by David Clark
“Yes, that is the place where souls sit to suffer for all eternity. They neither go to heaven or hell.” The sermons Father Henry gave were rarely fire and brimstone. Most where of an enlightening message, to give those that needed it hope, but occasionally he went dark with his message and used that image to help warn those in his congregation to not slip off what he called “the slick path of salvation”.
“I bet you can see where this is going. Now, if you go strictly by the text, Purgatory is a mountain you have to climb to get to Paradiso, heaven, but you don’t really start on that climb until you get through the first two levels called Ante-Purgatory. Those levels are called Excommunicate and Late Repentant. The last of which has a gate as an exit to the first level of true Purgatory. That is Saint Peter’s Gate.”
His teacher stopped the lecture for a moment and brought his brown eyes even with William’s. A smile broke across his face as he saw the lightning bolt of knowledge strike inside his student. William sat back in his chair and looked up. His eyes looked up at the imagery depicted in the great stained glass windows that existed every few feet along the walls of the top level. Then he looked up at the fresco on the ceiling. The images, one after another, lined with details of what Cristobal had just explained to him.
“If it weren’t for the ability of some of us to see and experience those souls trapped, we would think this was just a work of literature and a silly belief system. For now, it is the only thing that makes sense.”
William asked, “So, how do we help them climb the mountain?”
“Oh, you are going to be great at this.”
18
When William returned back to his and Ainslee’s residence in the Vatican, he found it empty, which suited him fine. He was sure she would have a ton of questions about his first day of “training” and at the moment, he was more exhausted than any day out in the pasture had ever made him. His body wasn’t tired, though, it was his mind. The result of six straight hours, scouring book after book, most of it in Latin, which required Cristobal to explain it to him. Most William understood right away, but some of the finer points required additional explanation.
Their studies covered the theories of life and death, combined with documented studies of spirits and groups of spirits that priests, and others like William, had encountered. Each study appeared to take what they’d observed and tried to fit it into their current view. At first this was a shock to William. They, those he thought were experts, didn’t have a true understanding of what they were doing. This was all just guessing, based on their current beliefs and what they had observed. What was comforting was how candid Cristobal was about it all. William had expected a member of the church to be locked and rigid about their beliefs and how things were, but he was far from it. He was almost logical and scientific in his approach. He took the time to show him the times they’d had to rethink their understanding, to emphasize that it was an ever-evolving topic. Where a high level of uncertainty existed, he pointed it out.
He walked William through the study of Friar Benedictor, a Franciscan monk that, like William, could see them. The friar had had unusual and fortunate encounters with a repeating visitor. After he encountered and contacted the same spirit, in the same spot on the grounds of the monastery, for the third time, he decided to test a theory. Each time he saw the spirit, it roamed up to the courtyard wall and turned, only to encounter the wall on the other side and then turned again. It would repeat this, over and over. Being that the monastery was holy grounds, he hypothesized that spirits are sensitive to holy objects and people. He placed objects in the courtyard, both blessed and not, as his test and control variables. Two nights later, his test subject arrived, and he watched. As always, it wandered around between the walls, but never attempted to avoid any of the objects he had placed around the courtyard, whether they were blessed or not. Concerned his test subject may not be aware of anything but the walls, the friar walked into the courtyard, toward the spirit. When he was close enough, the spirit retreated away from him, several feet. He repeated this several more times, backing the spirit into a corner of the courtyard, against the wall. The friar reached out with his hand and touched it once again, and the spirit disappeared through the very wall he believed had trapped it in the courtyard. What he learned was, they were not aware of objects that had no importance to them, whether it was blessed or not. To provide supporting details to his conclusion, he tried to determine who the spirit was, and why they might be connected to the courtyard. He didn’t have to go far, just another hundred yards to the cemetery, where he found the headstone of Friar Montgomery, who died eighty years earlier, and had constructed that very courtyard wall.
The friar’s findings were gathered and delivered to the Council of Zion, an eleven member board made up of clergy and cardinals, that reviewed any such findings for correctness and completeness. If any beliefs needed to be adjusted based on a report, this group made such adjustments.
Thoughts and images of his learnings danced in his head as he laid back on the lush bedding. His brain craved sleep, to recover from the day’s activities, as well as to process all he had learned. His eyes closed, but the outside world was not replaced by darkness. Instead, pages of text and images raced across his vision, and around in his subconscious. His mind was too tired to make an attempt to comprehend, and let the pages fall into the emptiness below while he retreated further and further into the darkness of sleep.
William woke up minutes, or hours, later to a huge racket in the sitting area of their residence. He leaned up and expected to find Ainslee, perhaps sitting there drinking tea after her day out, but that was not the case. The heat coming off his visitor, blistering his skin, told him who was there before he opened his eyes. The flames around him seemed larger than they had back during the dream in his home. Maybe it wasn’t a dream after all.
“I see you didn’t listen to me,” thundered the familiar coarse voice. Its yellow eyes seemed more focused and determined this time. “You really should have listened. You had such a great future ahead of you. A wonderful family. Year after year of bountiful harvests. All given up, for what? The promise of something greater, by a bunch of old men that play dress-up. The life this leads to is nothing like the one I offered. The road to their greatness is paved with pain and sorrow.”
It picked up one of the teacups Ainslee had left on the table, and mimicked taking a sip before placing it back on the table with a thud, then stood up from the table. Its hooves clopped against the tile floor as it walked around the table and over to the footstool William had kicked earlier that morning. When it reached the stool, it sat and crossed one leg over the other. Its hands were placed on top of its knee as it leaned forward. Its posture mimicked one he had seen Bishop Emmanuel take once, when he was lecturing William about the responsibility he was being entrusted with, during their discussions on board the ship.
“Now, I could just condemn you for ignoring my offer, but I am not a vengeful creature. It is not too late, William. You and your cherry of a wife could return home, your real home, not this place, and have all that I offered.”
“Why should I believe you?”, William asked.
“You can talk. I was beginning to think you were a mute. That is a fair question. Why should you believe me?”, It brought a flame-engulfed hand up to its chin and rubbed, while deep in thought. Sparks flew from its fingertips with each stroke. Then it snapped its fingers, producing more sparks. “That’s right. I can do what I promise, and they can’t, it is that simple.”
It sat there and watched William from the footstool, its yellow eyes probing below the skin and into the essence of the man. A series of images flowed through his mind: the farm, with fields full of lush green crops; two large young boys helping him put up a new fence; Ainslee, looking on with the smile of an angel on her face. Each image reinforced the promise the creature had made. Each image also brought a sense of contentment, happiness, and pleasure to William. A fresh spring breeze, with a
hint of early morning dew, replaced the heat that radiated from the flames that surrounded the creature. Chill bumps developed on his arms.
“I will come back for my answer,” it said, and dissipated into a puff of steam as the door opened.
Ainslee burst in, all aglow, “You are back,” she exclaimed. She was followed by the same young woman, in a white habit, that had come in with breakfast that morning. Her gaze was no longer focused on the floor but, instead, was up and confident. The plain, blank, almost subservient look she had possessed earlier was gone, replaced by a pleasant smile. Ainslee rushed over to hug and kiss her husband. Over her shoulder, William noticed that the nun had turned to give them privacy for their show of affection.
“The city is beautiful. Fountains, churches, shops, everywhere. It is like walking through paradise, with all the beautiful buildings, and … oh, the food. I didn’t eat any, mind you, but the smells that roll up and down the street are enough to make your mouth water.”
While Ainslee gushed over her tour of Vatican City, and the surrounding area of Rome, her escort stood in the sitting room. The pleasant look that was on her face when she had walked in was gone. One of concern had replaced it as she walked around the table. Her eyes moved from the chair the creature had sat in, up to the ceiling, and down again. Then, as she walked toward the footstool, the look of concern grew to despair. Her eyes became jittery as she approached the stool. She passed her right hand through where the creature had sat, and then ran back to the center of the room, hand over her mouth as she gasped out loud.
19
If William’s head wasn’t tired and spinning after his day of reading and training, it was after Ainslee’s whirlwind recap of her day in town. She took her husband on a descriptive tour of each and every street she had traveled. Some of it was just her telling him, but others were even more enjoyable for William. She bought slices of bread, cheese, and meat, rolled up in a cloth. Flowers of various sweet fragrances were rolled up in another. Sister Francine explained that people placed them in vases in their residences to add a floral fragrance to the air, and once they started to wilt you could pluck the petals and add them to your bath water to create an aromatic perfume that would stay on your skin for days. William thought it odd that a nun would be aware of such an indulgence, but just because she knew about it didn’t mean she practiced it. The audible tour continued for the rest of the afternoon, until Sister Francine returned with their dinner on a tray. She carried another object on her tray, as well, a vase.
So far, the outside world was meeting, if not exceeding, her wildest dreams. William, on the other hand, had seen a ship and the inside of a library. Albeit an impressive library, as was every other room and hall he had seen in the Vatican. The food wasn’t bad, either. Everything was cooked just right, and the flavors were an experience. Meat that tasted sweet, vegetables that had an oily spice to them, and the bread! The bread had a buttery flavor to it, without any butter in sight.
William’s fork hit the plate for the last time, when there was a knock at the door. After another quick swig of red wine from his chalice, he wiped his mouth with a small linen that was next to his plate and pushed away from the table. When he opened the door, he saw Cristobal and Bishop Emmanuel. Behind them, two monks stood in full brown robes, hoods pulled up over their heads. Their hands crossed at the center of their body. Both held a lit lantern in their hands.
“William, you need to come with us,” said Bishop Emmanuel.
“More training?”, he asked.
Cristobal said, “Something like that.”
William walked out the door and noticed another member of their party standing outside the glow of the lanterns. He was diminutive compared to the others, and wore a red robe. His face was hidden among the shadows, and he turned away before William could get a good look. The man walked down the hallway, ahead of the rest of the group, and always outside the glow of the light. They retraced the steps William and Ainslee had taken the night before, when they’d arrived, and descended the steps down to the plaza. At the bottom, no coach waited for them, wherever they were going, they were going on foot.
The night was quiet and cool. Only a handful of people were out walking in the streets, and the faint sound of music radiated from a few of the buildings as they walked north, away from St. Peter’s Basilica. These streets were similar to the ones they’d rode in on last night, but as awe-inspiring as they were when seen from the coach, seeing them up close, like he was now, revealed them in more detail. Smooth rock walls. Ornate iron gates and railings that led to equally ornate doors, or covered the bottom half of second story windows, to create a balcony. What he didn’t see were simple stone structures. With the exception of large structures, like churches and government buildings, and a few houses of the very well off, every building back home was made of simple stacked stone, or wood walls and thatched or shingled roofs. That was not the case here. Everything was an elegant stone structure, with decorative architectural features, and flat or red terra cotta roofs.
Their small leader in red broke his silence and said in a thick accent, “Non è molto più lontano.”
Cristobal leaned into William and, just above a whisper, repeated what was said, but in English, “It’s not much further.”
“What isn’t?”
20
“Not far was right,” thought William, as the group turned down a dark alleyway between two rows of three-story, peach-colored, stone buildings. There were no gas lanterns on poles lighting this passageway, just the ones carried by the two monks, several feet ahead of him. Which is why the appearance of stairs going down caught him a little off guard, and almost sent him tumbling, but he caught his first misstep and made it down the rest of the way without incident or embarrassment.
The stairs ended on another street much like the one they had left to go down the alley, but the lighthearted amazement William felt from his first up-close look at the city had been replaced by a familiar sense of dread, and a prickling along his neck. He knew what this was, without anyone saying a word. Knowing what he was here to do, William marched forward to take the lead and handle it, but he only made it two steps before Cristobal grabbed his arm and pulled him back to his place in line.
William looked at him with alarm, and was about to say something, when Cristobal said, “Just stand back and watch. You are not ready yet.”
Those words stung a bit. This “gift” was not something William had just acquired. He had experience, a lot of it. If they didn’t believe he was ready, then why did they bring him this far from home? His parents had instilled a sense of manners in their gruff and somewhat overconfident son, so he did as he was told. It would be rude to do anything other; he was their guest here.
Both William and Cristobal were cast into darkness as the two lantern-holding monks spread out to either side of their red-cloaked leader. Their arms panned the circles of light back and forth, in a slow progression. Every few swings of the light was followed by a step forward. Another few swings, and another step. This continued, but Cristobal didn’t move forward with the lantern-swinging monks. He stayed put where he had stopped William from rushing forward, even as the light moved forward beyond them, he stayed, now bathed in darkness.
A low growl echoed down the narrow street. If that wasn’t enough to send the hair on the back of William’s neck standing on end, the fact that it came from behind them was. His fight or flight response was having an argument deep inside his mind. The urge to run was there, but why wasn’t anyone else running, or even looking as if they were alarmed? Was he the only one who’d heard the growl?
He didn’t give in to the urge to run, but did make an attempt to turn around and look for what was behind them.
“Don’t,” Cristobal warned at William’s first attempt to turn. “Keep looking straight ahead, and when I tell you, clear the street.”
William didn’t ask for a clarification as the growl sounded again, this time closer, and this time it came w
ith a vibration that shook the ground beneath his feet. Now he knew what Cristobal meant when he had said he wasn’t ready yet. In all of his experiences, nothing had ever growled before, and definitely not shook the floor.
The growl echoed again, this time deeper, more primal, and it had company. It was not one growl, but several, contained in the same sound. A hot wind breathed on him from behind. Once again, his legs wanted to run, but he wouldn’t let them. Not even when the hot breath moved back and forth across the back of his head, stirring several stray hairs. Chills coursed throughout his body. The world around him shook, causing his vision to vibrate. At first, he thought the shaking was caused by the great beast behind him moving back and forth, but his teeth chattered, revealing it was his body that shook. If William hadn’t known what fear was before, he did now.
“William,” said Cristobal. Each syllable strung out. There was a great pause that made William believe he was waiting on a reply. “NOW!”
Cristobal ran to the left, William’s legs responded to the call and he ran to the right and pancaked himself up against the wall. The ground rumbled around them as the sound of some enormous beast snorting and running thundered past them. There was nothing there, not that William could see, but he could follow it by sound as it closed in on their red-cloaked leader. His eyes were trained on him, expecting him to get out of the way, but he didn’t. The only move he made was to turn and throw off his hood, revealing the face of someone William would guess was eighty years old or more. That man’s eyes squinted toward the beast, accentuating the age lines and wrinkles that dominated his face. He held up an object in his right hand and recited something, but William couldn’t make out what the object was. It was too small, and the rumble beneath his feet shook his vision. The words he recited were muffled under the thundering steps of the beast, which showed no signs of slowing down as they rumbled toward and through the man, as he was thrown to the ground by a great impact.
