Serial Saturday: The Sacrament by T. H. Sterling, Chapter One

Chapter One

Brother Peter paused, the iron keyring pressing into his damp palm. The ancient wooden door hidden in the alcove blended into the rectory’s stone wall. No carvings adorned the surface, offering little hint of what lay behind. The scent of old dust lingered in the air as if it had absorbed the weight of centuries, untouched by the modern world of 1901.

“Few men pass this point, Brother Peter. It falls to me to ensure you comprehend this duty.” The Rector’s baritone voice dropped, carrying a seriousness that drew Peter’s full attention. 

The Rector’s slender frame stepped into the torchlight, shadows dancing along his olive-toned skin and smooth scalp, which bore a hint of stubble.

“As the new Custodian of the Scriptorium, the secrets below are your burden—speak of them to no one.”

Peter’s pulse quickened as the key clicked into place. The door creaked open to a narrow staircase spiraling into darkness. A chill rose to meet them, laced with incense and something sour. Peter hesitated, nerves stirring beneath his growing anticipation of the secrets hidden below. He stepped forward, the cool air wrapping around him like a shroud.

The Rector’s footsteps echoed ahead, his flame casting murky shapes on the ancient stone. The elder descended with ease, his spry steps light and deliberate. He moved with the assurance of someone who had served the parish for many decades, yet his energy and composure seemed almost untouched by the burden of his years.

Peter followed down the three flights, pride for his promotion from Scribe to Custodian prickling at the edges of his thoughts—another sin for confession. That and his irritation at his fellow scribes, who hinted that his wealthy family’s donations earned him the reward, despite his education and many years of service.

At the bottom, the Rector lit torches near a heavy iron door with thick rivets and a nearly invisible small panel integrated in its base.

The words Custodia Veritas were carved in the weathered granite above the entry. 

Guarding the Truth, Peter thought, his nerves humming with the thrill of discovery as he prepared to enter the old library. He sent a silent prayer of thanks to God for the opportunity.

“Watch closely,” said the Rector. “Follow each step of the entry ritual exactly as I do.” 

 Brother Peter nodded he understood.

Light flickered off two polished, intricately etched swords hanging on the wall. Holding one upright with a strong grip, he traced the sign of the cross over the larger door. He crouched down and unlatched the panel embedded at the bottom, just big enough for a small animal to pass through. The opening revealed an inky void beyond.

“Shhh,” the Rector whispered, hovering the sharp tip near the opening.

Stillness pressed against Peter’s ears until even the drip of water from the slimy stones overhead felt deafening. He shifted his weight, the scrape of his sole against the granite floor unnaturally loud in the oppressive stillness.

“Proceed only if there is silence. Should the quiet break, abandon the entry and seek me at once. Your soul depends on it.” The Rector shut and refastened the latch of the small opening.

Peter recognized the Rector’s grave tone as theatrical, always warning of the sins that would send him to hell. He pressed his lips together, resisting the urge to test the rule by humming a hymn. 

The Rector slid a second key carved with a chalice into the lock. 

“Twist right, then left, and press forward,” he instructed. 

The lock chimed—a soft, melodic sequence unlike any Peter had heard before. With a quiet hiss, the key disappeared into the mechanism, and the door groaned open.

The Rector snatched the key as it glided out the opposite side, his attention fixed on the gloomy passage beyond.

He shut the door behind them and pointed to a sturdy deadbolt.

“On your way out, if you find this lock engaged, return to the Archive until the Brethren of the Sacred Rite have finished their rituals. They are the only others you will find in these tunnels.”

Peter bit back a smirk—the self-important Brethren and their special treatment by the Rector. Their ranks had remained unchanged for as long as Peter could recall, keeping their exclusivity preserved like some divine rite in itself.

“The Sword of God represents our search for truth. Keep it raised and ready until you reach the archive,” the Rector whispered.

With the tip of sharpened steel leading their way, they began slow steps, only stopping to light an occasional torch on the wall.

The twisting path passed ancient wooden doors, each marked with Latin phrases hinting at hidden relics, confirming Peter’s suspicion that the church housed many secrets.

Eventually, the claustrophobic tunnels led to a T. The Rector stepped with caution, swinging the blade in a cross pattern towards the midnight darkness to the left. From deep within the murkiness came a soft, uneven thump, followed by an almost imperceptible murmur. The Rector gave no sign of noticing. 

Perhaps only the ancient masonry settling into itself, Peter thought.

“Always to the right,” the Rector said, motioning for Peter to head in that direction.

“What’s the other way?” 

“Only communion artifacts.” The Rector gestured again for Peter to move. “A restricted area for all except the Brethren of the Sacred Rite.”

Peter loved the ancient chalices and intricately etched serving trays, accompanying the monthly event. Jealousy, a sin for many of his confessions, always filled him as he watched the Sacred Rite priests lead the special rituals as the congregation purified themselves with the wafers and wine. 

With a sigh, the Rector stepped around Peter and led him to the right, the sword now hanging limply by his side.

After a few twists and turns along roughly hewn stone with no recessed doorways, they arrived at a single door. A sense of awe descended as Peter read the carved words: Verbum Dei—The Word of God.

“The Scriptorium—as Custodian, these are your charges, and yours alone. There are secrets never to be shared beyond its walls..”

The Rector opened the lockless entry. The lantern’s glow flickered over endless shelves, their wood blackened with age and sagging under the heft of ancient scrolls and bound volumes. Shadows danced along the high, vaulted ceiling, where cobwebs hung like veils of forgotten time. The thick air, filled with the scent of parchment and ink, mingled with the musk of decay.

Peter’s breath caught. The vast, cavernous space seemed alive with whispers, the gravity of history pressing in from every corner. His new role as guardian of the archive and chief scribe pressed against his chest, a mix of exhilaration and dread. He now understood why the former Custodian would disappear here for days.

“It’s time,” the Rector said, snapping Peter from his thoughts. He wanted to protest, but soon enough, he’d be back without the old man’s scrutiny.

They retraced their steps, the Rector pausing at each torch to extinguish its flame, his movements brisk. His eyes darted back into the darkness, the remaining flickers of light catching the deep lines of worry furrowing his brow.

“Don’t linger. Return with haste through these hallways.” His voice, taut and low, disappeared into the gloom.

Peter followed, suppressing a smirk at the old man’s drama and overblown sense of ceremony. His attention drifted back to the treasures of the archive, the holy texts and words of the saints that he would soon have the privilege to study. 

At the stairwell, the Rector turned abruptly, his grip on Peter’s shoulder firm enough to startle. His intense gaze sent a shiver crawling up Peter’s spine.

“Never enter the week before Communion,” he hissed. “The Brethren of the Sacred Rite tolerate no interruption.”

Peter nodded, keeping his expression neutral, though a thread of annoyance curled in his gut. He doubted the Brethren would even notice, cloaked in their sense of grandeur. But the Rector’s wrath was another matter entirely, and not one he intended to test so soon after being appointed to his new position.