There's a lot about St Bertrand's that doesn't quite make sense any more, little things that make the whole place seem like the architect had no idea what's meant to go on in a church - that or they were under the impression that it is meant to be a church, in spite of the multitude of signs saying otherwise, and thus it exists.
There is an old fountain built into the church's wall, a former drinking stop from the days of horse-drawn carts. Its inscription reads "Therefore you will joyously draw water from the springs of Salvation" which is harmless enough. The horse skull that's been partially mounted above the fountain, less so, especially as no breed of modern horse could ever possibly grow so large and their gargantuan ancestors are long extinct.
Nobody's quite gotten round to explaining how it came to be, which is certainly a recurring theme of St Bertrand's. It's along the same veins of unusual as the glass floor in the cellar that shows only dirt while every text written on it claims you can see the heavens if you linger long enough. There's an old priest from Rome who's been living down there for thirty-five years without seeing the heavens below, only unseen hands carving the dirt away in neat rows followed by large clumps of meat and hair that are dragged through them, bathing the earth in fresh blood only to be pulled out of sight before they can be identified.
Unsurprisingly this doesn't make the local news any more, not since the discovery of a mass infant grave when the groundskeepers were digging a fresh grave. All their tiny bones came tumbling out of a hole in the side, all of them barely a week old in age and recently deceased. It's all anyone talks about when you mention the church.
I dread to think what they'd say if they saw the rest of the bodies in the bell tower.
There is an old fountain built into the church's wall, a former drinking stop from the days of horse-drawn carts. Its inscription reads "Therefore you will joyously draw water from the springs of Salvation" which is harmless enough. The horse skull that's been partially mounted above the fountain, less so, especially as no breed of modern horse could ever possibly grow so large and their gargantuan ancestors are long extinct.
Nobody's quite gotten round to explaining how it came to be, which is certainly a recurring theme of St Bertrand's. It's along the same veins of unusual as the glass floor in the cellar that shows only dirt while every text written on it claims you can see the heavens if you linger long enough. There's an old priest from Rome who's been living down there for thirty-five years without seeing the heavens below, only unseen hands carving the dirt away in neat rows followed by large clumps of meat and hair that are dragged through them, bathing the earth in fresh blood only to be pulled out of sight before they can be identified.
Unsurprisingly this doesn't make the local news any more, not since the discovery of a mass infant grave when the groundskeepers were digging a fresh grave. All their tiny bones came tumbling out of a hole in the side, all of them barely a week old in age and recently deceased. It's all anyone talks about when you mention the church.
I dread to think what they'd say if they saw the rest of the bodies in the bell tower.
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