Saint Beatus and the Dragon
A short story
I
In ancient days, when paganism clashed with the Word, there lived a missionary named Beatus, who hailed north from Emperor Hadrian’s divinely instructed wall. His life breached forth from the obscurity of a mossy, peat bed — as though miraculously plucked by a farmer’s dutiful hand during harvest.
From the son of a king to a peasant, Beatus neither confirmed nor rejected the tales of his origins for life before his conversion paled to his vocation, and he found it not worth remembering. As he once told a disciple in later years, “Witness the man on the righteous path, and not the sinful boy of yesteryear.”
The Word reached his meek ears from a Salamis man named Barnabas, who preached authoritatively, but with the tenor of a gentle, southern wind. Beatus, as a younger man, sought to adhere to the alluring, clement call inflaming his zealous heart — thus he began to walk with Barnabas. The pair roamed the countryside sharing the Good News, often cast away from the halls of native clans entrenched in their customs, residing to camp on loch shores or within dingy caves.
Once, however, a pack of Picts were ordered to murder the missionaries, and retrieve their tongues and heads as a warning to others. On a moonless night, the soldiers trekked through a thick wood and perched on a cliffside overlooking a loch. The only illumination radiated from the missionaries’ fire, as the pair dug themselves into the sand for warmth, for they had no other protection from the elements. As the pack stealthily descended the hillside, unsheathing their daggers, the loch’s water swirled in a torrent and bubbled like it boiled. The earth quaked. Boulders rumbled down the hillside, snapping and cracking both tree and Pict limbs. The missionaries were only mildly disturbed, inquisitively raising their heads towards the growling water.
Then, from the chilling, darkened depths erupted a massive creature with teeth like shields and a neck as wide as a trunk. Every blade of grass and brush withered from its rotting, singeing breath that swept over the land. It’s lidless glare wickedly widened at the sight of Barnabas and Beatus. Both men leapt to their bare feet, twisting them into the shore. The creature struck at them like lightning in the clouds, drenching the men of God in muck from the loch’s depths. Yet they remained undisturbed — with their hands raised skyward. The clansmen, meanwhile, hid behind rocks or scattered up the hillside more quickly than mountain goats; but one stayed. He could not fathom the measly cloaked, dirtied, scarred pair standing against certain death like so. A horror griped him — that coursed through every pore — as he witnessed the missionaries cast the ancient creature into the watery chasm.
Sorcery. Magic. Power. Whatever the source, the Pict knew these men could not be destroyed. Sheathing his dulled dagger, he tentatively approached Barnabas and Beatus, offering them lodgings for the evening. The pair agreed, hoping for an audience with the clan’s leader.
The Pict led the missionaries to his king’s hut — constructed of peat and straw — that was nestled within a valley, hugged by massive mountain ranges. A wind nearly caved in the door when Barnabas and Beatus crossed the king’s threshold. The man was asleep, and nearly swept by the frantic whirlwind — clutching his weapon’s hilt for fear of assassination. When he saw his son and the two men, the ire did not subside, but surged.
“I ordered for their heads, yet here they stand. Why have you disobeyed me?”
The king towered over them, still gripping his sword’s hilt with a strained, readied hand. Though fearful, the son regaled the night’s events, which confounded the king. He slumped back, mystified by the missionaries who stood more like pillars than human.
“And who gave you power to calm this creature? Or do you warp feeble minds like my son with such trickery? For that alone, I would have your heads.”
Barnabas and Beatus were silent, their eyes affixed on the king’s feet that paced back and forth across the earthen floor. Clothed in his bear coat, the king mocked the missionaries’ garbs — and wondered how they lived north of the wall.
“Wordless guests under my roof,” he scoffed. “When you are commanded, you will speak.”
Beatus raised his eyes, looking into the king’s own. In a quiet, sincere voice, he proclaimed, “We are commanded only by the One king.”
The king furiously produced his sword to the young man’s neck. The cold emanated from the sword, pricking Beatus — yet he did not waver. His gaze failed to break from the king’s own. The look was unsettling, for no one had sustained that stare or calmness with death mere inches away in the king’s life. Every enemy cowered, but not this man. The king’s sight bounced from Barnabas to his son to anything other than Beatus. He felt uncomfortable, even naked in the eyes of the young missionary. He glanced down to see if he still wore his fur coat; but the cold night air gripped him.
“You cannot decipher my mind,” the king ultimately uttered, grasping at remnants of his authority. “And if you can thwart a beast, let us see if you can stop a sword.”
As the king motioned to swing, Barnabas protectively stretched out his hand, yet his eyes were closed, as he had been in deep contemplation. The king paused. His malformed teeth were grinding into dust, and sweat roared like rivers on his forehead. A silence permeated as a glow from the night wrapped the missionaries in a fortress — which the king could not comprehend as there was no moon that night.
“Why my lord do you wish for our deaths? We have done no wrong. We are merely servants of another king,” Barnabas finally, patiently stated. “Sorcerers, ultimately, come to curse the lands they walk, and enslave the inhabitants — we aim to liberate.”
“With what?”
“The truth,” the missionary emphasized.
The Pict king still held his sword, prepared to strike at Beatus’ neck — who remained still. The young missionary’s eyes did not break. The king could not tell if the man even blinked.
“And where is this king?” he asked with trepidation.
“He is not here,” Beatus responded.
“Then where is he. Who is he?”
“He is the one who gave us power over the creature — and he alone can take it away. We are nothing without him.”
The king looked down upon the missionaries in their ill clad, worn garb. He noticed neither one wore protective footwear, and could see the loch’s sand masking their sores. ‘If they are servants,’ he rationalized, ‘they belong to a poor king. But to cast away a creature like so, they are certainly courageous, if daft.’
“And you believe them —” the king asked his son, who watched the interrogation in a darkened corner of the hut. Stepping forward, the son’s eyes were clear.
“I only tell you what I saw,” he firmly said. “The others fled, but they will attest to it.”
The king hesitated. The sword weighed heavy in his hands, which had never occurred before — and the aura still shrouded both men. He could not understand who they were, but discerned they spoke with clarity. Regardless of their origins or intent, the king decided the missionaries meant no harm — and if this king granted them power, he wished not to incur the wrath of slaying the servants. Trusting his son’s testimony, the king let the sword’s density lower his hands, having no strength or will to elevate it in a striking form any longer. The tip drilled into the dirt like a timber for a new wall.
“Tell me more.”
II
It had been a few months since that night when the king took them into his hut. The missionaries were granted clemency, free to preach peacefully in the region. Within that span, Beatus had become more confident; and Barnabas more tired.
One crisp morning, the pair walked over the rocky hills outside the clan’s encampment as was customary. Without realizing, Beatus’ pace left a gulf between him and Barnabas. His mind was elsewhere, soaking in the cool stones that sizzled on his burning feet. Though directly looking toward the sun’s halo, Beatus did not shield his eyes. They teared, but he could not tell if it was a result of the chilly wind or the joy in his heart that morn. He hoped the latter.
Barnabas struggled. Each step against the stones shriveled his gait. He kept his vision on the impressed dirt, and plucked rocks along the route, tossing them down the hillside. His legs were weary enough where he had to rest. Sitting on a boulder along the way, he gazed skyward — but the sun slid behind gray clouds rolling in. Rain seemed imminent. Looking at his young friend marching ahead, Barnabas inhaled deeply, restraining the melancholy rising in his soul.
After not hearing his superior’s footsteps, Beatus stopped. Turning back, he saw Barnabas perched, staring over the valley as if wishing to capture the memory of the morning.
“I have taught you all I know —” Barnabas brokenly said. “I am old. And I cannot go where you are needed.”
Beatus inched forward. For the first time in months, a chill rained over him. He even looked skyward to see if precipitation fell from the clouds — but they had floated far into the distance.
“I don’t understand,” Beatus uttered. “Where am I needed?”
Barnabas picked up a pebble on the boulder, and rolled it in his fingers before flicking it. Beatus did not see where it landed.
“You’ve only known me as an older man, but I was once young, yearning to see elsewhere. Burning with passion to touch the souls of people beyond my shores. That has led me here. And here is where I will rest my bones —” Turning to Beatus, the older man smiled. His eyes were reddened. “I have prayed on this for some time. Your mission here is complete. It is time for you to go off on your own without a stone to weigh your zeal.”
Beatus’ feet felt like they were slipping off the path. His body was light, pushed and pulled by the elements as the wind crashed like an avalanche into a loch. He looked over the valley that was now shadowed, not comprehending what his friend had told him. The words ruptured his heart.
“But where am I to go? And what are you going to do? I cannot leave you by yourself.”
Barnabas could feel Beatus’ distress ripple through the earth, nearly snapping the stones. He propped himself on his aching knees and took a few steps toward the young man. The older man’s hand sharply rested on Beatus’ shoulder.
“Did not our forefathers leave the upper room, even though they risked death? We are their descendants Beatus. And we are called to adopt more — I have done what I can for you, and you staying with me will only hold you back. I have seen this in a dream. I feel this to be true. You are well equipped to face the world.”
The words quenched Beatus’ turmoil like water cooling heated metal. As a few rain drops dotted his head, strands of the valley were enriched by sunlight with shimmers of varying colors.
“And you? Will you be alright here?” he finally said.
“More than you will ever know,” Barnabas assuredly postulated. Slowly, he leaned over to pick up another stone that glistened from the drizzle; instead of tossing it, he tightly clutched it in his once sturdier hand like a precious object. The drizzle appeared like tears underneath his eyes. “You must go to Rome. Get guidance from the bishop there. And remember to keep your heart oriented toward the Truth. If so, no trial will overcome you.” Beatus stood still, questioning whether to heed the new task — yet Barnabas’ gentle eyes lured him back down the hillside, toward the encampment. Each step stoked his spirit as he began to race onward. No stone could cool the fire in his feet that leapt.
With a new mission, Beatus made haste. After a tender departure from his old friend, who he knew he would never see again on God’s earth, he ventured south, resisting every incessant urge to look back. Through the highlands, he marched through the northern squalls to the open sea, chartering a course across the turbulent, white-capped waters. Death nearly swallowed the ship, thrashing the crew who bailed water to no avail. The sailors even swore a tail of a sea monster whipped at them, and lurked beneath the hull. Their patron, however, failed to sway with the chopping tide due to his sturdy legs; nor did he wipe away the water’s salt from his distant, fiery eyes, as they sailed into an engulfing fog. They questioned the man’s sanity, asking each other, “How could one be so calm?” But the Light blazed in him.
Once on Gaul’s shores, he kissed the earth, praising the Lord. He could not fathom another world beyond the island nation of his birth — but there he was, combing his fingers through a lighter sand and scanning the foreign vegetation. He longed not to rest, but did so, gazing out over the water from whence he came. The young missionary imagined his friend in the highlands looking south at him. He believed he had locked eyes, for time and space were immaterial. That night, no storm disturbed his sleep. No dream made him squirm.
The next morning, he departed after feasting on a fish, quietly bemused on how, similarly, the Lord ate breakfast with his disciples after His rising. But he could not stay on that oasis, however pleasant it may have been — he had to walk. And walk he did.
The pilgrim had no knowledge of the native language as he trekked past villages, nor did they welcome him openly. They confused him for a lunatic due to his wide eyes, tattered dress, thin build, and dusty feet. At times, he noticed some desperately fixing their sights forward, pretending to not see or hear the presumed beggar. On one occasion in a village square, a pair strolled by, hid their gaze, and then laughed while peeking back. Beatus knew he was the subject of their quiet ridicule, which pierced his heart. When the rains came, the mud — churned by livestock and some drunken men — swallowed his feet on the path between settlements he believed led to Rome, though he did not know for certain. The chill cloaked him. The shivering rattled his bones. Despite the leaves, no tree provided adequate shelter as the water ran down his spine. Huddled against a tree bark, Beatus believed he may not survive the trek to Rome. The wondrous shores of his arrival were a distant memory. His mind tried to grasp at a thought, reflection or even a prayer, but the options were too many: so he chose none. Though his eyes were open, only a dark road stretched before the abandoned man. He was too weak to cry.
The chill dangerously evolved. The air pricked Beatus’s skin like daggers, leaving purple bruises. He could not raise his head, so he watched worms pour forth from the earth, wiggling onto harder surfaces. One such surface was the tree’s roots. The worms splayed on them. To Beatus, the tiny creatures appeared naked, tortured, drowning in the elements. He did not notice much difference between himself and them.
Or them and the Lord during his crucifixion. Beatus wept.
Soft squishing rippled down the road aways. The pilgrim decided to expend his last energies glancing toward the sound. To his amazement, a warrior wrapped in ornamental garments and perched on a horse approached. The rain did not disturb the lone rider — or touch him. None of his clothes were weighed down or discolored from their original dyes. Though brown, his eyes were sharp, and the full beard masked a strong jaw. Beatus and the stranger stared at each other; the former tried to form any word in the native tongue, but could not. Instead, he weakly raised his right arm, that twitched like the broken limbs above, and blessed the man with the sign of the cross. It was fleeting, for Beatus’s arm collapsed. His hand tickled as a worm rested on it.
The warrior was silent. Beatus saw the man’s weapon shine forth on the his hip. “There would be no Barnabas to stop the sword this time,” he wondered. “So be it. I die pitifully.”
After a few moments, still nothing happened. No words were exchanged, yet the rider — as if protected by an unseen covering — remained dry. Beatus could not comprehend what lurked in his present company’s mind; but it seemed a kind face, albeit hardened by conflict. Without a word, he removed one of his cloaks and, bending down from his horse, presented it to Beatus. The garment was a beautiful, rich green with yellow symbols stitched across; though the pilgrim knew not what they meant apart from the cross. “How did I not see,” Beatus sheepishly thought. As he gazed upward, the rider bowed, as did his horse. Beatus’s blue hands shook, still holding the cloak. The rider gracefully dismounted without disturbing the muddy path, and taking the garment, wrapped it around Beatus. The cloak had an otherworldly warmth; even though it draped over his soaked form, the article prevailed against the weather.
The warrior gestured toward the road ahead, and taking Beatus by the arm, lifted the pilgrim onto the horse. Through the misty terrain, the rider led the small party to a castle some yards away. The castle apparated from behind the dense fog — for Beatus had not seen it from the road before, though it was nearby. Inside roared a fire that the pilgrim, without noticing, found himself basking in front of with a bowl of soup. Each slurp rippled through every limb, even warming his finger and toenails, and every hair on his head. The warrior, meanwhile, studied the pilgrim with joy, watching the fragile man regain his strength. He procured bread, ripping the end and gifting to Beatus. For the first time in weeks, after struggling in the foreign land’s muck and indifference, Beatus’s eyes were opened. His heart was convicted, remembering the disciples’ clouded judgment on the road to Emmaus. But mercy from the warrior swarmed him, as though he removed every chilling prick Beatus endured before. Gently, Beatus took the bread and blessed it. Both men then ate. Not a word was shared.
The next morning, the warrior could not be found. The castle was empty. Even the hearth seemed unused, for spiders weaved webs over where the fire blazed the previous night. However, Beatus saw the bowl of soup and breadcrumbs nearby. And the warrior’s cloak — unstained by any dirt, mud, or rain — was still draped over his shoulders.
The man was a ghost or some other being, for he could not be flesh and blood, Beatus thought. But life brewed within him, and he owed that to the rider. After a few hours, Beatus felt compelled to move onward, intuitively believing the warrior would not return. He folded the ornamental cloak by the fireplace, and with full vigor, easily made his way to the road, despite not remembering the route to the castle. His gaze turned forward, toward his destination with a rejuvenated heart.
“I can never doubt again.”
III
The mountains moved for Beatus. The snow repelled its emanating chill from him. The wind softly spoke. No difficulty lay on the path since his encounter with the warrior, unlike the ancients who traversed, struggled against the elements to cross the land’s mighty peaks.
From one cliff, next to his fire, Beatus surveyed a lake. It was not cruel and black as the lochs in his homeland, but a transcendent blue — one lighter and more rich than even the sky on the clearest day. The sight awed the pilgrim, who marveled at its majesty. It was unreal: the Word’s author manifested varying landscapes that spoke to different chasms of his spirit. The pilgrim was no artist, but he knew art lay before him. Creation enraptured him for he could not comprehend it.
In the range beyond the opposite shore, burrowed in the hillside, were adjacent dark pits; though presumably large, they were no more than the size of small coins. His eyes were drawn to them, as the pits appeared like pupils. He wondered if a person — or something — stared back, examining him. Suddenly, the wind whipped at the fire and suffocated its embers, the surrounding trees bent in agony, and the cliff groaned from pressure. A sudden terror struck Beatus — but it was over before boring into his spirit, evaporating like a snowflake on a hot stone. “What is there to fear,” he rationalized.
He pressed on. The road was no longer dirt, but organized stone, and the structures became more frequent and extravagant than the humble huts he first saw. The clustered red roofs stacked on one another — the next taller, more grandiose than the previous. Marble columns, ones he only imagined from Barnabas’s travels, stood erect, while temples to pagan gods towered over the city’s seven hills. Water flowed forth from the mouth’s of monsters. Each alleyway guarded its own history, and shielded its woes. The varying tongues speared the air. Commerce bustled. And the poor — dirtied and lame — hid in shame. It was the center of humanity.
The city impressed Beatus. No one noticed his presence: like he was a phantom granted permission to walk the streets. He questioned whether he had even left the Pict hut, believing to be dreaming. But Beatus’s feet touched stone. He heard coins being exchanged. And he then saw a group of women — draped in poor, ripped garments — bringing food to a blind man. “They must be followers of the Word,” he believed.
As he approached, the women looked his way, cautiously examining him. Beatus sensed their skepticism; so, with confidence, Beatus crossed himself, indicating he knew the Word. A fair, green-eyed woman passed her food bowl to a companion, and advanced. There was a tenderness in her light steps, as if her ego would not permit her to erode the stones or produce a sound. Her cheeks and forehead were smooth, unmarked by frequent agitation and strife. The dark lashes sharpened her eyes’ color. He found her beautiful.
She outstretched her hand, which Beatus delicately took. The woman led him near the city’s outskirts, down flights of worn steps, into nearly cavernous tunnels where her Christian community resided. The area was not squalor, nor lavish. Hay strays scattered across the rock floor. Others gathered around a blackened oven while baking bread, which emitted a dense heat. Sweat lingered on many brows, but weary hearts were few. Beatus was amazed by the fellowship, yet he knew not whether they would think him genuine. Nevertheless, the fair woman spoke, no doubt vouching for the pilgrim, for her lips moved compassionately and any hesitation among the others melted. One elder even joyfully embraced Beatus. He spent months with them, learning more of the local language; baking bread; providing food to Rome’s poor; and hearing the Word from descendants of Peter and Paul. The Word took on flesh — and it lived in the community’s charity.
But the fear of idleness crept in his soul. Barnabas told him to visit Rome, but not to remain stationary. Yet he longed to stay, and even marry the fair woman. In his duties, the pilgrim itched to impress her. The motivation consumed him. His vision was losing focus. One night, Beatus slept on the loch — the same of which Barnabas and he withstood the massive creature. Despite no moon, the waves hazily rippled a tantalizing light. Unbeknownst to him, the pilgrim stood chest deep in the icy waters. The freezing temperature confined his limbs, morphing them into brittle appendages. As he turned to escape, the shore, along with Barnabas and campfire, was pulled into a horizonless gorge. The pilgrim plunged into the depths; his body transformed into a frozen, mangled pillar, resembling nothing on or under the earth. A powerful, ancient force barreled from beneath, grating Beatus with iron-cold scales. The pilgrim wrestled, but he was imprisoned. Suddenly, volcanic water showered his hair as the creature emerged, looming over him. It looked different: more sinister. It glared at him with taunting eyes that morphed from yellow, green, and red to a colorless, void shade. The pilgrim knew death was near as the beast’s rank, rotten fish breath overpowered him. As its gaping abyss lunged at him and teeth tore through his flesh, Beatus awoke terrified. Others nearby, however, were undisturbed. Even the fair woman peacefully rested. He knew the dream was a warning: he could not linger. He had to continue on his mission.
The next morning, Beatus vied to speak with Peter’s successor, which was, without much difficulty, granted. He envisioned a larger than life character, but instead, he was led to a hunched, bearded elderly man, who sat in the corner of a room, catching a few streaks of sunlight. His harsh skin sagged on his forearms, while the shadows augmented his wrinkles, tired fingers. When Beatus entered, the old man struggled to stand, hobbling toward the entrance — yet his eyes twinkled and his elastic grin bade his guest welcome.
“How can I serve you, my brother,” the bishop spoke. The voice’s tenor belonged to a younger man, which initially unsettled Beatus, who did not know how to regale his tale in broken tongue. Nevertheless, he tried, telling the elderly man of Barnabas, the warrior, and even his time with the community. The bishop’s scrunched face perked at the mention of the pilgrim’s teacher. As if lightning struck, his eyes sagged into a harsh black, and a dread weighed on his mind. His hunch became more pronounced.
“My son, perhaps you have not heard. Word has reached me —”
The bishop paused, grappling Beatus’s shoulder with his wrinkled hand. Propping himself up, he tried straightening his back to look into the pilgrim’s now restless eyes.
“Barnabas is dead.”
The air evaporated from his lungs, like a knife plunged into his back. He could not believe the old man’s words — but there they hung in the room as clear as the man standing before him.
“How? When?” Beatus asked.
The bishop’s lips quivered, tightly clasping together. He let go of Beatus’s shoulder, and his body returned to its hunched form. The bishop limped to the nearest window to gaze at the city yet, oddly, nothing moved — not even stragglers in the shadowed alleyway nearby. There was nothing to capture his attention.
“I am unsure,” he moaned.
Failure swept over the pilgrim, feeling he had neglected his mission, as well as abandoning his friend’s wisdom. And now his teacher was gone, no longer to confide in. The immaterial time and space shattered. He lingered in, what he perceived to be, the only room that now existed in Creation. A cold encased him.
“He told me I should come here, but for what purpose now, I do not know.”
The trembling words dripped like rain in a stagnant puddle. Beatus’s balance wavered, but he remained standing. The bishop, meanwhile, breathed deeply through his furrowed nose — and held it longer than one at his age could. He silently exhaled before returning his attention to the pained young man, whose rhythm was blunt.
“As Our Lord once said, let the dead bury the dead,” the elderly man gently said, hobbling toward the pilgrim. “We must have confidence he resides with God, whom he loved.”
A few moments passed between them. Beatus looked at the old man, but did not register him, for the mental self-flagellating clouded his vision. “Why did I readily leave,” he questioned. “If I were there, perhaps I could have helped him.” The pilgrim suffered quietly — and observed that his emotions felt stirred by another force, foreign to his own will. He saw the campfire; he saw his friend resting; he urged to cry out, but his petrified tongue resisted.
“My brother,” the bishop said, reeling in the young man’s attention. “Do not despair. You are here now in this room. And you followed his advice because he spoke truth, yes?”
The bishop took his seat in the corner. The sun had now moved beyond the room, down the alleyway, yet he still looked illuminated.
“We are weak beings, but not beyond salvaging,” he spoke. “There are those who cower in the world, who are reliant on mere superstition, and are even abrasive to the Word we’ve been graced to share — that you’ve been blessed to hear and adhere to. Even in sadness and grief, God can sow miracles.”
He paused, snapping Beatus’s mind back into the room. The missionary’s present senses noticed his feet curled along the cool stone floor’s grooves. A bright breeze swirled into every crevice, resting along the walls awaiting the bishop’s next words. Without realizing, Beatus mirrored the elderly man’s breathing, noticing their chests rising and falling simultaneously.
“Grieve now, but do not cultivate it, otherwise it will consume you.” Beatus shuddered, as the creature from his dream emerged — but he flicked the beast away. “I knew Barnabas in another life, and by God’s grace, I’ll dwell with him in the next,” the elderly man continued. “For now, however, I hobble around on my old feet. I have no strength; but he trusted that you do. And so do I.”
He stretched out his hands, entreating the pilgrim to come forward. Beatus obliged, kneeling before the old man, whose twinkle returned.
“Go out. And fear not. No matter the trials ahead.”
The bishop instructed Beatus to build churches in the mountainous regions he had crossed, warning the young man of the natives’ groveling to false idols. After a blessing, the pilgrim arose, and invigoratively strode along with the wind out of the room. He thanked the community, packed some loaves — to give beggars along the road — and began his mission. In time, Beatus mastered the native language, and fulfilled the bishop’s task by constructing churches across the land. Doubters initially believed the pilgrim to be a sorcerer, bewitching feeble minds; however, Beatus’s temperament was just and sincere. One by one, disciples eagerly clung to the Word, following his every footstep. He even established bakeries, providing bread for the poor. Although starving, for he remained thin, no one recalled the man eating apart from the blessed meal. He never mended his cloak, which retained every tatter and tear from the harsh travels — yet its colors evoked a youthful vibrancy. As years passed, Beatus’s hair grayed and body aged, but his feet preserved their fortitude along the rugged terrain.
When he entered a new village, Beatus would proclaim, “Rejoice! Death is no more!” The words thundered in the cavernous valleys. All life stood attentively. All feared and awed, for some attested they saw the mountains move. Those who heard the Word were compelled to reject their previous ways. Like a dying fire in need of stoking, the pilgrim fed them wood. The region blazed.
IV
Then the inferno’s ire raged toward Beatus. For too long, it had lied dormant, awaiting for an opportune time to release havoc.
The pilgrim was old — much older than his teacher. His sight clouded, while his gait slowed. Yet some saw the pilgrim, hooded and cloaked, hobble through the wilderness avoiding every rock or root that longed to cripple him. He hoped to live the rest of his days in peace, even searching for the castle from long ago; but no local knew of its whereabouts or the lord’s fate who resided there. But he persisted in his pursuit. Along the way, Beatus found mossy stones scattered across an overgrown field adjacent to a burned barn, which he could not discern whether the culprit was arson or accident. The answer, however, was pointless — no life resided on that ground for an age. No one tilled its fields or repaired its foundation. The weeds strangled the wildflowers. The sweet smells from the surrounding land failed to penetrate the air. The emptiness troubled him. In his heart, Beatus wondered if this were the spot the warrior treated him charitably. An instinct told him yes. For the first time in ages, the pilgrim wept as he prayed for the warrior.
Upon his return to a nearby village, one where he established a church, not a whisper could be heard. The tools rusted in the fields. Puffs of black smoke trickled from huts. No birds flew overhead, while other animals cowered in their stables. The sight perplexed Beatus. Not even a disciple greeted him. None welcomed him into their homes. A few blood-shot eyes glared from dark windows. A light mist descended on the village, muddying the path. The grimy dirt caked the old man’s feet, inhibiting his steps from hobbling to lumbering. His soul quivered — something terribly wrong infected the village. He called out, but no one answered.
Beatus passed through to the next village, which endured a similar fate. “How long have I been wandering,” he wondered. “What befell these good people?” He continued calling out, despite a strained voice. Windows creaked and goats cried, but he knew unkind eyes followed him. Suddenly, a woman stumbled onto the road, crawling toward the pilgrim. With soiled hands, her feline fingers clawed at his cloak; she produced a hoarse, undistinguishable noise, accompanied with a foul breath. When Beatus looked upon her, he saw the woman’s horrendously blackened, boiled face. She had plague.
A terror struck his heart — but he quickly resolved to assist the woman. He took her arm, leading her to a nearby well, but she did not drink. She vomited the water along with bile. He knew death was imminent, so raising his hand, he attempted to bless the woman. However, the woman found enough strength to tightly grip the old man’s wrist. A searing pain burned Beatus, but he clenched his teeth to avoid screaming. Then the woman stared at him. Her yellowed eyes sinisterly pierced the pilgrim, as if she would kill. A tear dangled on her infected cheek. It steamed.
“Free from death?,” she coughed. “You have cursed us.”
She collapsed on the cold ground. Beatus blessed her, despite the venomous words. They lingered in his mind with great density. The air shifted. The sky darkened. The wind whipped his back toward a crowd that tentatively approached him. He could see the plague’s scars on every face — old and young. Even a child looked hardened. None greeted the pilgrim.
“Let me help you,” he calmly said. But the gesture went unrequited. Beatus tried to delay the inevitable thought: that they meant to do him harm. In the distance, he believed he heard boulders tumbling into one of the lakes. Beneath his feet, worms squirmed. Death arrived.
“What of others of my order? Where have they gone?”
A few moments passed. All stood still. Beatus could not tell if he breathed, but there was nothing to inhale even if he desired to do so. He knew his disciples had either fled or died from the plague. The famished, scarred few before him were the last, struggling to persevere, clinging only to a hope: of channeling their anger and pain toward something — or someone.
Then a younger man stepped forward with bloodied, blistered feet. His vacant stare lacked any life burning beneath, while his features were intensified by the sweeping overcast. The man’s cheeks and hands twitched, restraining himself from lunging at the pilgrim. His nearly toothless mouth hung agape — the teeth had disintegrated from stomach acid and malnutrition. Beatus pitied him. He reminded the pilgrim of his former self, back in the highlands.
“Does it matter?” the younger man finally uttered. “They — and you — preached to rejoice. That death was merely a threshold to life. Look around you. Do you see joy? Only suffering is true. It is the truth.”
The words were violent, like a farmer uprooting and then casting weeds into gobbling flames. Beatus wondered if a semblance of charity flickered in the boy’s soul, for he could not believe the Word’s presence would be rejected so quickly. But there the crowd stood.
“We cannot avoid suffering. Christ did not avoid it, but overpowered it through sacrifice. I do not dismiss the loss here — in fact, I am pained. But do not curse the God who created us. He is not like your gods of old. He is not vengeful. And he has not abandoned you to misery.”
Suddenly, a stone whizzed by Beatus, rupturing the air like glass. Shocked, he noticed the child’s coal eyes widen and every muscle convulse. He had thrown it, upset to have missed Beatus. The pilgrim held up his hands to plead with the people, but one stone multiplied to tens. One after another, Beatus tried to dodge the projectiles; however, some hit their mark. Beatus covered his face as he fled from the sight. Fear drove him — but to where, he did not realize. He only recognized the mob snapping twigs, splashing footsteps in creeks, and rustling bushes while pursuing him up the hillside. The minutes plodded as Beatus charged into the wilderness. His old feet became spry, like the mountain goats he once marveled at before meeting Barnabas. Darkness closed in as the skies down-poured. The trees’ cracking roared throughout the valley. The end was nigh, Beatus realized. Agony swooped in like a demonic mother, cradling his heart yet piercing it with swords. Patches of dirt and blood formed circles on his frayed cloak. His head pounded, though he could not remember if a stone struck him there.
But still he ran till he was alone. The ravaging, vengeful force died, even scampering away for woeful cries tumbled down the cliffside. Coming to, the pilgrim discovered he crouched in front of a cave. It was a pit: no light entered, as if barred at its threshold. The dripping, sharp stalagmites dared not make a sound. A foul chill breathed from the recesses, raising Beatus’s neck hairs. A voice cried out to not enter, while another begged him to shelter from the elements — if only for a brief moment. The pilgrim looked out from the cave’s mouth surveying the terrain. The mountains were split, while the storm sapped the lake’s color from a transcendent blue to a mournful gray. The vegetation bellowed, hopelessly pleading for reprieve. Despite the weather, he feared several villagers still hounded after him. Panicked, Beatus heeded the latter voice: he hobbled into the cave.
As he journeyed deeper and deeper, his footsteps ricocheted off the stalagmites. He could have sworn the sounds laughed. His heart ached. His hunch morphed into a more pronounced form. The cold rock seared his sizzling feet. Within the darkness’s belly, a crashing water rushed — but the reverberation disguised its origins. Afraid, Beatus decided to sit, worried that if he went too far into the caves, he would not find his way out. His eyes adjusted to the black. The rocks formed like gnarly, bared teeth. Either from blood loss or exhaustion, Beatus believed they even moved, as if speaking to him, though he heard no voice.
He could see nothing else. The cave’s mouth appeared shut. Shivering, he balled his body for warmth — but his thin build provided none. He felt wiggling sensations on his feet; however, not even a worm crawled on him. Death seemed imminent. The loch shore; Barnabas; The Pict king; The warrior; The fair woman; The bishop; All of his life trickled before him. But the air mangled them into spiteful visions. Despair swirled in the chalice of his soul, while his breathes — that collided with the chill as puffs of smoke — lessened. “This is it, my final day,” he believed.
Time ceased. The cold rock on which he sat hardened against his ailing, bruised body. He longed for Barnabas, for some company. “God, give me strength.”
From the cave’s bowels spewed a rank odor, causing Beatus to violently shudder enough to vomit. The crashing water’s sound barreled toward him; the pilgrim leapt onto a higher surface to avoid being swept away — but again, no water pooled at his feet. Yet a force, one not previously there, lurked in the shadows. Every hair was raised. Every nerve desperately tried to flee. But he stood still, like cast in ice.
“Beatus — it has been too long,” the force spoke. The pilgrim doubted its existence, believing the sinister snarl of his own concurred imagination. But it’s breath singed his nostrils, and the voice bombarded his ears. It was more real than anything else in the cave.
“Do I know you?” Beatus said through chapped lips and chattering teeth. The force howled. Every stalagmite quaked, bending to its will.
“Surely, you recall that night,” it roared. “You and your master thought you defeated me on that Loch shore years ago. But alas: Here. I. Am.”
The creature came into full view, mockingly grinning at the pilgrim. Its iron scales radiated a colorless light, and the eyes slithered over Beatus’s frail frame. The old man was paralyzed — terrified to even flinch. His nightmare glided in front of him. Flint sprayed from its belly toward Beatus’s eyes. He tried to hide them, but felt hypnotized.
“You have aged, old friend,” the creature facetiously said. “Funny we should meet at the inevitable; but then again, I orchestrated it. I alone have permitted you to linger this long: to see the fruits of your labor scorched in front of your eyes —”
Tears crystallized on Beatus’s cheeks. He went to wipe them away discreetly.
“Don’t you dare look away you insect!” the creature spewed in a revolting, guttural command. Bits of bones and flesh showered the pilgrim’s cloak — yet he couldn’t distinguish whether they were human or not. The creature slunk into a crevice, shrouded in the dark. A cloud of dust hung in the air, tasting like hot embers on Beatus’s lips. He stared directly into the monster’s yellow, vacant eyes: they reminded him of the woman and younger man from the village.
“Where has your power gone, I wonder? You who could make the animals bend to your will,” it chuckled. “Go on, call on your Lord. Raise your hands to me. Cast me away.”
Beatus did not move. Moments passed, and the creature crawled forward. The pilgrim discerned the creature’s uneasiness in the silence; so he stilled his tongue.
“Ah, dare not converse with me? You are a rude guest, that is what you are after all. You are as tight lipped as your bishop,” the creature crowed. A terror boiled in Beatus. “How unobservant you are, failing to realize the truth he withheld from you. Do you know how your precious friend perished? I will give you this knowledge without payment.”
The creature leaned back, in a regurgitating posture. The long neck brutally spasmed as the monster retrieved a mutilated object from its acidic, rotten stomach. After a great effort, it spat out a decapitated head through its shield-like teeth. The head still had thin strands of hair; the jaw was shattered; and a goo, remnants of the eyes, lingered in the sockets.
“Behold the man!” the creature chuckled, vying the pilgrim to inspect it further. Beatus could not breathe. The cold rattled his spine, while the rock gouged his feet. Hunched over, he picked up the mucous smeared head, and, despite the deformity, knew in his heart that the remains belonged to Barnabas. Beatus wept.
“How wise could he be? He picked the wrong protector, who were demolished by a rival clan that I sent. They killed him, and paraded his head on a pike — rightly, they did not appreciate the Word he preached. Why surrender to the one who allows suffering and forbids us from becoming gods? Man is a lowly being, lowlier than the slithering bugs. They cannot rise above themselves. That dream is foolhardy. How can one be perfect if He creates imperfect, stupid beings?”
Beatus’s blood pooled beneath Barnabas’s head in his cradled hands. He glanced into the darkened sockets, wishing he could see his old friend one last time instead of the decayed object. However, the head crumbled into dust that swept toward the cave’s bowels.
“Why do you torment me?” Beatus brokenly cried. The creature straddled mere inches from the pilgrim’s face, flaring its nostrils. Its cold exhales ferociously pierced the old man. Any false affability died.
“That there is only me. That you were never in control. You are beaten.”
The snarl gnawed at Beatus’s heart. He could not think, except of the creature; Barnabas’s death; the plague; and the child who threw a stone at him. Had it all been for naught, he wondered. His entire mission, years of struggle, whisked away. The old man fell on his knees, then onto his wrinkled, withering hands, like the stone sapped his strength. “I should not have come here,” he bitterly thought. “I should not have run away from His flock.”
He sobbed. The tears dripped into the pools of water from the rocks overhead. Meanwhile, the creature lavished in the suffering. Its yellow eyes turned red, as its pupils blazed.
“This is it, then? Not even a retort? To think I waited for so long — I should pity you, but why bother.”
Everything within the cave quaked as the creature approached its victim, pounding the walls with its thrashing tail, which knocked off stalagmites next to the pilgrim. Beatus felt the monster looming over him. It was like his nightmare from years prior: the horizonless gorge as Barnabas slept by the fire. Was there nothing good in this moment, he reflected.
But his mind lingered on the loch fire from that night. How, even in the cold dark wilderness, he felt alive, warmed even though the flames were meager. Nothing compared to the mission — to the zeal of youth. His spirit transported to the castle, in front of another peaceful fire. He remembered the warrior: his gentle demeanor, and his charitable, wordless actions. In fact, the pair did not exchange any words that night, yet they forged a fraternal bond. Then, he found himself in front of an oven, baking bread alongside the fair woman, who offered him a place to stay; and with the bishop, who commanded him to fear nothing.
Throughout his latter days, he had nothing to fear. He walked with the Word. He lived with and served the valley’s people. Barnabas’s words echoed to him: even most of our forefathers abandoned Christ, but most returned, and they left the upper room risking certain death. “If they had the will to do so,” he prayed, “then so do the villagers — so does all of His creation. So do I.” And then he recalled his promise: to never doubt again.
Raising his head toward the creature, into its horrid-wrenching mouth, he cried out, “If one is to die, then best to die well.”
The creature paused, perplexed. A fiery steam erupted from every pore. Its eyes shrunk, rolling black.
“Then die!” The creature lunged; but the pilgrim, clutching a broken stalagmite, thrusted the sharp end into the monster’s cavernous mouth. Its eyes drained, stunned by the mortal wound. From the depths of its innards, it bawled horrendously, emitting an odor akin to the depths of the sea. Flailing, it bashed against other rocks, shattering the iron scales. One by one they fell, and one by one, they evaporated. The skin shed like a reptile’s, revealing its muscles and bones. Each layer rapidly decayed as it slithered back into the cavernous abyss. Beatus, amazed, listened to the creature burrow further and further into the darkness. He heard clawing, scratching cries — and then nothing.
The pilgrim propped himself up, and gazed down into the cavern. Not even the rushing water peeped, and the cold air wafted away. Turning back toward the cave’s mouth, a single beam of sunlight penetrated the hull, and illuminated the path out. Tears of joy sprang. The strength rejuvenated his sore feet, and though scarred, they were light. He ran toward the open air, praising God. And he knew, whether the villagers condemned him or not, he would preach the Word until his final breath. “Let your Word be my final word,” he prayed.
Beatus resolutely left the cave.
Appendix I: Thank you. From the bottom of my heart, thank you so much for reading. These short stories are not easy to write — but I’m proud when they are completed. And I hope it brought you some enjoyment.
Appendix II: So who was St. Beatus? According to Dictionary of Saints by John Delaney, St. Beatus lived around the first century, “who lived and died in cave on Mount St. Beatenberg, Switzerland.” The biography continues that “his untrustworthy legendary story has him the apostle of Switzerland, baptized in England by St. Barnabas and ordained in Rome by St. Peter, who sent him to evangelize the Swiss.” He is famous for “fighting and slaying a dragon there.”
Back in April 2019, I visited the caves, which is both a pilgrimage site and tourist attraction (for the rock formations/stalagmites). Never did I think I would eventually write a story about him, but that’s the beauty of travel — you never know how it’ll impact you years down the road! Obviously, this “legend” is an amalgamation of other saints’ lives (like St. Columba warding off the Loch Ness monster); but, even though Delaney may doubt Beatus’s existence, his story remains relevant as ever. We are all called to fight the “dragons” in our lives. Know that I’m praying for your spiritual strength. And remember, there is much to rejoice about in life. God bless!