by Tony LaRocca
“The woman I resurrected kept praying to someone named Jesus,” said Asher. “Maybe he ran a cult? But that still can’t be right. Everyone worshipped the Ophanim.”
“Unless their minds had already been altered before you messed around with them. It makes sense to have everyone conditioned to believe in their resurrectors. Whatever adjustments you made must have undone that.” He looked Asher in the eye. “That’s the problem with trying to fix people. No matter what, their true selves will always bleed through. You can’t force anyone against their nature. Not for long, anyway.”
He approached the altar. The pulpit stood to its left. It was a birch monolith, carved with more grim likenesses of the saints. He leaned on it. Its surface felt slightly gummy. He pulled his hand away, leaving behind an imprint of his palm. After a second, its wood popped back into place with a barely audible blop.
He pulled a heavy tome with gilt edges from its shelf, and flipped it open. Every word on every page was gibberish, rendered in neat, black calligraphy. He squinted, and studied the parchment again. Was there a pattern to it? He could not tell. He crooked his finger at Asher. “Here,” he said, “read me this, please.”
“You can’t read?”
“Not this language.”
Asher looked down, then back up at him. “What are you talking about?” he asked. “It’s English.”
Before Matthew could reply, the boy sighed, and took the book in his hands. “And the blessed Ophanim gathered the crowd around, and said, ‘You are the light of the world, shine it into every corner. Blessed are those who listen to the elders of the Church and the lawmakers, for they are more to you than your mother and father. When your mother and father could not feed or clothe you, did the Church and those who govern under its wisdom not provide? Blessed are those who look upon their neighbors to make sure that they are without sin, and who give the leaders knowledge of their heresies. For without each other’s guidance comes pride, and with pride, we are lost.’” His lips curled into a sloppy grin, his fingers twitching as they caressed the page.
Matthew blinked repeatedly. “That’s… very poetic.”
“The Ophanim is the very avatar of poetry,” said Asher, placing the book back on its shelf. “She watches over us from the eye of the moon. That way, even in the dead of night, the Shadows can no longer harm us. In the Day of Glory, She’ll come back.”
Matthew mulled it over. Perhaps the religion itself held the key to the church’s secrets. “Tell me more about her.”
A glow came to the monk’s anorexic face at the chance to show off his knowledge. “There were four,” he said, “four angels sent to shape the world: the Ophanim, the Magistrate, the Ingegno, and the Clown. They had existed in many forms since the beginning of time. They guided humanity like puppeteers pulling strings. Over the centuries, the Clown became the strongest. He was cruel, and from him, humanity learned cruelty. Only the Ophanim brought peace and light, but She was not strong enough to outwit Her brother. His greatest trick was to fool one tribe into fearing that another was going to come and take what little they had. Greed begot greed, which begot hate, which always begot war.”
Matthew considered the aphorism. “That’s true in a way,” he said, “but it’s not really accurate. It wasn’t only death and destruction. There were also great periods of peace and prosperity, they just didn’t make stories interesting enough to fill the history books.”
“In between great periods of war, rape, and bloodshed. The world moves in cycles, but through it all the Ingegno was there, pushing humanity forward, pushing knowledge onward. Then came the final war. The Magistrate and the Ingegno joined the Ophanim, and rose up against the Clown. So he sent his Shadows, and their darkness turned the world to sand. Except for the Church, except for what the Ophanim could save.”
“I don’t know what the Shadows actually were,” said Matthew, “but I thought it was the Agents of Chaos that turned the world to sand.”
“They serve the Clown, the cruel one.” Asher shrugged. “I’m just relating the scriptures. I didn’t write them.”
Matthew frowned as they walked across the church, his boots echoing on the brick tile. There was something almost familiar to these characterizations, something that danced just beyond his reach.
The chapel radiated a dignified sense of beauty, from its ornate archways to its austere statues and stained glass windows. It was the beauty that came with devotion, whether to a religion or to the builders’ craftsmanship. Whoever had designed or tended to this place in whatever form, their love was apparent.
They passed through a door, and into a hallway. They walked past bathrooms, the sacristy, and a handful of closets. Matthew sighed inwardly, and wondered if they would have to search every one.
At the end of the corridor stood a door. He laid his palm against its cherry–stained wood. It felt cold. He turned its glass knob, and pulled it open.
A staircase lay beyond, leading into darkness. Its wooden steps were bare and uneven. He tested one with his foot. It squeaked. He glanced at Asher. The monk was sweating, his face pale. “Hey,” he said, “you okay?”
“I’m fine,” said Asher, “I just don’t want to go into the cellar.”
“Seriously,” said Matthew, “what’s wrong? What’s down there?”
The boy swallowed, crossing his arms over his chest. “I left this the way it was in the scrolls,” he said. “I didn’t change anything.”
“Okay,” said Matthew, “is there something down there that will hurt me?”
“No, it won’t hurt you.”
“But you think that it might hurt you.”
Asher pursed his lips, and remained silent. Matthew considered the possibilities. “Do you think Sister Theresa is down there?”
“She can’t be,” said Asher. “No.”
Matthew puffed out his cheeks and exhaled. “Well,” he said, “whatever is there, I’m sure we can face it together. Is the electricity working?”
Asher’s shoulders arched up and down in an exaggerated shrug. He shot his hand past Matthew to flick the switch. A few bare bulbs flickered on, illuminating the staircase. Matthew grabbed its railing. Thick, lime–green chips of paint flaked into his hand. “Come on,” he said, and began to climb down.
The darkness seemed to swallow what little light came from the fixtures, as if finding their presence a mere irritation. The air at the bottom was clammy, and stirred with a faint, musty breeze. Cardboard boxes lined the cinder block walls, their moldy sides labeled in faded magic marker. They identified their contents as candles, cleaning supplies, hymnals, and at the end, Christmas decorations. Matthew glanced back at Asher.
“What?” he asked.
Matthew shook his head. “Nothing,” he said. He sniffed the air. “Where is that breeze coming from?”
It bore the stench of rotten eggs, and wet leaves. Asher gave his exaggerated shrug again. “I don’t know.”
“It might help us.”
Asher looked at the ground. “I said, I don’t know.”
Matthew sighed from deep within his chest. “All right,” he said, “it must be from behind one of these boxes.”
“I have to go. I won’t stop you, but I have to go.”
Matthew ground his teeth together. “Can you feel the people who worked here?”
“No one is speaking up. If I concentrate later, maybe I’ll find them. Sometimes everyone is just fighting to get out, like hands pushing on a bubble, and the bubble is my brain.”
“But none of the clergy?”
“I said no.”
Matthew sniffed the air, turning left and right. “This corner, I think,” he said, pointing at a stack of boxes marked “missalettes.” “Does that word mean anything to you?”
The boy’s jaw shook, his eyes narrow. “Why don’t you stop asking so many stupid questions?”
Matthew took a deep breath. “Look, kid —”
“And you can stop patronizing me. We both know that this whole bas
ement is a worthless failure, like everything I try to do. I’ll have to remake it, all of it.” He spun around, his emaciated arms raised over his head. “Don’t you understand? It’s just like me. It doesn’t matter how it looks on the top. Underneath, it’s just shit, just useless, rotten shit.”
He grabbed a moldy box in his claw–like fingers, and threw it to the cracked cement floor. It fell apart upon impact. An army of tiny beetles scuttled from it, racing to the corner of the cellar. The soft, wet side of the box and the pamphlets inside had been chewed into pulp.
“Look,” said Matthew, “just calm down, okay?”
“I have to get out of here.”
“It’s all right,” said Matthew. “You don’t have to stay, but I could use your help. Why don’t you sit down, or something?” He pointed at the stairs. “I’ve got this. I’ll let you know if I need you.”
“I don’t need you.”
Matthew folded his hands, and counted backwards from ten. He stepped to the side, and lightly kicked the cinder block wall. His boot left a dent in the brick, as if it were made of rubber. After a second, it popped back into shape. “I think you do.”
Asher stared at the floor again. Matthew patted his shoulder, and turned back to the corner. A few more insects ran alongside his boots to slip behind the stack. He pulled the top boxes down, and placed them to the side.
More beetles scurried from their seams, and ran for the same part of the wall. Swallowing his disgust, he pulled at the last, soggy box. It fell apart in his hands. Behind it, set back in the cinder block, stood a nest of interwoven roots. The rectangular mass was about three feet high, and two feet wide.
“What the hell?” he asked. He pushed it. It pivoted away, as if it were a door. The passage beyond was devoid of light. He looked back at Asher. The boy was backing towards the stairs.
“Hey,” said Matthew, “it’s just a crawlspace. You made it, how bad can it be?”
“I didn’t make that,” said Asher, shaking his head from side to side. “It didn’t come from me.”
“So how did it get here?”
A muscle under the boy’s eye twitched. “Don’t you understand?” he asked. “It’s beneath the surface.”
“Okay,” said Matthew, “but you did resurrect it, right?”
Asher looked at the roots, his eyes wide. Then he whirled, and ran up the stairs.
Matthew called his name, but there was no response. He could hear the monk’s footfalls on the hallway above, followed by the slam of the chapel door.
“Well, that’s just great,” he said to the cellar. He considered following him, but what would be the point? The kid was obviously on the brink of emotional collapse. More than likely he was not only overwhelmed by his task, but also by his own obsessions.
So why had his Church sent him, if he was so unequipped? If it was true that the city’s scrolls were gone and Asher was the only one who knew their contents, then why only send one nun to keep him in line? Even more importantly, why had no one checked up on them?
Matthew bit the inside of his cheek. He felt bad for the kid, despite everything that had happened, but he had a mission to accomplish. Questions and counseling would just have to wait. It was not as if he needed him for anything except information.
He walked back to the stairs, and examined the boxes stored beneath. He found candles, along with a box of matches. They were long and wooden, but there were only three left. One fizzled into life, and he nurtured a sputtering wick until it ignited. He managed to light another from the same blue and white flame.
He knelt in front of the opening, placed his candles against the inside wall, and crawled through. He picked them up again, and stood.
This was not a crawlspace.
The walls were made of stone and brick. Moss, dense and green, covered most of their surface. He held his candles together high in the air, and waited for his eyes to adjust.
The chamber was about fifteen feet wide, though the far end was shrouded in black mist. The ceiling, seven or eight feet high, was a long arch of yellow stone. The sound of dripping water echoed far off in the darkness. Puddles in the cobblestone floor reflected the candlelight. Pillars of twisted vines wound their way along the walls. Matthew followed one to an alcove. He looked down, and swallowed.
A small skeleton lay within, its once lacy dress now moldy tatters. He could just make out its pattern of blue and gold swirls. The tunnel’s vines had long ago woven through the remains, worming from its eye sockets and shattered skull like thick, dry snakes.
“Catacombs,” he said, his voice echoing off the stone walls. “I didn’t know WesMec had catacombs.” He paused for a moment, and laughed at himself. He could not even remember half of his own life without the NorMec Sage. Why would he know an obscure point of history? It was entirely possible that Spanish or Mexican settlers had dug burial chambers here, back in the eighteen hundreds. Was this what Asher had been afraid of? It did seem strange that the Ophanim’s scribes had bothered to add decomposing corpses to their scrolls, especially with such detail.
He examined another alcove. It held the body of a soldier in the remains of a dress uniform. A ceremonial sword lay between its skeletal palms. It wore a tarnished ring on one finger, and the faded threads of what had once been ribbons upon its chest.
He thought of what he had said earlier, about brains being nothing more than electrochemical jelly. Was it possible that the decrepit muck within these skulls still held fragments of thoughts or memories, and those rotting emotions were leaking through the boy’s mind as well?
Don’t you understand? It’s beneath the surface.
The candles flickered in his hand. He looked back towards the rectangle of light that marked the doorway. He wondered if he should go back and get a flashlight, or even better, some flood lamps. He looked around. None of this was going anywhere. He walked towards the door of interwoven roots.
When he was a foot away, it swung shut.
He laid the candles on the cobblestones, and yanked at the edge with his fingertips. It would not budge, nor was it soft, like the rest of the church’s interior.
“Asher?” he shouted. There was no reply. Had the boy done this? Matthew did not think so, or see how he could.
“All right,” he said to the gloom. “You want me to move forward, I’ll move forward. You don’t have to be so dramatic about it.” He bent to pick up the candles. He stood, bracing himself against the wall.
Agony exploded through his shoulder blade and right arm where they touched the stones, as if a bed of needles had pierced him. He turned his head to the side. The moss had erupted into a cluster of tiny thorns. They held him fast, their barbs hooked deep within his flesh. He dropped his candles into a puddle, their tiny flames extinguishing with a hiss. He clenched his right forearm in his left fist, and yanked.
A cry escaped his lips as his arm tore free. He rolled his sleeve up as far as he could, and clutched the wound. A patch of pinholes marred the back of his triceps. Blood welled inside of them, and dripped down to his elbow.
His back felt as if it were on fire. Every breath rubbed the meat of his pierced muscles against the needle–thin thorns that lodged inside of them. He tried to picture the wall behind him. How far did the moss go down? Did it reach the ground? He tried to remember, but he did not think so. He leaned on his left leg, and raised his right heel behind him. He could feel the sole of his boot scrape the stone and brick. It did not feel as if there was any moss beneath.
The darkness felt like a physical force that was pushing down on him, threatening to crush his skull. The dripping sound was louder now, he was sure of it. The sound of his own breath roared within his ears. He slid his heel up behind his knee. That was as high as he dared to risk. He took a deep breath, clenched his teeth, and lunged.
He tore his back from the wall, the barbed thorns ripping his muscles like tiny fishhooks. He flailed his bloody arm out as he fell, smacking into a puddle. The impact shot up his knee like a ham
mer. He scuttled away, his mind spinning. What if the moss reached into the puddle, or what if he crawled into the far wall, and met with more of the same?
He lay in the cold, slimy mess, his chest heaving. A dull, throbbing ache radiated from his knee. He touched his arm again, and his hand came away slick with blood. He would have to make sure that his cuts did not become infected. God only knew what kind of viruses the deranged boy had inadvertently created.
“Shit,” Matthew muttered. His back and upper arm burned as if they were on fire. He wedged his fingertips into the pixelated gap of his shoulder, and pulled.
The familiar rush of energy flooded his brain, heightening his senses. After a few minutes he let go, and returned his time to normal. He rubbed his arm. It was still covered in blood, but its lacerations had closed and scabbed over into puckered scars. Its muscles ached and felt leaden, as if he had been lifting weights to excess. He reached between his shoulder blades, and ran his fingertips over the raised braille of his back’s wounds. They had also closed, but thankfully, they did not feel swollen or feverish.
He felt in his pocket for the matches. There were two left. He whispered a prayer, and struck one.
It flared in the blackness. He held it out, searching for the candles. They had rolled a foot away from his knees. He grabbed the driest one, and held its moist wick above the flame. After a few seconds, he risked lighting it.
The match winked out. He sighed from between gritted teeth. He took off his lacerated shirt, and ripped away its dry left sleeve. He wadded it between his fingers, folding it into a small packet. He had one match left. He lit it, and touched it to the cloth.
The fabric ignited. He guessed that he had maybe a minute before it burned completely. He laid the candle in the center of the struggling flames. They danced and fizzled until the cloth sputtered out.
A tiny, flickering glow shone from the tip of the wick.
As gingerly as he could, Matthew pulled the candle away from the charred remains of his sleeve. He shielded it with his hand, protecting the fledgling flame from the musty breeze. He carried it to the doorway.
