This room was reserved for such purposes. Of course, all monks had to obey like puppets and this time it was his turn to pay the consequences for writing his views of the real truth.

‘Jesus was not the only son of god,’ he was caught writing; he was a child of the Father/Mother/IT God just like everyone else was. He was just very advanced.

“Let me go,” Fritz, the German monk, screamed to no avail.

The cuts were so deep that it was clear that the ‘holy men’ had deliberately cut the tendons at the base of his thumbs. Both wrists were bleeding profusely. Now they knew that this heretic could no longer write with his quill pen.

These men were expert healers, who didn’t want to kill Fritz; they just wanted to teach him a lesson. After dressing his wrists, they left him locked in an isolated cell with the proper herbs and lotions to heal the surface cuts; but they also made sure that the tendon would not reunite. The process will not be explained here.

For days, Fritz’s wounds bled and oozed pus into the wooden bowls that they left in his cell. They eventually healed, but his tendons remained severed, so he could write no more.

They successfully stopped him from writing the truth, in the ‘name of God’; but they couldn’t break his spirit.

In time, Fritz escaped the monastery, which he grew to hate with a passion. As he left Germany, he stowed away on a small ship destined for England.

When he got to England he joined an underground sect of Templars and spoke regularly in the sewers of Britain. He spoke his truth to whomever would listen and befriended a young girl who would often write his words.

One day, while visiting the local museum, a strange man approached Fritz. He was a count of some sort and told Fritz many things. “Go to the African room on the third floor and look for the painting on the far wall.” He muttered something about ‘reaping what you sow until you are above all of that’. Then he said, “It’s been resolved.”

Fritz looked back to say something to the strange man with the violet coat, but he was nowhere to be found.

As he approached the painting, he felt the most eerie feeling he could recall.

The black slave in the painting was being held by two white slave owners. His wrists were being slit for some reason as his crude bark pen lay on the ground next to something that looked like paper.