The woods lay silent all around him, the tree branches hanging low over the winding stream, their leaves a lush canopy of gold and green, hiding him, protecting him from the inquisitive, prying eyes of people who might judge him.
He stood looking at the running brook, at the soft clear water burbling over the stones in its path. He was like the water, gliding over the rocks and pebbles in his path, smoothing them over time until they became rounded, the rough edges now as curved as the white limbs of the women he had rescued.
They had to be saved from the path they were choosing before it was too late. He was the only one who could save them-except the Master, of course. They both understood the importance of purity, and he had kept himself pure: unblemished, clean and clear as the water running so swiftly over the stones lining the brook. It was a heavy burden to bear-at times almost intolerable-but the importance of his work drove him onward.
He lay down upon the stones and let the purifying water flow over him. It was icy cold, but he didn't mind. It helped to quench the fire raging in his soul. He closed his eyes and let the pictures float through his mind like the running water over his skin. Whenever he closed his eyes, the images of their faces were there, in his mind's eye, one face melting into another, their features weaving in an endless tapestry of memory and desire…
He had conquered desire, overcome his own lust for these women by an act of willpower, to follow a purer impulse. The Master understood the importance of saving a soul, by stopping the sinner before she could sin again.
And what if they had desired him, these women with their soft white skin and doelike eyes, eyes that widened and filled with terror as he bent over them, applying his hands to their necks, bearing down with just enough force to cut off their breath, then watching, waiting, as the last breath left their body, watching for that moment when the soul made its escape, set free from the prison of the body, to fly-fly up and away through the ether and into the waiting arms of the Lord. And then the ritual of cutting the Lord's words into their dead flesh, consecrating them even as they lay before him, their bodies still warm…
A smile moved across his face just as a tiny silver water snake slid by, brushing its shiny skin against his trouser leg. He was unaware of the snake, but perhaps he felt its presence, because he shivered as he thought of all the work he had yet ahead of him.
He thought about the girls, alluring and fresh… He catalogued their charms one by one: the soft shimmer of their hair, their gentle eyes and pliant bodies, the tender fullness of their young breasts.
He rose from where he lay, brushing stray twigs from his clothes, and shook himself as a dog might, flinging water in all directions. The droplets spun and twirled in the sunlight filtering through the trees, catching the light and turning into a thousand tiny prisms. Once again he was struck by the pristine beauty of the woods-the one place he could go without the defiling presence of human beings. He took a deep breath and walked back in the direction he had come from. The comforting jangling of the keys hanging from his belt made him smile, and his hand closed around the freshly sharpened knife tucked away in his pocket.
There was work to be done.