“Tumor, rubor, calor, dolor! Per ipsum, et cum ipso, et in ipso! Jobsa, hopsa et vos omnes! Et cum spiritu tuo! Melach, Malach, Molach!”

They’ll start beating us any moment now, he thought feverishly. Any second now. There’s nothing to be done. I’ll have to go all out. In Arabic. Stand beside me, Averroes. Save me, Avicenna.

“Kullu-al-Shaitanu-al-rajim!” he screamed. “Fa-anasahum Tarish! Qasura al-Zoba! Al-Ahmar, Baraqan al-Abayad! Al-Shaitan! Khar-al-Sus! Al ouar! Mochefi al relil! El feurj! El feurj!”

The last word, as he vaguely recalled, meant “pudenda” in Arabic and had little in common with an exorcism. He was aware of the great stupidity he was engaged in. He was even more astonished by the outcome.

He felt as though the world had stood still for a moment. And then, in utter silence, among the tableau of Benedictines in black habits frozen against the grey walls, something twitched, something disturbed the dead calm with a movement and a sound.

The vacant-looking giant sitting by the wall suddenly tossed aside the sticky, dirty honey pot in disgust and revulsion. The pot clattered against the floor and didn’t break, but rolled, penetrating the silence with a dull but noisy clunking.

The giant raised his honey-covered fingers up to his eyes. He looked at them for a moment and his chubby, moonlit face showed first disbelief and then horror. Reynevan watched him, breathing heavily. He felt Scharley’s urgent gaze on him, but he was unable to utter a word. That’s it, he thought. That’s it.

The hulk, still looking at his finger, moaned. Heart-rendingly.

And then Brother Deodatus, lying on the bier, grunted, coughed, wheezed and kicked his legs. Then he swore, extremely secularly.

“Saint Euphrosyne…” the abbot groaned, kneeling. The other monks followed his example. Scharley opened his mouth, but quickly and astutely closed it. Reynevan put his hands to his temples, not knowing whether to pray or run away.

“Bugger…” croaked Brother Deodatus, sitting up. “My throat’s dry… What? Did I sleep through supper? A pox on you, Brothers, I only wanted a nap. I asked you to wake me up in time for Vespers…”

“It’s a miracle!” yelled one of the kneeling monks.

“God’s kingdom is come,” said another, falling spreadeagled on the floor. “Igitur pervenit in nos regnum Dei!”

“Alleluia!”

Brother Deodatus, who was now sitting on the bier, looked uncomprehendingly from the kneeling monks to Scharley with the stole around his neck, from Reynevan to the giant Samson, still examining his hands and belly, from the praying abbot to the monks who had just run in with a pail of manure and a copper frying pan.

“Would someone kindly tell me what the hell’s going on here?” asked the recently possessed monk.

Chapter Thirteen