The Horrific Sufferings Of The Mind-Reading Monster Hercules Barefoot: His Wonderful Love and his Terrible Hatred

by Carl-Johan Vallgren

  “Abrenuntio,” he answers, “I abjure!”

  His face is visible in outline on the surface of the sacramental chalice. The sagging cheeks, his greenish, blotchy skin, the hairs of his beard: matted together in dirty tangled knots, they frighten him.

  “Et omnibus operibus ejus?” he asks himself: And all his deeds and doctrines? “Abrenuntio!”

  He takes the syphon of holy water and splashes a few drops on his clothes.

  “Et omnibus pompis ejus?”

  The demon remains calm. But from the wardrobe there comes a rustling sound. And the wind from the mountains, del Moro observes, is gaining momentum.

  He opens the flask of holy oil and rubs a drop of it into his forehead.

  “Ego te linio,” he continues, “oleo salutis in Christo Jesu Domino nostro, ut habeas vitam aeternam.”

  As the ritual nears its end del Moro is filled with wonder that the demon isn’t putting up a fight, that it should submit so passively to being exorcised. And he is just about to begin the final prayer when it starts talking again: This is all most amusing, del Moro . . . you can’t see me . . . not even in your past . . . do you really not remember me? After all, we’ve met before, under very different circumstances. But as we all know, in the realms of the blind the one-eyed king rules . . .

  Del Moro raises his voice, continues, “Credo in Jesum Christum Filium ejus unicum . . .”

  You don’t believe in anything, not even in human beings. Anyway, you think I’m dead . . . you, and your superiors . . . belief makes a fool of a man . . . and your God never did come to my assistance, though I’ve more than once sorely needed Him to . . .

  While del Moro exchanges the purple linen cloth around his shoulders for a white one that symbolises the soul’s purity, and uses all his strength to resist talking back to the demon – something the ritual strictly forbids – he hears him laugh mockingly; and a moment later, when he has knelt down to read the praise, he is sent reeling to the floor by a triad from one of hell’s organs.

  Can you really not remember me? the demon voice shouts, to make itself heard above the din. I’ve played the keyboard for you before, remember?

  Del Moro staggers to his feet. Inside him the organ music is playing another piece by Clementi with a force he’d never have thought possible.

  “Credo in Jesum,” he shouts, taking off his garment and smearing holy oil on his chest in the sign of the cross.

  The organ music turns into a slow improvisation. His intestines cramp in fear. On the spot where his double, in the dream, had chopped a hole in the skin immediately under his left nipple, a small green-coloured viper sticks out its tail. Panic-stricken, he claws at it, but the monster manages to slip back into his body as a new peal of demonic laughter fills the air.

  He is on the verge of vomiting. Everywhere on his stomach and chest little holes are opening up where worms, larvae and reptiles’ spawn rear their heads. From his body he discerns a strong stench of putrefaction rising, as if he were already dead. And again the demon starts screaming at him.

  So much sin gathered in your breast . . . so many evil deeds, so much horror . . . are you really seeing all this? Or am I distorting your vision? Come on, you can remember me if you want to . . . your little organ virtuoso . . .

  The awls! another voice breaks out inside him. Expel him with your silver awls!

  Imagining it to be the archangel Michael coming to his rescue at the last moment, del Moro reaches out gratefully for one of the awls in his bag; the ones he uses to ascertain whether the possessed can still feel pain in warts and witches’ marks.

  The voices are merging inside him now, a whole chorus, a cacophony of devils and angels, or so it seems to him, fighting for the mastery of his soul. Once again, in the hole under his left nipple, a demon rears its repulsive face, but much to his relief it flees back into his chest when he prods the silver awl at the cavity.

  Before him in the room, or perhaps in his overheated mind, driven to the very edge of madness, weird visions are appearing. Cardinal Rivero materialises before his eyes, but del Moro realises with a vertiginous sense of clarity that he is in fact under the fatal influence of his enemy, who has intentionally set him this trial, enticing him yet further up into the mountains so there shall be no witnesses to this final struggle. The Jesuit priest Schuster, too, appears, perhaps to his inner eye, and now del Moro knows that he, soon a dead man like Schuster, like the cardinal and all the others who have led him, step by step, to this place, is nothing but a common pawn in a higher struggle between cosmic forces.

  The demon grovels and squirms in the hole under his nipple and again he hears the voice he had taken in his confusion to be that of the archangel Michael, Drive out the demon with your awl, Sebastian, it’s your last chance!

  In the instant that del Moro puts the tip of the awl to his chest, at precisely the point where a few minutes before the demon face had shown itself and which is just over his heart, the door of the wardrobe at the other end of the room opens and he recognises the figure that, illuminated by the mass candles, steps out on to the floor. It’s the deformed boy he had once, years ago, examined in the Vatican.

  As the exhilarating tones of Clementi’s organ music fill him, he fully understands it, but the realisation that this is an act of pure revenge comes too late. Someone blows out the candles, the room falls into total darkness. In a last attempt to drive out the demon, he has driven the awl into his own heart.

  Borgo Santo Spirito, the XX April MDCCCXXXVII

  Dear Father Confessor,

  It will not be long before malicious rumours will be reaching you, by some roundabout way, in Naples, and I hope to forestall your worries with a calming letter, which also bears good tidings concerning your nephew Gianfranco. Place no confidence in what you hear about me, Ildebrando, my reputation is, and will remain, untarnished.

  Apart from recent tragic losses in our ranks, such as have caused considerable confusion, and of which I know you have already been informed, this spring has gone under the sign of consolidation. By the grace of God and a hitherto well-documented good fortune in the pontificate’s political concerns, we have arrived at a consensus in the important matters to be discussed this summer in the Klerus congregation and our steadfast Cor Unum council. The fear of God, alas, does not always fill our dear brethren when national affiliation comes up for discussion. But then, none of us is perfect.

  Now for the good news. After much deliberation, Lorenzetti, the prefect of the Pontificate Academy, has recommended your nephew Gianfranco for the position of next nuncio in Geneva, a bit of news that I presume has not yet reached you. Still further to add to his good fortune, I have given him the honorary task of hosting the multitude of visitors to Ad Limina Apostolorum this summer; the Swiss bishops seem to be somewhat over-represented in these obligatory pilgrimages to Rome this year. And this ought to fit in well with Gianfranco’s ambitions.

  With best wishes to you and our brethren in the Campania province, I conclude this hastily dictated letter, and ask you yet again to place no trust in rumours.

  Your most faithful and obedient servant

  Cardinal A. Rivero

  Sant Angelo, Ischia, the XXIV April MDCCCXXXVII

  Dear Aurelio,

  Your letter dated the XX reached me today at the thermal baths in Ischia, where it roused me from the ruminations of old age. The hot springs on this island are, as you know, most beneficial to my rheumatism, and I thank divine Providence that thus far, my health not being what it used to be, I am nevertheless in good spirits and of sound judgment.

  As you so rightly guess, I could not but help hearing of your supposed doings, though until now they have come to my attention only in furtive subordinate clauses and abstruse allusions. Naturally, I do not take them ad notam, at least, no more than to the degree where I am forced to ascertain what I have already known for a long time: namely that you have a rather unenviable flair for making enemies.

  Otherwise, as you kno
w, life in Naples is a somewhat modest affair. The exalted intrigues up in the Cardinalate and Bishops’ boards pass us by as a matter of routine, and what an archdeacon in Rome thinks about Mandatum Docendi for free-thinkers does not even come to our knowledge. I therefore thank you most humbly for all your confidences concerning high-ranking ecclesiastical matters, which undoubtedly satisfy my profane curiosity, but even more so for those of a private nature which do not enter into personal confession.

  How I miss you here sometimes, Aurelio, the evenings in the library, our walks in the mountains, the work with the poor. Just now, reading your letter, memories of our first summer come back to me with all their sentimental force and demand to be drawn in bright colours.

  Believe me, such things grow more difficult with the years. Our memories progressively withhold from us all that is unpleasant, lifting only the most beautiful moments up to the light to comfort our souls. The toils, hardships, bygone years of famine, increasingly assume the form of a marred dream.

  I hope to see you here in the not too distant future. Not in the shadow of the Lateran Church, but here, in the South, your former and my present home.

  The good news about Gianfranco particularly pleased me, and I ask you to pass on my sincere congratulations when next you happen upon him in the corridors of Borgo Santo Spirito. As for the deplorable losses in our ranks within the secret association, I must concur with the misgivings apparent between the lines of your letter. Notwithstanding the Restoration, the brethren still have some powerful enemies, and with this in mind I beg you to be vigilant.

  Hoping for a speedy reunion, your aged teacher and confessor,

  Ildebrando Montelli

  Borgo Santo Spirito, the XVI May MDCCCXXXVII

  Dear Ildebrando,

  I am writing this letter in all haste, but lacking a secretary to take dictation, as you may notice from the handwriting. Recent events, of which I fear you will by now have been made fully cognisant, call for an expeditious explanation and likewise rigorous discretion in order that my reputation not be still further sullied. I assure you, Ildebrando, there is an explanation for everything that you are hearing about me. Do not jump to conclusions!

  First of all, I must inform you of yet another death in our ranks, since it is quite possibly connected with the campaign directed against me. This time it concerns our most revered and, among some, dreaded inquisitor the Dominican monk S. del Moro. He was found in the Assisi district the week before last, with an awl driven into his heart. As yet my servant, Silvio, who has gone there in order to form some idea of the tragedy, has been unable to confirm the theory that our enemies – whoever they may be – are involved. Nor has it been possible to determine the actual cause of death. It could be murder or, God forbid, suicide. As you know, I considered Sebastian to be one of our most trustworthy colleagues. May God have mercy on his soul. The event troubles me deeply, and I can draw no conclusions other than that some person, or persons, want to damage the inner structure of our Association. Can it be I am next in line? Without exception these deaths and disappearances have befallen our key personages. Some time ago the two Malitsches, our brothers from the Rhine, vanished without trace. Last winter another of our faithful fellow workers, Pirandello, responsible for recruiting our Order’s laymen, was found dead off the Ligurian coast, drowned. This is a brief account of what appears to be a planned campaign against the movement that I, but also to a certain extent you too, Ildebrando, have sponsored.

  Now to the rumours that have most surely come to your knowledge. These lines I write to you as being my most long-term confessional father, and this ever since my novitiate: never forget the ties thus uniting us. I have recently, to put it mildly, not quite been myself, perhaps because of the pressure I’ve been under since these inexplicable deaths began to occur in my immediate vicinity. The suspicion has crossed my mind that these actions (the scandals and blasphemies), of which I am guilty, have in some way been caused by an external source. But on my honour, I assure you what is happening seems more portentous than it in fact is. Outwardly viewed, my actions might be seen as injudicious, unjustifiable or outright scandalous. But allow me to explain them to you when we meet, they are not suited to being put into writing in a letter.

  It is therefore first and foremost concerning this matter that I am writing to you. To the end, my oldest father confessor and spiritual guide, of making a complete confession of my sins in regard to these recent events, I have decided to come down to Naples. But my duties – not least to defend my present position, strongly questioned as it is – keep me in Rome for at least another month, or four weeks from the time when you receive this post. Until then, pray for me with all the strength and love I have so long admired in you.

  Your Aurelio Rivero

  PS Our intercessions during the immediate future ought to be for our deceased inquisitor S. del Moro.

  Naples, the XXVI May MDCCCXXXVII

  Aurelio,

  Through my friends at the Prefecture I have been able to follow your exploits in Rome more closely than you believe, and with the new information that has reached me I find the situation alarming. Do not lie to me! Do not attempt to shirk responsibility for what you have been doing of late! Also, spare me the cowardly excuses and measureless euphemisms in your letters: “not quite been myself”, “what is happening seems more portentous than it in fact is”, “injudicious”, events “caused by an external source”! Given the information I possess, I am seriously worried about the state of your soul. I hear rumours about you that I can scarcely bring myself to put into words: blasphemies, profanations of all sorts, fits of uncontrolled anger, scenes in public before dozens of witnesses, all highly respectable men. It is said that you have behaved with gross indecency, and that you on two occasions have struck a public official. Further: acts of dishonesty; failure to attend Mass; two nuncios have written to the Academy, complaining, and – I pray to God this is not true – that you, Aurelio, formerly my favourite pupil, are guilty of unmentionble blasphemies inside a church, of polluting it with excrement, acts the nature of which I neither can nor wish to formulate in words. I demand an explanation, in writing, before your arrival in Naples, which is thought by some to be a feint, inasmuch as it is said you are in reality planning to flee the country.

  I have also asked my nephew, Gianfranco, to keep me updated on your doings over the next period of time. The Association, if I have understood it aright, no longer wishes to run any risks on your behalf. I would recommend that you pray and practise self-denial, and that you take a leave of absence from your already sadly neglected duties. Maybe fasting would bring you to your senses, likewise a routine medical examination. I expect a letter by return of post.

  Ildebrando Montelli

  Rome, the XI June MDCCCXXXVII

  Dear Confessor!

  I beg you: do not take your hand from me, not now, when my despair equals my guilt.

  This morning I received news of our Rhineland friends, the Malitsches. Apparently they have poisoned themselves. By mistake? The circumstances are wrapped in obscurity. No witnesses, no farewell letters, no-one able to tell us anything about them since their mysterious disappearance last Easter. Pray for their souls, Ildebrando, as I hope you will pray for mine, when the time comes.

  A terrible suspicion has begun to haunt me: that, somehow or other, it is the deformed boy who is behind all this. The thought that somebody wishes to revenge themselves for the boy’s death leaves me no peace. As you know, the boy was got rid of, but all the people who have recently met with accidents were in some way involved in that business. I am deeply confused. In my darkest moments I fear a terrible mistake has been made, one so inconspicuous that we have quite overlooked it. For this reason I have written to our loyal colleague J. Langhans in Vienna. When last we met, in November, he assured me yet again that the mind-reading monster was well and truly out of the way. Is there any reason why he should lie to me, or, for reasons unbeknown to us, hold something back?
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  These thoughts have been haunting me to such a degree that I have still not been able to reply to your last letter, in which you, so rightly, reproach me for my actions.

  With these words I seal this letter, for now my new secretary is beckoning to me on some urgent matter. Hopefully, I shall be able to start writing a fresh letter to you this very afternoon, answering all your questions.

  May God keep you in good health,

  Your obedient servant,

  Aurelio

  Dearest Ildebrando,

  I continue now where I left off this morning.

  I am in despair, and I beg to be forgiven for what I have done and for the damage I have caused to the Secret Association. In the light of what has happened I know these explanations will seem too late, but – for lack of a better simile – it is as if I have been possessed by an alien force; or to put it more precisely, by alien thoughts and will-power such as I had never believed it possible to entertain.