"Seek not the black curse, for it is the domain of the DEFILER"
by Cydhra
Document Provenance:
Excerpt from the book "Letters of the Black Court 1520-1570" that was deemed relevant for Tactical Theology Special Containment Project Tau-14 (Document Tau-14-1174). It has come into Foundation possession via the archives of Her Majesty's Foundation for the Secure Containment of the Paranormal (HMFSCP). It is a partially preserved copy of a translation of the original book "Briefe zum schwarzen Hofe 1520-1570". The original contained several transcriptions of letters sent by members of a Schwarzer Hof (German: "black court" or "black farm"), as well as copies of several texts that probably originated within their lodges and secret houses. It was stolen, presumably during the destruction of the eastern black farms in the 17th century. At some point after that, the texts were translated into English and sent to England, where they have been either received or intercepted by HMFSCP.
Document Contents:
The following document comprises excerpts of two letters. The first part is missing because the relevant book page was not preserved. Furthermore, the original transcription into the book removed mundane sections of both letters making it difficult to determine the original author of the letters; a discussion about potential candidates can be found in document Tau-14-983. The letters were written between 1547 and 1555 by a German member of a Schwarzer Hof who was visiting Moscow during the early years of Tsar Ivan IV's reign.
Yet in the night I saw the tsar speak to a rose bush, and I heard the rose bush answer. With that, finally, I grasped the magnitude of the spell that has taken root in the palace in Moscow. My fears have come to bear fruit, and I believe that our plan will not suffice. However, I believe I have now also seen a path to the end. As I reported in my last letter, I cannot reach the tsar in a way that would not also reveal myself, and did I reveal myself, blame would fall back onto us all. Even if I reached him, in that night I have witnessed the covetousness and the greed in the whispered words of the rose bush. I know that should the tsar fall, another man were to take his place. For it is the demon that dwells in the rose that wills it. I wish you could have heard its disgracefulness, for it would explain to you my conviction in this belief. But at times I thank the Lord that you were spared from the foulness in its words. Many a heart would fall into despair if they bore witness to it. Even I have felt a lasting coldness ever since I visited the garden in that night, and I fear it may never leave me again.
The Black Death prospers in the shadow of the DEFILER. It is not HIS tool, and mercy can yet be asked in its face. But HIS spawn will seek to imbue the chaos of the DEFILER in its misery. Show mercy to those afflicted, for the LORD shows mercy to you. A black curse is sought by the DEFILER'S spawn in pestilence, and it will bring ruin to the LORD'S domain. Seek a cure for the villages and towns in its path, for it is the vanguard of ruin. Seek not the black curse, for it is the domain of the DEFILER.
It is more important than ever now for us to succeed. I did remember yet the ritual imparted in that accursed black book in our library. And I remember the spell it describes, drawn from pestilence, and from it I thought out that new idea. I took a young boy from the palace who speaks the language of Cathay and whom I had become friends with, and I paid him fairly, and we took to the streets east. I knew from the traders of the terrible pestilence in Cathay, and I set out to find it. I told the priest that my search would lead me eastward through the Ural, and he should pray for my return, and he did not ask further questions.
The journey through the cold plains and the colder mountains that separate Cathay from Russia was arduous. The plains were barren, and the people were sparse. But I shall tell you about the journey in full upon my return. The young boy was in good spirits and kept me good company, which made travelling less lonesome even though it took so much longer than reaching Moscow.
Eventually, we met people who spoke the language of Cathay, and it turned out the young palace worker was not as good as he had claimed. I think he just learned a few songs from the traders, and his youth made him believe in his mastery. It took weeks of visiting small villages and speaking to nomads in signs and single words, but eventually we were able to reach a village that was ravaged by the Black Death. It was a strange sight; the pestilence appeared tamer than back in Europe. It did not spread quickly between villages, and it killed more slowly. Yet, when I saw the sick, I recognized the signs immediately. Lumps beneath the arms, fatigue, a strong fever, and finally black spots when the sickness progressed—the dead possessed blackened skin entirely.
We convinced the locals that we were traveling healers, and I had them show me to one of the dead. I asked to be left alone to see the nature of the sickness. I knew the ritual, though I could not risk the villagers seeing what I was willing to do. Hesitantly, they left me with him. I had the boy bring me my pouch, and I took a small blade of copper I had brought with me and made a small double incision in the bubo. I made sure to cause no excess harm to the dead and to cut him in calmness to disturb him not. I drew the corrupted humor out the bubo as I remembered the book instructed, by warming the wound with the blade that I had laid by the fire. I drew it into a glass phiala and set it by the fire too. I prepared an extraction from the cursed blood of the poor man and the live blood of myself while I prayed to the Lord to absolve my defilement. Then I cast ember into white tree sap and mixed it with the blood and the poisoned matter of the dead. I spoke the dreaded words I dare not repeat in writing. The anima condensed in the neck of my phiala, yet it turned a sickly brown, and I knew I had failed.
I had the villagers show me a second dead, and yet again I drew his humor and his blood, and I drew my blood, and I cast in it an ember of smouldering sap, and again, the anima turned a disgusting shade and smelled of rot. Deep in my heart I knew what I was doing wrong. The book was seeking only damnation, and its forsaken author embedded every bit of madness into the spells that a human soul could muster. Yet I, seeking to root out a demon from the palace in Moscow, did not possess the resolve to conjure Evil like this. The book sought to draw the curse from the living.
When conjuring an anima of a black curse, you shall free yourself from ill design as you shall free your instruments from corruption with vinegar and flame. You shall consecrate your deed to the LORD, and you shall commend the soul of the vessel to the LORD for HE is merciful. The vessel must be laid on the ground or a rising thereof. You shall not inflict excess suffering upon the vessel, and you shall not commit yourself to cruelty. No curse can be willed without malice, but malice is the domain of the DEFILER, and thus you shall ask the LORD for HIS divine retribution in its stead. You shall stay afar from the malice of the DEFILER and avoid anger and ire, for they will bind the anima to the domain of the DEFILER, and you cannot will the DEFILER to good deeds. When the curse has been drawn from the vessel's flesh and blood has been paid from your body and if the LORD lends HIS divine retribution, a curse may be conjured in spite of the will of the DEFILER. Know that it must be kept away from wells and from cities and from rivers and lakes and from the pure and the kind, for only death and misery may come from it.
The villager's distrust grew, and I knew I could not ask for more, and so we set up our camp for the night. Still before we fell asleep, we were visited by an elder of the village. He sat down by the small fire and started telling us of the plague and the hardship, but we had trouble understanding his tales. Though in his eyes I could see the pain that I had seen only in cities ravaged by the pestilence, and thus I understood.
Seeing the pain in his eyes, my soul wept. But I knew, if I could not conjure the curse from the pestilence, my journey was for naught, and the tsar would bring terror to the west, and so I looked at him and I put forth my hand. I told him, if he could show me another patient, one who was alive, I would draw a remedy from him and cure the village of the deadly sickness. I described many instances in great detail of how I had cured people before. I told him of our court1 and the miracles we had performed. After my tales, the man thanked me in tears and promised to show me to his son in the morning, who had come down with the pestilence three days prior.
We got up before sunrise. The old man was already awake, but I did not want the attention of other villagers. He led us to his son, a young man not even twenty years of age. He was bedded in cotton sheets drenched in sweat. He was weak, and I could tell from the coloration of his skin that, likely, he would not see another week. But he recognized our presence and winced when he saw my copper blade. I looked at the old man and told him to get water. The village had a well nearby, which did not allow enough time to complete the ritual. So I lied to him and said we needed water from outside the village, untarnished by sickness. He barely understood, but with the help of the palace boy, I repeated my will again and again. He hesitated to leave his dying son with us, but there was nothing to do but trust my lies, and so he went.
With the help of the boy I bound the patient to the bedding. He struggled but was too weak to escape my grip.
With my copper blade, I made a small incision into the swollen lump beneath the young man's arm, then I made a second incision to cut the form of the cross. He groaned but could not escape his fate. I wanted to ask the Lord for forgiveness, but the wrongness of my doing petrified my tongue and dried out my throat. I drew the sick matter and his blood into a phiala. The young man suddenly tore open his eyes in desperate defiance of his sickly weakness. He stuttered words foreign to my ears in the language of Cathay. Though even across our languages I could sense his pleas and his fear. He did not stop talking, even though sweat was running down his face and clouding his eyes. With his last strength, he sought to fight the curse I had cast but the sickness made him too weak. I mixed blood of my own into it and I cast an ember into this anima. The man's breath grew heavy, and I, too, could feel the air become imbued with a strange weight.
I finished the ritual in an efficient manner and with calmness in my hands. But with the stammering of the young man in my ears, I recalled the false hope I had instilled into the old man's heart. While a darkness seized his son, he hurried to the local river in desperate struggle against certain fate. The insidious nature of my deed betrayed my noble intentions. I expected the anima to turn black and the vial to emit a sulphuric odor again, but to my surprise, I saw it change its center to the color of finest scarlet. The black curse of the pestilence rested in my palm, and now there was only the way back to Moscow left to fulfill my purpose. With haste I left the gasping man behind. I did not take his life, but in a few hours the sickness would claim what was left.
With the young boy from Moscow, I ran from the village, and we did not stop running until the sun had already passed the cenit for fear they might discover the lie I had told the old man. But nobody followed us, and now that I recount my memories, I think they could have never followed us. Too sick were their workers and their fighters, and too broken were their spirits. I could not endure the thought of the old man discovering his dying son, bringing water that could do no good. But I had succeeded. With renewed hope, my companion and I turned to travel back.
Upon my return to Moscow, the reign of the terrible tsar was unbroken. I thanked the young palace worker and returned to the palace myself. There, I met with a gardener that I knew from my conversations with the priest, and he agreed to let me into the garden at night. The guards of the palace were concerned with the tsar and his family and perhaps with the highest bureaucrats, some of whom frequented the palace at late hours, but nobody had worries about the wellbeing of the garden. And since I was a guest of the priest, we could find the rose bush with ease.
A well that has been defiled must be forsaken. No soul can survive where a black curse has taken root. No mercy can be asked, and no prayer can be heard by the LORD. The defiled well is lost and must never be reclaimed. Only damnation can come from its water and only death from its soil. The scarlet star will never burn dimmer.
There it was. The rose betrayed the meticulous order that was imposed upon the other plants in the garden but still conformed to it in a manner that I can only describe as artistic. Undoubtedly wild and yet intricately interwoven with the human ideal that had formed the garden over countless generations of gardeners. I took out the anima that I brought from the other end of the world, and with the same copper knife I had used in its creation, I cut open the stem of the rose. I poured the liquid into a cloth, and this poultice I cast onto the fresh cut. The scarlet seeped into the wound in an unnatural way, and, immediately, I could see the rose wilting. The petals turned a deep black color; I was sure that even daylight could not have illuminated them, and within a few heartbeats, the rose was dead. It rotted away and left what reminded me of black bile, and like black ink, it poured into the soil. Despite the damage, I could feel an invisible weight lifted from the palace, and in that hour, I thought the curse broken.
But, dear friend, I am writing this letter to you because doubt has taken my mind. The coldness that I have felt ever since I listened to the rose whisper words of cruelty into the ear of the tsar, has not lifted. I can feel its presence still. At first I thought myself corrupted, even possessed. Alas, my spirits are high and I can yet feel the Lord's love.
What if I have not succeeded in casting out this demon? What if the rose had grown seeds, so to speak, and I spread them over the world? What if it was me who had planted the seed anew when I lied to that man in Cathay and took a part of his son that wasn't rightfully mine? I had given him a promise of hope, a lie that surely cost him his dear life when discovered. All to cast a terrible spell with the blood of his very son. What if I brought upon the world a new curse?
My dear friend, a terrible conception has taken ahold of my mind. I cannot rest at night, I cannot work at day. That night I witnessed the tsar speak to the rose, what if the rose had not spoken to the tsar, but had spoken to me?
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