Alleluia alleluia, glory to Thee, o God.

Alleluia alleluia, glory to Thee, o God.

A dark cry had been heard from the quarry in the early hours, and Isidore had been given the task of investigating. There were said to be demons in the caves there, and Isidore had slain two before then. He told no one of the bears, as the demons had been bears malformed perhaps by the work of Satan, but still bears all the same.

Mountains such as those only could be delivered by God all but pierced the sky. Isidore trudged along the bank of the river, crushing icy snow beneath his fur-wrapped boots. His rifle bumped against his back with every heavy step as the piercing wind cut through him. His beard, much admired by his village’s priest, had grown filled with ice. His jacket and cloak similarly carried a layer of frost.

A test by the Almighty, he thought. My faith, shaken by those beasts, must needs be strengthened. He stopped beside the river. Through the ice he could see some of the fluctuating water, but it seemed darker than night, for no stars shone beneath the translucent surface. A face stared up at him, warped and twisted, with sunken cheeks and sunken eyes, with a coarse head of hair and icy beard. For God giveth not timid hearts, but gives power and strength. No beast is this, but my reflection. And he wondered of his own character, if he saw himself as a beast.

He came upon a trail through the snow, not an hour after seeing his face as it truly was. Sunken a finger’s length into the snow, they were prints like bare feet, but with one toe too few. Small, too. A child’s?

Demons take the form of children, to fool the feeble minded, the weak willed. He lifted his hand with index straight and middle bent, holding it ahead of him as a charlatan might hold a divining rod. Unholy or mundane, the source of the dark cry would soon be found. He unslung his rifle then, checked and rechecked to ensure it was loaded. And keeping it tight within his grasp, strode forward, following these diminutive tracks.

Past the afternoon but before the evening he found where the tracks carried themselves up through the brush and toward a dark cavern. Teeth of ice hung from the upper lip, a dusting of snow beneath like some obscene tongue. This dusting disturbed by such footprints as left behind by Isidore's quarry.

What might lie within the cave? Bears? Or the creature? A person, someone deformed, perhaps even in need of help. For that dark cry might have been of fear. Would something else have been tracking them?

What would leave no tracks?

Isidore looked over his shoulder, expecting to see a sinewy creature with dripping fangs, and found nothing had followed him. God, hold me safe, he thought.

The dark cry came forth.

It is taunting me. He thought. I shall not fear. I shall submit to Him and He will make my way sure.

Isidore held his rifle forward and stepped up to the cavern as he heard another dark cry from within.