The Crowfield Demon by Pat Walsh

quietly.
    William saw the prior’s look of surprise. “The box might hold the bones of a saint, for all we know! Maybe God in His infinite wisdom has seen fit to reveal it to us in our time of need.”
    This box has nothing to do with God , William thought with fearful certainty. It should be left alone and the hole filled in .
    â€œThe bones of a saint will bring pilgrims and their money to our abbey,” the prior said, eyes gleaming. “Our church is in a sorry state, and what money we have for repairs will not go far. Perhaps God has taken mercy on us and has sent us our salvation.”
    Brother Snail’s glance flickered over the pit in the floor, but he said nothing. He clearly did not share the prior’s optimism.
    Prior Ardo’s sallow cheeks were flushed with anticipation. “Lift the box.”
    It took several minutes of struggling to work the box up and out of the pit. It wasn’t particularly big, but it was heavy, and there were no handles to grab hold of. William huffed and grunted with the effort, scraping his knuckles painfully against the stones sticking out from the sides of the pit. The prior helped him drag it onto the floor and into the light near the doorway. He knelt down beside William and brushed the scatter of earth and stones from the top of the box. He looked around for something to clean it with.
    â€œPass me that,” the prior said, waving a finger impatiently toward the altar cloth. Brother Snail handed it to the prior, who set about rubbing the mud from the box, all regard for the embroidered linen forgotten in his excitement.
    The box was made from oak. The wood was dark and as hard as iron in spite of having been buried deep in the earth. The corners were protected with gold mounts. Thin bands of gold, set with small polished stones, crisscrossed the lid and side panels. The stones glowed softly in a rich rainbow of colors, and the gold bands were exquisitely carved with tiny, strange-looking animals and birds, leaves and curving branches. The box was beautiful and clearly very valuable.
    William glanced up at Brother Snail and met his worried gaze for a moment. He could guess what was going through the monk’s mind: Why would anyone bury such a treasure as this? Why hide it at the bottom of a muddy hole in a little-used side chapel?
    The prior lifted the lid. Inside, the box was tightly packed with layers of straw and raw wool. The prior’s hands were shaking as he carefully pulled it all out, releasing a musty smell into the chilly air. William peered over the prior’s shoulder to see what lay beneath the packing.
    The prior straightened up slowly and stared down into the box. The hoped-for saint’s bones were not there. In their place was a small wooden bowl, old and plain, like countless others that could be found on any table in any house in England. The prior’s disappointment was almost palpable.
    â€œWhat’s that?” Brother Snail asked, reaching down into the box.
    He took out a tightly coiled strip of lead. Carefully he unrolled the soft metal. William could see letters carved into it.
    â€œWhat does it say?” William asked.
    The monk stared at the lead strip for a few moments in silence. His cheeks were the color of ashes.
    â€œIt says,” he began with obvious reluctance, “ Cave: Ira dei. Domine miserere nobis .”
    William heard the prior draw a sharp breath, and panic fluttered in his stomach. “What does that mean?”
    â€œIt means,” Brother Snail said softly, “ ‘Beware: Wrath of God. Lord have mercy upon us.’ ”
    For a few moments, nobody spoke or moved. William stared at the bowl in its nest of wool. The words on the lead strip were a warning, but against what? Was the bowl cursed? And even if it was, what harm could a small wooden bowl possibly cause?
    â€œWe should bury it again,” Brother Snail said, his voice trembling slightly.
    The prior picked