Faith

The smells of death and decay offended my senses as I made my journey through this satanic countryside. Whenever I looked up, the bodies of the dead and the dying seemed to be flying at me, pleading for a savior. I only wished I were that person. Hundreds upon hundred of people died a gradual death as wooden poles slowly impaled their fragile bodies. I tried, but could not ignore the screams and moans of pain and agony as I continued through the forest. The Forest of the Impaled as it was known by many. For some unseen reason, I felt the need to walk deeper into the forest even though I wanted nothing more than to be out of there. I quickly regretted my choice. The site I came across was one I am doomed never to forget. As a Father of the Holy Roman Catholic Church I had seen many dead during the crusades, but nothing like this. There were three of them. Three Romanians that worked with the diligence of skilled craftsmen as they impaled a Turkish prisoner. They showed no remorse towards their work even though this prisoner could not have been older then ten. I felt powerless as they hoisted the impaled boy into the air. I just stood there and stared into the face of that dying boy. When our eyes meant he seemed to peer right into my soul. He saw what I always knew, that I was a coward and not worthy of my faith. I just stood there and said nothing. Even when they left I stood and did nothing. I was ready to get out of that place when these came back, but this time with a beautifully designed table and chair. And again they were gone, only to come back with what looked like a feast made for a king. One of the men pulled out a large knife and approached the dying boy. The boy screamed like a banshee. The sound penetrated my brain and I thought my head was going to explode. The cut went down the length of the boy’s body; not deep enough to kill the boy, but he would be dead soon. The man quickly collected the boy’s life force in a large bowl as it dripped from the cut. When the bowl was full, the man placed it on the table with the rest of the meal. It was then that their master arrived. He was the ruler of these lands. The one the people called Vlad Dracula. I had seen pictures of the madman before, but I knew nothing of the kind of his merciless acts. Vlad sat and his servants placed a full plate of food in front of their master. Dracula then broke bread and dripped half of it into the bowl of blood. I felt sick as I watched him consume the bread. He ate it like it was some heavenly food, but not from any heaven I knew of. I watched as he dined with the dead and still I did nothing. I only stood there asking myself questions I didn’t want the answers to. Questions about myself and the Church, the Church that I so blindly followed. This madman was a hero of the Roman Catholic Church for some reason I could not answer. I was sent by Pope Pius II to commemorate this devil of a man for his crusade against the Turks, but he was a killer in my eyes and not a hero. I didn’t care if the Turks were our enemies. To kill on the battlefield was one thing, but these were cold-hearted acts. I could not understand why the leader of the Church found this man a hero. This was not a Church I wanted to believe in. This was not my faith. Something had to be done about this. It was then that I stepped forward and approached the demon that was to be called Vlad the Impaler.