TATTOOS IN STRANGE PLACES.
There’s nothing that connects folks from the past with folks from the present more than urination does. At least, that was what my tenth century ancestor Paul might have thought as he excused himself from the Mother Superior of Knicker View convent on his way back to his own bleak monastery. Bitchdown was a gloomy and unhappy place, made even worse by the blinkered attitude of its Holy Father who enjoyed contemplating pain in much the same way that more reasonable people contemplate the deliciousness of sugary confections and good red wine.
So Paul, blushing profusely and filled with self-loathing, sloped off to urinate because a pressure in his bladder told him he must either piss or burst. And he chose precisely the same moment as the aforementioned Holy Father chose to wander through the miserable grounds of his kingdom in search of peace, love and someone to flog.
So the scene is as follows.
Brother Paul Owongle is standing behind a hoar-covered bush, ankle deep in snow and slush to that his sandalled feet really hurt, trying to make his stream of urine sound as if it wasn’t there, the Mother Superior from Knicker View had paused, sympathetically waiting for him – and the Holy Father almost collided with her.
“Why, Grimwolde, fancy seeing you out here on a cold day like this!” she trilled when she saw him.
“Fanny, me delectable delight, what brings you so far from the comforts of your own pad on the self-same day?” he boomed.
He boomed because he assumed nobody would hear him.
But someone, of course, did. Brother Paul Owongle was still trying to silence his wee as it streamed into the white snow, turning it yellow.
“I was bringing…” began to Mother Superior.
But the Holy Father interrupted her with a loud and familiar, “no doubt you’ve come hither in need of a little light despoiling, my sweet little darlingikins,”
“Really, Grimwolde…” began the Mother Superior for a second time.
“How I’d delight in getting to know your namesake a little closer, my sweet and fragrant Fanny,” perved the High Priest. “I’ve been aching for your cherry lips, and my loins have been more excited than a spring hare in a wild west wind,” chuntered the Holy Father. “I can hardly bear the ages that pass between our meetings, and the delights that await me then, the wiles that lie beneath your robes ready to make my private member twitch!” he rumbled on.
And Paul finished emptying his bladder, and sighed his relief.
“What was that?” demanded the Holy Father. “I heard a sound, like a fairy exhaling or an angel farting!”
“It’s probably the boy I’m bringing back,” said the Mother Superior. “He needed a piss, the poor lamb.”
“The choir boy you sent over,” sighed the Mother Superior, shaking her head.
“The Paul boy?”
“The Paul boy who can’t sing!” she told him.
“The same. At least, if you say he can’t sing that must be the case. I’ll thrash him, of course, with many rods of birch for his inadequacy. All boys should be able to sing!”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort, Grimwolde! He’s a sweet young man and I only accompanied him on his return to your hell-hole because he is weak enough to die if left on his own! I have never seen a boy in such a wretched condition and with so many black and blue bruises all over him!”
“I am guiding him to his place in Heaven, sweet Fanny, as you well know. The only real guarantee of a place next to the Almighty is through prolonged and heart-wrenching pain!”
“You are a brute of a man and I sometimes wonder why I love you,” murmured the Mother Superior.
“Hush, Fanny, he’ll hear you and I can’t have my novices thinking that I have rude and tumultuous thoughts about the fairest of the sexes,” rumbled Grimwolde.
And Paul emerged, willy still out, from behind the hoary bush behind which he’d been relieving himself.
“Did you overhear that joke of mine, boy?” roared the Holy Father. “By Jove, I’m going to beat the cheek out of you! I’ll take the rod, I will, I’ll get Fathers Josh and Jish to hold you down and I’ll beat you until you weep for mercy, and then I’ll flog you some more!”
Paul stood still, trembling, pushing his willy out of sight and back into his horse-hair undies, his teeth rattling with terror. Rarely did the Holy Father seek the aid of either Fathers Josh or Jish, let alone both of them, in his crusade in the same of pain. But he was clearly in a state of unquenchable anger because one of the novices had overheard a forbidden familiarity, and from his own lips at that.
“You’ll do nothing of the sort!” said the Mother Superior quietly, “and if you do I’ll let it be known throughout your mean little empire that you have some quite fascinating perversions of your own! Think what they’d whisper in dark corners when they hear about the very naughty tattoos you had me sear into your most private parts, and how you like me to savour them!
“Hear me, Grimwolde. And to make absolutely certain you understand, I need you to, personally, bring this boy to the Quarter day service on the burning field, where his sweet mother is to be sacrificed to the glory of both your god and mine, so that she may find her place in Heaven next to the Great Healer!”
The Holy Father had the grace not to sneer as he muttered his acquiescence, but he scowled at Paul in a way that needed no interpretation.
The young novice knew there were ways and means of enforcing discipline that rarely left bruises, and that Bitchdown Monastery was filled with sufferers who know all about them, led by a sadist who revelled in the pain in others.
He was scared stiff.
© Peter Rogerson 19.10.12