For centuries, the streets of Europe were overwhelmed by churches and cathedrals, skylines pocked with golden crosses. Most evenings were spent rocking by the fire in solemn prayer with loved ones. No matter one's despair, solace could be found in an unwavering belief in a kind Lord that saw man as his child and would continue to bestow him with land and livestock. Love was sung in every hymn, joy exchanged in every encounter. The Lord replied to the devout with utter grace and even held an open heart to his doubters, or so most believed.

A substantial number of tales will be told in the coming years of the horror that befell Europe, but this tale will most certainly be lost. If you are curious why, it is because it will feel small and be thought of as spiritual fluff in a world that will grow less and less in touch with our Lord.

Most believe that all that pertains to the Black Death can be traced back to a foggy night, unusual for this part of Italy, typically kissed by a gentle breeze and the calming sun. That night, the Black Death had indiscriminately washed upon the shores of Naples, then stepped down the plank of the merchant ship that smelled of the spices of the Orient, full of malice and with a design to grapple with the Abbot's betrayal.

He was a severe and awful looking man, as the loiterers of the ports would recall. Evidence of his purpose would mount in the coming months in the rashes and boils, in the piles of corpses, in sumptuous fields that gave way to charnel houses and in the rosaries that hung from Christians, sometimes two per person, one around the neck and the other dangling from a pocket that was filled to the brim with posies to mask the smell of rot.

In actuality, his arrival happened weeks earlier in St. Anthony, a quaint, austere monastery near the rolling hills and not far from supple vineyards. Allow me to explain, one night, the monks gathered in the courtyard to meet Abbot Matteo, who the Cardinal had sent from Rome after Abbot Niccolo had committed the egregious sin of taking his own life. All that remained of Abbot Niccolo's presence was his wooden crucifix, which had always hung in his quarters above his bed.

A couple of the monks helped Abbot Matteo to his room in the dormitory, placing his few items by the foot of the bed. Abbot Matteo was older than Abbot Niccolo, and his appearance suited a man who was on death's door. His skin hung from his face and his sunken eyes were vacant. The other monks spoke of his posture, which was impressive for a man his age. One even noted that it was as if a younger man lived inside his body.

It was Brother Frederico who noticed the top nail of the crucifix had come out a bit. He promised to fetch a mallet and fix it at once. Later that night after service, Frederico knocked on the Abbot's door and with a few hearty pounds, he pushed the nailed back into the wooden beam.

Then there was the incident told at dinner by Brother Augustine to Brother Luigi. This particular incident ended with four monks abandoning their calling in the middle of the night. Augustine was a pleasant man, albeit a bit sullen, who was admired for his wisdom. He had lived in the monastery since the day he turned thirteen. His father, a tapestry weaver from Verona, left his son in the care of the Abbot, a childhood friend. The Abbot was taken with the red-cheeked young man, immediately convinced that Augustine was imbued with good Christian stock. Augustine held strict to his vows and led much of the prayer with his boisterous voice, which could be heard belting the Lord's hymns through the vast halls of the monastery.

The story went that as Augustine was marching to the chapel to prepare for service, Frederico ran passed him, a mallet in his hand and a look of annoyance on his face. Augustine found this strikingly odd since Frederico was a hefty man whose girth kept him from long walks on the soft ground of the woods, let alone a sprint across hard stone. It was always a sight to witness any monk in a state other than tranquil.

Later during prayer, Frederico told Augustine that he had to hammer Abbot Niccolo's crucifix into the wall for the fifth time that afternoon. The nail would not obey the command of the mallet. In the morning, Brother Egad discovered Frederico in the refectory will the nail halfway in his eye. His death was hidden from the younger monks and the older ones tried to deem it an accident; a slip and fall while holding an object with a sharp point.

It was the grapes, though, that convinced Brother Massimo to hang himself from a rafter in the cloister walk, where he must have known he would be found. These particular crates of purple grapes had arrived the prior morning and were stacked in the courtyard. They had always arrived on the same day in pristine condition. On that day, the first delivery after Abbot Matteo's arrival, the grapes were late and tarnished, unfit to be stomped for wine. The purple skins were scored and scarred, each a puss-filled sore. A letter signed by the Abbot was immediately hand delivered for another order. The request was rejected, claiming that no man wanted to travel to the monastery.

Late one night, a new shipment arrived. Augustine summoned Brother Giorgio from his sleep to help him move the crates. Giorgio was new to St. Anthony, having taken the vows after he found his daughter in the arms of his much older brother. His brother was always a godless man, preferring young women and alcohol as his savior. Disgusted by what he saw and armed with sufficient proof that the devil lived in his house, Giorgio took the ten-day trek to St. Anthony's barefoot. When he arrived, Abbot Niccolo washed the blood from his feet and ankles and offered him a place in his order. He promised him that his daughter and brothers' only path to salvation would be through his adherence to the lord. Giorgio agreed.

In the courtyard, a farmer and his wife cautiously greeted Giorgio and Augustine. The man unloaded the crates from a wagon only stopping to prove the grapes' health to Augustine.

"See, they're good. Ripe," he said to Augustine, his thumb caressing the grape's skin. Augustine replied with a smile. The farmer then spoke of how his neighbours and the other business owners believed that St. Anthony's had been forsaken. Augustine was at a loss, confused about how word had spread about a crosses refusal to stay upright. The monks who fled must have spoken to nearby townspeople with tainted tongues. "Treacherous," Augustine thought with a rub of his rosary.

Augustine and Giorgio carried the crates to the basement and placed them next to barrels filled with grain and seed. Augustine left Giorgio alone to inspect the grapes one more time, since they needed to get their wine made and bottled to make up for the lost time. Giorgio's eyes widened as he lifted the lid of a crate. The dank, dark basement filled with harsh squeals that hit Giorgio like thunderclap. The crates once filled with grapes were now swarming with black rats. Giorgio fixated on the rodents, some with half eaten bodies that squirmed in their own blood and filth, held within the wood. Several quick but thoughtful signs of the cross, before he dropped to his knees, closed his eyes and immediately broke into every prayer he had ever been taught, starting with ones learned from his father and then from Abbot Niccolo and also from the other monks. He said them so fast that he had to start over, worried that the Lord would be offended. Augustine found Giorgio the next day, his face an unrecognizable bloody mess. The crates were empty. Grapes littered the floor.

Abbot Matteo hadn't left his room for days. Brother Bernardo was ordered to check on him from time to time. His reports spoke only of moaning and what he felt was light laughter coming from the Abbot's room. Augustine assured him that the Abbot was in great distress and that Bernardo was, in fact, mistaken. Bernardo returned to his post outside the Abbot's room.

The entire order entered the chapel and quietly filled the pews. Every face was expressionless, most even refused eye contact. Augustine took to the pulpit, hoping in that moment to feel the presence of Abbot Niccolo, but instead, emptiness formed like a rock in the pit of his stomach.

While no specific mention was made of Frederico or Giorgio or Massimo, the topic was how to cleanse St. Anthony's and how to restore the Lord within their walls.

"In the void left by the dear Abbot Niccolo, The Devil has been invited into the home of the Lord," Augustine said, his words brittle as he gripped the sides of the pulpit with distress.

Before the crowd could respond, Bernardo burst into the room.

"Come quick! It's the Abbot!" Bernardo said, his voice echoed off the walls.

Augustine and Egad led the charge through the refractory and the cloistered hallways, a line of monks following behind. With a raised hand, Augustine stopped them at the start of the darkened hallway, at the end candlelight flickered through the crack in the door that led to the Abbot's quarters. Augustine approached alone, his breathing louder than his footsteps. Before he could place his hand on the door, a deep voice said, "Enter." Augustine pushed the door open just enough to slip inside.

In the glow of the white flame, the naked Abbot squatted, his body covered in scabs and scars. Above him, the cross hung upside down, mockingly. Augustine kept his back to the hot wall. There was no doubt in his heart that in his late mentor's private room, the devil was before him.

"Augustine," he said, and looked at him with eyes so red that a drop of blood squeezed out of the corner.

"Why are you here?" Augustine asked.

"A letter from your Abbot brought me," Abbot Matteo said, and then pointed to the bed for Augustine to sit. Slowly, Augustine walked over to the bed and sat at the edge of it, feeling vulnerable and nervous. It was the first time since his father brought him to St. Anthony's that he feel neither warmth or the Lord's presence.

"What letter?" Augustine asked.

Abbot Matteo ignored him, more concerned with the rat that had scurried past. He grabbed it by its plump body and ripped the head off with his teeth. He chewed for a few moments before swallowing. Augustine watched the head of the rat travel down the Abbot's throat.

"Your dear Abbot Niccolo had written to the Cardinal, confessing his betrayal of the Lord and asking to be removed."

"I don't understand."

The Abbot flashed his stained teeth.

"Remember how as a young boy, Abbot Niccolo took such a liking to you. Well, there were others and he also took a liking to them. I'd like to show you something in the woods."

Gobsmacked, Augustine sat still, a prayer held tight under his tongue. As he searched for what to do, the Abbot had dragged his feet out of the room. Augustine followed him into the hall and through the path created by the monks, their mouths agape unable to believe what they were seeing. Every face knit in the same thought, a realization that their faith could not shield them from whoever was inside the Abbot. Augustine ordered all the other monks to stay in the chapel except for Bernardo who he told to find a shovel with a heavy spade and to follow them out.

Augustine and the Abbot walked through the dense woods that hugged the monastery. They arrived in between a group of stark white trunks. From a distance, Augustine could see torches lit. He knew the other monks were watching and praying. Bernardo finally arrived and the Abbot pointed to the ground, which looked softer than the rest of the ground. The dirt looked as if it had already been dug up, then patted smooth to give the impression that it was undisturbed. Augustine would often walk alone through the woods enjoying everything the Lord had offered to this land. He then remembered that Abbot Niccolo had told him how the woods were his favorite part on the grounds. How it was where it felt the most contemplative and the closest to the Lord.

The spade easily breached the dirt. A foot pushed it down and Bernardo's arms worked to remove it from the Earth and settle into another pile. His grunts overwhelmed the sound of the spade cutting the dirt. Augustine watched the hole deepen as the Abbot watched him. The hole was now half a foot deep. Bernardo pushed the spade into the dirt once again but suddenly stopped.

"There's something there," Bernardo said.

"Use your hands," the Abbot said.

Bernardo took to his knees and shoveled dirt with his hands. He brushed aside the last little bit of dirt to reveal a white face. It belonged to a small boy with blue lips and tufts of hair missing from his head. Bernardo looked at Augustine who was overcome with emotion. All of his faith left him upon seeing the boy. He remembered being a young boy himself and Abbot Niccolo telling him how some of the other boys were sent to another monastery, one more suited to their needs. He now felt their presence under the moonlight in the forest. Augustine and Bernardo left the Abbot in the woods. He was no longer needed at St. Anthony's.

After a long journey, a black ship broke through the still water after having been released from the grip of the unknown Pacific. It quietly settled at a port in Naples as so many other ships had before it. The anchor dropped. The man with the severe face and black eyes walked down the lowered plank. He entered Europe with a wisp of the east. He had nothing but malice in his heart.

Host's Note: Judge RKClose  picked this story as the WINNER of Day 2: Betrayal!