Hallowed Horror

by Mark Tufo

  Isabel smiled and turned to her parents, “We must. It is a sign.”

  She turned back toward the Pope and leaned forward again, pressing her lips to his ring, “God bless you, Father, for all your kindness.”

  Marco saw the gift he’d made for her capture the light from the stained glass windows. Their eyes met again and he saw the acknowledgment. God take his soul, he would sing for her today. He would sing louder and with more spirit than ever before, so that she could hear him, and him alone even among the others.

  POLICY OF TRUTH - MARCIEL

  I sat that night, thinking of what to write. The more I sat there, the more I thought. The more I thought, the less I could focus, and the more my emotions took over. The quill shook in my hand. Finally, I broke the tip against the parchment and ink bled in a small pool, then absorbed into the porous surface. Throwing my arm across the top of the desk, I shoved everything onto the floor and then dropped my head to my forearm as it lay on the edge.

  I heard a knock at my door and I sat up abruptly thinking it was Father Raphael. Closing my eyes, I tried to will it all away but the knock came again, a little more urgently. Standing up, I crept to the door and whispered at the crack between the frame and the door itself.

  “Who is it?”

  “Father Dulante. Marciel, are you alright? I heard a crash.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief and opened the door, smiling at the young priest before opening it completely to allow him inside.

  “Come in. Yes, I’m alright. Just – just writer’s block.” Again, it was not entirely a lie.

  Father Dulante entered and looked around, turning to face me once more. For a moment he was silent as if he were sizing up the situation then let out a laugh. He shook his head and moved toward the desk to help clean up the mess.

  “I never would’ve guessed that you had outbursts, Marciel. You seem so calm all the time.”

  “I could say the same of you, Father Dulante.” I smiled as I knelt beside him, picking up the parchment bleeding with black ink.

  Father Dulante made me feel comfortable and safe. Not in the same way the Lord did, of course, but he had an air about him that made it seem as though everything would just be alright in the end. He had such a pleasant smile and a soft voice. It was deep but not intrusive to one’s ears. It was soft and lulling, like a quiet song.

  He was also very intelligent. I often overheard his practice sermons or him counseling another member of the monastery. He was wise beyond his years but it was also his peaceful soul that set people at ease the same way it did mine.

  I stood up and thanked him for his help then offered him a drink of wine to settle and unwind after such an eventful night. He readily accepted and we sat near the window, talking by moonlight of many things.

  I let him do most of the talking. He told me of his calling to priesthood and how he met Father Raphael. I did my best to keep my feelings unreadable to him. If he knew, he did not say or respond. Father Dulante was also a very polite man and very proper. He, too, came from a noble family.

  His speech was plain and yet still elegant at the same time. He could speak Latin fluently as well as Italian, French and Portuguese. Education was important to him, but his passion was music. He said that it soothed even the most unsettled soul. To him it was a language anyone could speak fluently and understand.

  To hear him talk brought me much joy. I could listen to his stories all night long. I learned that his full name was Marco Dulante. I said the name over and over in my head, loving how it was so fluent like everything else about him.

  The night was starting to pull back and he stood, frowning a bit. I thought perhaps my silence offended him and stood with him.

  “I’m sorry. Did I offend you, Father Dulante? I was just enjoying your stories so much.” I offered.

  “No, no. It is just late and I remembered I have a meeting with Father Raphael in the morning to go over the sermon for my first mass.”

  I must not have hid my disdain so well this time. Father Dulante laughed quietly again and let his hand rest on my shoulder. It took all I had to not wince. He patted the same spot where Father Raphael’s handprint was now burnt into my flesh.

  “He is not so bad once you get to know him my friend. He is just” the priest paused as he thought of a good word or description, “Well, I don’t know what he is, but he’s not all bad. God makes all kinds.” He smiled as he said it and I could not help but mirror his smile.

  I walked my new friend to the door and waved goodnight to him. I wanted to follow him and walk him safely to his door but I did not want him to get the wrong impression. Instead I closed my own door and leaned my back against it hoping I could hear his footsteps and the sound of the handle to his door.

  I lost track around the last twenty-five steps and bit my lip. I vowed that I would walk past his door in about twenty minutes to check on him. The back of my head hit the door softly before I pushed myself off of it and headed back to my desk. I sat down in the chair and ran my fingers through my hair.

  It was thick and blonde, like a summer’s sun. Like Father Raphael, I had an angel’s complexion; fair and glowing. Blessed with eyes as blue as God’s sky and the vision of a majestic eagle, I also had supernatural hearing.

  I was pleasing to look at, I decided, as I looked into the mirror above my desk now, but I was still a stranger to myself. There were no wings, no golden chest plate, no golden sword. I didn’t know who I was looking at half the time.

  Just as I was about to look down I saw a figure behind me and I jumped forward, knocking my chair over to turn round and round. I reached for that golden sword that was not there. Neither was the figure.

  I couldn’t handle this, so I made up my mind to go sit with Isabel. Word buzzed around the Monastery that her brother was coming to visit her and should be arriving tomorrow. This was good news to me. Her brother was very strong and brave. He would let no harm come to her.

  I listened to Isabel speak so fondly of her brother, Louis, who succeeded Louis VIII. He was renowned for the prosperity and peace he brought his subjects. He had even been captured at al-Mansurah and ransomed but remained in the Holy Land to strengthen the fortifications of the Christian colonies.

  Louis doted on his younger sister. The two were quite close and shared many talks about current events or his travels. She would share some accomplishments she’d made with the poor and sickly and then the two would dine together before Louis set off again.

  Tonight though, Louis was riding hard to reach his sister who he was told was very ill. Arriving earlier than expected, the servants rushed to greet the man as he brushed past them to his sister’s room. His responses to their elated greetings were polite but curt and I followed quickly behind the bustling crowd as they tried to take his coat and offer him wine.

  He had just reached the stairs and turned around, waving them all off exasperatedly. Shooing them into the shadows they crawled out of.

  “I’m fine! I will be in Isabel’s room. If you wish to serve, have my dinner prepared and brought there.” He went to speak again and we heard the screams. Louis’ companion shadowed him, followed by me and about twelve other servants to the source of it. The closer we came to Isabel’s room, the louder it became.

  Louis’ companion drew his weapon as he flanked his Lord closely. It was apparent that his main duty was to protect Isabel’s sibling. The man was nearly as tall as I was with long blonde hair such as mine. His eyes were large and a striking color of green like I’ve only ever seen in nature in the Garden of Eden. I could smell battle on him, it was in his veins and I could tell that he was a seasoned warrior and probably why Louis kept him so close.

  Louis got to her door and went to open it but the handle wouldn’t budge. It was locked from the inside. He stepped back and after the split second moment of shock, he quickly threw his shoulder against the door. It was futile but he would not give up and soon, his companion and I both joined in.

  “Isabel!”
he cried out. “Isabel, it’s me Louis, open the door!”

  There was no answer and panic was rising in the three of us. Two more times of us hurling our full weight at the door and it splintered on its hinges and slammed against the wall. Louis stumbled inside and ran to his sister’s bed. She was flailing and screaming, drenched in sweat and her own blood.

  Her brother gathered her up in his arms seeing that she was bleeding but unable to see from where. He shouted at the nuns that started to trickle in, demanding that they bring him bandages and rags. I stood there in horror and disbelief as I looked down at the chair beside her bed and saw Father Raphael’s coat draped across the back.

  Pulled from my thoughts, I heard Father Dulante rush past me. His fingers curled into my bicep and drug me to the bed where we began to try and hold her down. Miriam was pushing a long, round piece of wood into her mouth that resembled a bit that a horse would use, so she wouldn’t swallow her tongue.

  Louis was shouting to her as he rocked her trembling upper body while Father Dulante and I tried to hold her down. We were pleading with him to allow us to get to her upper body so that Miriam could find the source of her wound. I was worried that her wrists were reopened.

  Louis gently lay Isabel back down on the bed and snatched the cloth from the closest nun, wiping his sister’s face which looked as though it was covered with a red, leather mask. He was trying to swallow the sobs but his eyes welled with tears betraying him.

  We all stared down at Isabel and the scent of jasmine rolled in thickly again. Her eyes rolled back into her head and she thrashed her head from side to side. Her hair was damp with her own blood and with each violent turn of her head, would splash those of us surrounding her.

  Finally, suddenly, she stopped. She just lay there in a pool of blood and sweat, drifting off into a deep sleep where she panted and writhed like she was inflicted with fever. Miriam began to wipe her down and Louis covered his face with his hands, sobbing over his sister. It was only when Miriam gasped that he looked up again.

  Isabel’s feet were covered in blood and two perfect punctured holes bled slowly on the tops of her arches. I became weak in the knees and lowered myself to them, compelled to pray for this woman. Father Dulante made the sign of the cross and kissed his rosary before kneeling beside me to do the same.

  Miriam turned in time to see Father Raphael enter. I felt him but I refused to let him deter me. The sound of the hissing and static whispers rose up louder and louder in my ears, threatening to steal my equilibrium but I held my ground. My voice was screaming in my own head as I prayed over it all.

  The noise receded and Father Raphael stood behind Louis. I looked up as I finished my prayer in time to see the sadistic mask and slither of his long black tongue over his lips when his hand touched Louis’ shoulder. I shouted and fell back, slamming my head against the chair behind me. I fought the darkness as it faded in to no avail. It finally won and I was unconscious.

  When I awoke, I heard the sound of the birds in the distance and I kept my eyes closed a little bit longer hoping it was all a bad dream. Did angels dream? I didn’t think so but I was in a human body and suffered human things.

  Emotion was the biggest difficulty to tackle. I was thrown into this body like a newborn babe and I was flailing through everything. In the beginning, I had to learn what it meant to relieve myself. The pain in my stomach was so great until I felt the trickle of warm urine down my leg. It probably wouldn’t have been so bad except my learning experience was sitting in a tavern asking the waitress what they ate “here”.

  She looked down at my feet toward the warm stream of urin, and started yelling obscenities at me, calling me a drunken idiot. I ran out into the night and staring down at my pants, which were too short on me, in disgust. An old woman who was passing, heard the commotion took pity on me, calling me to her. Wanting to be far away from the vulgar barmaid, I stumbled over to her, thankful for a distraction. My urine-drenched clothing clung to me, intensifying the briskness of the nocturnal breeze, but my escort seemed not to be bothered. She muttered something about the Devil’s drink and began to preach to me as we walked to her home. I smiled, immediately warming up to her, letting her guide me to where she stayed. I sat up with her for most of the night sharing a kettle of stew and freshly baked bread. Her home was humble. There were holes in the roof and walls allowing for a terrible draft to enter, chilling her old body to the bone.

  The Lord was a carpenter and my favorite lesson of his was how he would take rough, raw materials and make beautiful items from them. I decided that I would help this woman who took pity on me. Over the next seven weeks, I fixed up the shack and made it a home.

  I fixed the stairs so that she did not catch her worn shoes on the nails and fall. I fixed the holes in her roof so that she did not get wet and suffer a cold from the dampness. I patched the holes in the walls so that the warmth from her fire would keep her comfortable during the winter months and cold nights.

  It was the night before I was to set off on my task to find Isabel when old lady Anne died peacefully in her sleep. I felt her spirit tickle my cheek and I opened my eyes to stare up into her lovely face. The Lord was beside her and she knew me for what I was.

  It was a morning with the same sounds as I heard now. The birds chirped in the distance and I felt fresh winds on my cheek as I lay under the open porch but somehow I knew I was not back there again with Anne. I opened my eyes and saw the Lord at my table, admiring a jug I carved from wood. Around the surface were intricate details of Heaven and he glanced up at me from them.

  “This is beautiful. From one carpenter to another, I applaud your workmanship.” He said, ever present smile on his face as bright as the morning.

  “Thank you, my Lord.” I was genuinely touched by his praise.

  I sat up and walked over to where he was standing. He began to pour the water that was in the jug into two cups before motioning with his hand for me to sit down and talk with him. Without hesitation I did, quietly observing my greatest teacher as he moved.

  When he sat down we were eye to eye and I never realized that before this moment. We were the same height in human form. My entire body relaxed and I felt at ease once more in his presence. Wrapping my hands around the cup he set before me, I took a drink of the water and knew that he touched it. It was cooler and purer than any water from the well I’d had before. Instantly it seemed to revive and refresh me. My smile let him know that I was aware.

  “Sometimes, Marciel, we all need to have a moment to refresh our purpose and collect our thoughts.” He said.

  I listened to his words and nodded. I knew exactly what he meant. Even now I was collecting my thoughts as I spun the cup around between my hands, staring into that crystal clear water.

  “When man was first created, we were jealous.” I said, speaking of the angels. “Though, we did not know we were jealous because we had never felt mortal emotions as I do now.” I looked up from the water into the Lord’s eyes.

  He smiled and remained silent but leaned back in his chair as a gesture that he was relaxed and wanting to hear what I had to say.

  “I admire the humans now because it is so hard, Lord. It is so hard to have faith and follow God’s plan when the plan is so obscure.” I was past the tears and the fear now as I spoke. I was frustrated.

  “Our Father in Heaven created all that you see here. The heavens and the earth. Could he be incapable of understanding his own creations?”

  My brows furrowed and I felt suddenly ashamed. Letting out a sigh, I too, leaned back in my chair and shook my head. Something still felt wrong.

  “No.”

  The Lord stood up and walked to the window, his cup still in his hand as he spoke leisurely. I watched as the sunlight moved just to caress his face. His flawless complexion glowed in that light which became a halo over his head when he turned to me again.

  “Have not the saints suffered in the name of God?” He asked.

  “Yes, they have.”
I replied.

  “Have not they been rewarded in Heaven for their suffering here on earth?”

  “Yes, Lord.”

  “Treasures and comfort of this earth are nothing. The humans know they must store their rewards and crowns in Heaven. It is far more important.”

  I offered him a small smile and nodded again. I knew that he sensed I was still not happy with the answer but he did not push. Walking to our table again, he sat down leaning forward onto his elbows to level his gaze at me.

  “You’re right, Marciel. It is not easy to be human.” He said, then reached across that table to pat my hand. “Did you forget that I, too, was human for over thirty years? I went through birth and death and suffering as a human. I know what you feel.”

  Immediately, I felt the guilt. How could that have slipped my mind? Of course he knew what I felt. I looked up, meeting his gaze and felt my strength return but the sadness of my weakness increased.

  “I am an unworthy servant, Lord. I will not question why you chose me; I will only have faith that whatever reason it was, I am the perfect choice for the task.”

  His smile grew and I felt my heart swell. It is impossible not to feel joy when your maker shows pride in you. He stood once more and walked to the window, dissolving in the light. I felt his absence as soon as he was gone.

  It was then that I realized it was 7 am. The start of the boys’ choir warm up had begun. I went to the basin at the side of my bed and washed up before hastily throwing on my clothes to check on Isabel.

  ISABEL: BUT NOT TONIGHT

  Isabel had, had the dream since she was a little girl. Each time it was the same scenario. Fire rain down from the Heavens, calls from a trumpet filled the skies, wings blocked out the sun, and screams filled the air. It was a message from God. She had no idea what it meant, or if it would happen in a literal sense but every night that she had the dream, she would wake up crying, and reaching out for something.

  It was no different tonight.

  Isabel jerked awake and found that this time she was clutching her abdomen. It was her thirteenth birthday today. Her nurse told her about things that happened to a girl’s body when she turned this age. Swallowing hard, she slowly lifted the blankets to see if she had stained her linens. She could already feel the warm, moisture between her thighs. Her heart began to speed up, afraid to see the blood. No matter how prepared they tried to make her, she would never be prepared enough to wake up in her own blood.