” Before he could snap off a shot, the creature had sped into the side of his mule and gored it mortally. Jacques fled back down the path to the village, pausing only once to look back at his hapless steed.

And that was when he realized the true nature of the beast. The pig had perched atop the mule to finish it off, creating a perfect silhouette against the setting sun. Framed thusly, Jacques could discern a great pair of bat-like wings folded tight against the porcine form. This was no ordinary beast, but a true monster from hell.

The villagers knew that Jacques was an honest and trustworthy man. If he claimed it, it was true. They set a watch at the edge of the village and retired to the inn to discuss how to deal with this terrible calamity.

The next month was a nightmare for the villagers. The creature had tracked Jacques back to the village and it began to prey upon the livestock of the farms. Each night at dusk, its unnatural form could be seen descending from above the trees, stooping like a falcon. It would not leave until it had sated its appetite with a sheep, or a horse, or a mule. Two nights, it availed itself of human flesh. The baker and Jacques brother both fell to the demon.

(This really is a joke. Keep reading.)

Then, as the heat of July began to mount, a visitor came into the village. It was Arnaut, one of the Jacobins who occupied the chapter house in the town. The villagers were astounded when he walked into their midst. The asked how he had managed to pass the forest safely, and he replied that he kept constant prayer on his tongue, and so the beast would not touch him.

The villagers pleaded with Arnaut to intervene on their behalf and rid them of the creature. He listened solemnly and nodded. “You are of my flock, and I cannot abandon you to the wolf in the field. But know that to combat this creature, I must consult forbidden texts. I have brought with me certain tomes which are kept locked away most times, for their content is terrible. To peruse them is to gamble with one’s soul. But I believe that the secret to defeating this beast lies therein.”

The villagers thanked the black friar for his compassion and his courage, and they gathered the materials which he requested. Holy water. A tallow candle. Parchement and ink.

He set up his book stand in the middle of the square. He stood there alone, for the timid eyes of the villagers peeped out at him from behind their shutters. He drew upon the ground a thaumaturgic triangle, inscribed about with symbols both holy and unholy. He lit the candle and began to chant in a tongue not uttered before nor since in that country. Twilight came.

Soon, the beating of enormous wings was heard, and with a swirling of dust and a snarl, the demonic boar landed in the middle of the square. It darted from side to side, like a creature in a cage, but it did not attack. Arnaut’s face was a rictus of concentration as he bound the creature with mystic incantations. Sweat poured from his brow. The villagers could see in the failing light a snarl of pain on the evil creature’s lips as it writhed under the holy onslaught of the priest.

As the chanting reached a crescendo, a blinding light flashed in the square. The wind blew like a gale. Suddenly, all was still and dark. The villagers lit their torches and ventured out into the square. There on the ground lay the lifeless body of the boar, its feral eyes dimmed for good. Arnaut, too, lay on the ground, but he stirred and began to raise himself up.

The townspeople cheered him and lifted him to his feet. Jacques rushed to embrace him. But as he approached, something happened. From within his monk’s hood, a pair of glowing embers blazed. Suddenly the priest shrieked with an unearthly voice, and from beneath his robes sprouted a pair of enormous bat-wings!

As the possessed man leapt into the air, the villagers began to despair, for they now realized that their fate, like the evil spirit which had possessed the boar,had gone . . .

OUT OF THE FLYING HAM AND INTO THE FRIAR.

I sincerely apologize for this, and promise never to do it again.

This entry was posted on Saturday, April 12th, 2003 at 3:39 am and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can skip to the end and leave a response. Pinging is currently not allowed.