saint Sebastian the Rose

by Glover, Michael W.

  chapter TWENTY-NINE

  THE GROUP OF MONKS followed Father Donovan and Father Lemoine as they made their way to the steps leading down, steps Father Donovan had traveled down several times; they were familiar to him, as was the tradition of burying special souls beneath holy houses. This one had been buried here a long time ago when the Mass was all spoken in Latin. He was reminded of that when he spied the inscriptions leading the way down.

  He paused for a couple reasons: he was scared, and he was sure somewhere in the inscriptions was something that should mean something. The prayer was inscribed on the steps, one by one going down. The reader was supposed to read as they walked—preparation for entering into the tomb. Father Donovan spoke softly as he read the inscriptions with each step, and then he saw what was meant to be found.

  “The Walk of the Dead.”

  Most would read this for what was obvious—at the bottom lay someone who was dead and this was their journey to that place, their walk. The meaning was double-edged in its truth: here, the dead literally walk. Father Lemoine listened as his leader whispered to himself. He followed closely as he descended the steps.

  The steps ended, and they stopped before the large door, different than many might have expected. This door was large and heavy, which was not the unusual part: this one was solid metal. Father Donovan looked for anything out of the ordinary, but then asked himself what was ordinary. He stepped aside and made way for Father Lemoine and others to help. He would let the young and able do the heavy lifting.

  They leaned on the door and felt its stubbornness, so they planted their feet solidly and pushed together as one. With much complaining, the door let out a great cry as its hinges were once again forced to open against its will. The door was so heavy, they reasoned it was made to remain unopened or at least not be opened easily.

  The chamber echoed the sound of the disturbance and seemed to bellow at the intruders. They ceased their efforts and stood before an opening large enough for a couple of men to enter. The darkness was complete, except for the sliver of light running down from the sky past them and into the opening. Several of the monks in line lit torches before they made any move to enter.

  Father Donovan looked at all behind him; their eyes fixed on him, and the door, like Hell itself, was waiting for them. Not wanting to add to their madness, he stepped briskly past Father Lemoine and into the void.

  Father Lemoine followed, and everyone else took their cue. The room came to life as everyone entered, torches banishing the darkness. Several monks stood with their chests rising and falling quickly, their hearts beating rapidly. But the room was empty—empty except for the lone tomb.

  They walked around, and Father Donovan looked for anything that might lead to a clue. Every wall contained inscriptions and pictures. Where would they lead them? Father Lemoine instructed everyone to look for any sign of a hidden door, and soon the monks were feeling every inch of the interior.

  Father Donovan found the place where Sebastian told him he had sat as he waited for the day to pass. He knew this might lead him to what he searched for. He sat down on the dusty cold stone floor and looked around at his busy brothers. He looked to the walls, the floor next to where he sat, and up at the ceiling flickering with the torch light, where he spotted something. Right above the tomb was a scrawl on the ceiling. He stood up so he could look more closely. Most would think this was just graffiti, but he knew no one had been in here in a long time. The marks only stood out to him because there appeared to be an astrological significance. Before, that would not have meant much to him, but after hearing Sebastian go on about vampires’ fascination with all things astronomical, he understood this was not by chance.

  His gaze now fell over the only thing making any sense down here—the only possible solution to their puzzle—the sarcophagus. He feared their answer was the last resting place of the long departed soul, the protector and guardian. He walked over to the huge limestone centerpiece. Father Lemoine joined him, suspecting his brother had discovered the answer. Upon inspection they saw something that made them shiver oh-so-slightly: just on the edge of the lip there was a dark stain. Blood was smeared from what must have been a hand print.

  Everyone joined them as the silence was only broken by the sounds of the flames from the flickering torches. Father Lemoine signaled for several to stand on one side of the lid, with everyone trying to avoid the hand print. On his signal, they pushed with great force and the limestone lid grated with every inch it gave up. All eyes were focused on the contents, and swords and spears were at the ready.

  They were all disappointed. Father Donovan peered in to find neither a casket nor a body or any semblance of remains therein. What did come forth was air, air that was cold, colder than the air on the most bitter of winter days; their breath now shown in the light as great plumes of wispy smoke.

  Father Lemoine took a torch and held it high above the opening, trying to make sense of the endless darkness they looked into. His answer came in the form of shadowed edges, edges that when linked together formed steps, more steps leading further down. Without thinking or asking he stepped over the edge and into the tomb. This was his responsibility; all followed.

  The steps were rough and worn, not so much by travelers but by water and time. It seemed like they went on for an eternity. Here and there you could see inscriptions on the walls; some were missing entire pieces of stone from the wall, while others were scratched off completely. Relics appeared in places, standing guard, offering a sign of protection. Winding down, they came to an alcove. The stairs ended in a small room. Every three feet or so was a doorway leading down another dark corridor. With four choices before them Father Donovan made his silent decision and stepped into the door on the left; there was no time for debate. He did not know how far these went; they would have to find their quarry soon.

  The smoke from the torches gathered over their heads. The tunnels were low, just reaching above them. They walked and walked, hoping to find something and hoping to find nothing. The divergence of needs never escaped the monks. The slope continued slightly down, and their pace quickened. History was written over the walls, but there was no time to read what surely must be very interesting. Finally the tunnel opened up into a room … small, dark, and dank but empty.

  Father Lemoine took a quick inspection but there was nothing to the small room but a few loose pieces of old wood. He looked to Father Donovan. They said nothing, then turned on their heels and returned the way they came. Their journey was the same and they reached the small alcove they started from. There would be neither rhyme nor reason for the choice, only the need to be very certain. With only a quick look and satisfaction, the next tunnel would be their start. Something new was added on this trip—rats. A few of the rodents scurried about on a mission to whatever is important to rats.

  The pace had always been quick with the silent expectation, each monk walking in step. Father Donovan took the lead and was squinting against the darkness that lay ahead, when the dim light caught something. He spied something on the floor and ceased his march. After just moments he took several cautious steps. Drawing closer, he could discern a body in the middle of the tunnel. Actually a body would be overstating: what was in front of them was the remnants of what used to be a body.

  There were bones—the only thing remaining of a body. The skeleton had lain here for quite a while; anything that once held the bones together had long disintegrated or been chewed away by the current residents—rats.

  After some travel, the narrow tunnel gave up another opening that made a room, and the monks entered. The room was similar to the previous one they found—nothing special. Things were scattered about with no reason to be found, leftovers it would seem, from the digging and carving out of the room itself.

  All present seemed bitterly disappointed. Nothing was quite meeting up with expectations—dirty, empty old rooms with no more excitement or danger than an old broom closet.

  “I am worried,�
� Father Lemoine said, turning to Father Donovan.

  Father Donovan leaned into his comrade so whispers would suffice. He was open to all counsel; wise people know that when you will not take into consideration the opinions of others even though they depart from your own, you block infinite possibilities.

  “What if this is a ruse we have been made to believe? What if we are in the wrong spot, and we are wasting our time?” Father Lemoine asked. Father Donovan screwed up his face and looked at the floor.

  “I agree this is possible, but we are here, and we must take an accounting of every place we find. We do not know of any other option at the moment. No, I am quite sure we are correct. Only a thorough inspection will prove us right.”

  Father Lemoine listened closely; he prayed his mentor was correct. He nodded his head, and looking to his troops, walked between them, taking up the lead. Father Donovan looked at the room as everyone left and also prayed he was correct and they would soon find something.

  When they once again made the alcove they paused momentarily. Turning to the only thing they knew was the next tunnel, they would enter the third.

  This tunnel went on too long; it had been too long since they had seen the light of day, and the silence was beginning to work on their nerves. Father Donovan was suddenly beginning to think his brother may have been right.

  He soon saw a break in the wall like the ones that had appeared in the other two tunnels and thought they might soon have to abandon their search, but then as the light began to highlight further he saw more than an empty shell of a room. Making his way to the very edge of the entrance, he stopped and raised a torch into the air. This room was different, and on some level, he knew they had found it.

  Slowly, Father Donovan stepped into the room, with all behind him anxiously following. More than a carved-out shell, this room was finished like catacombs reserved for important people. There were shelves carved out of the walls, and the floor was finished, not like the tunnel floors. Father Donovan looked up to the dome-shaped ceiling and let his eyes focus on what would normally be nothing extraordinary, but instead he gazed upon a mural-like drawing of the heavens, something that looked like it could have been drawn by Leonardo Da Vinci. Here the stars, planets and moons played out a kind of mathematical dance of celestial navigation. They moved across the sky frame by frame. A story was being told here, and he only wished he knew the tale.

  Every monk’s head turned upwards, trying to understand what they all were seeing. There was one thing they all knew: this drawing was not as old as the tunnels they traveled into. These drawings had no dust and no cobwebs, no cracks, and no water damage; they were the result of most recent efforts, though long and arduous. With their heads tilted back, their sense of smell caught something lingering in the air, a faint smell of decay.

  The room’s finished décor was not the only difference: this room not only had the entrance but also two exits on opposite ends. The dilemma was troublesome—how many tunnels could there be, and which ones would be the right ones? Surely they were on the right track. Father Lemoine looked for any sign as to the choice. With further inspection he noticed tracks in the dust on the floor. The only problem was that both doors showed the same pattern.

  With quick decision-making Father Lemoine chose to enter the left doorway, and within no time, he realized it led to stairs going down. Along the way he came across a few sconces on the walls. He lit them, kept following the twisting steps and soon found himself entering into a much different world.

  A new room, larger than any so far, circled around, encompassing an area thirty feet across. This room had a central table carved out of stone, and every so often there were holes in the floor two-to-three feet in diameter, five or six in total. The monks stepped in quietly, not for their own sake but upon Father Lemoine’s signal. That table would have been extraordinary by itself, but upon it was a large pool of blood running down its sides and making a path to those large holes.

  The walls were sectioned off into five feet sections, and several of those sections had been torn into, leaving heavy chunks of stone at their base. Behind was a cavity in the wall where something had been stored or buried. Walking over to one of the destroyed wall sections, they found a space large enough for a body to be hidden. The monks realized this was the place they had been looking for, but they seemed to be the last to discover it.

  Danger was in the air now and everyone’s senses tingled with heightened nervousness. One monk walked over to one of the holes in the floor and peered down. He saw the pitch black staring back at him. The only breaks in the wall sections were other doorways leading in several directions. The endless maze of tunnels frustrated everyone. When the monks entered these other exits they found only honeycombed tunnels about every ten feet in every direction. They had become so accustomed to finding new tunnels they just wandered a bit. One of the monks moved his torch around from side to side, and that’s when he saw it. The first corpse they had come across, not including the bones.

  The body lay in a slot in the wall, barely one foot from where Father Paul stood. He stared hard at the body, eyes fixed as though they were glued. The gruesome reality sank in as he took in the details of the livid thing and several others joined him. Father Donovan came over and said a little prayer, seeing the individual was recently departed. The blood on the stone table was likely his.

  “We need to spread out; there are too many places to cover.”

  “Yes, but make sure no one is left alone. Pairs will search,” Father Donovan instructed.

  “What if they find … ?” Father Lemoine asked.

  “Then they strike with the force of a hammer on steel. We are not here to ask questions,” Father Donovan said with clarity.

  Father Lemoine took his orders and gave out his own, dividing the hunting party into pairs and telling them, in no uncertain terms, the gruesome job that was theirs to perform.

  Every team was off, and the hunt was on. Pair after pair made their way into the maze of tunnels. This was much different than the boring line of men marching. Here was a corner every ten to thirty paces, and every so often there were spaces carved out of the walls, small niches for a final rest. Some were occupied, but most were decayed bodies that had lain for many decades, possibly centuries.

  Father Lemoine stayed with his mentor, Father Donovan. Not only did this make him feel better, but there was no way he would let any harm come to his leader. Their paced slowed, unsure what was around the bend. The sounds heard were the sounds of metal clanging on stone reverberating down the halls. Every time they heard the noises they realized a foe was being taken down; the dreadful work of the day began. It would be a very long time before any forgot this day.

  After turning many corners and not finding anything themselves, they entered a longer hall with many alcoves. They looked into the dark slots from the distance. They approached the first and knew immediately this body had been put here for a reason. Sticking from its chest was a stake. Father Donovan pulled from his satchel a bottle of holy water, recited a small prayer, and sprayed the head. The body had obviously been inanimate for a very long time, but the reaction was instantaneous and devastating: the face gave way under the corrosive effect.

  After viewing the destruction caused by the blessed water they made their way further down the hall that was taller than they had first realized. They also took note of the number of slots extending up to the ceiling, which soared up to more than twenty-five feet.

  Walking farther down the hall, another occupied slot appeared and Father Donovan and Father Lemoine each took notice; the revulsion was clear on their faces. This was not a weathered old corpse or a new body that had met its end; this was exactly what they had expected to find—a deathly pallid face that almost glowed in the cool air. They had found their enemy. With closely measured steps Father Lemoine stepped up to the slot and pulled a silver spike from his belt … a freshly blessed and never-before-used stake looking for a christening. His fingers work
ed themselves into a good grip around the metal that soaked up the cold. Father Lemoine was as nervous as he had ever been before in his life. With his heart pounding and his forehead sweating even in the frosty air, he took several deep breaths, took note of the enemy’s chest and raised the spike.

  With uncanny timing, the eyes opened; eyes that turned red the instant they focused. Adrenaline pumped into Father Lemoine’s system and down he plunged the spike with full force, hitting his mark. The cry was immediate, and the hands that grabbed his body wrenched him from his feet and halfway into the slot. The hope that Father Donovan would aid him in his release was dashed when he heard the distinct sounds of feet hitting the ground behind him as something dropped from above.

  Father Donovan had been of the mind to help but was now faced with his own predicament. As he watched Father Lemoine wrestle with his foe, he knew someone was behind him. The old monk dropped to his knees as quickly as he could command his body to do so. More gracefully than most would imagine, he stooped down to one knee. The swipe of a clawed hand passed over him. He took advantage of his position and came around low to the ground with the short sword he had held onto since he had entered these halls. The blade came around, hitting its mark.

  Father Lemoine heard the scream and knew Father Donovan was engaged but one up at the moment, hardly the best news given his situation, still literally face-to-face with his opponent. Hoping his brother would soon be able to help was far-fetched, given the fact that he had heard multiple thuds hit the floor. This did not bode well, he thought. He was in tight quarters and bound to a dying vampire while his mentor was facing possibly more than one of the wretched and powerful creatures.

  Father Donovan’s thoughts were with his brother, but he had his hands full. Still not fully aware of what he was facing but realizing the first had fallen to the ground after a swiping of his blade, he reached for more tools of his trade, this time a bottle of his favorite liquid. Turning to face whatever was coming, and he knew it was coming, he brought his other arm around in an arc, sending a river of water out of the bottle into the air. The splash confirmed what he now looked upon: standing in the corridor were three shadows stopped in their tracks grasping at smoldering wounds. The anguish on their faces was as loud as any scream that could have been uttered, but Father Donovan was not concerned with that. Looking at the first one he downed with his sword, he drew his spike and sent it deep into the thing’s chest.