[A handwritten note that hangs on the refectory door, yellowed with age. The delicate, neat lettering is still legible.]

Beware the walking beasts, my children, for all shall be lost if you are to antagonise them.

Do not ignore this letter, and make sure all are aware of these rules for I cannot guarantee the safety of anyone who does not follow them. Harriet - I am trusting you to make sure that this news reaches the Nocturnes.

These are rules that all acolytes must follow, for the safety of everyone in our community, and of our very souls.

Cover all light sources at night, nary a single candle for your work. Keep away from the windows. They have eyes. Do not rely on the shutters being closed, act as though any small movement can be seen. Do not make any loud noises. Or any quiet noises that cannot be helped. If they see you, stand still and stay silent. If they see you, pretend to slumber. They do not harm the sleeping. If they see you, do not run. If you run, you will perish.

Follow these instructions, and we shall be safe.

Do not fret without me my dears, I will return soon once I have gathered the needed help.

Yours with God,

Mother Superior

The bell for morning vigils rang and, at four thirty in the morning, the monastic day began.

One by one the sisters awoke and a medley of black, white, brown and blue mingled together as they made their way down the night stairs and into the chapel. The dawn light was a dim haze and barely made it through the gaps in the shuttered windows, and so many of the gathering held a candle cradled in their palm or sheltered in a little copper lantern, creating a procession of flickering lights in the twilight hallways.

Wille and Claudia had tumbled out of bed together, dressed together, and now they walked together near the back of the group, bleary-eyed and more dishevelled than usual. Wille’s short cropped brown hair had formed itself into a permanent cowlick. This general inclination for scruffiness plus the perpetual stomp of her oversized boots betrayed her in the gloom as being, without a doubt, Orison Sister Wille.

Claudia meanwhile had stuffed her curly pale locks into a tightly wrapped cornette. The fabric of her wimple dipped at the centre of her forehead, casting a slight shadow over her eyes and forming a curve which stretched up on either side, creating two symmetrical horns of starched fabric. It was a difficult fold to pull off, but Claudia managed it every day without fail.

Both nuns were Orisons, the black and white clad sect who were responsible for matters of theology and worship. This, however, was where any comparison ended. Where Claudia’s sleeves were dagged and pinned into loops of dark black fabric, white chemise visible beneath, Wille’s were plain and square cut and she seemed to have a moral objection to undersmocks. She wore the black habit alone and unadorned, with only a white scarf around her neck which had no real function but came in useful when it rained. In comparison, Claudia’s white scapular had after many years of careful crafting developed an intricate and delicate lace edge that gave her an aura of studied care and attention.

The chapel gradually began to fill with figures, each sitting in their designated pews. The chatter and laughter echoed up into the rafters high above. It was shaped like a cross, with two transepts intersecting a long central nave. The crossing point was divided into four quadrants, with rows of pain wooden benches for each of the Alucinari sects. Blue-clad Etudes in the northern transept, brown-clad Madrigals in the south. Orisons took the eastern apse, but the western nave only held a couple of grey-robed figures. Nocturnes were not prone to liturgy.

A reverent hush fell over the room as sister Lydia took the pulpit. No trace of the night’s activities was betrayed in her appearance. Not a single hair or fold was out of place. Her dark locks were pinned up into a netted snood, immaculate and no longer tousled. She wore the standard black and white habit of the Orisons, accented with an ornate golden rosary around her neck. With a glance to her right, where the Etude sister tasked with keeping the time gave her a small nod, the service began.

“All rise.” She said, her voice an authoritative tone reverberating around the ancient chamber.

Candles were snuffed and there was general clamour as the women stood as one. A silence descended upon the congregation and the first rays of morning light crept through the eastern windows, the stained glass illuminating them in a heady mixture of orange, scarlet and purple. A master of craftsmanship, the threefold chapel window towered above the gathered sisters. Five stories tall, it depicted the lives of various Alucinari saints and martyrs. In the centre was the Eye of God, a marvel of engineering and the centrepiece of the triptych. Normally, it looked closed. The sleeping eye of a dreaming god. But when hit by the rising sun, the colours in the window gave the impression that it was slowly opening. Each morning until the sun moved into its zenith the eye gazed down upon them, before closing again to sleep once more.

Now, when the sunlight began to awaken the heavy-lidded eye, there came the low and steady rhythmic humming from the Nocturnes. The voices of the Etudes joined them, adding another layer to the melody, this time a more upbeat and repetitive tune, moving their hands in age-old patterns to show the tempo to those nuns who couldn’t read music. The chapel resonated with the songs of an ancient order, composed in dreams and sung in the waking world for the fancy of a sleeping god.

The Madrigals began singing the notes. Fa sol sol sol la sol la la. Another convention which traditionally helped participants learn the hymn. After one round of note singing, all together they burst into song.

Farewell, vain world! I’m waking now

The dreamer smiles and bids me bow

And I don’t care to stay here long

Sweet Angols beckon me to flight

To sing God’s praise in endless night

And I don’t care to stay here long

Rise up younger Sisters, awake up yonder

Oh, yes my Lord, for I don’t care to stay here long

The words hung in the air for a moment as the beaming eye of God gazed down upon them in the expanding silence.

“Our vigil has ended once again this morning, and we give gratitude to our Lord for sanctuary. The dream is our shield.” The crystal-clear tones of Lydia’s invocation rang out, and was greeted by the customary response.

“And let conviction be our sword.”

There was a shuffling of feet as the congregation knelt. Lydia, on her knees besides the pulpit, enunciated in solemn tones.

“Let us commence the lauds of the dead. We remember Etude sister Amy, who left her name to sleep unhindered. We remember Orison sister Sarah, who fled the sorrow of secrets unspoken…”

The list continued for some time as cryptic eulogies for the honoured dead, with the last one hundred and eight sisters who had passed away being memorialised in this way. The first few names were familiar to most of the gathered sisters, being the names of old teachers who showed them their first prayers, or the elderly nuns who they remembered taking slow walks around the gardens in their early years. Some of the names were younger, mostly victims of sickness. Two were killed by the Gol. As the list continued however the names became unfamiliar, outdated, obscure and none of the living could remember any memories of them, fond or not.

“…We remember Nocturne sister Caprimulgus, who never truly left us. In the sight of the dreaming God we contemplate these acolytes, lest they be forgotten.”

As the ceremonies drew to a close Wille made her way through the dispersing crowd to Claudia, who was standing looking at a bust of a martyr.

“How are you feeling this morning?”

Claudia shrugged, her shoulders pulling at the tight layers of her veil.

“A little tired. I’m sorry for making such a fuss.” She said sheepishly. “I didn’t mean to act like such a coward.”

The stern face of the stone-carved martyr looked down upon them from its alcove. The inscription beneath it was too worn to read, but older floorplans of the abbey named her as Saint Rediron, scion of the roiling blood.

“Don’t say that, it’s always okay to be scared.” Wille offered her hand, and she took it. “I have your back, it doesn’t bother me if Lydia stamps her feet. It’s not like she’s in charge. Listen, if she tries to punish me today at Chapter, just let her. Don’t get yourself into trouble too.”

The two of them walked together through the chapel, out into the main cloister. It looked different in the daylight. No longer a grey and silent stillness, it was a bustling site of daily activity. A woman in a brown smock washed clothes in a barrel, suds floating in the air around her. They passed a kneeling sister who was having her hair cut by another, her black curls falling around her in the grass. A blue-clad Etude sketched, sitting with her back against a plum tree. Under the cool, covered alleys that ran on all four sides were wooden workdesks and seats cut into the stone. This was where the community read, studied and meditated, and already several of the spaces were taken by Etudes staking their claim and preparing to lose themselves in old books for the rest of the morning.

The two of them ducked into an alcove near the library, where a small corridor led them to the chapter room.

“You’re not late for once, sister Willow.” It was Lydia, seated gracefully at the end of a pew. Four wooden benches faced each other around the side of the room, and various nuns had seated themselves already.

“Actually, it’s Wille.” She replied and sat as far away from her as possible. Claudia sat diplomatically on a middle bench, which was empty except for Nocturne sister Amelia, clad in layers of grey and mumbling softly to herself. On the far side sat sister Beatrice, who had taken her vow of silence seriously for the past five years and was never very good company for smalltalk. Two Etudes had come, sister Hazel who managed the library and sister Alana, the resident astrologer. Next to Lydia sat sister Jennifer, smiling indiscriminately, who now turned to her neighbour with an air of kindly reprimand.

“Lydia, really. If you can call me Jenny you can call her Wille.”

“Wille is a boy’s name, it is not becoming of a sister.” Lydia replied. She put emphasis on this last word.

“Well perhaps then we should call you by your full name too, Lydiabeth! Lyddifer!” Sister Jenny smiled at her own joke as Lydia rolled her eyes. Wille ignored them both.

“Where are Harriet and Mischa, anyway?”

The room was quiet, most looked indifferent.

“Sister Amelia?”

Sister Amelia looked up from her muttering, brows furrowed as though interrupted from a very important task, and gave a lopsided shrug. Claudia could now see the object she had been murmuring over; a long, wooden-beaded rosary, her long fingers carefully counting each bead with mechanical precision.

“No matter, I am not waiting for lie-a-beds. We can start without them.” Lydia said. “Sister Jenny would you like to start?”

Sister Jenny nodded and stood, leaning on her cane.

“My fellow acolytes, last night I dreamed I saw a little flutter-bird sitting on a tree, all dainty and small. It waved at me with a bright blue wing and opened its mouth to speak. But, I am but a Jenny, and Jennies cannot understand the language of birds. I told it as much, but it did not stop. Its little red beak opened and shut, yet I couldn’t make head nor tail of its message. Still, the other little birds did hear it, and they flew high – so high! – up into the clouds above, on an adventure into the sun. Even if they kept their secrets from me, I could still enjoy the spectacle. This I dreamed and nothing more.”

She sat back down on her pew.

“Well, I think this is a good omen.” Began sister Alana. “The sky is often a symbol for the fortuitous expanse of the mind, and it may be that you are called to explore more deeply the mysteries of the Lord.”

Sister Hazel nodded emphatically.

“Yes, yes! Besides, that blue-feathered bird could be an Etude. Perhaps you are to join us soon?”

“Oh, really?” Jenny looked genuinely excited. “I should like that, though I was never one for concentration.”

“That is why the birds were flying away, my dear. It was a reminder that your talents lies elsewhere.” Lydia intervened.

“Gosh I suppose you’re right, I can’t imagine those blue smocks matching my hair very well at all.” Jenny replied, accompanied by a small laugh by Claudia.

“Just do what I do and cover it all!”

“I could never, no-one would recognise me if I did that.”

Chapter continued much in this manner, with each of them sharing a dream they had experienced the night previously, or excusing themselves if their sleep was bare. Despite the differences of the group, oneiromancy was an important aspect of Alucinari faith, and so even Wille and Lydia had civil feedback for one another. That was, until confessions ended and the daily chores were discussed.

“Sister… Wille was found out of bed last night, during the orphan moon.” Lydia paused meaningfully before pronouncing the name correctly. There was a shocked hush from the assembly, except from Claudia who only shrank down in her seat.

“I therefore suggest that she should forgo breakfast, and daily prayers, in exchange for community chores.”

“What! You think I can do that on an empty stomach?” Wille had sat up sharply in her seat, fists clenched in defiant anger.

“I think you can, and you will, because you put this entire community in danger last night.” No mention of Claudia, but of course. Lydia had a special place for anyone who acknowledged her authority, even if it was merely through anxiety. It was Wille she was after today. Wille, who cut her hair and changed her name and wore inappropriate footwear.

Wille let out a deep breath and tried to make eye contact with anyone else in the room. All of them were looking steadfastly at their feet, or out of the window. All except sister Amelia, who had finally looked up from her rosary.

“I had a dream last night.”

Everyone was silent, unsure if she has been listening to anything they had said. It was hard to tell what plane of reality the Nocturnes were living in at any given time.

“I dreamed I saw a holey Gol. Not holy, holey. Goley? It had holes all over its face.”

Lydia’s face went white. The silence filled the room for a long time, until Wille thought that Amelia had forgotten where she was, or that she was in the middle of speaking.

“…This I dreamed and nothing more.”

Claudia was the first one to speak.

“Thank you, Amelia.” She placed her hand on the Nocturne’s shoulder, but she was already far away and murmuring with her rosary again.

“Very well. Sister Wille, after a small breakfast you will report to the Madrigals.”

Wille nodded. Had sister Amelia really stood up for her, or was it just luck? She wondered what it was that had made Lydia change her mind. As they left the chapterhouse, the rain began to fall, a soft drizzle from heavy black clouds that promised a storm to come.

It wasn’t until after midday prayers that the panic started.

Sister Harriet had still not turned up. Sister Mischa had wandered into the refectory sometime previously, not that anyone would notice if any of the Nocturnes went missing, as they kept to their own time and spaces. But the continued disappearance of an Etude was one of note. Wille’s punishment chores changed from cleaning moss out of the gutters to searching the grounds in ever-worsening rain. Vespers was suspended, and alarm rose as the sun began to set.

Supper, however, was not cancelled. Thanks to the good sense of the cook, who made a simple nettle stew with dumplings and diluted buckwheat wine. The storm continued to drum on the barrelled ceiling as the nuns ate, unusually silent, beneath. Wille had barely gotten the first spoonful to her mouth before the doors opened, and sister Jenny came running into the hall.

Her feet made muddy wet slaps on the stone floor as she ran and tripped her way to the high table. A few nuns stood and held her, comforted her as she heaved and panted. Her ginger hair was a sodden mess of tangles and twigs. She had gone to the tatter tree, she said. She had wanted to make a wish. She stammered this last word until it was barely comprehensible, and they couldn’t get another word out of her. Wille didn’t remember when she stood up and left the refectory. She barely remembered how to walk, the fear of what she might find was numbing her mind to even the simplest tasks. Others had joined her, and the sisters ran as one across the sodden lawn to the front gate; a large, wrought-iron creation that was rarely ever used, now pushed open to display the grisly scene beyond.

Wille thought she could hear people crying, but the rain was loud in her ears and their voices seemed distant and dreamlike.

It was Harriet, strung up and silhouetted against the setting sun. Crimson beads pulled at her throat, almost tearing through the sagging skin as her body swayed back and forth from a branch of the old tatter tree. Covered in ‘tatters’, pieces of cloth ripped from habits whenever a sister wanted to make a wish, the tree was a veritable wreath of sun-bleached colours despite being long dead. Now, however, in the growing darkness it only appeared menacing; a collection of memories, which now included Harriet. Water dripped from the hem of her habit in a steady stream, washing her clean and feeding her blood to the earth. Her face looked almost peaceful, if it wasn’t for the deep gash that ran from her cheek straight down deep into her belly. There were lumps of flesh and viscera draped like cloth over her legs, red and wet and thick with the vitality of recent life.

As the corpse twisted slowly in the rain, the first flash of distant lightning flickered in the clouds as the rain kept pouring, pouring, pouring over life and death with equal and callous indifference, cleansing the Earth of sin.