Livingstone Saga, Book One: Birth

by Janell Rhiannon

  “I am not confused.”

  “It is impossible.”

  “Yet, it is here,” he placed his hand on his chest, “and here.” He placed his other hand over her heart.

  “Por favor, do not love me. It is forbidden...for us both.” Iseo bent her head in shame and fear of what might happen if she dared look up into his gray eyes. A single tear burned her cheek and melted into the corner of her mouth. The saltiness of the single drop tasted like an ocean threatening to drown her where she stood.

  Celestino bent his head toward hers. His lips touched her ear and he whispered, “Do not cry, my Maker.” He kissed the edge of her ear softly through her hair. His warm breath sending a shiver through her body. “Are you yet cold?”

  “No,” she whispered.

  His hands slid up her neck, his thumbs capturing her chin, tilting it upward. Still, Iseo refused to open her eyes and meet her creation’s gaze. He kissed her ear again, his lips softer than the weight of a butterfly. Tears welled up beneath her lashes, spilling unchecked. Each ragged breath choked her with shame and desire. His lips moved to her chin and he kissed her there. Then, he kissed a trail of her tears, until his lips kissed her above each eye. She dared to open her eyes and her lashes brushed against his perfectly beautiful chin.

  “Plea—” she tried to speak, but her voice caught in her throat. There was nothing else. Her lips parted to plead that he cease loving her, for him to cease his tenderness, but she knew he sensed her deepest, truest desire. His lips traveled slowly toward her mouth, tracing the line of her nose. Celestino’s mouth hovered above hers. Iseo found that now her eyes refused to shut. She knew a terrible thing was coming, and she was unable to pull her eyes from the wondrous horror. She did not want to miss a moment of this terrifying perfection, of his lips evoking the most exquisite torment yet to be discovered.

  Celestino waited for her to reach toward him. It was a slight movement on her part, but it was all the permission he required. Without taking his eyes from hers, he allowed his mouth to descend. Gentle at first, he tasted wine and honey on her lips. “You are the nectar of God and earth.” Iseo felt each word as his lips brushed against hers as he spoke.

  He closed his eyes and took her kiss with more urgency. His arms wrapped around her, pulling her against him. Reluctantly, he released her. “I am not meant for God’s Heaven. My Heaven is here,” Celestino said. Iseo rested her cheek against his chest.

  “What are we going to do?”

  “I have no answer, my Maker.”

  “Neither do I. We are from two different worlds...mi amor,” she returned his truth, spearing them both through the heart.

  “No greater wound could I bear than this,” he said. “All rivers lead to my Iseo. You are my ocean.”

  Iseo noticed a drop of sangre on her sleeve. “Where?” She looked up to see sangre pooling in Celestino’s eyes. “Your eyes. They are bleeding.” She reached for the handkerchief stuffed in her sleeve.

  “They are not bleeding. Gargoyles weep sangre as a reminder of their duty to the Son of God, who wept sangre in the Garden of Gethsemane.” He pushed her hand away. “Do not wipe them away out of pity or shame.”

  “I do not want you to ruin your clothes,” she replied, “or mine.” She indicated toward the soiled sleeve of her dress.

  He smiled. “I see.”

  The tension lessened. The familiar comfort between them crept reluctantly back into place.

  “This shall never happen again,” Iseo stated, twisting the stained handkerchief in her hands.

  “Do you refer to the kiss or the tears, my Maker?”

  “Both. I would not survive the reoccurrence of either,” she said. “I should go now, Celestino.”

  “If you must.”

  Iseo braved a glance at his red rimmed eyes. Somehow, the tears of sangre made his gray eyes that much more vibrant. She brushed quickly past him. She feared that if she did not break away at that very instant, she would never be able to break away again.

  Chapter 18

  Lost Soul of a Child

  Father Tomas accepted the audience of the parents of a little girl right after his morning meal. The boiled porridge settled heavily in his stomach. He accepted this early meeting, because the parents expressed a great deal of urgency. They believed evil spirits plagued their daughter. The husband and wife looked more tired and weary than their journey required. They sat down opposite the exorcist-priest to answer his questions, hoping that he could end their family’s suffering.

  “What is your daughter’s name?” he asked the simple things first.

  “Julia,” her father answered dutifully.

  “Was she baptized in the church?”

  “Sí, sí, she was baptized here in the small chapel.”

  “In the small chapel. By a priest?” He thought for a moment and then asked, “Was she also baptized by a midwife?”

  “Sí, sí. She was Father. Twice blessed,” her mother offered. “Why is this happening to her? She is just a child.”

  “I do not have an answer just yet. But, tell me, what makes you believe your daughter, Julia, is possessed by demons.”

  The husband spoke, “She speaks with strange words. She is not the right color. It is the devil’s work I see on mi hija. I know it.”

  “The house is cold where she stays. Her hands are like frost. I keep the fire burning hot enough to make us as warm as summertime. But still, she is cold.”

  “Tell me about the language you hear. Do you recognize it? Does it sound familiar?” Father Tomas probed for deeper truth.

  “I do not recognize it. No, it is unlike anything we have ever heard before.”

  Staring out his window overlooking the lower cloister and garden, Father Tomas thought for a moment. He let his gaze wander up the tower opposite his official office. He knew that right now, Iseo was instructing Celestino. He had no idea where Father Avriel was, and it annoyed him that the apprenticing exorcist was conspicuously absent from the initial interview request for an exorcism.

  “Father?” the wife interrupted his musings and misgivings.

  Father Tomas returned his attention to the couple in the room. “Sí. We will see your daughter.”

  “Gracías! Gracías!” The husband took his wife’s hands in his and kissed them. “We will see our Julia returned to herself!”

  “We will arrive within the week. My assistant will accompany me. Can you make accommodation for us, or should we take shelter at a local inn?”

  “Our home is humble. There is a small inn where you can stay. My brother runs the establishment. I will secure you a room.”

  Father Tomas said, “We will need two rooms.”

  The parents left the chamber, buoyed by hope that the Church could drive the demon tormentor from their precious child. Father Tomas left to find Iseo and Celestino, and inform them of his decision. He knew where they would be.

  When he reached Iseo’s chamber, he leaned his head close to the door. He heard muffled voices within, so he knocked firmly on the door. Iseo answered.

  “Buenos dias Father!” Her smile was brighter than usual. He looked around her room before he entered. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary. There was no sense of the two of them rushing apart, no evidence of interrupted impropriety. In fact, Celestino sat at the table with an open book. Yet, he felt as if he were intruding on two lovers. “We are reading.” Celestino smiled. That is unusual, he thought. He never smiles.

  “The female’s selection, Tristan and Isolde,” Iseo added.

  “I am glad you are making progress with reading, Celestino. Be mindful not to fall behind in your formal studies.”

  “By all means, Father.” Celestino nodded. “What occasion spurs this visitation?”

  “Intuitive as ever. We have received request for the rite of exorcism. I have accepted.”

  “When do we leave?” Celestino asked.

  “We leave as soon as all can be readied,” Father Tomas said. “Al
l of us.”

  “All of us?” Iseo asked.

  “Sí. We travel west to La Costa de La Muerte, the Coast of Death.”

  “Where exactly are we going?” Iseo asked.

  “To the place the Romans called Finis Terrae, the End of the Earth,” Father Tomas informed them. “Pack your things. We will be gone near a fortnight. We must return before Celestino’s required time of stone.”

  Iseo turned to Celestino. “You will love the northwest lands. They are green and wonderful. Cold this time of year, but beautiful nonetheless.”

  “Bueno, it is settled then,” Father Tomas announced. He squeezed Celestino’s shoulder as he dismissed himself. “I have a few things to attend to. Father Avriel for one. Por favor, excuse me.” He thought it wise to take Iseo, in case her gender proved necessary.

  After Father Tomas left, Iseo returned her full attention to her pupil. “Keep reading, Celestino. There is time yet to finish your studies and pack your belongings.”

  “As you wish, my Iseo,” he replied, his smile revealing the perfection of his mouth again. Normally, Iseo would remind him not to smile so much. The only other person with such a faultless set of teeth was Father Avriel. She stopped mid-fold of a gown. How does he come by such pearly perfection? Iseo sighed, pushing the stray thought from her mind, and continued folding the garments into her small trunk. She had not traveled so much in all her time at Compostela as this last week.

 

  Chapter 19

  Finis Terrae

  The road connecting Santiago to Finis Terrae was composed of partially abandoned cobblestone sections of the ancient Roman road and rough uneven dirt-trodden paths. Pilgrims walked from the French Gallic region to Compostela and then on to the Camino de Estrellas to Finis Terrae. The late fall rains posed only a mild discomfort, but did not deter their daylight travel. Father Tomas chose the coastal route, hoping to avoid any early snow that might delay their arrival at the small fishing village tucked away along some inlet bay village on The Coast of Death.

  They traveled west to Noia, the town where legend held fast that a daughter of Noah founded the village after the Great Flood. The journey took them through the pilgrimage towns of Carnota and Cée. Sharp jagged cliffs lined the western ridge they traveled. Every morning, the sky opened gray and foreboding, burning into piercing blue by midday. The damp salty air was heavier and harder to breathe, than the arid climate of Santiago. The final leg of their journey to Finis Terrae loomed near as the vast panorama of the sea opened through the forest.

  The cold rain released the tangy smell of evergreens and the aromatic scent of wild sage and rosemary shrubs that grew with abandon between rocks and boulders along the road. As they neared the ancient Roman city, they passed through shadowy forests dense with ground ferns and heavy pines; leafless oaks and beech trees cluttered the landscape. A thin layer of fog crawled along the forest floor dampening sound. The misty air curled Iseo’s hair.

  In the carriage, Iseo felt the heat radiating from Celestino’s leg as it touched hers. Across from them, Father Tomas slept soundly despite the jostling of the carriage. Every once in a while, he snored lightly and shifted his weight. Iseo and Celestino became painfully aware of each other’s nearness. The silence between them spoke volumes of what they each dared not to speak.

  “He will be well rested, when we arrive,” Iseo whispered to Celestino.

  Celestino leaned his head toward hers and answered, “Sí. He sleeps much.” He inhaled the smell of her hair. “You bathed with rose water.” It was a statement not a question. Iseo nodded her head. “It is a pleasant scent. It brings images of my ritual cleansing to mind.”

  Iseo allowed the images of the bathing ritual for his consecration to unfold. The outline of his shoulders, the way his wet hair slid through her fingers as she washed it, the feel of his skin beneath her hands, the way his chin had brushed against her as she leaned over him, the gentle consideration of her modesty...

  “Stop,” she whispered desperately.

  “Stop what?” Celestino whispered again in her ear.

  Iseo would not divulge which memories his remark stirred within her, so she said, “Whispering in my ear.”

  He pressed his lips just a little closer, “My apology, my Iseo.” Her stomach fluttered. She felt his thigh along the length of her own through her gown. She needed him to move away from her, but her heart wanted him to remain where he was.

  “It is fine,” she said. Iseo folded her hands in her lap. Celestino shifted toward the side of the carriage and the absence of his body heat sent a cold shiver up Iseo’s side. She pulled the wool blanket over her legs and up to her waist. “Perhaps, we should change the direction of our conversation?”

  “You could tell me why the place we travel to is called the end of the world,” he suggested. “I am curious about the Romans. There is much reference to them in study.”

  “The Romans. They were once the greatest power in the west. Their armies unparalleled since Alexander the Great. It was once believed that the men who marched under Rome’s golden eagle could not be defeated. They were almost unstoppable.”

  “Where did they go? These Romans?”

  “Dispersed across the western lands once held by Rome’s great eagle. Alaric, the Visigoth, overran the capital of Rome eight hundred years ago. After his rule, the other Germanic tribes followed. If Constantine had not moved the Empire to Byzantium when he did, all traces of Rome would have been wiped away by those barbarians. We might be pagans now, if not for Constantine. And Charlemagne.” Iseo shuddered at the thought. “If you want to know about the Romans, all you need do is look around. Every building of any sophistication is their doing. Aqueducts, cathedrals...even the better part of the road we travel.”

  “Why do they call it the end of the world?”

  “Because the horizon stretches from the sea as far as the eye can see. The Romans believed the entrance to Hades, what we call Hell, lay just beyond the line of sea and sky. No one has ever seen or spoke of a land beyond that horizon.”

  “And why is it called the Coast of Death?”

  “Because the souls of the dead travel it.”

  “Do you believe this?”

  “I do not know, Celestino,” Iseo yawned. The sway of the cramped carriage caused her eyes to grow drowsy. “If they do travel it, it would be to Hell. It is certainly not a path to Heaven.” She pointed upwards, and then snuggled into her corner. “I am going to try and sleep.”

  “Sí, my Iseo. Try.” Celestino remained awake and alert as the humans slept. He felt it was his responsibility to guard them both. In her sleep, Iseo’s weight shifted toward Celestino and her dream filled head tilted to rest on his shoulder. It inflamed his heart to have her touching him so intimately. He remained quiet and still, having no desire for her to awaken and take her sweet softness from his side. The more he fought loving her, the more impossible the struggle became.

  *

  When the carriage finally stopped, purple and gray painted the twilight sky. God’s handful of sparse, early evening stars were scattered across the coming night canvas. The coachman opened the door and readied their baggage. Iseo rubbed the sleep from her eyes, as she heard Father Tomas and Celestino talking outside the carriage.

  “We make for the house at first light. I pray we can catch this demon off guard.”

  “Have the parents spoken of our coming?”

  “No. I instructed them to go about their business, as if they never came to ask for our assistance.”

  “If they have obeyed, then it will go easier for the girl.”

  “I want your warning, if you sense anything out of the ordinary.”

  “The birth rite.”

  “Sí. Baptism. The sard and jasper stones circulating in Santiago must come from an ancient pagan source. Here is as good a place as any to discover them.”

  Iseo interrupted the conversation, “Father, you should have awakened me.”

  “You were soun
dly resting. We saw no reason to disturb you just yet.”

  “Except for I shall have no sleep this evening, for all the sleeping I did this day,” Iseo replied with a smile. Her stomach grumbled and tightened. “I am famished. I hope we have not missed the evening meal.”

  The three entered the inn. It glowed warmly with firelight and burning torches set in sconces. The din of laughter and conversation hummed in the air. The innkeeper approached them. It would be difficult to overlook two men of the cloth.

  “You must be the priests from Compostela?”

  “We are,” Father Tomas answered.

  “Very good! I am Pedro. My brother told me you would be arriving within a day or two of his return. You are most welcome here.”

  “Gracías. I trust we are not putting you out of good business with our accommodation?”

  “No, no,” Pedro put his hands up and waved them back and forth. “No. You honor us. You have my personal gratitude for your assistance with my niece.” He leaned in closer to the men and spoke with conspiratorial tone, “She is truly beset by something evil. Her suffering is unbearable to behold. Once, she was a happy, joyful child. But, you would never know this from seeing her now.”

  “We will do our best to heal your niece,” Father Tomas responded. “Would it be too much trouble to see us to our rooms? One for us and the other for my charge.” He pointed at Iseo.

  “Not at all. Follow me.” He led them back to the cobbled street, around the corner of the inn, and up several wooden steps. He opened the door onto a thinly lit narrow hall. Iseo noticed the sea scallops carved into each door. Saint James is everywhere, she thought. “These are your rooms,” he indicated the doors, “the linens are clean. The beds are free of infestations by lice or fleas. You should sleep comfortably.”

  Iseo cringed at the thought of lice. Once, as a child, her father ordered her hair completely shaved to eliminate the tiny creatures from infesting their household quarters. He also forbade her from playing with the servants’ children, as he was certain the disgusting insects lived on the poor and filthy. Her mother had cried when the long locks of her dark hair were thrown into the fire to burn the infestation. It was one of the only times she remembered her mother crying.