The Poor and Shirtless Knights of Saint Ulfilas marched in a single file procession through the snowy, soot-ridden streets of Lugdin. Their bare backs showed their devotion to God with every scar, the rough and uneven texture of their rended backs giving them the nickname of 'leatherbacks'. Their whips, the symbol of God's judgement, were held tightly in their right hands
The snow and whipping winds which confined Lugdin traffic to poor vagrants had no effect on the shirtless knights in the front. Their flesh had seen far worse mortification than deadening cold. The knights in the back of the line, men only by a stretch of imagination, turned blue as they marched from the city's streets to the quiet, snow-drifted commons.
It was said that if a Knight had reached salvation a whip could not harm him or his flesh. That feat had not been achieved in centuries, it was the goal of the procession to the commons.
The Grandmaster, at the head of the procession, had been a Dedicant of the Order at the age of five. His back was knotted and carved, like bad wood assaulted by a blind sculptor. The whips still hurt him with every biting tear. His own whip was covered with steel hooks, blades and knots, had twenty or so knotted cords and was as long as he was tall. It was the most impressive of them all.
The line broke up as they strode out into the commons. The Grandmaster went forward alone, to be followed by the five Knight-masters and then the Knight-brothers and the scarred Initiates and the blue Dedicants.
The Knight-masters formed their own whipping circles, forcing the lower knights into cohesion. The Grandmaster stood far separate from the rest, standing upon a low hill or a substantial snowdrift, looking down upon the Knights.
The Grandmaster's whip smacked into the snow in front of him, striking the frozen ground below.
"God wills it!"
He pulled back his whip in the blink of an eye, and struck himself on the back with an audible thwack! of metal and leather onto flesh.
The others followed his lead, striking themselves on their bare backs, blood pooling in frozen eddies upon the snow, pieces of flesh flying out of the whips' tight knots.
The self-mortification lasted for minutes or hours or days before they turned to strike one another. That was the true frenzy. Knight-Brothers struck Initiates who struck Dedicants who fell and cried piteously into the snow. Whips flew in furies, the circles melted into one another, blow met blow met blow. Whips tangled and bodies met in the struggle of strength.
When half their number had fallen into the snow, wheezing with exultant joy or dead from religious frenzy, the Grandmaster halted them with his booming command.
"God wills it!"
The conscious knights meticulously checked their brothers laying upon the snow. Those who were conscious were raised to their feet and given a chance to stand and walk. If they fell, they were left. The dead remained in their bloody frozen eddies.
Winter was always a season of purification for the Shirtless Knights. A little more than half their original number made the march back to the cold, gray city of Lugdin.
The snow and whipping winds which confined Lugdin traffic to poor vagrants had no effect on the shirtless knights in the front. Their flesh had seen far worse mortification than deadening cold. The knights in the back of the line, men only by a stretch of imagination, turned blue as they marched from the city's streets to the quiet, snow-drifted commons.
It was said that if a Knight had reached salvation a whip could not harm him or his flesh. That feat had not been achieved in centuries, it was the goal of the procession to the commons.
The Grandmaster, at the head of the procession, had been a Dedicant of the Order at the age of five. His back was knotted and carved, like bad wood assaulted by a blind sculptor. The whips still hurt him with every biting tear. His own whip was covered with steel hooks, blades and knots, had twenty or so knotted cords and was as long as he was tall. It was the most impressive of them all.
The line broke up as they strode out into the commons. The Grandmaster went forward alone, to be followed by the five Knight-masters and then the Knight-brothers and the scarred Initiates and the blue Dedicants.
The Knight-masters formed their own whipping circles, forcing the lower knights into cohesion. The Grandmaster stood far separate from the rest, standing upon a low hill or a substantial snowdrift, looking down upon the Knights.
The Grandmaster's whip smacked into the snow in front of him, striking the frozen ground below.
"God wills it!"
He pulled back his whip in the blink of an eye, and struck himself on the back with an audible thwack! of metal and leather onto flesh.
The others followed his lead, striking themselves on their bare backs, blood pooling in frozen eddies upon the snow, pieces of flesh flying out of the whips' tight knots.
The self-mortification lasted for minutes or hours or days before they turned to strike one another. That was the true frenzy. Knight-Brothers struck Initiates who struck Dedicants who fell and cried piteously into the snow. Whips flew in furies, the circles melted into one another, blow met blow met blow. Whips tangled and bodies met in the struggle of strength.
When half their number had fallen into the snow, wheezing with exultant joy or dead from religious frenzy, the Grandmaster halted them with his booming command.
"God wills it!"
The conscious knights meticulously checked their brothers laying upon the snow. Those who were conscious were raised to their feet and given a chance to stand and walk. If they fell, they were left. The dead remained in their bloody frozen eddies.
Winter was always a season of purification for the Shirtless Knights. A little more than half their original number made the march back to the cold, gray city of Lugdin.
No comments:
Post a Comment