The words floated on the surface of his mind, and without thought, Donovan repeated them, making the simple transition in his mind from the ancient Latin to English.
“Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world, have mercy on us.”
A sigh rippled through the congregation, as if the exchange of words touched them, or released some bond of silence. Father Prescott tried to rise, but found that he could not. He gazed up at Father Thomas, who spoke once again.
“Domine, non sum dignus.”
Tears flowed freely down Donovan’s cheeks, a sudden flood that he could neither have anticipated nor controlled. The words burned into him, and he felt their truth in the weight that held him on his knees.
In answer, he said, “Lord, I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the word, and I shall be healed.”
Donovan rose without a word. No force restrained him. His limbs were his own, but he took no time to exult in this. He stood, staring silently into Father Thomas’ eyes, and he started forward once more. There was no urgency in his steps. The moment was dreamlike, and once again tunnel vision crowded him into a narrowly focused path
He felt the combined gaze of the congregation locked to his form as he stepped forward. He breathed the scent of their perfume and tasted their sweat in the air. He heard their breath brush over dry lips and the soft rustle of their clothing. Every taste, smell, sight and sound was tinged with something deeper. It was as though one moment life was just – life – and the next it was filled with mysticism and meaning.
Donovan stepped forward, ignoring the pools and puddles. The blood stuck to the soles of his shoes and splashed up onto his robes as he walked. He paid no more attention to this than he did to those seated to either side of him. None of it mattered in that moment. The world beyond the doors of the cathedral might as well have not existed. The men, the women, the Bishop, even the smug, pompous television journalist he’d met earlier that morning, all of it had faded to insignificance.
Washed away, he thought, almost saying the words out loud, but not quite ready to break the spell between himself and Father Thomas. The others were spectators, except for Gladys, who’d said her piece, played her part, and slipped away to the side and out of sight once more. Only two players remained to see the final act through to curtain call.
Father Thomas waited for Donovan with a deep, compassionate smile. His arms were still rigid, and this fact suddenly registered in Donovan’s mind. Holding one’s arms out to the side was difficult under any circumstance. How long had it been? At what point had Quentin raised his arms and placed them in the position of the statue so far above him? How long could he possibly hold the pose?
Donovan had a sudden image of his fourth grade teacher, a stern gray-haired lady who had smiled seldom and who had a particular love of physically demanding punishment. He recalled how he and another boy, unable to contain their laughter at some long-forgotten joke, had been sent into the coatroom of the classroom.
The teacher, Mrs. McGuire, had ordered both boys into a kneeling position. At this point, the shared joke had still overpowered their fear. The punishment seemed silly, and this didn’t help them with their laughter problem.
Mrs. McGuire had smiled grimly at them and ordered them to hold their hands out to the sides, very straight, and hold them there…”until you stop laughing.” They did not stop laughing, not immediately, but it didn’t take long for the effort of keeping their arms aloft to dig claws of pain under their good humor, and in less than ten minutes both of them had been sagging and begging the teacher to let them up, promising no further laughter in class – no talking at all, in fact. Anything to get up off that hard floor and rest their burning arms. While the joke that had started it all down the wrong road was long gone, the memory of that punishment lingered. The impossibility of doing as he’d been told to do had frightened him almost as much as the effort had hurt.
He gazed at Thomas in wonder. A long trickle of blood slid down the younger man’s arm, caught in a fold of the vestments, and joined the streams winding down to the puddle on the floor, almost a small lake now. Donovan followed the droplet, unable to bear the intensity of Father Thomas’ gaze for any great length of time. He watched it trail downward and felt the weight of the other’s man’s gaze solidly on his heart.
Donovan took another step forward. He was only a couple of feet from the altar now. A quick jog and he’d be up on a level with Father Thomas, and he could help – somehow – draw the young priest back from whatever precipice he stood at and remind him of the real world all around them. There was a lot to answer for, and the questions would be endless, but that was what he should do – what his mind screamed at him to do. Help, or serve? He did neither.
Images flashed through his mind once again, an out-of-control slide show. Father Fernando’s face. The statue of Peter. The empty, wordless ground. The villagers, and the members of the Jungle Parish, Father Thomas, seated across from Bishop Michaels entreating the man for help.
Stepping to the rail, Donovan knelt gently on the cushion, as if to receive communion. Some voice deep inside that he vaguely recognized screamed in negation, but he could not help himself. He reached out and ran his finger through the blood dripping over the altar. It was hot, wet, and thick, and his head buzzed with the intensity of the sensation. He saw the dirt before him, and closed his eyes. Without hesitation, Donovan brought his finger to his lips and tasted the blood as the world fell away to darkness.
~ Twenty-Five ~
The hillside stretched up and away to a blood-red sunset. Father Prescott stood at the base and stared upward, legs weak. A dirt trail led from the base of the rounded mound of earth and rock, winding up to one side and continuing to climb. Donovan didn’t see it at first. His gaze was fixed on the top of the hill.
Three crosses stood out stark against the darkening sky. There was enough light to make them out, and to see that they were not empty. Wisps of hair, caught in a hot breeze, lifted away from the wood of each, near the top. Shadowed forms marred the symmetry of the wood. In the distance, he heard voices, but there did not seem to be anyone else present.
Donovan tore his gaze from the crosses and glanced at the trail. He turned and began to climb, but then stopped. Each side of the trail was lined with what at first appeared to be rounded stones. Beneath his feet the ground crunched, and he thought of shorelines where he’d stepped on the remnant of coral, or the myriad shells of long dead crustaceans.
This was no beach. He concentrated on the nearest of the stones and his heart lurched. Dark empty sockets returned his gaze in hollow, emotionless silence. Skulls lined the walk like sentinels. Most were in straight, even lines that bordered the path, but others were cocked at angles, as if planted hurriedly, or loosened by passing feet. Beyond these more skulls showed, some buried, partially buried, or stacked. Donovan stopped, steadied his breath, and dropped to one knee. The path beneath his feet was strewn with thousands of bones. Some of them must have been animal – perhaps most – because they seemed too small and brittle to have come from men – but the skulls mocked him from either side, and he rose with a shiver.
He followed the path, not raising his eyes to the horizon or the crosses. He ignored the whispered words of voices floating to him on the wind. If there were others here, he’d know soon enough. If the skulls were speaking to him, he did not want to hear what they had to say, and if he were dreaming, or hallucinating, he couldn’t trust any message his senses might deliver. Better to continue on, and through.
He wondered briefly if the path he trod was actually the aisle in the cathedral. He thought of Father Thomas, thought of the gathered congregation, and wondered if he’d passed, out, or worse – had a heart attack and keeled over, unable to get to the altar and help his friend in the very moment of greatest need. He wondered if the whispered voices were gathered around a bedside, waiting form him to open his eyes and recover, or whispered over a grave he would never leave.
It
didn’t matter. All that mattered was putting one foot in front of the next. The hill was not a large one, and the climb was not long. He rounded one corner and saw walls in the distance. He hesitated, scanning those walls for signs of life, but the only movement he saw was large, black winged birds launching into flight. They soared above the city, circled once, and veered off toward the hill. There were no raucous cries, and he did not hear the flapping of their great wings, but he did not doubt their intention. They would bring their spiraling, circling flight to the hill – to the men on the crosses above. They would wait for a feast.
Donovan rounded the final curve in the trail, stepping from behind an outcropping of stone. The three crosses loomed before him, spread out across the top of the hill, the two on the sides slightly lower than that in the center. He realized that this was due to the curved shape of the hill, but it wasn’t the only thing skewed in the vision. The crosses seemed huge, as large as that hanging at the rear of the Cathedral of San Marcos, possibly larger still. When he glanced at the base of any of them, it was a rough cut post buried deep in the rocky soil, but if he raised his head and gazed up the length of them, they soared, blotting out his view of the bloody, moonless sky and the dark stains of clouds painted on that backdrop.
He didn’t want to see their faces. He knew that he had come here, or been brought here, to see, but he fought the urge to lift his gaze the final few feet. He saw their ravaged flesh. Not carved of wood, or stone, but slumped in exhaustion, dangling from the wood. What had been pounded through their feet resembled spikes more than any nails Donovan he ever seen. At different points on the trunk of the cross their bodies were bound to keep them from swaying, or squirming hard enough to tear their flesh enough to drop free.
Just above their shoulders, the heavy, solid crossbeams shot out to the side. The image burned into his mind. Donovan’s finger itched. He wanted to raise it and cross himself, a habit so much a part of his being that he couldn’t remember a time when it had not been second nature. He held his hand still, and tears dampened his cheeks. It seemed so casual, such an empty reconstruction. He couldn’t bring himself to even attempt it. He thought lightning might strike from the darkened sky and sear the hand from his body if he did.
Donovan turned to the cross on the right. He knew he couldn’t just look up at that center cross. It was too easy, and at the same time far too difficult. He did not want to know whose face he would find, so he turned to the first of the thieves. He raised his gaze level with a pair of dark, staring eyes. Father Fernando returned his gaze levelly and in silence. His arms were drawn back cruelly, the muscles of his thin arms corded where the nails, protruding from each wrist, held him tightly to the wood. Donovan gasped.
He saw how the flesh tore around the nails. He saw the stains on skin and wood where blood had flowed, coagulated, and finally dried. Insects buzzed about the hilltop, though none came near Donovan. Nothing here touched him but the wind.
Father Fernando did not move, but from the bright intensity of his stare, Donovan knew the man was not dead. The two had connected at the moment Donovan raised his head, and now he had the sensation that Father Fernando had something to tell him. There seemed to be something the other man wanted him to know, or to see, but speech was impossible, and with his arms stretched up and back impossibly, pounded to the cross and covered in buzzing insects, he could find no way to articulate his thoughts.
Donovan studied the priest’s expression, tried to read the emotion in his eyes, but it was hopeless. All he felt was the vague notion he was missing something, that there was a vital, vastly important detail he’d overlooked, and that Father Fernando had not, but he could find no way to extract the information from their interaction. His senses awakened slowly, and the scents and sounds of the moment filtered in, driving his already scattered thoughts apart.
The flies and gnats, which moments before had been only a pulsing, rippling mass, came to droning life. He heard the hum of wings, the buzz of their flight, and more. High overhead he heard the sharp cry of a buzzard, but he did not look up. He concentrated, trying to fathom the meaning in Father Fernando’s eyes, and failing.
Donovan turned to the center cross. He saw no sense in twisting past it this time. If he glanced up at the third cross, he was fairly certain he’d find another face form his past. The Bishop? The Cardinal? Gladys Multinerry, her overweight form drawing down hard on the long nails and ready to tear free? He pivoted and brought his gaze even with that of the man hanging from the second cross. The angle of the head, the deep, sorrowful cast of the eyes – every angle and every nuance screamed to him that he was viewing a living rendition of the bas-relief from the Cathedral. He could almost believe it was a carved figure, nailed to the cross to hold it upright, but not living. Not real. Almost.
If it hadn’t been for Father Thomas’ eyes, he might have believed it. The young priest stared at him in such abject need, such pain and anguish, that Donovan cried out. The moment their gazes met, he screamed. The emotion was too deep, and he had no answers. For all his years and all his studies, he did not know what was happening to them, what might happen when it was done, where they might be – or who. Father Thomas managed what Father Fernando had not. He moved his lips, very slowly. They were dry, the skin chapped and cracked. Donovan strained, hoping to catch a word, or a sound. There was nothing. Whatever Father Thomas released was released into the air.
Blood streamed from his wounds, and on his brown sat the shadow wreath Donovan had seen in the cathedral. It had not simply been wound around the head, but appeared to be pressed firmly into the young priest’s scalp. Donovan took a step forward. He wanted to cut Father Thomas down. He wanted to mop away the blood from the younger man’s eyes, and to clean that pleading, haunted face.
Father Thomas moved the fingers of his hand. He curled them, tried to clench them around the mail that had been slammed through his wrist, and failed. The young priest closed his eyes for a long moment, and Donovan thought he had passed on, but the eyes flickered open once again. Father Thomas didn’t meet Donovan’s gaze this time. He shifted his gaze to the side, toward the cross on the left, and stared.
Donovan followed that gaze. He turned his head slowly, and everything slowed. The sound of the insects buzzing about Father Fernando’s ruined body stretched into surreal, elongated tones. The whites of Father Thomas’ eyes as he turned his head left white trails in the air. The air felt cool and damp on his cheek, as though he had suddenly been coated in sweat, or just realized that he was already coated. He caught a glimpse of one of the buzzards, motionless against the deep red of the dying sun.
Then the cross came into view. It was empty. No one hung from the crossbar. The wood was dark, but it was shadows that stained it, and not blood. Confused, Donovan raised his gaze higher. He traced each crossbeam, found nothing, and returned to the center post. In that moment he saw, and he understood.
Perched precariously atop the center beam, the statue of Peter, the martyr, stood alone. Crumbling dirt fell away from the base, as if it had only recently been plucked free of the earth that held it. The wind picked up suddenly, and it wobbled. The motion was a small one, almost indiscernible, but Donovan knew it was real. The statue tilted ever so slightly, then dropped back into place, its balance uncertain. Donovan held his breath.
The slow-motion moment was blasted by a cry from above. The powerful beating of wings descending dragged Donovan’s attention from the statue. He glanced up, took half a step back, and cried out. A huge buzzard, wings spread wide and talons outstretched, descended on the third cross at dizzying speed. It seemed as large as a man, larger, growing each second and dropping at impossible speed.
At the last second the creature pulled out of its dive. The huge wings unfurled and beat at the air. The wind from this buffeted the ground, sent dust devils darting in all directions at once, and drove Donovan back half a step before he dug in and held his ground. He ignored the bird, which pulled back and soared away toward the
city in the distance. He ignored Father Thomas and his pained, entreating gaze. He ignored Father Fernando’s silent, motionless body and torn, bloody flesh.
The statue toppled. It wobbled once, spun so that the face of Stephen, captured forever in stone, glared down at Donovan for an infinite instant of perfect clarity. Then it tumbled off and down, spinning in lazy circles, end-over-end. Donovan moved.
He took a step forward, then another, and launched himself forward. He didn’t know what he meant to do, didn’t know what he thought would happen when the heavy statue struck the ground if he put himself in the way. He thought of nothing but stopping that impact, dulling it, forcing it back from this reality, whatever it might be. He saw the statue at the base of the cross in his mind’s eye, upright and intact, placed firmly in the dirt and patted into place by his own hand.
Before he could take the third step, his toe caught on something, and he pitched forward. He glanced frantically down to see what it was, and to try and drag free, and then he screamed. His foot was wedged firmly into the eye-socket of a skull. It was a huge skull, too large to be a man, but perfectly formed. He fell, arms wind milling, unable even to break his fall.
The statue fell as well. It struck, just out of reach of his groping fingers. The point of impact was a flat slab of stone. The statue burst. It was not a cracking, as he had expected. No chunk of stone broke free, nor did the head fall free of the body of the icon. It shattered to powder, spraying his face and hair and hands with fine dust, sending glittering shards into the air until nothing but a white cloud filled Donovan’s vision. He struck the ground, but it was soft, softer than it could possibly be. He closed his hands on open air, closed his eyes on his pain.
The shattering explosion of stone faded to an echo. The echo found the rhythm of his blood, his pulse, beating with his heart. It found the voice of a thousand men and women and it whispered to him as the dust settled over him – buried him – and gently caressed his skin.
On the Third Day Page 19
