Devil's Fire

by Melissa MacNeal

  The little man’s jaw clenched, but he then resumed his usual beneficent expression. ‘Be careful what you wish for, Mary Grace,’ he remarked as we left the circular grove, ‘for sometimes wishes come true.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  Secrets of the Catacombs

  ‘Just as Ahmad is the keeper of the bees here at Heaven’s Gate, I am the keeper of the dead.’

  Brother Christy announced this as though he were a gardener or an architect, and I suppose falling for Hyde Fortune should’ve accustomed me to the discomfort such a statement inspired. Indeed, as the monk ushered me down the central aisle of the empty sanctuary, with its vaulted ceilings and dark, carved panelling, he moved with more intensity than I’d ever seen him display. I held an arm over my breasts to keep them from bobbing, which seemed disrespectful in a place of worship, while goosebumps covered me like the flesh of a cold, plucked chicken.

  I was wishing Elvira had come along. Brother Christy seemed oblivious to my anxiety as he marched me past the pews and the altar of Italian marble. During our brief Sunday services, I’d marvelled at this cavernous chapel’s decor yet had come away feeling like I’d visited the home of a wealthy patron rather than a house of God. I became alarmed as my escort hurried me past the chairs with seats of black brocade, towards the crimson curtain behind the chancel.

  ‘This is an honour I’m bestowing upon you,’ Brother Christy whispered. As his lenses caught the flickering light of the votives, his eyes were hidden by reflected flames. ‘Show proper respect, Mary Grace. Those who have gone before us deserve a peaceful, undisturbed rest.’

  I tried to swallow the lump in my throat. Did this cherub-like man think I’d dance with the dead? Or was he telling me the monastery’s deceased had endured great pain before meeting their ends? As he opened a small door hidden behind the curtain, I wondered if I would ever emerge from this place he was taking me, or if anyone realised where I’d gone. I had always trusted Brother Christy, yet his manner — and the cold, dank air drifting through the door — made my skin crawl.

  ‘I’d feel better about this if I were dressed,’ I said, balking when he took my hand.

  The monk blinked. ‘You may choose more clothing when we reach the vaults. No reason to limit yourself to fabrics for your quilts, you know.’

  I frowned. I’d assumed the nut-coloured robes were standard attire.

  ‘Although most of us have chosen the tunics Father Luc issues, we’re free to wear whatever we please,’ he explained. ‘Sybil, for instance, prefers trousers because her tunic caught fire one day.’

  I could imagine the elfin redhead stirring pots at the open hearth, and swaying too close to the flames. ‘And I suppose those India-style pants suit Ahmad’s…condition better than a hanging garment.’

  Brother Christy grinned. ‘His attributes can’t be confined by clothing, it’s true. Most of us choose tunics because we prefer their ease and freedom. It has nothing to do with a vow of poverty.’

  ‘Easy on, easy off,’ I mused.

  I hugged myself as the chill from the passageway slithered around us. Wearing a dress with appropriate underthings appealed to me — made me less vulnerable to advances and thereby less likely to receive punishment from Father Luc. Yet, standing on the threshold of the catacombs, I knew who the garments Christy offered me had probably belonged to.

  But where else would I find any clothing? My pitiful wardrobe from before Papa’s death was best left behind, and I didn’t want to become beholden to Hyde for new gowns. Sewing my illustrated quilts left me little time to be my own seamstress, so Brother Christy’s offer seemed the most practical for my remaining three months at Heaven’s Gate. He’d alluded to rich fabrics in brilliant hues, which sounded heavenly to a soul crying out for colour and stylish line.

  So I took a deep breath and stooped through the doorway. We stood for a moment, letting our eyes adjust to the dimness. This small foyer’s sconces matched the ones along the sanctuary walls, yet now that I stood close enough to discern their design, my eyes widened: one resembled male genitalia, with the flame flickering from the hole at its tip, while the other sconce was female. Brother Christy walked ahead of me, to descend a stone staircase, so I couldn’t study that fire-breathing vagina. It was enough to make a preacher’s daughter pale. What else in this monastery had I failed to notice in my naïveté?

  My escort disappeared around a curve. I rushed to catch up, not wanting to be left alone in this nether region of the monastery where my assumptions were being so blatantly disproven. We were underground, judging from the stone walls rimmed with mineral deposits, entering a cave-like area lit by more of those suggestive sconces. Brother Christy’s humming echoed eerily, punctuated by the slow drip of water from quartz and crystal stalactites that hung like huge, pointed breasts. He stopped in front of doors carved into the granite walls.

  ‘I trust you’ve seen bodies of the deceased, prepared for their final rites?’

  It was a logical question, considering my association with Hyde. I clung to the hope, however, that hesitation might rescue me from this monk’s mysterious plans. ‘Only my grandmother, years ago,’ I replied anxiously. ‘Mama was emaciated by her consumption, and Papa so mangled after his fall, that their caskets remained closed.’

  ‘And Fortune showed you nothing of his handiwork?’

  ‘No one was brought to Mount Calvary the night I stayed there.’

  Brother Christy’s blue eyes sparkled. ‘I’m indebted to Hyde for sharing his trade secrets,’ he explained eagerly. ‘He supplies me with the necessary chemicals, and has taught me much about the preservation of human flesh. I’ll warn you, however, that our departed friends haven’t been laid away in the usual manner. I consider it my final tribute — an art form, actually — to render them as beautiful in death as they were in life.’

  Unbidden images flashed in my mind. I recalled Papa’s accusations, about Hyde taking liberties with the dead, and my stomach knotted. Surely this man of angelic appearance didn’t cavort with the cadavers he’d preserved…yet Sybil had said Brother Christy didn’t engage in the erotic games other residents enjoyed. And he had to be occupying himself somehow during all those hours I didn’t see him.

  When he took my hand, I didn’t grip it.

  ‘You’re afraid,’ he murmured. ‘Or does your pulse race for the same reasons as mine?’

  I yanked my hand from his grasp. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about! I have no desire to see — why don’t you just bury your dead? Their souls have flown, so there’s no earthly reason to preserve them!’

  Brother Christy smiled patiently. ‘You’ve surely noticed that here at Heaven’s Gate, we live on limited land. It would be poor stewardship to turn our fertile fields into cemetery plots, when we depend upon the fruits and vegetables we raise.’

  After digesting this, I nodded.

  ‘And it’s also monastic tradition, passed down through the ages, to inter the departed in catacombs or other areas within the abbey. As it happened, this large cavern occurred naturally, and we’ve improved upon it to meet our needs.’

  The monk studied me, his eyes narrowing. ‘There’s nothing unnatural about preserving the dead, Mary Grace. Consider the way the Egyptians mummified their pharaohs, for instance. Your squeamishness will work against you — we must pass through the crypts to reach the vaults, where our fabulous old clothing is stored.

  ‘So what will it be? May I show you what only a privileged few have beheld, or will you return to Father Luc’s office naked and empty-handed?’

  Something inside me railed against this choice. Since my arrival in January, Brother Christy had remained the one man I could trust — until today. He’d obviously conspired with Ahmad, to allow him his desired release, so coming to this emotional crossroads outside the crypt felt like another betrayal. I had believed this monk when he declared himself my protector, yet I wondered if his earlier behaviour had been a ruse leading me to where I now stood, cold and naked, at
his mercy.

  I shuddered, hugging myself against the dank chill of the cave. My imagination still ran amok as I envisioned what awaited me. It seemed prudent to follow through, however, hoping Brother Christy truly had my welfare in mind. ‘All right,’ I rasped. ‘Let’s go in.’

  He turned, grasping both handles. The two carved doors groaned like souls in agony as a coppery film of fear coated my mouth. My gooseflesh returned, and I wanted to bolt back up the stairs, through the sanctuary and into the daylight. But with Brother Christy gripping my wrist, I was beyond escaping his dark diversions.

  A dry warmth wafted from the room, scented with exotic herbs — a welcome change from the cave’s wetness. We were greeted by life-sized statues that served as censers: an over-endowed male resembling Michaelangelo’s David looked ready to ravish the woman beside him. Their hollowed mid-sections emitted the incense, while their other features were so vividly sculpted that only the dark veins in the marble prevented them from looking real and alive.

  ‘Thank you for the admiration in your eyes, dear Mary,’ Brother Christy murmured. ‘When I’m not marketing our Heaven’s Gate confections, I work with chisel and mallet.’

  ‘You’re a sculptor.’ My gaze returned to the statues and I couldn’t help caressing the male’s chest. Firm and smoothly rounded it was, beaded with tiny nipples; the smouldering incense gave the marble a fleshlike warmth that soothed me, yet made me wary of other figures in the room…images caught in the corner of my eye, which I didn’t want to look at. ‘You do beautiful work, Brother Christy. You have every right to be proud.’

  His fragile smile told of a seldom-felt joy. ‘I hope you’ll feel that way when we leave. Come along, Mary Grace. Let me introduce you to my friends, so you can return to your work before the abbot and Mrs Goodin concoct your punishment.’

  When I dared to look around, I felt like I’d arrived at a party where all the guests awaited me. Several sets of eyes drank me in, gazing from faces that no longer bloomed with life yet were by no means disfigured in death. These people were arranged as though for conversation — some sat in chairs, with two or three others standing nearby, while others depicted scenes from their lives. All were beautifully coiffed and clothed. Had the room not rung with their suspended silence, an unwitting visitor might’ve tried talking to them.

  ‘Oh, my,’ I finally breathed. ‘How long have they been…?’

  Brother Christy smiled, guiding me towards the clutch at our far left. ‘Ralph here — the gentleman in the frock coat, on the settee — was my first successful attempt at preservation. He was an avid supporter of the abbey, until his financial empire crumbled and he had nowhere else to go. He’s with Brother Daniel and Brother Will, and that’s Katrina, a cook he admired.’

  ‘How did he die?’ I queried, my gaze fixed upon the quartet of lifelike figures.

  ‘Collapsed on her, while taking her from behind.’

  I blushed, even though I should have anticipated this answer. Although the friar hadn’t answered my first question, I sensed I shouldn’t press him for a reply that might frighten me. Assuming these figures wore clothing fashionable during their lifetimes, Ralph might’ve met his Maker near the end of the Civil War, more than thirty years ago. I puzzled over this, because Brother Christy didn’t appear old enough to have produced such stunning work back then — nor could Hyde have assisted him.

  Apparently my escort sensed my calculations, because he steered me towards the next grouping before I could ask any questions. I felt like a museum visitor, being guided through exhibits so I wouldn’t fall behind my group or impede the progress of the next one.

  ‘And this trio of angels were dear to me indeed,’ he continued in a nostalgic tone. ‘Etta, Emily and Eloise were orphaned in their teens. Had marvellous voices, all of them, and they went out singing.’

  ‘Are the eyes real?’ The girls seemed to look into my soul, and to follow us as we moved along.

  ‘Glass, I’m afraid. Eyeballs contain a lot of liquid, so they deteriorate quickly. Which would detract from my desired effect.’

  I nodded, still looking behind me with an odd twinge in my stomach. ‘Are those their wedding gowns? Please don’t tell me they died at the altar!’

  Brother Christy cleared his throat. ‘I think I’ve mentioned that here at Heaven’s Gate, we celebrate the arrival of the seasons. For example, in two weeks we’ll fête the coming of spring with the rites of the vernal equinox. The Rosen girls were our celebrants that year.’

  That twinge in my stomach rose into my throat; I couldn’t breathe, for thinking about how those three pretty young women might have died. I’d be better off if I didn’t second-guess what my guide was saying between his carefully worded lines. ‘And — and why is it so much warmer in here than out in the stairway? I’d think the heat would hasten the decomposition of…of —’

  ‘It’s the moisture level that affects the tissues adversely,’ he explained. ‘By keeping the air dry, and circulating the essence of rare herbs, I can preserve my friends in their present state for years to come.’

  I allowed him to introduce me to the others without further comment, because while the monk said nothing to suggest he enjoyed sex with the dead, he implied things that frightened me to the core. The sooner we finished here, the sooner we’d fetch my fabrics, so I completed the social circle at his quickening pace, to prevent myself from exploding with unthinkable thoughts.

  As we reached the end of this rogues gallery, I noticed a door so cleverly concealed by the plaster pattern of the wall that it would be invisible to the casual observer…or perhaps to those Brother Christy didn’t want snooping beyond this funereal room. His fragrant chamber reeked of secrecy, which made me wonder what else he might reveal as we proceeded to the vaults. I didn’t want to see any more, but I’d come too far to walk away empty-handed.

  As though hearing my thoughts, Brother Christy smiled. ‘You’re doing well, Mary Grace. This last young man — Martin Crowley’s his name — literally died of fright down here. The fool tried to slip away from our winter solstice ceremony last December, and couldn’t find the pressure point for opening the doors, which have no handles on this side. We all know the dead don’t walk, yet I suspect he imagined all manner of grotesque possibilities when he found himself trapped among these lifelike corpses.’

  The agitation on Martin’s face matched my own. I recalled how my fear had run rampant when that moonlit crone came to my room at Mount Calvary; I didn’t dare ask why young Crowley felt compelled to leave the celebration, or how long long he’d languished before expiring. ‘Handsome fellow,’ I remarked, not knowing what else to say.

  ‘Yes, he was. All of us loved him.’ Brother Christy’s eyes met mine, telling me I should take a lesson from Martin’s fate. ‘But I’m wasting our time, and there’s still much to see. And while precious few have viewed this room, only my closest, chosen companions even know about the next chamber. This should tell you how very special you are to me, Mary Grace.’

  I couldn’t miss the implication: the favour of his friendship came with a price. Although the room was cosy, I again shivered, wishing I weren’t so exposed to the monk’s attentive eyes — eyes that captured line and form so accurately and transferred them into his macabre art. I sorely wished Fortune had warned me about Brother Christy’s peculiar pastimes — but then, he wouldn’t have entrusted me into his keeping, had he known about them. With the fleeting thought that I might never again kiss the one I loved, I stood aside so my guide could open the disguised door.

  What I saw in the next room made the blood rush from my head.

  Noting my pallor, Christy draped an arm around my bare shoulders and began to speak in a low, controlled voice. ‘At first glance, the eye fools us into believing that what we see is a continuation of what came before. But if you apply your rational mind, dear Mary, you’ll realise the fallacy of this illusion.’

  Concentrating on Brother Christy’s voice — because I had to cling to s
omething, or I’d faint — I focused intently on the figures in this room. It was a replica of the sanctuary, but with only three rows of pews between us and the chancel area. The dark panelling, marble altar and anatomical sconces were the same, but even in the dim lighting I could not mistake the faces and figures of Father Luc, Mrs Goodin, Elvira, Ahmad and Sybil.

  Having seen the previous corpses, it took only a tiny leap of imagination to believe these people were dead, as well. ‘I don’t understand,’ I murmured. ‘And I don’t think I want to.’

  Brother Christy chuckled. ‘This is my wax museum, Mary Grace. Because the human form fascinates me — and because we have an ample supply of beeswax — I’ve indulged myself in another medium that gives me even greater pleasure than preserving the dead. Perhaps you’ll better appreciate my efforts after you sit down for a moment.’

  Trancelike, I allowed him to usher me to the front pew. I was afraid to take my eyes off the wax models, fearing they might change positions to trick me — or reveal themselves as their live counterparts, playing a ghastly joke. Father Luc, dressed in a black cassock, sat on the majestic chair nearest the pulpit, while Hortense Goodin stood beside him with a fist in her hip, looking ready to scold the others.

  And it was no wonder: my dear friend Sybil, stark naked, in a partial squat atop the altar with her russet waves and gypsy earrings, wagged her shapely arse at Ahmad. The inscrutable beekeeper, as mystical in wax as in reality, stood ready to skewer her from behind with that legendary pecker, while Elvira, clad in her tunic, leaned towards Sybil’s crotch with her tongue extended.

  That this brazen act was posed upon the altar was beside the point. Everything about the scene and this room, right down to the low lighting and the elusive scents of sweat and sex, suggested activities I didn’t allow myself to imagine. After all, Brother Christy had made no mannequin of himself.