The Fallen

by Tarn Richardson

  Kristián thought the Priest’s prediction strange. “Then should I not stay here and help you to prepare to receive them?”

  “No,” replied the Father, and a sullen light came into his eyes.

  The young man looked at his master, troubled. “Are you quite well, sir?”

  “It depends what you mean by well, Kristián,” Father Mészáros answered.

  A deep rumble suddenly came from the shadows to the left of where they stood. Nervously Kristián turned his head towards it.

  “That noise!” he exclaimed, “It came from the vault! It might be the missing child! Perhaps he sought refuge here and became lost or trapped in the darkness?”

  “Kristián!” Father Mészáros called, suddenly animated, but the young man had already plunged into the shadows and begun to descend the stairs to the vault.

  It was pitch-dark within the crypt beneath the church and at once Kristián thought about going back and finding himself a lantern. His breath rose in clouds in the chilled air and he paused and waited for his eyes to adjust to the dark. And then he heard it. A voice! A child’s voice, pleading from somewhere in the black of that place.

  “Father Mészáros!” cried the young man. “Father Mészáros! Come quickly! I think I have found the child. Bring light!” and he saw that the Priest had done exactly that, holding a lantern in his hand as he descended the stairs with careful, deliberate steps. “Father Mészáros! I heard a voice, that of a child. In the far corner of the vault!”

  He spoke so urgently that the words caught in his throat and he bounded forward in the direction of the voice, stopping every ten feet or so to allow the slow pace of the Priest to catch up.

  There were coffins in the vault, rows of them, set side by side, and Kristián went about them, cocking his ear to each in turn to try and find from where the sound had emanated. Eventually he stopped and paused, lowering his ear to one coffin set in the very corner of the room.

  “Here!” he cried, setting his fingers to the lip of the lid and looking back to the Priest. “Here! Here! I have found him! I have found the child! Help me, Father!” he cried, heaving the heavy coffin lid an inch to the side from where it had been set.

  Father Mészáros watched him impassively at the very edge of the lantern’s light, moving closer only when Kristián had shifted the lid enough to enable him to peer inside. The young man shrieked and drew back.

  “The child!” he cried, half weeping, wild with confusion. “The child is inside! Bound by ropes and cord! Help me free him!” He moved forward to heave the lid completely from the coffin, but stopped and pulled away as Father Mészáros stepped close to him. “What is it?” he asked, the look in the Priest’s face contorted and unholy.

  “Suffer little children,” muttered Father Mészáros, as he turned off the lantern’s light.

  EIGHTY SEVEN

  THE VATICAN. VATICAN CITY.

  The windows to the chamber had been thrown open and the dawn sun flooded in, drenching the white marble stone, turning it to radiant quicksilver. Great swarms of crows flocked and circled around the squares and over rooftops, a cacophony of noisy squawks and fighting black bodies.

  Cardinal Secretary of State Casado crossed the sun-kissed stone and collected the decanter of wine, pouring a stream into glasses for each of the four Cardinals gathered within the room.

  “I took the liberty of ordering a little wine,” he said. “Perhaps a little wine might calm our nerves, assist with our private discussions, particularly with this most recent and terrible of news?” Cardinal Adansoni joined him at his side and distributed the four wine glasses among them. “I trust you gentlemen approve?”

  “A little drink, to lighten the mood? I entirely approve,” announced Berberino with a quick nervous smile, peering about himself urgently, his sagging chin wobbling with anticipation of the drink.

  “To think, a traitor in the Holy See! Have you ever heard of such a thing, Cardinal Secretary of State?” he asked of Casado.

  The white-haired Cardinal shook his head, distributing the last full wine goblet.

  “Father Berberino, may I see the letter again?” Adansoni asked. Berberino handed it over without question. Slowly and deliberately Adansoni pored over the words, sipping from his glass.

  “It explains everything of Tacit’s next movements, where he has been and where he is going to. In other words, all the time we were searching for answers, there is someone within the Holy See who has known exactly what Tacit’s movements were, what his plans are.”

  Casado nodded grimly. “Father Strettavario, will you not join us for a drink?” he asked, extending his hand over the tray of glasses.

  “Excuse me, but I will not,” Strettavario replied, burying his hands into his sleeves. “I find at such times it is wiser to keep a clear head. I have heard it suggested that Poldek Tacit was seen at Termini Station. A group of ladies saw him jump from the bridge onto a passing train. If he has left that way, it might be prudent for me to keep my wits about me, should any more information become available and I am called upon to act.”

  “As you wish, Father Strettavario,” said Berberino, nearly draining his glass in a hurried swallow. “For me, the merits of the grape outweigh any disadvantages it might have, especially after such a shock.” He nodded excitedly when Adansoni offered to refill his glass. “Whoever could the traitor be?” he asked, emphasising the point with a heavy hang of his head. “I suppose it must be a young upstart, one of the junior Cardinals, one recently promoted to the Holy See? One looking to gain advantage by having news of Tacit’s movements relayed solely to himself? I swear, it’s enough to send one to the bottle.”

  He drank half of his glass and looked about himself, as if momentarily lost, blinking twice, a confused look upon his face. The wine seemed a little more bitter than he was used to and his collar a little tighter than usual. He cleared his throat and pulled roughly at the top button of his cassock to allow a little air to his neck. It seemed to him that the room was swaying, as if he was on a boat in a strong tide. He tried to focus on the other Cardinals, but they seemed distant, out of focus. Erased. He shivered and reached out for a nearby chair to steady himself.

  “Cardinal Berberino?” asked Adansoni, putting down his glass and rising to his feet, taking a step towards the large faltering man. “Are you all right?” He hurried forward as fast as he was able, and half caught the Cardinal as he toppled to one side, his left leg and hip seeming to crumple as one. With great effort, and help from Strettavario, they eased him into a chair.

  “Cardinal Berberino?” called Strettavario, looking hard into the Cardinal’s glazed eyes. His breathing was snatched and hurried, and each gasp was shortened and clipped. “Cardinal Berberino?” the old Priest called again, slapping his cheek so that it reddened against the otherwise pallid sweating veneer that was his skin. “Can you hear me?”

  The voice sounded far away to Berberino. He felt as if his very being was aflame, his limbs and body consumed by a fiery hell. He looked about himself and realised that he was floating in a sea of darkness and fire. He shivered, frozen, despite the heat all around him, causing him to cry out in agony.

  “He’s convulsing!” cried Casado, gathering a towel and drenching it with wine in an attempt to try and cool Berberino’s roasting forehead. The wine pooled in his eye sockets, giving the impression that his eyeballs were bleeding.

  He mouthed breathless words.

  “He’s trying to say something!”

  Something was coming, out of the flames. Berberino could see it. The horror! The horror of it! He tried to claw his way from it, but every hand-hold he gathered collapsed beneath him, every foothold gave way, slipping him further towards the demonic thing advancing towards him.

  The beast gathered over him, ancient and eternally wicked, sucking in stale air. Then everything went black and Berberino felt no more.

  EIGHTY EIGHT

  APPROACHING THE ITALIAN FRONT. THE ITALIAN-SLOVENIAN BORDER.


  “Tacit?” Isabella murmured quietly in the dark. He cleared his throat.

  “Yes.”

  “Are you awake?”

  “What do you think?” came the growled reply.

  She smiled and shook her head gently in the quiet of the carriage, gently rocking over the tracks, as the train climbed ever higher into the mountains.

  “You know, it’s the first time we’ve been alone.”

  “We’re not alone,” Tacit muttered, his eyes flickering open and over to the sleeping pair by the door.

  Isabella blinked and shook her head. “Tell me something. Have you ever been happy, Tacit?” She said it in jest, but Tacit replied almost at once with utter sincerity.

  “Once,” he said, staring into the dead space before him. “I was happy once.”

  “Poldek,” soothed Isabella, reaching across and taking his arm. “I was only joking,” but he ignored her, or never heard her, lost in his memories.

  “It was long ago. I … I was in love. And she loved me.”

  Isabella swallowed and her eyes grew wide and moist. “What happened?” she asked, a weight growing in her stomach, rising to clutch her throat. She drew her knees up to her chest and gathered her arms around them, the straw knotting around the heels of her shoes.

  “She died.” He said the words as if they meant nothing to him, as if the memory had gone cold. He looked across at her, his eyes empty, dark pits. Unreadable.

  Isabella lowered her head and shook it. “Look, Poldek,” she said, shuffling a little closer and burrowing her hand deeper into the crook of his arm. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have joked.” The honesty with which he had spoken astounded her. It also unnerved her to see him so human, so damaged, so vulnerable.

  “Do you believe in curses?” he asked quite suddenly, and the question hardened the pain within her, leaving her breathless.

  “Tacit, look, I don’t know what you mean or why you’re saying this, but –”

  “I do.” And he looked away as if he couldn’t bear her to see into his empty eyes, dark pits of grief. “I believe I am cursed.” He growled the words, like a charge set against him. “I believe that anything I love, the curse will pursue. That my love will condemn them. They will perish, to be slain for the love I have shown. My mother. My first love.” He lifted his eyes to her from where they had fallen away. “You.”

  Isabella shuddered and felt the tears well in her eyes. She dragged a hand to her mouth.

  “You remember I spoke of the lights, of the voices which accompany them?”

  “Yes. What do they say?”

  “Terrible things.” Tacit drew a hand across his eyes and held it there for a moment, as if nursing the pain within them. “They taunt me, compel me on to do terrible things. Their bidding. They empower me.”

  “These lights you talk about? What are they?”

  “I can’t explain it, Isabella. All my life I have pursued those who are possessed, or attempt to possess, and yet all along I myself feel …” The words faded from his lips.

  “What do you feel?”

  “That I too am possessed.” He shook his head, defeated. “Someone told me once,” he continued, breathing deeply, “told me that I wasn’t as big as I thought I was.” He shook his head, recalling the memory of the witch on the shores of the Black Sea, weighing the sentiment in his mind. “I think that she was right.”

  “Tell me about her.”

  “Who?” he replied.

  “Your first love.”

  Tacit stirred in the straw and for a moment Isabella thought her impetuousness might have been too premature, too swift, thinking that Tacit might be rising from the bedding to turn away from her, closed once more. But instead he said, quite softly, “What do you want to know?”

  “Whatever you want to tell me. It is clear that you loved her very much, and she you.”

  “How do you know?” asked Tacit.

  “The warmth of your smile when you think of her. The light within your eyes. A sadness captured within the lines of your face.” She rolled gently onto one side so that she was lying opposite him. “What was her name?”

  Tacit hesitated. He uncorked the bottle and swilled the liquid within it before snatching a brief drink. And then he said tenderly, “Mila. That was her name.”

  In the darkness, the name seemed to echo within the small carriage. Isabella closed her eyes and imagined her, a beauty no doubt, forthright, strong, an independent woman. She imagined that she was all these things, and a lover too. And then Tacit began to speak and she didn’t need to imagine anymore. “She was beautiful, like a warm sunrise after a cold hard frost, like the calm after a storm. You know when you lie under cover and hear the rain rattling on the roof above you, when you feel warm and safe and secure, knowing outside the elements are raging but inside you’re safe and you’re warm? That was how she made me feel. She took away my pain. She taught me what it was to love, to live without shackles, to forget a past filled with too many troubles and bad memories and to live with hope for the future. She was my hope. She was my future.”

  “What happened?” asked Isabella.

  Tacit didn’t answer for a long time. But then he said, in a voice which sounded distant and fragile, as if any moment it might break. “She was murdered.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Tacit swilled the bottle again and drank, longer and deeper this time.

  “Does her passing still hurt? Does it still hurt to remember her?”

  “No,” Tacit lied. “I’ve learnt to forget. Like I do with everything I experience, as I do with every wound I take. It’s easier to bear the pain than it is to try to heal it.”

  Isabella rolled onto her back, a tangle of hair splaying like an explosion of red across the straw, her hand on her stomach.

  “You should never forget, Tacit,” said Isabella, very quietly. “Not the beautiful things in life, the things which touch you. But also you should never hold back. Life is not about being constantly in pain or in sorrow. I don’t think God would want you to be sad.”

  And Tacit, who was looking down at her, surprised her by smiling sadly.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “I know someone else who said something similar once.”

  Isabella smiled back, and slowly, with utmost caution, she moved her hand to the straw between them, wishing he would reach out and grasp it. And he did, his giant hand enveloping her long delicate fingers in a warm, gentle embrace. He watched her fingers entwined with his, his thumbs nursing the tops of them, his eyes gentle and thoughtful on them as he did so. After a moment he looked up and found that he was looking directly into Isabella’s eyes.

  She smiled, feeling the urge to leave where she lay and join him. She moved a fraction to do so, allowing the weight of their passion to narrow the gap between them.

  Without warning there came a sound alongside the carriage, heavy hands searching, heavy doors being heaved back on rusted runners.

  The door to their carriage was thrown open and dark figures powered in. Henry and Sandrine, closest to the door, jumped awake but not quickly enough to avoid being grappled and thrown from the rolling train. They fell out in the black of night, tumbling and spinning away from the train and the track, turning over and out in the wilds of the foothills of the Carso.

  At once Tacit was on his feet, his fists like giant hammers, setting himself between the Inquisitors and Isabella, just the pair of them left to face the intruders.

  “Isn’t this just beautiful?” growled Georgi.

  EIGHTY NINE

  APPROACHING THE ITATIAN FRONT. THE ITALIAN-SLOVENIAN BORDER.

  The three figures fell upon Tacit as he ran across the wagon. The Inquisitors were armed with cudgels which they wielded like whips. If Tacit felt their weapons strike him, he gave no sign that he did, battering one Inquisitor full in the face. As the struck man reeled away Isabella could see that the blow had splintered his jaw, his mouth a hanging bloodied maw clutched in his shaking hands.r />
  A cudgel struck Tacit hard across the back of the head and this blow he did feel, turning on his attacker and snatching the weapon away, bringing it back down so hard on the Inquisitor’s own head that it shattered his skull and buried itself inside his brain, lodged deep. The third Inquisitor wrestled Tacit around the middle, half dragging him to the ground, before an explosion rocked the carriage and the Inquisitor slumped off him, his back torn open by the revolver fired by Isabella, crouched in a corner.

  Georgi leapt the carriage in an instant and dashed the weapon aside, striking her hard on the side of the head, spinning her down into the straw with a grunt, reopening the wound on her head, blood streaming from her ear.

  “Bastard!” roared Tacit, pummelling hard into him, partially shattering the wall of the wagon, planks of wood breaking free and splintering away down the track and into the night as the train rolled on. They wrestled, the battle brutal and fast, both men fighting like dogs, whipped by the wind and the rain rushing through the smashed panel.

  They rolled away into the middle of the carriage, jabbing and striking whenever they could. Georgi’s cudgel was caught and thrown wide, spinning through the open door of the carriage, tumbling and cartwheeling away. The cold whip of rain dashed the room. Straw and hair was flying as Tacit feigned a blow and kicked out with his boot, catching Georgi hard on the shoulder.

  “You don’t recognise me, do you, Poldek?” shouted Georgi, as he caught hold of Tacit’s boot and spun him away.

  Something in the voice, coupled with the question, made Tacit hesitate. He stared hard at the man facing him, trying to place him. And then, like little pieces of a puzzle falling into place, the realisation of who he was fighting hit him. Like a steam train.

  “Georgi?” he asked incredulously.

  Georgi bowed, smiling, before hammering his fist hard through Tacit’s open defences and into his nose. The blow seemed to drive sense back into the man and he knocked the following punch aside, putting some distance between himself and his old friend.