The Leper's Bible

By D Reeder

This short story is a departure from the other 'Tales of the Supernatural'. The others are intended for reading out aloud to a group by a cosy fire in an old house at Christmastime before you climb the creaking stairs to the cold guest room at the end of a long corridor where the nanny died and whose frantic scratch marks are still on the door.

This story is different. It is longer for a start, and by its nature would probably suit you best, just one person reading it alone, for there is much to meditate and contemplate on afterwards.

'The Leper's Bible' is based on an actual place, and refers to actual historical characters, with the exception of Brother Stephen and Brother Gregory. The references to historical events and deaths are as accurate as I could make them until imagination intervened.

Fountains Abbey the setting for the story is an astonishingly beautiful place despite being in ruins. I always feel a great sadness though whenever I visit it. Perhaps what happened in 'The Leper's Bible' is the reason.
Given the chance, I could happily throttle King Henry VIII!

• Language: English
• Publisher: D Reeder
• Release date: May 7, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476325330

D Reeder

I am a writer living in the heart of England with a fascination for stories which slide between realities. References to ancient pagan mysteries pre-dating Christianity can often be found within my 'Tales of the Supernatural' where out of the everyday ordinary world come extraordinary stories.

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'The Leper's Bible'

D Reeder

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 D Reeder

‘The Leper's Bible’ is a Tale of the Supernatural

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The Leper's Bible

Under the shelter of an ancient yew tree, Stephen prayed with open eyes for the desolation beyond. The great eastern arch blackened with soot, widowed of glass, hollowed to the sky. Huby’s Tower still reaching towards heaven’s gate, though its bell was lost and silent. In the heart of the church, a pile of white ash, all that remained from the burnt stalls and screens. A heap, which whenever troubled by the wind, gave the fleeting illusion that smoke still rose from the pyre. The rest: the infirmary, the refractory and workshops all lay in a muddle of tumbled masonry. And it was left to stone stairs, leading into ghostly air, to speak of the missing stories above.

A cold wind chilled Stephen’s face as he gazed upon the pitiful scene. The same numbing wind which had once dismayed the abbey's founders so long ago, when they had gazed at nothing more than a wasteland: a valley thick with thorn and haunted by the cries of wild beasts. None had dared to live there, until they came; chased by a winter wind that nipped like a wolf upon their heels.

These first monks had sought shelter beneath yew trees which grew against craggy outcrops of stone. In those early months these trees had become their first church. Here they had prayed and kept the services. The land becoming holy beneath their feet.

Four hundred years later, only one of those yew trees remained, where Stephen now sheltered from the mizzling rain, as the wind gnawed upon his neck.

During their first winter these monks had half-starved, becoming as thin as wraiths. Kept alive only by their faith and belief, and also of the vision of what they would one day build: a great abbey. One in which there would be truth, enlightenment and learning. Where all could glorify God's six days of labour with the dedicated labour of own, in a building of majesty. Such faith was rewarded. The abbey was built. A simplicity of lines. A wonder. One which drew souls into the peace of its sanctuary. But now, the realised dream, the once magnificent Fountains Abbey, lay in ruins.

Stephen, its last monk, limped across a needle carpet inhaling the yew tree’s rich scent. He eased