Arcane II

by Nathan Shumate (Editor)

  All too soon, she regains her composure. She looks at me with blood oozing from her nostrils and laughs. She’s enjoying this—the thrill of the hunt. Will she kill me now or go after Tucker, saving me for later?

  “Poor little Willard.” She spits into my face and I flinch, just as she pulls me up by the throat for a brutal head-butt.

  I drop to the elevator floor with pain slicing through my forehead like a hot blade. Everything goes black for a second, then flashes white. Her shadow whips away with wild laughter like something from a cheap 20th century horror flick.

  She’s going after Tucker. She’ll dispatch him before he gets to the guns. Then she’ll be back for me—and the others.

  I have to get up.

  No—I have to get down. The DOWN arrow, that’s what I need. But the pain...

  It’s all black again. My knees wobble, joints loose.

  I’ve got to warn the others.

  The explosion of a gunshot echoes all around me, then another and another. The adrenaline that surges with it sends me to my feet, and suddenly everything is clear. I hit the DOWN arrow pad, and the elevator doors slide shut with a solid thump.

  My lungs shudder as I struggle for breath. I grip the hand rail, collapsing against it. I can’t believe this. I’ve made it. I’m alive. I’m safe.

  There’s no going back now. Not for any of us. Now we’ll have to find another way out. Nobody’s going back up there ever again. We’ll disable the elevator, seal the doors. Find another exit. Somehow. Somewhere, far from here, where that sand and dust can’t find us.

  Seconds pass like minutes as I’m carried down the shaft. My forehead throbs, tender to the touch. My forearms drip crimson where her claws lacerated my flesh.

  The elevator touches down and the doors jerk open. Sucking in a quick breath, fighting for control over my frenetic nerves, I take one step across the threshold and into the dim interior of our bunker. Our fortress. The last bastion of humanity.

  The UP arrow flashes on.

  Someone—some thing—up there is calling for the elevator. Cat woman? Tucker? Only one of them could still be alive. Either he shot her, or she tore him apart. There’s no other possibility.

  A multi-tool sags heavily in my jumpsuit pocket, seeming to make its presence known when I need it most.

  I glance at the UP arrow. I look at the control panel. It wouldn’t take much, and this elevator would be out of commission for good. No more tempting fate, risking infection on the surface. No creatures coming down. Not ever.

  I hold the doors open. I stare at the arrow glowing white, demanding my decision.

  Tucker. Did he make it? Is he still alive?

  There’s no way to know for sure. Not without risking the lives of every natural-born human down here. I am their guardian. I must stand in the gap. It’s life or death, now. Our future depends on it—on me.

  I take out my multi-tool and do it. Cables cut, power disabled, the deed is done. I watch the glowing arrow fade out like some kind of heart monitor flat-lining.

  For the good of the many, Tucker ol’ boy. For the good of the many.

  I know he would have done the same. He never was the selfish type. I know he’d understand. He would. He was a good man.

  So am I.

  I cough without warning, doubling over. It feels like my lungs have caught on fire, like something’s got a hold of them and doesn’t want to let go. Convulsing, I hear the footsteps of my brothers and sisters as they approach. It’s a while before I’m able to suck down a deep breath and blow it out and face them with a brave smile—

  Despite the grit lingering in my mouth.

  The Beatification of Thomas Small, or How to Make a Saint

  Priya Sharma

  I’ve crimes to confess if only I trusted the sanctity of the confessional. Too many have been offered up to the Inquisitor for me not to have suspicions. I’ve no doubt he’d make a gruesome decoration of me for his singing wall.

  The singing wall is where traitors are displayed, their pleas a chorus of despair. God must look at us and weep.

  Willful ignorance is no excuse. When my soul is weighed I’ll not be borne aloft on wings but dragged into the pit to meet the Devil’s teeth and claws.

  “Brother Small, Father Sebastian’s called a meeting.”

  “Why wasn’t I told?”

  The novice looked at me and shrugged. As Father Sebastian’s chief administrator and scribe, meetings never commenced without me.

  I hurried past the cherry trees. They’d shed their pink petals in a glorious mess upon the path, making a welcomed softness amid the grey spires and towers. Gargoyles and stone saints looked down on me.

  It was unusually warm so I left the hall doors open behind me. Father Sebastian’s slight smile acknowledged my thoughtfulness. The other brothers whispered to one another when they saw me. Lateness wasn’t my custom.

  I’d known Sebastian longer than my own father but he never seemed any older than when I first met him in Bernica. I was just a child. His face was wise and serene with grooves cut by the sun and wind.

  I took my place at his right hand and readied to make notes.

  Brother Martin had the floor. He was making his report on the nature of Timothy’s visions.

  “He’s ready,” Father Sebastian said when Martin had finished. Martin all but clapped his hands. He was Timothy’s tutor, aiding the boy on his journey to God. If Timothy ascended, Martin would enjoy the reflected glory. Father turned to me. “Thomas, send for the Inquisitor.”

  I, diligent, blind to the machinations of men’s hearts, recorded it all in my ledger.

  “We have to discuss the petitioner.” Martin remained standing. Father looked annoyed. “I suggest the Lambert family. Mrs. Lambert is dedicated to St. Margaret’s. Her son, John, is mortally ill.”

  “Father, may I make a suggestion?” I put down my quill.

  “Go ahead.”

  Brother Martin bit his lip as he always did to bite back his words.

  “Widow Foyle. Her daughter weakens every day.”

  It wasn’t that the Lamberts were unworthy. John had been in a brain fever since he fell from his horse, but he’d received the finest care from St Margaret’s chief apothecary. Jenny Foyle was under the town’s barber-surgeon, a case well beyond his capabilities.

  “William Lambert’s a pillar of the community.” Martin was determined to have his say. “His wife’s piety itself.”

  “So is Widow Foyle,” I countered.

  “William’s generous in his support of St. Margaret’s.”

  “Widow Foyle donates a portion of her share. A widow’s mite, in fact.”

  “Mary Lambert’s letters...” Martin began.

  What letters? I thought I’d seen all Father’s correspondence.

  “The Lamberts,” Father Sebastian interrupted him. “There’s an end to it. Now, we’ve been sent an applicant from Salisbury.”

  The girl was led in.

  “This is Jess,” Father read from a letter. Again, one I’d not seen. “Aged ten, abandoned by her father after her mother died. She says God wants her.”

  Jess peered about her—a ragged thing, but her gaze was pure light shining from a dirty glass.

  “Why does God want you, child? Speak truthfully or He’ll know.” Father was severe, testing her as he often did when he first met someone.

  “Jess?” I asked gently.

  She looked at me, mouth open. A simpleton. My guts twisted. Even then, when I didn’t know the worst of it, I knew she’d be better off elsewhere.

  “I want to learn.” Her voice was a tinkling bell which made a melody of the peasant tongue of Pig-Latin.

  “Learn what?” Father asked.

  “The truth.”

  Not simple then. My guts twisted even more.

  “Go to a convent.”

  “No.” She was adamant. “All they teach are herbs and needlecraft.”

  I heard sniggers and shuffling feet.

  Cl
oud drift uncovered the sun, which fell through the open doors. The child was illuminated, gleaming despite the muck hinting at the sordid details of her short life. She was pale beneath the dirt, a shade not associated with poverty, blonde hair almost white. She dazzled me even though I knew it was just the play of sunlight. When the clouds blew over again, the spell broke. When I looked away I saw Father Sebastian watching me, chewing his thumbnail.

  “What do you think?” he asked me.

  “Too young.”

  “You weren’t much older when you followed me here.”

  “There was no hardship in learning.” Not true. There was the bullying of the other novices. Even when I became the giant my real father had been, they still called me Brother Small in sneering voices where once they horse-whipped me. “The girl doesn’t understand what she’s asking.” I feigned indifference, hoping he’d send her home.

  “Is it your place to question God’s command?” Father said in a sudden turnabout. “I’ve the Pope’s sanction for this research.”

  The others stared at us. He’d never reprimanded me publicly. Martin smirked. Jess came over and slipped her hand into mine.

  “You seem favoured, Thomas,” Father observed. His mood was like mercury. I couldn’t keep pace. “Child, you must have another name. ‘Jess’ is unfit. What shall we call you?”

  She nodded, as if the sacrifice of her name was expected.

  “Columba,” I answered. For her whiteness. For purity. Columba, High Latin for dove.

  “Very good.” Father Sebastian laughed and I realised I’d misread him. It had been a rhetorical question. “Columba it is. You’ll be her tutor.”

  Mutterings broke out again. I was Father’s secretary and accountant. The role of tutor should have passed to Martin if Timothy was to be taken from him.

  Columba gripped my hand tighter.

  “What about my duties?”

  “Martin will see to those.”

  “As you wish.” I lowered my eyes.

  “No,” Father Sebastian corrected me, “as God wishes.”

  ***

  I began with the lessons Father had taught me. Columba already had some letters and numbers from her mother. Pig-Latin was sufficient for peasants and tradesmen but too lowly to read the scriptures. I’d been thought a prodigy but Columba’s progress to High Latin astonished me.

  “How many languages do you know?” she asked.

  “Both Latin forms, Spanish, French, some Russian and English.”

  “English is the heathen tongue.”

  Sinful pride. I shouldn’t have mentioned it. Papal law stated it illegal, a language outside God’s sphere.

  “It was the ancient tongue of these islands before Enlightenment.” I tried to distract her. “What’s Enlightenment?”

  She sighed.

  “The period when Henry IXth and his cousin, Carlos V, brought Pope Clement to safety in London.”

  “Why was that?”

  “Rome was destroyed in the great earthquake.” The fabled city.

  “Excellent. Who were Henry’s parents?”

  “Henry VIIIth, who died hunting, and his virtuous wife, our revered lady, Katherine of Aragon.”

  “Good.”

  “Why can you speak English?” She wouldn’t be deterred.

  “I was born in Bernica, north of Hadrian’s wall.”

  “How did you escape?”

  “The wall hadn’t been refortified then. There was a truce between both sides.” I spoke like it was ancient antiquity, not my own childhood. “Father Sebastian was a missionary. We threw rotted cabbages at him but his books fascinated me.”

  Wondrous days.

  “He rescued you.”

  “No, I followed him.”

  I was dumbfounded when he announced his leaving our hamlet. I’m going home. I’ve done my penance.

  I never dared ask him what he’d done.

  How will I learn more letters?

  Seek me out when you’re a man.

  That’ll be too late.

  He tried to stop me but I shrugged off arguments of family and hardship. We halted twenty miles from the wall.

  It’s not too late to go back.

  I scowled.

  Understand then, Thomas. You’re a willful boy who disobeys your parents. Disobey me and I’ll have you flogged and you’ll have a long walk back to Bernica from where I’m going. He’d lowered his voice and I knew he meant it. My family bellowed, even if it was just to pass the salt pot. If you’re dutiful, Thomas Small, all the books in Christendom will be yours to read.

  Columba looked confused.

  “My mother said they sacrifice children in Bernica.”

  “Not true.”

  I regretted the tears my family must have shed for me, their lost son. People commented on my luck to be saved from pagan savagery and worship of sun and moon with human blood or else the cultists who believed Arthur, ancient King of the Britons, would rise again to save them from obscurity.

  I didn’t recall blood and sacrifice. Just my family and being plain Tom who didn’t wear a cross.

  ***

  Columba’s cell was identical to the others, smelling of damp stone. Narrow, white-washed, with a crucifix on the wall. A cot and a coarse blanket. A heavy lock on the outside of the door as if freedom and comfort would bar the way to God.

  The applicants’ life was harsh. They rose before dawn to long days designed to scour the soul. They were cleansed in accordance with their nature. For Timothy it was constant prayer and fasting. Hunger kept him in a state of ecstasy but when I saw the sharp angles of his face I just wished he’d eat. Martha was a large, freckled girl whose labours were exhaustive. She tilled the earth and pulled the grinding wheel in place of the mule. When I walked past her cell I heard her whimpers of pain.

  How could we look at these children and see sin?

  Applicants were isolated to protect their purity since one of the girls had once been found to be with child. Whispers of an immaculate conception put Father in a rage. She refused to tell him anything so he handed her to the Inquisitor saying he’d loosen her tongue. So loosened it was useless.

  Father ordered her into service in a convent. He waved me away, as if to say you choose. I sent her to Chester, where the Mother Superior was known for her kindness.

  So it was that applicants were only allowed one relationship, with their tutor. Columba filled my every day. My favourite times were when we walked around the square during her exercise hour because we could talk freely.

  “Why am I here?” Columba mimicked my gait, hands tucked into her sleeves.

  “To serve God.”

  “How?” She wouldn’t allow evasion.

  “I don’t presume to know His wishes.”

  “Father Sebastian presumes.”

  “He’s anointed by God.”

  “And you’re not?”

  “I’m just a man who prays God will reveal Himself.”

  “He’ll test us, won’t He?”

  “Yes.” I wish I’d asked for more guidance. Perhaps Father had given me this role to show me my ignorance. “Sometimes we don’t even know we’re being tested; other times, it’s a great trial that needs all our strength and endurance.”

  “It’ll hurt?”

  “There are many sorts of pain.”

  “My mother was in pain before she died.”

  She gripped my robe in her fist.

  “Can I tell you something?”

  “Anything.” I wiped away her tears.

  “Ma was in so much pain that I prayed for her to die.”

  “God won’t condemn you for compassion.”

  Even so, I didn’t mention it at the next meeting.

  ***

  The Inquisitor sat in Father’s office. He was dressed in his official robes. Red silk rustled as he moved. Ermine snaked around his neckline. I’d seen him debate in London. He eviscerated all argument like he eviscerated dissenters.

  “Brother Thomas.”
He stared at me as if seeing heresies in my heart. I was a mongrel he’d happily drown. “Sebastian’s not here.”

  “Brother Michael.” I bowed low. At least I was taller than him.

  “I hear that you have a new position.”

  “Nursemaid,” one of his men said under his breath. They stood around him, straight backed.

  “Don’t mind them.” The Inquisitor laid a hand on my shoulder. “They’ve not seen Columba. She’s a gem that reflects God’s light.” His grip tightened. His fingers were slim, nails perfect. Spotless hands, considering the indelibility of blood. “What saint does she adore?”

  “It’s too early to say.” I tried to pull away.

  “I’ll speak with Sebastian about her. Don’t worry. It’s Timothy’s turn first. Now run to your master and tell him not to keep me waiting.”

  ***

  The trial of an applicant was a time for the petitioners to beseech God for a miracle.

  We all gathered in St. Margaret’s cathedral. I’d seen the grandeur of St. Mark’s in London, the mightiest of all cathedrals. I had to crane my neck to see the angel hoards high on the wall. Not soft-faced cherubs but God’s warriors, armed with swords and shields, wings spread like flames. When I said I wished we could see them more closely, Father reminded me that no man should look into an angel’s face with ease. I cried, such were St. Mark’s proportions, but I loved St. Margaret’s best because I saw it first.

  No one was allowed to leave. We spent the night in vigil for Timothy in his time of trial and for John Lambert’s recovery. The Lamberts were at the front. All their finery couldn’t help their son.

  Father reached out to touch the Lamberts’ heads as they kneeled before him.

  “Only God can grant a miracle. We pray Timothy is worthy to beseech God on John Lambert’s behalf.”

  Mary Lambert’s shoulder shook with silent sobs. Christ looked down from the altar, arms open. Mother Mary and Mary Magdalene clutched his feet. They were smothered in white roses. The scent mingled with the incense. The smell, the chants, the pealing bells, the heat from the press of bodies made me feel sick. We were all there to beg a miracle. All except the Inquisitor and his men, who were busy with Timothy.