A Deafening Silence In Heaven

by Thomas E. Sniegoski

  The Patriarch rounded the corner of one of the great bookshelves and nearly collided with the mysterious Simeon. He was holding an old volume, one that Adolfi was pretty certain had been bound in the flesh of an infant from the Bon Secours Mother and Baby Home in Tuam, County Galway, Ireland—a recent acquisition that was said to contain the names of all the children murdered at the home and of the Earthbound demons to whom they had been sacrificed.

  The pale, dark-haired figure looked up from the open book, his eyes filled with an anguish as deep as the ocean. Adolfi did not know this man’s story, other than the fact that he had walked the Earth for a very long time.

  “Simeon,” the Patriarch said simply.

  “It’s missing names.” Simeon snapped the book closed, an old and disconcerting smell wafting up from the volume.

  “Missing names? I don’t . . . ,” Adolfi began in confusion.

  “The book,” Simeon said, practically shoving it in the old priest’s face. “It’s missing names of children as well as the demonic. It’s incomplete. Tell your bloodhounds if they want to find a better version they need to keep searching where the home once stood. If my memory serves me there are all sorts of goodies buried there.”

  Adolfi took the book as it was shoved into his arms.

  “Thank you, Simeon,” the old man said, not really sure how to respond. “I’ll be sure to pass the information on.”

  “You do that,” the man said, continuing to peruse the shelves.

  “I didn’t expect to find you here,” the priest said, looking for a place to set the flesh-bound volume down.

  “I needed to distract myself from some recent news, and thought I’d lose myself in rows of forbidden knowledge,” the man said, his dark eyes scanning the titles before him.

  Adolfi carefully placed the book upon a wheeled cart with other books waiting to be returned to their shelves.

  There was a loud and sudden laugh from somewhere close by, and the old priest turned to see the familiar face of one of his Keeper agents, Constantin Malatesta, who walked toward him, reading a text on the rites of exorcism. The former agent looked up from the book, and a shiver ran down the Patriarch’s spine. This was not the Malatesta he had once commanded on so many Keeper assignments.

  “Have you read this, Priest?” the thing wearing Malatesta’s body asked. “It’s hysterical what they believe works.”

  Adolfi reached into the pocket of his cassock for the blessed talisman he always carried as protection against evil.

  Malatesta was cackling wildly as he flipped through the yellowed pages.

  “Simeon,” Adolfi called out. “Stand beside me,” he ordered as he withdrew the talisman that was said to have been blessed with the blood of the first Pope, the founder of the Keepers.

  Simeon walked to the end of the aisle, unaware of the danger.

  “Excuse me?” he asked.

  “Step to my side, please,” the old priest commanded.

  The thing wearing Malatesta’s skin was paying attention now, and Adolfi was no longer sure that he could guarantee Simeon’s safety.

  “And why would I be doing that?” Simeon asked.

  The dark-haired man turned his gaze to look at Malatesta. The possessed Keeper just smiled.

  “Should he come, too?” Simeon asked in reference to the possessed man.

  “Come away from him at once, or I cannot guarantee your safety,” the Patriarch proclaimed, raising the talisman so that all could see and feel its power.

  “Guarantee my safety?” Simeon questioned. “From him?” He pointed to Malatesta.

  “I will attempt to suppress the demonic forces possessing my agent, but I am afraid that—”

  “You’ll do no such thing,” Simeon stated. “That so-called demonic entity is working for me.”

  Malatesta grinned a grin that seemed far too wide for his human mouth.

  “It works for you?” the holy man asked, shocked.

  “The demon as well as the man it possesses,” Simeon explained. “They work in tandem most of the time.”

  “Have you read this?” Malatesta held out the book of exorcism.

  “Complete rubbish,” Simeon commented. “Not worth the parchment it’s inscribed upon.”

  Malatesta let the book drop to the floor, then opened his mouth, spewing a stream of green steaming bile upon the priceless text. The book began to smolder and burn. “It offends me,” he said with a shrug, wiping the corner of his mouth.

  Adolfi stood stunned, unsure of what his reaction should be as Simeon stepped from the aisle of books, careful not to tread upon the smoking text.

  “I told you that I recently learned something . . . something of a divine nature.” The pale man began to pace. “I came here seeking solace,” Simeon said. “Or at least some consolation from ancient scholars who have come before.” He paused as he gazed around the subterranean library. “But I’ve found no relief.”

  Adolfi could not help but ask, “What is it, my son? What troubles you so? Perhaps there is something that . . .”

  “They’re going to forgive him,” Simeon blurted. “The Prince of Lies. They’re going to forgive him.”

  The Patriarch let the words wash over him, their meaning distinctly clear. “How is this possible?” the old priest asked.

  “I asked the same question,” Simeon said, continuing to pace like a caged tiger. “But the divine being to which I spoke explained that it is the Lord God’s wish to forgive His once favorite creation.”

  “An angelic emissary actually told you that Lucifer was to be forgiven?”

  Simeon nodded ever so slowly.

  “He did at that.”

  And then it all began to make a kind of twisted sense.

  “Unification,” Patriarch Adolfi said quietly. “Of course . . . I understand now.”

  Simeon seemed to perk up at his words. “What do you mean?”

  The Patriarch could not help but smile; it was wonderful.

  “I believe it was the early Christian theologian, Origen, who first spoke of it. He called it the final reconciliation,” Adolfi explained. “But he wasn’t the only one to write of it—Gregory of Nyssa, Ambrosiaster, to name of few. If you’d like, I could put together a list and have someone retrieve the works from the archives. . . .”

  The intensity of Simeon’s gaze stopped him cold.

  “It was the belief that in the end, all would be forgiven and return to God,” he explained quickly.

  “All?” Simeon questioned.

  The old man nodded, wanting to restrain the smile that was upon him again, but he was unable.

  “All. There would come a time when the Morningstar, and all the fallen angels that followed him, would be forgiven their indiscretions, and all would be as it once was.”

  “This is the Unification of which you speak?” Simeon asked.

  “I believe it is. My dreams for years have been plagued by visions of a Biblical apocalypse with the Kingdom of Heaven raining down from the sky; there wasn’t a night of late that I did not see the horrible sights of a great war between the forces of God and Lucifer, but last night . . .”

  He smiled again, and it felt so very good.

  “Last night I saw nothing of the sort but heard a word uttered in all the languages of the planet. At first I did not understand and came here to research it, but now . . .”

  “And that word, the one you dreamed of, it was—”

  “Unification,” Adolfi said, barely able to contain his elation.

  “And you see this as a good thing?” Malatesta chimed in.

  “I do,” Adolfi answered. “All will be whole again. . . . Heaven will be whole again. When the Great War occurred, there was not only a split between the Almighty and Lucifer, but Heaven itself became fragmented.”

  The Patriarch paused, waiting for the importance of his words to sink in. “What became known as Hell was once a part of the Kingdom, as was the eternal garden known as Eden. These places became lost to Heaven w
ith the war, but now they’ll be returned.”

  He watched the eternal man for signs that he understood the wonder of what could be about to happen, but Simeon just stared at the floor, as if attempting to bore a hole through the marble.

  “This will not do,” Simeon then said, looking up from the floor. “It will not do at all.”

  “You can’t be serious.” Adolfi was astonished. “If this is true, it will bring about a new golden age of peace and prosperity. . . . A unity in Heaven will spark a unity of the world itself.”

  “And I can’t stand the thought of things being so . . . wonderful.”

  “Surely you jest, my friend,” Adolfi said. “Just think of the joy our Creator will experience when all of His most divine creations are back with Him.”

  “Our Creator’s joy?” Simeon questioned. “Do you seriously believe that I give a fuck about our Creator’s joy?”

  Adolfi took a step back from the intensity of the words.

  “In fact, I will do everything in my power to see that our Creator never experiences anything close to joy,” Simeon said, regaining his composure.

  The Patriarch came to the sickening realization that he had been wrong about this ageless stranger, that he was in fact a force of discord rather than one of harmony. His eyes darted to the red panic button on the wall near where he stood. Once pushed, it would bring a squad of Keeper elite rushing into the Atheneum.

  “Your words are surprising to me, but then I know very little about you—the mysterious Simeon,” Adolfi said.

  “You know what I wish you to know,” Simeon replied. “You and your entire brotherhood are but pieces—cogs—in the great machine of my eventual revenge.”

  “Revenge? Revenge against whom?” Adolfi asked, fearing that he already knew the answer.

  “It has been a long time coming,” Simeon said. “And with this Unification, perhaps we are finally about to bring the game to an . . .”

  Adolfi sensed that the moment was now and made his move while the forever man went on about the culmination of his plans. He moved as quickly as his old bones would allow, darting toward the wall, extending his arm and reaching . . . reaching. . . .

  Something had stopped his progress, and he came to the sickening realization that he was hanging in the air as if by the presence of some invisible tether. He saw that Malatesta had stepped forward, staring with great intensity, fists clenched by his side.

  “He’s a tricky one,” the possessed Keeper said. “Can’t be a leader of the Keepers without being at least a little tricky.”

  Adolfi twisted in the air but was held fast by tendrils of invisible force.

  “If any of the man I knew and trained is still to be found in that body, please come forward. . . . Wrest control away from the demonic entity that plagues you and . . .”

  “And do what?” Malatesta asked.

  “Help me,” the priest said. “Help your faith. . . . Help the Lord God almighty and all His servants to—”

  “Kill him,” Simeon interrupted.

  “I was hoping you’d say that,” Malatesta said, moving his head from side to side, stretching out his neck.

  “Constantin, please,” Adolfi begged. He managed to lift his hand, which still held the sacred talisman.

  “What’s that supposed to do?” Malatesta asked, raising his own hand and splaying his fingers.

  Adolfi felt the icon ripped from his fingers and watched it shoot across the room to Malatesta’s hand.

  The former Keeper closed his fingers around the coin, as an oily black smoke started to seep out from between them.

  “That hurts a bit,” he said, concentrating on his fist and the leaking smoke.

  The old man watched the smoke as it started to collect in a roiling black ball above Malatesta’s burning hand.

  “Will this be messy?” Simeon asked, a hint of boredom in his tone. “I prefer that it not be.”

  “It won’t be messy,” Malatesta promised, opening his fingers and dropping the blackened talisman.

  Adolfi struggled in the grasp of demonically controlled magick, sensing that if he wasn’t able to do something now, then . . .

  Malatesta blew upon the roiling ball of smoke, sending it spinning across the brief expanse of space toward him—toward his face.

  The old man tried to turn away, but the magick that held him grew taut, preventing his head from moving upon his neck.

  The smoke collided with his face, losing its shape as it struck, tendrils of the foul-smelling vapor flowing into his mouth, nose, and eyes.

  “Oh . . . God,” the old man managed, as he felt the smoke moving inside, coalescing within his chest. The pressure began to build as the smoke slithered about his inner self.

  Simeon put a hand to his ear in a mock gesture. “What was that?” he asked. “Who did you call for?”

  The pain was incredible, and Adolfi found his body starting to convulse as he began to cough and wheeze, gasping for breath.

  “I wonder if He sees your situation,” Simeon asked, stepping closer to look him in the eye. “Or is He too busy elsewhere to hear the plaintive pleas of His loyal servant, perhaps distracted by the coming . . . Unification.”

  The Patriarch felt his consciousness slipping away as darkness filled him, choking the life—and the light inside.

  “If you see the Almighty,” he heard Simeon say from far off in the distance. “I want you to tell Him that Simeon says hello, and that we’ll be seeing each other very soon.”

  And with that, Patriarch Adolfi left the mortal world, passing into the darkness of death.

  • • •

  “Does this look all right to you?” the hideous little man asked, his grotesque features eerily illuminated by the interior light of the refrigerator.

  He held a wedge of mold-covered cheese out toward Mulvehill.

  “It’s cheese,” Mulvehill answered. “It always smells like shit.”

  “Yeah, you’re probably right.” The creature took an enormous bite from the wedge and slammed the refrigerator door shut.

  “Who . . . who are you?” Linda asked.

  Marlowe had come into the kitchen as well, standing close by, wagging his tail as he watched Squire eat the cheese.

  “I’m Squire,” he said as he chewed. “Francis called and asked if I’d keep an eye on things here, y’know”—he glanced to the body of the assassin on the floor—“just in case. And it looks like his concerns were justified.”

  Mulvehill looked back to the body and felt a chill run down the length of his spine, the hair on the back of his neck prickling with fear.

  “They must know that he’s still alive,” he said, almost dreamily. “Sent more to finish the job.”

  “That’s probably what Francis was thinkin’, too,” Squire said, taking another bite from the moldy cheese wedge. The little man looked past them into the living room.

  “Shit,” he muttered. He leaned his battle-axe against the kitchen cabinet and moved toward Remy.

  “You say he’s still alive,” Squire said, studying the body.

  “Yes,” Linda was quick to answer. “Francis said that he was.”

  “Looks dead,” Squire said. “If not, then close to.”

  “He’s still alive,” Mulvehill emphasized. “That’s good enough for right now.”

  “Yeah,” Squire agreed. “Let’s hope that Francis gets back here soon, ’cause I think the clock is tickin’.”

  “He said that he was going to pick up a doctor, or at least somebody who would know how to take care of somebody like . . .” Linda stopped, staring intensely at the unconscious Remy.

  Unexpectedly, Squire saddled up alongside her and put a short, muscular arm around her waist.

  “Chin up, girlie,” he said. “Ain’t over till the fat lady gets her sandwich.”

  “What happened to her singing?” Mulvehill asked.

  “She ain’t singing till she gets her sandwich,” Squire explained. “Buys us a bit more time.” He chuckled
, a horrible gurgling sound that made Mulvehill think he was going to spit something onto the floor.

  “All this heavy emotion has made me parched,” Squire then said, licking his lips. “Do you know where he keeps his whiskey?”

  Mulvehill was about to suggest that maybe they should lay off the whiskey when there came a grunt and a scream of rage from behind them, and they all started to turn.

  It all happened in an explosion of action, the assassin—whom they’d believed to be dead—was swaying in the doorway, Squire’s battle-axe gripped firmly, and ready to strike.

  “Oh shit!” Squire exclaimed as Linda let out a short squeak of surprise, and he watched as she threw herself across Remy’s body to protect him.

  That one’s a keeper, Mulvehill found himself thinking about Linda, at that strangest of moments, turning toward the charging assassin as he pulled the Glock from its holder again and raised it to fire.

  The subsequent gunshot was like that vicious crack of thunder from a particularly angry summer storm, a sound that seemed to vibrate through the skin, and into the bones. A sound that seemed to temporarily freeze time, until the searing flash of lighting moved it along once again.

  But the sound had not come from his gun.

  Mulvehill found himself still paralyzed by the sound, dropping low to the ground as his eyes remained riveted to the assassin, who now pitched forward in the doorway to the living room, giving Mulvehill a view of the kitchen behind him, and of the two men standing there, one of whom still held a smoking Colt .45 that looked like it was made from gold.

  “Drop the gun!” Mulvehill commanded on instinct.

  The man did not drop the gun but lowered it ever so slightly.

  “Mulvehill, right?” the man asked.

  “Yeah,” he answered, but his aim did not waver.

  “Francis,” he said, sliding the pistol into the inside pocket of his suit coat. “And what the fuck did I have you come here for?” he then shouted, obviously addressing Squire.

  “I thought he was fucking dead,” the squat figure bellowed as he threw his arms into the air.

  Francis and another man stepped over the body in the kitchen doorway and into the living room.

  “Is that him?” Linda asked. “Is that the doctor?”