Livingstone Saga, Book One: Birth

by Janell Rhiannon

  “Because the mystery of God is the Law of the universe. He has set in motion all that surrounds us, from the sun rising to its setting. Everything. In all things. He demands that demons give up their name to remind them that they are part of a design not of their own making. The underworld operates as if they will win the great battle, but it has already been foreseen they will lose. They take as many as they can with them into eternal damnation. Even a demon wants whatever immortality it can salvage for itself. If the demon defies the law, it will be extinguished. By giving their name, they are vanquished back to Hell, but have hope of returning to do some future bidding of Satan or Lucifer.”

  “In the name of the Son, I command the demon to give its name.”

  “Sí, and do not waiver or doubt. Command and know it with all your being, or it will sense your weakness and twist your thoughts to serve its own purpose. The exorcism will be compromised.”

  “Show no weakness,” Celestino restated, committing the knowledge to memory.

  “Tonight is a very special event in your existence. It is the beginning of your ordeal. You will be expected to endure no less than any servant of God,” Father Tomas said.

  Father Avriel added, “An ordeal is meant to challenge your heart’s resolve. It is meant to bind thought, heart, and body to one purpose and one purpose only...to serve God.”

  Celestino nodded understanding. The weight of the ceremony was hours from commencing, yet he felt the pressure of it already weighing on his heart.

  “You will be cleansed through the ritual and dedicated under God’s own roof to His divine purpose. You will be welcomed among the human community, into our world, as one of us.”

  Father Avriel looked Celestino in the eye. His gaze stinging straight into the gargoyle’s heart, as he said, “Choose wisely. Choose God. Chose victory.”

  “Gracías, Father, for your advice. I will take it to heart. I will honor my Maker with the task before me. I will cleanse my heart and set my feet upon the path of righteous tasks to serve God,” Celestino vowed.

  “God is Law. Remember that simple truth. He has set events in motion for reasons we will never know. That is a primary suffering for humans…always wanting to know why. We want to know why. We feel compelled to unearth the reasons for our suffering. There is no reason, Celestino.”

  “Why do people pray at all?”

  Father Tomas answered as honestly as he could, “We pray because we must. Our prayers are pleas sent to God for favors that the Law of Heaven be bent in our favor. When the Law is so turned, we call it miraculous. And it is truly a miracle when that occurs. Know that there is beauty in the order of the world. Accept the order, do not question it. Beyond that, there is no certainty.”

  Celestino knew instantly what he must do. He realized the enormity of his task. In a small recess of his heart, he secreted away his love for Iseo, his Maker. Loving her served his purpose, rather than God’s. Celestino realized his selfishness would taint the pure truth if he could not contain it.

  “I will do it,” he confirmed

  “You begin at dusk. You will be bathed, oiled, and sent to the sanctuary for your vigil. Go now. Your Maker awaits.”

  *

  Iseo waited in the bathing chamber, as the setting sun’s golden rays pierced the narrow window slits. She knew it fell to her to bathe the man, who was not supposed to exist. He must be properly anointed for his consecration and she was the only one permitted to perform the task. It also fell to her to anoint the beast, because she alone could view Celestino in his true form.

  Rose and lavender scented steam curled up from the huge basin like ribbons of smoke. The heat inside the room rose to a sweat inducing temperature. Beads of it dripped down the center of Iseo’s back and down her face, stinging her eyes. A knock sounded gently on the door. She moved to open it, knowing it would be Celestino. Since their walk in the woods, she had begun to have a keen sense of his whereabouts. She knew that her feelings needed to remain hers and hers alone.

  “Buenas noches, Celestino,” she whispered.

  “Buenas noches, my Maker,” he returned the proper greeting.

  “Your bath is ready, sir.” Iseo felt her shyness rushing into her chest and face, and she struggled to keep it at bay. Her formalness confused him. This would be the second time in Iseo’s life she would be standing before a naked man. “You may disrobe behind the privacy screen. When you are ready to step into the water, do so.”

  “Sí, my Maker,” he said, making his way to the designated area. Iseo turned her back. For a moment she watched the sunlight filtering through the steam and busied herself watching how the wisps of vapor twisted and turned in the light.

  Celestino unfastened his belt and set it down on the bench, the metal buckle making a distinct clang against the wood. Iseo watched the vapors swim with her breath. He lifted the heavy, wool overcoat over his head and laid it carefully over the belt. He sat next to the pile of clothing to reach his boots, pulling each one off and setting them side by side. Iseo inhaled and closed her eyes as she exhaled, knowing his shirt and breeches were all that remained of his modesty. She heard him slide into the water behind her.

  “I am ready, my Maker,” he said. Iseo turned around, to find his bare back facing her. I can do this. I must do this. Had she been raised in the secular world—where tradition dictated the Señora of the castle, or manor, and attending maids bathe the masters and knights—this moment might not present such an embarrassing agony. By sheer will, Iseo approached the tub. Taking the washing sponge in her shaking hand, she leaned over his broad, bare shoulder and dipped the sponge into the hot herb-scented water. She lifted the water-laden sponge, held it over his back, and squeezed until the water cascaded down his spine. Again, she dipped the sponge and released the water. She took the soap she had made herself—from ash, olive oil, wild thyme and crushed lavender—in her other hand and rubbed it into the sponge. Trembling, she scrubbed the back of his neck, across the width of his shoulders, and down his back until her hand hit the surface of the water. He bent his head back so she could rinse his shoulder-length hair. Wet with water, it shone black as midnight and slipped through her fingers like heavy silk cords. When he closed his eyes, she dared to glimpse the curve of his chin as she pressed the sponge to his cheek, running it along his jaw line and down the front of his neck. She dipped the sponge again into the spicy water and moved to the side of the tub.

  “Your arm, por favor, sir,” she murmured, her voice quivering with uncertainty. He obliged her without a word. She soaped the sponge again, releasing the pungent sweetness of a meadow, and then scrubbed down to his wrist. Iseo scrubbed the top of his hand and fingers then turned his hand over, exposing the palm. She gently washed the tender hand, the hand that would someday press demons to flames. His fingers curled around her hand and she froze. Tears welled in her eyes, filling the lower lashes with heaviness that spilled down her cheeks.

  “Por favor, my Iseo, do not weep,” Celestino whispered. “I am grateful you are my Maker. That is all.”

  She could only nod understanding. How could she speak anything without betraying herself? He released her hand. She did not wipe her eyes; she let the tears dry, salty in their trails. Iseo moved wordlessly to the other side of the tub. Once there, he offered her his other arm. She leaned over the edge to wash his chest, his mouth close enough to taste the smell of the damp curls framing her face.

  “You must stand,” Iseo instructed. As she stood there with her eyes closed, she heard the water splashing, and then wet feet on the stone. “What are you doing?” she asked without looking.

  Celestino came up behind her and wrapped a piece of cloth around her eyes. “For modesty,” he said.

  Iseo smiled. “Gracías.” She thought it strange how, at his birth, he was like Adam without embarrassment for his natural state. Now, exposure to the world, or to her presence, provided reasons enough for him to seek modesty.

  She heard him reenter the tub. She felt
her way behind the tub by following the rim. She reached out, groping the air until she felt his back, and washed the final length of it and down his legs. He turned around and she completed the process of washing his torso. “Your feet are all that remain, sir.” Celestino sat in the now cooling water.

  “You may see me. I am modest once more,” Celestino declared.

  Iseo dropped the sponge in the water and wiped her wet hands on her apron. She untied the loose knot he made and blinked the blurry vision away. “Your feet, sir.”

  Celestino leaned back, propping his feet up on the edge of the small, wooden tub. He wiggled his toes at her and she could not help the giggle that bubbled forth. For a precious moment, the tension between them, caused by a forced intimacy, drifted away. She scrubbed his feet with the sponge, between each toe and across the arches. “There, you are appropriately bathed. I dare Father Antony to find even a speck of dirt anywhere on you!”

  “How do I get out without offending you?” he asked.

  “I will hold the towel up high enough to see only your face,” she responded. Iseo drew the heavy towel up to her eyes, as he stepped from the tub. He took the ends of it and wrapped it tightly around his body. Iseo turned and walked to a small table with various glass bottles filled with scented oils and cleansing agents. They clinked delicately as she sorted through them to find the required jar. “Ah, this is the one Father Tomas said must be used.” She turned around to face Celestino, who remained covered.

  “I must anoint the gargoyle,” Iseo revealed.

  “I understand,” Celestino replied. “Perhaps you would like to look away? I must drop the covering to do as requested.”

  Iseo closed her eyes, feeling the room warm slightly. She heard what sounded like silver bells, then a low growl, and she opened her eyes. She smiled. “It seems like such a long time since I have seen you.” The gargoyle bowed his head in deference to her, his Maker. She approached the leonine beast with wings and clawed feet with less trepidation than the naked man. He was magnificent in stone; stunning in fur or flesh and sangre. “Do you know what tonight is?” The lion shook his massive mane. “It is All Hallows Eve. A fitting vigil to mark your own ordeal.” As the sunset’s final golden rays burst across the darkening heavens, Iseo anointed the lion’s fur between his eyes with the sign of the cross. “You are ready.” The winged lion bent his head to her, and she kissed him as she whispered, “May God’s blessings be with you always, Celestino.” The lion licked her hand. “Father Tomas left a scarlet robe for you, and a pair of brown leather sandals. These are the only garments you are permitted to wear into the sanctuary,” Iseo informed Celestino. “I will not see you again until after the dawn.” She turned quickly and left the room.

  The dawn would see the rise of a newly consecrated warrior of God, a mighty beast whose strength would shake the vilest beings back to Hell.

  *

  Celestino walked into the nave of the sanctuary. It was the first time he walked freely, out in the open for all to see. Candles provided a dim path against the growing darkness. Perhaps it was the somberness of the occasion that urged him to study the ceiling. He noticed each arch curved to support the next. It reminded him of a ribcage, causing him to think of the House of God as the bones of God. He moved with soundless feet across the empty space, pausing briefly before the pillar he and Iseo had sat against not so long ago. Celestino closed his eyes and pulled up the image of her sitting next to him in his mind, but quickly opened them again to the reality before him. There was no place in this world for Iseo and his kind...there was no place anywhere for that dream. Finally, Celestino passed by the last colossal column and its corresponding arch into the crossing of Compostela.

  In the shadows, he saw the silhouettes of Father Tomas and Father Avriel. They stood just beyond the presbytery, in front of the rood elevating the seated Saint James. The saint’s gold crown glittered even in the gray light of early evening.

  “Welcome, Celestino,” Father Tomas greeted.

  “Welcome,” Father Avriel echoed.

  “I am honored to be received in the House of God,” Celestino replied.

  “Tonight is a sacred eve, not only for you, but for all the saints who have come before you. In whose name, and with their aid, you will fulfill your destiny,” Father Tomas intoned. “Your attire symbolizes your future. The scarlet robe signifies your willingness to sacrifice yourself for God’s purpose. Your sandals are meant to remind you that forever you are connected to this earth, where you shall remain rooted all of your days. You have come with a cleansed body before this alter?”

  “I have,” Celestino responded.

  “Entonces, kneel before our Lord, our God, and offer your deference to the most High,” Father Tomas commanded. Celestino complied without a word, even as the cold, rough stone cut his knees. “You will keep your watch before God and his Holy servant, Saint James, until dawn breaks the sky. Only then will you be ready to commit to God. As your body is cleansed, let also your heart and mind be clear and free of sin.”

  “You shall speak to no one, nor seek aid for any discomforts you encounter.” Father Avriel commanded.

  “I will seek neither aid nor comfort,” Celestino stated, acknowledging his ordeal.

  “Entonces, it begins,” Father Tomas said. He and Father Avriel disappeared behind the figure of Saint James, and Celestino was alone. After the first hour, his knees began to ache. After the second hour, he felt a thin slickness beneath each knee. He smelled the metallic saltiness of his own sangre, the sourness lingering on his tongue.

  An illicit image of Iseo sleeping filtered past his best inner defense. The mental flash stirred a longing deep within his core. The pain in his knees paled in comparison to the desire he felt to curl up in the shadows of her chamber. Bits of conversation from their walk along the pilgrimage path came to him; the phrases, the smiles, the gentle touches...all repeated with a life of their own. Tristan’s words taunted from closed pages: “Isolde is yours and may not love me.” Iseo may never love me, he thought. Celestino realized that choosing God meant letting her go, letting her go in his heart. Why did you put this agony in my chest? He closed his eyes. Por favor, remove this longing. I do not wish it for myself, or my Iseo. This cannot be the Law of God to love her.

  Outside, night bloomed with eerie beauty. A low, cold mist spread across the land, curling over fields and covering the ground beneath orchard trees. Blue-white clouds hid the moon and stars from view. The celestial bodies shone visible, only for brief moments when the clouds broke, like the hand of God parting Heaven’s curtain. Beneath the night sky splendor, on the precipice of Santiago de Compostela, a lone figure stood his own vigil. His armor gleamed, his luminous shield ready on his arm. His sword unsheathed, tilted at the ready. The bitter breeze that caught his raven curls affected him not at all. His keen eyes scanned the sky, then the streets below. He would not flinch or move from his post until the gargoyle below had safely passed the night without incident.

  *

  As dawn crept through the morning sky, streaking it purple and pink, Celestino sensed the Love of God filling him. His knees itched as the dried sangre, cracked, and oozed anew when he shifted his weight. A sense of duty for his purpose filled him. His duty to God pushed his selfish desires deep into his heart, where he hoped they would stay buried forever. I can bear it.

  Father Tomas and Father Avriel appeared much as they had disappeared the previous evening, from behind the seated figure of Saint James.

  “Rise, Celestino. Your vigil is complete,” Father Tomas said while Father Avriel helped Celestino to his feet. The deed ripping his scabbed skin from the cold stone. His knees stung. His legs felt stiff and numb.

  “Have you made your decision?” Father Tomas asked formally.

  “I have,” Celestino responded.

  “Of your own free will?”

  “Sí.”

  “And what is the warrior’s decision?”

  “I choose to se
rve God.”

  Father Tomas smiled. “It is my duty to present you with these gifts on God’s behalf.”

  Father Avriel presented the sword, while Father Tomas spoke, “The double edged blade is your reminder that you must uphold what is right and just. Accepting the sword signifies your dedication and loyalty to our Lord. Do you accept this gift?”

  “I do.”

  Father Avriel handed the polished weapon to Celestino.

  “This shield is presented as a reminder that you are a shield of God for His people. Do you accept the responsibility?”

  “I do.”

  Father Avriel brought the gleaming shield forward and laid it at Celestino’s feet.

  Father Tomas continued, “This white belt signifies the purity of your body, mind, and heart. Gird your waist with it always as a reminder of your freewill and your choice.” Father Avriel wrapped the belt around Celestino’s waist.

  “Make your oath before God and receive the collee,” Father Tomas

  Celestino bent on one knee, breaking the skin’s bloody crust on both knees. He ignored the stinging sensation as he spoke his fealty to God, “I will honor these gifts given me this day. I choose to serve God all the days of my life, to uphold the word of God, and to call upon His angels should I require aid. I will not fail in my tasks.”

  With the vow spoken, Father Avriel delivered the collee, a harsh slap to Celestino’s cheek. As his face quickly reddened, the priest said, “Remember the sting of my hand, thereby, remember your fealty before the Lord as His warrior.”

  “You are consecrated before God,” Father Tomas said. “You are ready to do work in His name.” He handed Celestino a wooden cross on a beaded cord. “I realize the crucifix does not have the same meaning for you, as it does for humans, but it is a symbol people will expect a priest to be wearing. From this day forward, people will know you as Father Celestino.”

  “Gracías.” Celestino bowed his head.

 

  Chapter 13

  The Rite and Butterfly

  Talking in the full light of day revealed more than Celestino imagined possible of the human world. Iseo taught him how to behave in this world, how to hide his differences, how to move in ways that would not draw undue attention to him...but she could not convey the tangible reality of walking amongst them. The world he had studied so intensely existed only as pale images inside his own imagination and from behind the purity and safety of cathedral grounds. The Fathers and Iseo were the only humans he had genuine contact with since his birth. He watched the morning mist hang like thin clouds over the damp earth. This day would be his first true experience casting out demons. This day, God and Evil, would test him as an exorcist.