by Mark Carver
The massive raindrops pounded the umbrella with defeat. Patric turned to look out upon the city below. He jumped as a slithering streak of lightning struck the tower of the Temple of Set. A crack of thunder followed and a surge of excitement thrilled his heart.
The temple.
He shook his head in disbelief, then started down the narrow road that led down to the city.
He walked for almost twenty minutes, meeting no one. The town might as well have been a cemetery. A few lights peeked out through narrow windows but Patric did not see a single sign of life as he navigated the winding streets and alleys, continually looking up to the black tower for guidance.
He finally emerged from the maze of stone and found himself confronted with the imposing north end of the former cathedral. Rivulets of rain streaked like oil over the stonework and windows. Without knowing why, he felt a brief shock of fear as he gazed up at the massive structure, then he hunched his shoulders and crouched under his umbrella as he circumnavigated the transept and made his way around to the west end of the building.
He stopped and stared in surprise at the metal police barriers erected around the front of the temple, barring the way to the entrance. There were no policemen or anyone else in sight, and Patric glanced around helplessly. He looked up at the sky, heedless of the raindrops splashing in his face.
Help me.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw some movement to his left, and he peered through the raindrops streaking downward like laser beams. About thirty or forty meters away from the building, a dilapidated cemetery surrounded by a wrought iron fence was nestled amongst the sagging branches of ancient trees. Patric could see something moving in the cemetery, though he couldn’t make out what.
He glanced around to make sure that there was no one else around, then he peered again into the necropolis. Yes, there was definitely someone there, and they looked like they were standing on something. Hunching his shoulders, he began walking slowly towards the graveyard, keeping his eyes fixed on the movement within the trees.
He neared the iron gate and stepped through the crumbling stone archway, and as he drew closer, he could see a man standing on one of the gravestones. The figure leaned forward and was holding onto something suspended from the branches of a gnarled tree. Patric stepped carefully among the scattered stones, and soon he was just a few meters away from the other person.
A streak of lightning washed the entire cemetery with white light. Patric recoiled in horror.
A man and two women, all naked and bloodied, dangled from the tree’s hulking branches. The man standing on the gravestone was struggling to get close enough to cut one of the corpses down with a saw affixed to a pole. As the lightning bolt flashed overhead, he suddenly turned and glared at Patric, who froze in silence.
Father DeMarco clutched the wooden pole fiercely, valiantly struggling to keep his balance on the narrow gravestone.
“What do you want?” he demanded angrily in Italian.
Patric stared up at him, his face betraying his incomprehension. Father DeMarco squinted at the stranger through the rain, then spoke again in French.
“What do you want?” he shouted, wincing at the soft tone the French language gave to his hostile question.
Patric looked at the old man, then at the clumsy weapon he yielded.
“Do you need some help?” he asked.
Father DeMarco frowned, then lowered the pole saw.
****
The third body slumped to the ground, slapping the soggy earth and rolling over into a puddle.
“Okay,” Father DeMarco called out, “you can come down now. Be careful.”
Patric peered hard at the ground, which was nearly completely hidden in darkness, even though it was less than a meter away. Holding the pole saw like a tightrope walker, he leaped out and landed heavily on the soaked grass. He stood up and handed the pole to Father DeMarco, then looked down at the naked bodies lying in the water like giant fish.
“What about them?” he asked, panting for breath.
Father DeMarco wiped his eyes, an entirely futile action. “I don’t know,” he sighed. “Honestly, I hadn’t thought that far ahead.”
“Who were they?” Patric asked. “And who hanged them here?”
The priest stabbed the pole into the soft ground. “Don’t you know what happened here last night?” he asked coldly.
Patric looked back at the stark temple as a flash of lightning illuminated the police barriers and fences. “Yes,” he said. “It was a vile, disgusting thing what those — ”
“They didn’t do it,” Father DeMarco snapped, gesturing to the three bodies on the ground. “But they paid the price for it.”
Patric frowned in confusion. “Who are they? And who are you?”
Father DeMarco stiffened and stared at him sternly. “It’s none of your business who they are or who I am. Thank you for your help, young man; now please be on your way and leave me to take care of this by myself.”
“I just cut them down out of a tree,” Patric declared to Father DeMarco’s back.
The old priest stopped, then turned around.
Patric’s eyes were insistent. “I have a right to know why they were up there in the first place.”
Father DeMarco heaved a weary sigh, then looked down with sadness at the three bodies. “That man was Mr. Roberto Assante. That woman over there was Mrs. Amanda Assante, his wife, and that one there was Francesca, their daughter. They were very vocal members of the local Christian community, and when the temple priest and priestesses were executed, a mob marched up to their home, dragged them down here, then brutalized and hanged them. They had nothing to do with the atrocity the other night, but that didn’t make a difference. Those people were out for blood, and they got their fill.”
Distant thunder rumbled. Despite the darkness and rain, Patric could see that the man’s eyes were wet with tears.
“And who are you?” he repeated.
The old priest straightened his shoulders, as if facing a firing squad.
“I was their priest,” he said proudly.
Thunder cracked again, this time much nearer. The two men faced each other in the rain, surrounded by headstones like a captive audience watching a drama.
In spite of the water all around them, Patric's mouth was dry. He swallowed roughly and asked, “So why didn’t anyone come out here to help you?”
Father DeMarco’s shoulders slumped, and an even greater sadness clouded his eyes. “There aren’t many of us left. The Assantes were some of the most committed people I’ve ever known, and now they’ve paid the price. After what happened here last night, most Christians left in a panic. I don’t know what we will do now....”
The iron hardness that sheathed Patric’s heart softened a bit, but he inhaled quickly, smothering his sympathy with indifference.
“Well, they got what was coming to them,” he grumbled. “If they had any sense, they would have left with the others, rather than stay here and defend the name of a God that has abandoned them.”
“How do you know He has abandoned them?” Father DeMarco asked with surprising gentleness in his voice. “Right now, they are basking in the glory of heaven, while we are here, in all of this....”
Patric looked around, surveying the rain falling in curtains over the mossy gravestones. He couldn’t remember ever being in a place so bleak and forsaken, and the smallest part of his soul wondered if the priest was right.
“And who might you be?” Father DeMarco demanded curtly, his fingers curling around the pole saw.
Patric eyed the old man’s hand clenching the staff.
“Patric,” he answered.
Father DeMarco did not relax his grip. “Well Patric, I am grateful for your help, but I must ask what you are doing here, at this hour and in this weather.”
The pounding rain thundered like a freight train. Patric kept his eyes fixed on Father DeMarco while he weighed his options. Lightning flickered across the sky, an
d his gaze was drawn to the sleek white bodies sprawled in the mud.
“I’m looking for someone,” he said, perhaps a little too loudly.
Father DeMarco’s expression did not change. “Who?”
Patric glanced at the dripping crucifix around the priest’s neck. “A Del…a Christian.”
Father DeMarco’s hand fell from the pole. “As I said before, there aren’t too many of those left around here. Who are you looking for?”
“My brother.”
The words tasted like vomit in Patric’s mouth.
“Well, your brother. A Christian, as you say. I gather from that item around your neck that you do not share his religious sentiments.”
Patric’s eyes fell to the rain-spattered soil. “No.”
“That must make for interesting family get-togethers.”
Patric flicked dripping strands of hair out of his eyes.
“This is a waste of time,” he said angrily as he turned to leave. “Sorry about your friends there.”
“Wait,” Father DeMarco said, reaching out and placing his hand on Patric’s shoulder.
Patric stopped and remained still. Bitterness boiled inside of him and he scolded himself for admitting even the vaguest details of his mission.
“Perhaps I can help you,” the priest said. “I know every Christian around here. If your brother is here, I can help you find him.”
Patric exhaled slowly, then turned around.
“On one condition…” Father DeMarco added.
“What?”
“You help me get these three into the car.”
Patric glanced over his shoulder at the corpses, and he sighed with resignation. “Okay.”
Father DeMarco stuck out his hand. “I am Father DeMarco.”
Patric shook it briefly. “Pleasure.”
Father DeMarco motioned for Patric to follow him and they stepped under the tree where the male body lay.
“Grab his feet there,” he grunted as he hooked his hands under the large man’s shoulders.
Patric winced and turned away as he seized the man’s slick, fleshly ankles. He muttered a string of curses as he and the priest lifted the body up off the ground.
“The car is next to the church,” Father DeMarco said with a jerk of his head to indicate the direction. Patric’s shoulders wilted as he mentally gauged the distance that he would be hauling not one, but three bodies.
“So tell me, Patric,” Father DeMarco asked through gritted teeth as they weaved gingerly through the gravestones, “what’s your brother’s name?”
“He’s my half-brother, actually,” Patric replied, leaning backwards to counter the corpse’s heavy weight.
“What’s your half-brother’s name?”
“Tourec Beauchamp.”
The dead man fell into the mud with a sickening smack.
****
Tourec winced as glass lacerated his elbow. He stretched his sleeve over the wound to absorb the blood and hastily reached through the jagged hole in the window to unlock the door. He knew the silent alarm must have been tripped, but he wasn’t too concerned about being caught by the police, since virtually the entire force was either hunting him or hovering over the corpses of his brothers-in-arms.
As he stumbled among the shelves of medicine in the dark, his heart was suddenly seized by grief. His knees felt weak, and he put his hand against the wall to brace himself as he vomited rapidly. After a moment, he straightened his posture and ignored his swirling headache. His elbow was starting to burn, though the pain was negligible compared to the screams of anguish coming from his bruised (perhaps broken) ribs and shoulder blade.
He combed through the pharmacy, quickly locating some ice packs, strips of gauze, and painkillers. Bundling them into his arms, he rounded a corner and froze.
“Put your hands on your head,” a young woman commanded. She cocked the gun she held with authority.
Tourec stared into her eyes. She was indeed young, likely in her late teens, though her face bore the unmistakable expression of maturity through pain and struggle. She wore a simple white t-shirt and jeans, and she was pretty — on the verge of beautiful — but the deadly seriousness in her eyes chilled Tourec to his bones.
“Okay,” he answered softly, dropping the first aid supplies and grimacing as he raise his arms and put his hands on his head.
The girl kept the gun trained on him with remarkable steadiness. She had the air of a stone-cold gunslinger but Tourec saw youthful uncertainty flash in her eyes. She didn’t know what to do next, and Tourec seized this moment.
“Young lady,” he said as gently and firmly as he could manage, “I am very sorry to break in here like this. I wouldn’t do it unless I absolutely had to. I assure you, I do not want to hurt anyone. I—“
“You’re one of them, aren’t you?”
Tourec’s mouth hung open for a moment, then snapped shut.
“They’re looking for you everywhere,” the girl continued. The gun didn’t move a millimeter.
Tourec couldn’t muster the strength to feign ignorance. “I suppose they are,” he admitted.
Though her face maintained the cold expression of an executioner, the girl suddenly lowered the gun. “Come upstairs. My papa can help you.” Without another word, she turned and walked out of the room.
Tourec was too stunned to move. The girl peeked around the corner, her black hair falling over her eyes.
“Hurry!” she whispered with irritation.
In a frantic scramble, Tourec gathered the supplies into his arms and followed her. At the foot of a flight of stairs, he noticed a flashing keypad that read “Alarm Deactivated.” He glanced up just in time to see the girl through a doorway. Offering up a prayer of thanks and a plea for protection, Tourec hoisted himself up the creaking staircase.
The doorway opened to the right at the top of the stairs, and like a mouse poking its head out to see if the cat was gone, Tourec cautiously craned his neck and looked inside the room. Only a few lamps were on, casting a feeble light that barely reached the corners of the tiny rooms. The apartment was sparsely furnished, and everything inside was the color of old. The yellowing wallpaper, the dingy upholstered furniture, the ragged carpeting— it looked like a poorly-preserved specimen of a quaint family home two generations ago.
Tourec took a careful step inside and he sucked in his breath through his teeth as the floor creaked loudly. The girl, who was attempting to awaken a large man sprawled out in a reclining chair in front of a blinking television, turned and looked at Tourec. Her father bolted upright and glared at Tourec from beneath impossibly thick eyebrows.
The girl leaned forward and whispered something in her father’s ear, and he cried out with surprise.
“And you brought him up here?” the large man demanded, his unshaven cheeks flushing deeply.
The girl stepped back and looked again at Tourec as if he were a stray animal that had followed her home and had now gotten her into trouble. Tourec stood just inside the doorway, cradling the medical supplies like a refugee clutching his food rations. The girl hissed something inaudible to her father, who hissed back amidst a flurry of gestures and wildly dancing eyebrows.
Finally, the girl’s father sighed loudly, intending for Tourec to hear it as well. He shook his head and rose to his feet, pastry crumbs rolling off his belly and onto the floor, where they were promptly licked up by a white cat. The large man lumbered towards Tourec, one eyebrow raised like a black willow tree.
“Is it true, what my daughter says?”
Tourec looked at the girl, who stood behind her father, her hands folded dutifully in front of her. He looked back at the man and squared his shoulders.
“Yes sir, it is.”
The man stuck out his chin, which caused his heavy moustache to arch downward. “And you are hurt?”
Tourec nodded again. “Though not seriously,” he added. “I think I may have cracked a few bones but I’m able to get around fine. I really am terribly s
orry for all of — “
The man raised a beefy hand and Tourec immediately closed his mouth.
“I will help you,” the man said with a low, stern voice, “and then you will go.”
Tourec nodded once more. “Thank you,” he said, glancing curiously at the girl. She still wore a mask of impenetrable coldness, but her eyes had softened considerably.
Her father motioned to a simple wooden table in the kitchen. “Please, this way.”
“Thank you,” Tourec said again as he piled the boxes he was carrying onto the tabletop.
“Sophia!” the man called over his shoulder.
“Yes, papa?”
“Bring me scissors, alcohol, a bowl of hot water, some small towels, and some ointment.”
Tourec heard the girl’s feet patter away. He looked at the man and was surprised to be greeted with a smile.
“I am Dr. Rosetta,” he said.
“Tourec Beauchamp.”
“Enchanté,” Dr. Rosetta said fluently, and Tourec couldn’t help but smile back.
Sophia returned with the items her father had requested, and she stood by his side like an anxious nurse. Dr. Rosetta took up the scissors and told Tourec to put his hands on the table. He obeyed, and he felt Dr. Rosetta lift his shirt off of his back and start to cut, then stop.
“Sophia, go to your room.”
“But…I want to help.”
“Go now, young lady.”
Sophia threw a confusing glance towards Tourec, then walked sullenly out of the room. Dr. Rosetta shook his head as only a father could do, then resumed cutting Tourec’s shirt. Tourec winced as dried blood peeled away from numerous small lacerations that he hadn’t noticed before, and he yelped as Dr. Rosetta pried a large thorn out of his skin.
“You have quite an impressive art collection, my friend,” the doctor said as he began washing Tourec’s back and shoulders, which were covered with tattoos.
