“Saint Jeremy, Saint George, Sānjer.
Whatever name you claim to be.
Not even your most penitent smile
will fetch any mercy from me.
Saint Jeremy, Saint George, Sānjer.
Whichever name you take.
The devout follow you meekly.
The doubtful fall in your wake.
Saint Jeremy, Saint George, Sānjer.
Blessed by neither holy nor man.
A predator knows another.
When we meet on mortal land.
Saint Jeremy, Saint George, Sānjer.
Your cross is a gilded fake.
The devout still feed you gladly.
With each stolen soul you take.
Saint Jeremy, Saint George, Sānjer.
Your offer I firmly pass.
You mask yourself with piety.
I see you clear as glass.
Saint Jeremy, Saint George, Sānjer.
Keep moving away from me.
I won’t be joining the dead,
that I can plainly see.”
Such were the words I spoke to the brown robed, saintly appearing monk that was suddenly leaning over me when I fell asleep at the park. He appeared as a white male, with a body well worked by manual labor, dark brown, wavy hair cut in a tonsure, with a chocolate brown robe girt with a plain nondescript rope. He had a tall wooden staff in his hand, which was topped with a gold cross that emanated light. A faint halo wrapped around his head, just enough for it to be seen, not so much that his features were obscured.
He leaned over me, and smiled. He said nothing, but held out his hand. I could see behind him were trains of pilgrims that were fixated on his cross. As they came to a stop (because he was stopped before me), some fell to their knees while others stood. Mutters prayers, they never turned away from the cross. Behind them, were other pilgrims that were dragging themselves along. While the walking folks seemed willing to follow this… monk, those that were dragging themselves swore viciously at him and expressed a desire to flee from his presence. But when they looked at him or the cross-staff he carried, they would become faithful again and strive to catch up to the train of the able-bodied.
His smile deepened but his eyes saddened. Didn’t I see he only wanted to help relieve me of my burdens? Didn’t I see he wanted to help shoulder the weight of faith? Faith in what? Something about him was wrong, very wrong. He felt familiar alright, but not in the way that a devoutly meek monk should feel.
He felt like a predator.
He felt like me. Or what I could be if I ever decided to become a full fledged sociopath.
I said nothing to him, and I moved not a single finger before him. He came closer. I asked for his name. “Saint Jer…emy.” That didn’t sound right so I asked him again. “Saint Jor…ge.”
When Malphas first introduced himself to me, he said his name was “Malfeasance”. My ears heard that well. But my understanding changed it to “Malphas”. This self-called saint was saying one name, and my ears were hearing another. “Sānjer.”
Why I responded in rhyme, I don’t know. It felt right. I felt I had to bind him with singsong to keep him away from me and nullify any attempted charming. When I said, “Saint Jeremy”, he smiled. When I said, “Saint George”, he brought his hand closer. When I said, “Sānjer”, he drew back his hand like he had been viciously stung by wasps. Each time I said the three names, he withdrew more and more from me.
As he did, I could see the halo around his head and the gleam on the cross was not true. It was light, alright, but for those with eyes to see, it was clear this was counterfeit. I understood then why the two sets of followers. Both believed him to be a man of Jehovah. Those that were able-bodied believed completely. Those that dragged themselves wanted to disbelieve, but their faith was stronger than their disbelief, and they remained captive in his spell.
Finally, the monk moved enough away that his lights no longer colored what I saw. The pilgrims, which before had been dressed in various “costumes representing the lower classes”, were now in decaying rags. Their bodies, which had looked like they only set off on pilgrimage this morning, were now in various states of decay. The monk had trains of enraptured dead in his wake.
I didn’t react when I saw the dead revealed. I kinda smirked, actually. Each and every one of them were there voluntarily. Each and every one had chosen to take the monk’s hand when offered. Not a single one of them checked to see if he was legitimate and enraptured themselves to him without question. Those that were dragging behind? They swallowed the lie at first, but doubted him and tried to turn away.
I supposed as a Boneburner, I should have done something. Freed the captive dead, or something. I thought about it. But Sānjer is more than what he appeared to be. How much more, I don’t know. I was not in position to take on such a contest as I had to be back in the Waking shortly to pick up my daughter from school.
I know his name now. And while I may not have the right spelling, I’m quite sure I have the right pronunciation. If he returns, I’ll be ready with more than just rhyming words.