The Forgiving

by Wesley McCraw

  “The Cross of the Lamb holds sacrifices—”

  “You fell for Isabel; you fell for her, and wanted out. Because it's a cult, and you wanted out. I get it, Howard. I understand.”

  “It's not that simple. I tried to keep my lives separate, but Isabel—she got pregnant. Daniel is our son. Mine and Isabel's. If we don't do this, he'll have to take my place.”

  Grip fell into Howard's nightmare. “He didn't die of SIDS?”

  “Taylor is Daniel.”

  Grip dropped the lamp. It clattered on the ground, its glass cracking, its flame going out. “I spilled the light!” Grip felt muddled and weak and feverish, but his love never wavered. “Howard, how can Isabel ever forgive you? How can this ever be better?”

  Howard dragged a match against the matchbox, his arm still around Grip's shoulder. Grip thought the flame, so close to his face, might consume the world.

  They were already at the altar.

  Grip let go of Howard and leaned back on the slanted stone. “This is all to save Taylor,” Grip said. It felt good to lie down, even if it was at a forty-five-degree angle. He let out a sigh. Now he didn't have to try so hard to travel through the phantasmagoria. He groped without looking and found the book. His fingers felt numb, but he could still drag the book up onto his chest.

  The match burnt out against Howard's forefinger and thumb and left them in complete darkness.

  “A baby at the house had died of SIDS. It happens from time to time. The house takes them early. And so I switched them. Mother wanted Isabel at the house, but I refused. It was our compromise. Isabel could live her life in freedom as long as the next in line was raised at the house.”

  Grip was sure the darkness churned and boiled. “Couldn't you fight?”

  Howard struck another match and lit the countless candles around the room.

  Grip held the book open to the candlelight: Snakes emerged from a naked man’s stomach. Something about that picture had always made his blood run cold and skin prickle, a sacrifice to end all sacrifices. He ran his fingertips along the picture, smudging it with blood. “There will be snakes,” he remembered from the English translation. “Part of me knew. Part of me fucking knew!” The outburst burned away what little energy he had left. The garden mural flared up in the light. He laid his head back, lost in the trees. If he stayed put, Howard would find him and rescue him from the wilderness.

  Howard continued to light candles, terrified if he looked at Grip, it would all fall apart. Grip was actually offering himself up. Howard had given up hope that the ritual would happen, but God wanted this.

  Grip pictured Eden and the devil serpent and Jacobi House and the rapes and prison and Porcelain Boy hanging in his cell by the neck. Grip unbuttoned his jeans. “If this is what it takes to—” He shook his head and struggled to find the words. He stepped out of his pants and Howard’s boxers, kicking them off to the side. He wanted to tell Howard about what had happened in prison, about Porcelain Boy and Early. I need redemption as much as anyone, Grip thought, but there wasn’t time for confession, and even if there was time, he doubted he'd have the strength. “Hurry. Start! We need to start. Isabel. She'll . . .”

  Besides his necklace, Grip was left naked. He was going to die to save the people he loved. He liked that idea. That would be okay. He drifted on a cloud of numb satisfaction.

  Howard used bandages and duct tape to tie Grip to the altar. “The Cross saves the world through sacrifice. I know you can't believe that, but the Jacobi family pays for everyone else's sin. That's why I researched all those cults, found those old books, so Taylor wouldn't have to continue the sacrifices.”

  He patted Grip's face to rouse him.

  “I didn't take you in just because . . .” Howard trailed off and started again. “You weren't just part of some master plan.”

  Grip smiled at his lover’s face, feeling more delirious than ever. “It never crossed my mind. Never. I shouldn't have doubted you. You love me. You have always loved me.”

  “I don’t want to lose you.”

  “If you wanted to lose me it wouldn’t be a sacrifice.” Grip wanted to touch Howard's face, but couldn't because of the bandages and duct tape. A claustrophobic anxiety pierced through the delirium, and a sharp edge of panic intruded his reality. “Hurry, stuff the gauze in my mouth. I don’t want Isabel to hear me scream.”

  16

  The Forgiving

  Isabel, full of hope, descended into the cellar, not knowing that Grip had already agreed to be sacrificed.

  “The gate is open!” she called out to them.

  To her dismay, she found the area near the entrance dark.

  At the end of the long room, in the next chamber, candles illuminated Grip’s naked form. He stood, or more precisely leaned, bound to the rock slab, the mural of the Garden of Eden lit behind him.

  She crept forward, her heart pounding, her limbs trembling almost violently.

  “Grip!”

  Grip tried to say something, but his mouth was filled with gauze and tied with a bandage. He tried to move but the knots were secure.

  Isabel was almost to the archway when Howard, now using a crutch, came into view.

  “Howard, what happened?!”

  “Hold her!” he ordered.

  Ophelia, having followed in the shadows, grabbed Isabel from behind and pressed the scissors to her throat. Isabel struggled, and the scissors pierced the skin of her neck. The pain made her cry out and her eyes water. She couldn't free herself. Blood soaked into her blouse.

  “Howard!”

  “Izzi, stop moving!”

  “She’s hurting me.”

  “Hold still!” Ophelia said.

  Isabel stopped struggling. She elongated her neck so the scissors stopped poking her flesh. Had Ophelia really been telling the truth? “She said that—” Isabel couldn’t get any more words out. It couldn't be true.

  What Grip had deduced, Isabel still hadn't even truly considered.

  “You should have told her,” Ophelia said severely. “That's why we showed her the house. She still doesn’t understand, and we’re running out of time!”

  “I know! Let me talk!” He glanced to Grip, who had finally stopped struggling against the gauze. “It's true, Isabel. There are no words to describe how horrible this is. I know that. It’s a living nightmare.”

  “Howard—”

  “You have to understand: At first, the women volunteered. They were believers, members of The Cross. But who would volunteer now? Maybe in the 70s, but now we’re just some crazy cult.”

  “You should have told me.”

  “It was the only way to protect you.”

  “I could have helped you find a way out! You’ve been brainwashed.”

  Howard held up the original Book of Three. “I've found a way out. The Gnostic text.”

  “Oh God! This is the ritual from the book!”

  “That's right. The Forgiving.” Howard gestured to the mural behind him. In the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, a serpent with wings hung near a shining fruit. “My family pay the debt of Adam. My brothers and sisters are all dead. My children are all dead, save one to carry on.” He searched through the book. “But Isabel, our trinity can break the ouroboros. The sacrifice of man cleanses the sins of Adam, but Adam wasn't alone, Eve was there too! It was the Cross’s fatal flaw. The same way Christians ignored Mary's part in the crucifixion, the Cross ignored Eve’s part in Original Sin, and so the sins of the world, despite all of our sacrifices, were never permanently washed away. This ritual will fix all that.”

  He held open the book to show Isabel the engraving of the snakes emerging from the naked man’s stomach. She didn't look and instead stared him in the eyes.

  “There will be snakes!” he said. “The sins of man will manifest as snakes. It'll prove I speak the truth!”

  She continued to look at him with a calm intensity. “You're trying to do what's right, I understand that, but you can’t do this on faith. This
is Grip’s life.”

  ◆◆◆

  In the middle of the Oregon High Desert, with his pack and shovel strapped to his back, Howard Stark, whose real name was Howard Jacobi, scanned the terrain and lost hope. He had exhausted himself in the wilderness looking for a book supposedly buried by Osho. There was nothing but shrubs and parched earth.

  South was the Alvord Desert and the harsh Steen Mountains. West was Hart Mountain and the expansive, desolate Warner Valley. The other directions were just more desert.

  Howard felt faint from the heat, but he refused to drink any more from his canteen. He needed to hold out as long as possible if he was going to have any water left for the trek back to his car.

  A few yards away, a bush ignited in flame.

  Time slowed, and his movements felt so deliberate that they felt predetermined. He was still in the desert but it was a different desert. In the distance, Mount Hermon stood tall with snow-covered peaks.

  Instinctively knowing the flame signified a holy place, he removed his shoes as Moses had done before him. The flame became too bright to look at directly. Howard averted his eyes and felt the presence of God. A voice that was neither male nor female, neither outside nor inside, inspired a fear so intense that Howard's heart stopped.

  “Dig and be free.”

  The heat on his face ceased. When Howard looked up, the fire was gone as if it had never existed, and his heart began to beat again. He gasped for air and held a fist to his chest and fell to his knees. He had been near death.

  After he recovered enough to move again, he examined the bush. It was unconsumed, the leaves warm to the touch—not from fire, only from the noon sun.

  He untied the shovel from his bag, and near the bush, dug for salvation.

  ◆◆◆

  “A holy bush burned in the desert,” he said, knowing that words could never truly convey the experience. “That’s how I found the book. God led me to it. The book says a man, beloved by both the savior and his paramour, must be sacrificed on the moon altar. Grip’s the sacrifice.”

  Isabel shook her head. “That's insane.”

  Howard looked at his watch. “I can prove it.” He dropped the book and took the occult knife from his cargo pocket.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I have to start. The ritual requires the moon to be in proper alignment.” He put the knifepoint to Grip’s side.

  “Please!” Tears flowed the moment she realized Howard wasn't going to be persuaded. “Let him go!”

  “You're ready, Grip. You took communion: the brandy and Daniel's bread.”

  The knife pierced the fish tattoo on Grip's side, and blood spurted onto the rock. Grip squirmed, arching his body away from Howard as far as he could get.

  “God in heaven, we understand Adam's transgressions.” Howard moved directly in front of Grip and left no direction for him to wriggle.

  “Stop! Please! You don't need to do this!”

  Howard sliced into Grip’s right pectoral muscle, through a medieval battlefield of knights and rippled banners.

  The look in Grip's eyes was pure terror. More than the blood, that look made it all real for Isabel. This wasn't pretend. Grip was going to die a horrible death at the hands of the man that they both loved.

  “Howard, listen to me! There's just me and Grip and our love for you. This isn’t God’s plan!”

  “Expel the serpents grown from the Fruit of Knowledge. They fester in the womb of man. They pull us to Hell. Release us from this burden and let us rise.”

  Howard sliced into Grip’s left pectoral muscle, through a dove wrapped in thorny roses.

  Isabel cried out in anguish.

  “Wait!” Ophelia said, giving Isabel a moment of hope.

  Howard turned.

  “The necklace!” Ophelia shouted.

  “It's nothing, Mother. A fake charm.”

  “It's blasphemous! It could ruin everything!”

  Howard tried to pull the necklace off, but it didn't give, and so he used the knife. It took a few moments to cut through the cord. Meanwhile, Grip struggled and bled, his whole front now bloody.

  “Hold on,” Howard said to Grip. “It’s almost over.” Howard hobbled forward and held out the necklace to Isabel. “Take it.” She didn't move. He took another crutch-assisted step and shoved the necklace into her front pocket.

  She grabbed his arms. “You can stop this,” she said. “We’ll forgive you. Just don’t do this.” He turned away. She tried to hold on, but the scissors pierced her neck, fresh blood running from the wound, and she had to let go. “Please, God!”

  He hobbled back to Grip. Blood ran in tributaries down Grip's muscled torso, around his genitals, and down between his thighs. His eyes had glazed over into a distant stare. Howard doubted Grip would survive much longer even if the ritual were aborted.

  “For this forgiveness, Lord, I offer you the man I love.”

  Grip’s pupils were now blown out. He had his last daydream on the sacrificial altar: In the white abyss, Howard kissed him, and they gazed at each other in the afterglow of sex and smiled warmly. “For only through true sacrifice is there true redemption.” Around them, the white turned red. Grip tried to reach out and hold Howard, but couldn't see because too much blood filled his vision.

  Howard drew the knife across Grip’s belly, slicing all the way to the koi fish on the other side. Isabel screamed. Blood poured until intestines bulged through the opening, and then the blood slowed.

  Isabel started to sob again. It was too horrible to bear.

  Howard stepped back. “Wait! Give it time.”

  “I'll never forgive you for this! Never!”

  Grip sucked in through his nose as if he couldn't get enough air to breathe. He convulsed.

  “Grip!” she bawled. “Grip! Oh God! Oh God . . .”

  Doubt curdled Howard’s faith.

  Grip’s intestines spilled out in a rush and dangled between his legs. A distinctly vaginal smell accompanied the dangling coils.

  “No,” Howard said. “I did everything right.”

  Grip stilled. Tears streamed from his wide, frightened eyes. He was still alive.

  Isabel continued to sob. God, let him die! He looks so scared! Please just let him die!

  “Grip, forgive me,” Howard said.

  Grip threw his head back, cracking his skull against the rock, and arched his spine, thrusting his hips forward. Snakes slithered out through his guts in a writhing mass.

  Isabel looked on in shocked horror. Ophelia lowered the scissors.

  Grip convulsed again, thrusting his stomach and hips forward as an impossible amount of snakes emerged. On the floor, snakes untangled themselves from the bloody mess and slithered in all directions, as still more poured out of the gaping wound.

  Isabel screamed again, and her vision darkened. If she fainted, she would be down with the snakes. She covered her mouth to stop her screaming. Her faintness passed.

  The last of the snakes dropped to the ground. Grip went limp again, finally dead. His intestines were gone. All that was left of his stomach was a gaping hole that exposed his lower ribs, his spine, and the top of his hipbones.

  “Hurry!” Ophelia said to Howard. “You have to finish this.”

  Howard trembled as he continued. “Oh Lord God, we also understand Eve's transgressions.”

  He stepped toward Isabel, who stood in stunned denial. She looked to the snakes around the room, but they were gone. The only proof of what had happened was Grip's hollowed-out torso. She felt faint again. Now that the snakes were gone, she welcomed the approaching darkness. Let me pass out, she prayed. Let me pass out!

  “Only women can bring life into this world, so only through Isabel's sacrifice can we truly be forgiven and reborn.” He stepped toward her with the knife held out.

  “Finish it, Howie,” Isabel whispered. “I can't bear it. I can’t bear it any longer.”

  “I'm doing this for you.”

  “I said finish it!”


  Howard painfully lowered to his knees and let go of the crutch. It fell over and clattered on the ground, snuffing out a few candles and knocking into a pile of skulls. He then turned the occult knife so that the handle pointed toward Isabel.

  Ophelia backed away. Isabel just stood there in front of the knife handle, groping to understand what was happening. It felt like her mind had blown a fuse.

  Howard continued to hold out the knife handle, trying to get her to take it. “Christ was sacrificed against Mary's will. You have the power, Isabel. You must choose to slit my throat as a sacrifice to God. I have shown you the horrors of the house. You know what’s at stake. The snakes prove what I say is true. You must do what Mary couldn’t.”

  “Without your sacrifice,” Ophelia said, “the snake will continue to eat its own tail.”

  “Take it. Sacrifice me to God. Cut my throat.”

  Isabel stood there, shaking uncontrollably, but the tears and anguish had left, replaced with dead numbness.

  “Don't let Grip’s death be for nothing,” he said. “There are only a few minutes left. Grip was my sacrifice, and I am yours.”

  17

  Theotokos

  Isabel took the knife. Grip's blood made it slick in her hands.

  “God bless you,” Howard said.

  “Praise the Lord!” Ophelia shouted.

  Isabel looked at the knife and then back to Howard. Howard had killed Grip. It was impossible to believe. They had all loved each other. Howard and Grip were everything. She took a step back.

  “No, Isabel. You need to do this. I showed you the house so you would know why this has to be done.”

  She continued to back away. He was crazy. This was all insanity. Howard needed help, and she would get it for him.

  “Please!” Howard said. “The cycle has to stop!”

  Isabel knocked Ophelia aside and ran from the chamber.

  Howard couldn't run after her, so instead, he fell at Grip's feet, in the blood that had formed a small pool. “Why, God? I did everything you asked of me!”