by M F Sullivan
This life was unsustainable. Small wonder she had snapped, albeit slowly, with the death of her wife. After all, it was not so much the death of her wife that had crippled her. Rather, in the midst of that hurricane of absolute emptiness, after René had approached her with promises of Lazarus, she had been invited to a military conference hosted by her Father. The military conference wherein he had announced Project Black Sun.
“Can you remember warmth on your face,” he had asked the room packed with high-ranking generals, seeming, as ever, to ask Dominia in particular. “Remember what it was to live and move in the world without fear of the sun? We may be the children of God, but that is why we are hampered by His greatest creation. Without the danger the sun presents, we would be gods, ourselves.”
There was a way, he claimed. A way martyrs could walk in the sun. “It seems like a fantasy from where we stand, but the means exist. Humans are in possession of it, and do not even know! Over the next two years, Cicero and I will roll out a plan to acquire these means: and the fine men and women in this room will help me. The world is ours. We need to take it.”
A whole world of ghettos. A planet, at constant risk of people like her. The horrors humans endured in the Front paled beside those the world would see if martyrs moved freely. The thought terrified even the General. It had driven her here, and it found her now, along with a dog, knocking at the heavy locked door into which the hidden stairs terminated. A peephole was revealed, then snapped shut. She was close to annoyed when the door opened and there, exactly as she had pictured him, stood Lazarus: a resemblance to imagination so unexpected that she almost fell back against the narrow steps while Basil bolted past her, into the room.
“There you are, Dominia,” said the man, a stranger she nonetheless knew. His eyes, pale blue as Basil’s, crinkled despite his crabby tone. “Take that damn thing off. You’re not fooling anybody.”
“I—” Faltering to find he had already turned away, the General removed the niqab and bundled it beneath her arm. The room into which she followed him looked more like an addiction support group than a church. Sweet incense was replaced by humid mold, and pews were nowhere to be seen. Folding chairs had been arranged in the tight space, and a rickety podium served for a pulpit upon which the thickly bearded man resumed arranging a bowl, a dagger, and some napkins. “Do you know me?” she asked, and he said without looking, “Of course I do.”
Though she studied his face and felt the familiarity of imagination in his features, she no more truly recognized him than she could divine what race he might have been while human, or his age. For a martyr to achieve grayed hair was an impressive feat: accomplished, to the General’s knowledge, only by her Father. But Lazarus looked older than even he, face lined with deep furrows doubtless caused by centuries of nomadic living and, if Miki’s stories were true, infinite lifetimes’ worth of knowledge. However, old or no, no one lived forever, and she had a hard time buying the story that the world ran itself on repeat. If he did know her, it was from the news.
“If you know me, do you know why I’m here?”
“I know why you think you’re here, and I know you’re going to be disappointed. Do you know why you’re actually here?”
At her blank look, he lifted the dagger and said, “You’re going to help me,” while slitting the forearm beneath his robe. Even the battle-hardened General winced to see such an abrupt spray of blood. Basil, who had been sniffing all around the room, bounded to the holy man’s side. “Hey, kiddo,” he said to the dog, and Dominia asked, “Do you know him, too?”
“Of course I know my good-for-nothing son.” He bled into the bowl with a casual expression, unmoved by the bafflement that bloomed in Dominia’s voice.
“Your son,” she clarified, as if it would make any more sense coming from her own mouth. It did not. As the holy man grunted the affirmative, she studied Basil with a kind of grim clarity.
It shouldn’t surprise her the old man was crazy, she supposed. It was just—well, it made her job more difficult, didn’t it? She already saw herself trying to drag a lunatic to Cairo and wondered if it wouldn’t be better (certainly easier) to drop him off with her Father after all. But, before she followed that train of thought to its depressing station, he had tied off his arm and dabbed at the blood with the napkins. “You need a daub of this blood before you can join the ceremony, or they’ll never accept your being here.”
Almost laughing, brows lifting above her remaining eye, she asked, “Can’t we tell them that we did?”
“Sure we can, but you can’t tell me.” As her laughter faded, she realized he stared at her mouth. “Show me your teeth.”
“What—”
He was around the podium and reaching for her with hands almost certainly unwashed. Grimacing, Dominia leaned away until Basil leapt behind her and, paws against her back, shoved her into Lazarus’s path. Like he checked a horse, the mystic lifted her upper lip, then shoved her away with a sigh of agitation and a flurry of motion from his hands. The meaning was apparent after a few repetitions.
You know sign language, don’t you? For slaves, right?
Yeah, she signed, as displeased to acknowledge that as she was to have had her gums probed by some homeless guy’s grubby finger. Don’t you sign at me like I’m the one who decided to start muting and deafening uppity gossips.
I’m not. I know that was Cicero, and way before your time. Anyway—his hands fluttered together in a dismissive wave and he edged back to the podium—sorry. I saw the eye patch and forgot for a few minutes that just because you’ve made one good decision doesn’t mean you’ve made two. Sometimes I get sentimental when I see you again.
“I’ve never seen you in my life,” she exclaimed aloud, echoing her sentiments with hand gestures and a roll of her eye at the severity of his look. Never in my life.
Not in this one, he agreed. You never remember anything. Consider yourself lucky.
And you?
Every time I’m martyred, I remember everything again. It’s my blood.
The blood you want me to drink, she signed with an arched brow of skepticism for the rust-stained basin. The blood that my Father says is a sin. The blood that humans sometimes kill each other for, that we kill humans for even speaking about. The blood that works miracles.
Yeah. Imagine being full of it.
Unable to resist her wry smirk, she signed, Oh, I imagine you’re full of it, all right, and Lazarus cracked something of a grin beneath that unkempt beard. So why aren’t we speaking? she asked as another knock rang against the door. Her muscles tensed. Before responding to it, Lazarus lingered to deliver a disturbing explanation.
It’s Dr. Akachi, he signed before indicating they word-shorten the man’s name to a gesture that indicated either the sign for an elephant, or somebody who spent a lot of time ingesting parts of male anatomy. He’s listening through those nice, new teeth of yours.
Oh, yeah.
This Lazarus guy was certifiable.
Right?
She still reeled from this schizophrenic accusation when the old man opened the door and the first worshiper, the store owner, stepped into the room, chatting in Arabic, then crying out when he saw the General. Before he got too deep into what universally read as a plea for them to escape with their lives, Lazarus stopped him and said something that left his host’s expression, at best, dubious. While the men had a conversation, Dominia turned to lay Basil with an annoyed look. Did the dog sign, too?
What is this shit about Akachi? Can’t you see this guy is nuts? You’re not his son, you’re a dog. Why don’t you do something?
With those too-cute eyes turned up at her, Basil’s tail gave just one wag. The animal was too polite to point out that she was as crazy as Lazarus, signing at a border collie as though it understood. Yet, it was too obvious that it did understand. Wasn’t it?
Oh, she needed real help. Cassandra’s death had done something to her, that was for sure. Miki was right to be worried; she’d started
to feel concerned, herself.
“Hey.” Lazarus caught her attention once more. Mehrang here wants proof that you mean to join the Lazarenes for good. It’s been almost a thousand years since the last martyr converted. Can’t say I blame him for his concern. Looks like you’re going to have to do something to prove you’re trustworthy, huh?
Lamb, she signed, glancing over at the bowl.
Lazarus, he corrected on his way to the podium. It’s painless, I promise. Get over the taboos of your culture. If you’re going to hell, it won’t be because you drank my blood.
Is there a hell? she asked, reluctantly edging toward the podium, as anxious as she’d been when, at fifteen, she was first forced to take full part in a martyr service and have the blood of the Lamb.
If there is a hell, it’s almost certainly this world. Calling in Arabic, Lazarus waved the man over to witness Dominia’s conversion. The human was as uncomfortable standing near the martyr as the martyr was uncomfortable with what was about to happen. Would she experience something tangible? Would she feel a shift in her own spirit? Surely no. Surely she was just repulsed because, well—it was an intimate thing between martyrs, the sharing of blood. She wasn’t eager to taste this random man’s. But even the dog studied her. The General pursed her lips.
What was she doing, hesitating like this meant anything at all? There was no point. It was a tiny gesture to make them trust her. Take a dot of blood and talk Lazarus into Cairo. Simple enough. Bracing herself, she dipped a fingertip into the crimson meniscus, and lifted it, stained, to her lips.
Not even the taste was extraordinary! An average martyr’s blood, the same as any other. Intriguingly impotent, which was why so many humans ingested it without being martyred—but, aside from that, the same as any man’s.
There, signed Lazarus, gesturing toward Dominia. After the human expressed something in Arabic, Lazarus nodded: Mehrang did, too, and offered Dominia his hand.
What did he say? asked the General. Lazarus smiled.
He asked if you would be assisting me today. I told him “of course.”
Of course, signed Dominia with irritation. The next knock resounded upon the door.
To what had she agreed?
XVI
Prisoners’ Mass
An hour later, Dominia was no longer clear on what she’d expected from the Lazarene ceremony. Some great miracle, she supposed. Some sign of power. Yet, in a way, she had expected this, too: this grinding hour of an old man using sign language to preach to his ramshackle parishioners while in her former periphery. She was forced to turn her head if she wished to see him sign, but he had assigned her the task of holding the bowl of his blood and greeting those (understandably reluctant but incredibly bold) men and women who, in the hurry to kiss Lazarus and taste his blood, looked past all the horrors the General had committed—or had, of late, been accused of committing. Therefore, her understanding of the sermon’s start was limited to those glances she stole, but not limited by language. Universal Sign Language had been taught in almost all human schools regardless of nationality since 1200 AL or so, right alongside arithmetic, history, and all the others. Some of these people, she suspected, had not gone to school, and some were children too young to keep up with his words. All told, about thirty followers were in attendance, and those who were not rapt to the motions of the old fellow were riveted by the interpretive whispers of their companions. They watched from the line that led to the bowl, then from their seats, hands folded and faces eager with hope. Those listeners not interpreting were so silent they might have been dead. A few kids too small for even the explanations of their parents had accepted with distaste the bitter substance, then been allowed to gather around the happy dog in the corner; even they seemed to sense the need for silence. Perhaps Basil told them so himself, the General thought as the last worshiper tapped a fingertip of blood upon their tongue and hurried to the edges of the insufficient seats.
Now, Dominia was free to turn her attention to the service. She had caught pieces: the theme, she’d discerned, was forgiveness.
If there’s a singular, personal, almighty sentience to the divine forces running the cosmos, I don’t think I’ve met Him: but I know I’ve met all of you tonight. And when I look into the eyes of the people in this room, I see walking, talking, conscious fragments of the divine, because nature is divine. You are divine. And nature that has evolved to the point of consciousness is true divinity. It is a god that has emerged from a tree, or a statue that has sprung to life. When that emerged consciousness becomes conscious of its own divinity, that consciousness may heal itself, and its body, and its world. When that soul emerges, it is immortal: and that which is immortal is so eternally. I am called a martyr, but my blood will not martyr you. If it did, it would offer a false immortality. An extension on your prison sentence in this world. But prison should not be a place of punishment: it should be a place of reformation. And a prison does not contain prisoners, alone. It has guards, and wardens; janitors, cooks, and nurses. It has holy men to save the battered souls of the living prisoners, and to placate the ghosts of the victims that have followed them to their cells—for the prison also needs the victims of crimes, without which it would have no prisoners. The building of the prison takes much time and planning and many hands, and all those employed for the purpose have been given wealth and good lives in return. They have since died, for a prison requires many generations if it is to be established long-term.
He looked at Dominia. And a prison also has visitors. Those who stay, even for a short time, to comfort the condemned. They do this generous act through a combination of circumstance, free will, and love; after all, they would never visit such a place if their loved ones were not within. When their visit is terminated, it causes the prisoner great pain. But we martyred prisoners carry their company with us forever.
Cassandra flashed through the General’s mind in such a painful manner that her eye filled with hot tears, and she was forced to weep in front of a room full of humans if she wanted to see what this ragged bastard rambled about. And, oh, what a bastard! Making her cry. His mission accomplished, he focused on the crowd again.
Humans are not prisoners. Martyrs are. You all agreed to be here, though you do not remember it. Even the martyrs agreed to be here. Even I, tired as I am, agreed to be here. I am here for you. I am here, not because my blood is a key to your prison cell, but because my blood will reveal that never will you be prisoner unless or until you make the choice to become one. When you choose a life of misery and violence, when you inflict pain on others, when you take from their mouths or bodies to satiate yourself, it is you who will suffer most. You will be made a prisoner of this world and blinded to all that is higher. You will seek and seek and never find, like thirsty, starving Tantalus. But when you choose a life of joy and love, and heal your brothers, and allow the world to feed you, you will never starve or thirst. You will never die. You will be free: and you will see upon your passage to a higher state someday that you have never not been free, and never not been divine.
The sun is a blessing, he summarized. It is a gift that brings all life and all things. But a prisoner never sees the sun. Not without good behavior, and the help of a guard. His hand landed on Dominia’s shoulder. She started, even though she’d seen him reach for her. With one hand, in common Arabic, in dying Farsi, in universal English, he said, “Never forget. Though they be terrifying, though they may rape the nurses who heal them and stab the guards who protect them from themselves: none in the prison suffer more than the prisoner.”
This was nothing like a martyr ceremony. Where was the unfeeling pomp? The prayer-bruised knees? The acrid incense? The gilded icons and bright stained glass? Where were those moments for her to get lost in her own thoughts and feel nothing? That was what she missed. Where was the emptiness that came with a martyr service? Where was the freedom from looking so closely at her own inner substance that she had to cover her eye, lest her weeping be observed more than it a
lready had? The hand Lazarus still rested upon her shoulder patted, then lifted to her head to draw it to his heart.
“It has been over three hundred years since Dominia has seen the sun without fear,” said the old man in English, signing around her for those Arabic speakers who did not understand. “But the sun gives life. The sun gives power. It has always given us power—it has always given us everything. What you have now is the ability to access this power, though it is harder for humans to see without willful practice, meditation, and prayer. When you are in duress, you may well understand. You, all of you, have within you now that substance that allows the body to transcend this place as much as the soul. You possess that which has protected me from danger all this time.” He released Dominia and stared hard into her eye.
“If you follow me, and are a careful student, you will learn how to achieve this bodily escape. Even the prisoners among you will bask in the glory of the sun. I will show you how it is I’ve come to do all this.”
She might have asked him what “this” was, if it did not become self-evident the second he disappeared.
Dominia’s gasp was but one of a chorus that rose soon rose into climactic clamor. As heads whipped toward those of neighbors to ask what happened in tones no longer hushed, a flurry of movement drew the General’s attention. Basil bounded through his circle of admirers, past the shocked worshipers, and to the door at which he pawed. He was unable to work the round knob, but he was able to demonstrate urgency. Her motions swift as those of the animal, she rushed down the makeshift aisle and regretted how a few humans uncomfortable with the martyr’s company winced away. No time to linger for apologies: she threw open the door, and the border collie sprang four stairs at a time, confident that Dominia scrambled behind. She had not exchanged a word with the dog, yet was positive of its intentions. Could a dog be the son of a martyr? Lazarus’s blood was impotent for means of martyring, or so she’d heard over the years. It was not a metaphor for the dog’s suspected martyred condition. What did it mean?
