The Fallen f-1
Page 19
“I’m not sure,” he answered, changing lanes to pass a minivan in need of a new exhaust system.
“Then how will we know when we get there?” the dog asked, concerned.
Aaron could feel the animal staring at him, waiting for an answer. He reached over and scratched beneath the dog’s neck. “Don’t worry pally,” he said, keeping his eyes on the road. “I have a feeling we’ll know.”
It’s supposed to be like this, he thought with disdain as he took the exit that would lead them onto the highway going north.
Predestined, whether he liked it or not.
The Saint Athanasius Church and Orphanage, vacant since 1959, squatted dark and brooding at the end of a seldom used road in western Massachusetts.
It was supposed to have been turned into elderly housing sometime in the mid-eighties, but the cost of refurbishing and renovating the buildings far exceeded their value.
There was an air of disquiet about the place, as if the old, ramshackle structures had gained sentience, and were bitter about being abandoned. It was this atmosphere that gave the grounds its reputation of being haunted.
So there it sat for the last forty-some years, its structure slowly wasting away at the mercy of the elements, absent of life except for the wild creatures of the fields that had gradually found their way inside the buildings, to live within the walls and nest in the belfry.
Mournfully vacant—until a few days ago.
From a wooden seat upon the altar within the Church of Saint Athanasius, Verchiel gazed up at the rounded, water-stained ceiling and examined the depiction of Heaven painted there.
The angel shifted uncomfortably in his chair as he studied the artwork. Pieces of burned flesh painfully flaked away from his body and fell to the altar floor.
“You haven’t the slightest idea,” he mused aloud as he gazed at the castle of gold floating among the clouds, and the harp-wielding angels that blissfully circled above it.
Kraus, the healer, crept carefully toward him, his worn leather satchel of medical tools wedged beneath his arm. Though blind, he stopped before Verchiel’s chair, sensing his presence—his divinity—as only the imperfect could.
“I am here to minister to your needs, Great Verchiel,” Kraus said, bowing his head in reverence.
Verchiel had been in perpetual agony since the lightning strike, the entire surface of his body charred black. “Proceed,” he said with a wave of his blackened hand, his nerve endings vibrating in blinding pain with even the slightest movement.
The healer knelt down before Verchiel. He placed the satchel upon the ground, undid the tie, and rolled it open to expose the instruments contained within. His hands hovered over the wide variety of scalpels, blades, and saws—tools of healing used by his predecessor and hundreds of others before him.
By touch he found what was needed, a twelve-inch blade that glinted sharply in the beams of sunlight that streamed in through openings in the boarded-up windows.
“Shall we proceed?” the human monkey asked, the sourness of his breath offensive to Verchiel’s heightened senses.
The quicker he was treated, the quicker he could be away from the offensive animal. “Do as you must,” Verchiel responded. He lifted one of his arms and presented it to the healer, a sound like dry leaves rustling in the wind filled the air.
The healer leaned forward, and with great skill, began to cut away the burned, dead flesh.
The pain was unbearable, but Verchiel did not cry out, for it was part of the price he must pay. What was it when the monkeys begged forgiveness for their indiscretions?
Doing penance, he believed it was called.
It was obvious that he had disappointed his Holy Master, for why else would he have been punished so? The pain was his penance. For failing to slay the false prophet he had to suffer, to show that he was truly sorry.
Kraus carefully peeled away a swath of dead skin to expose the raw, moist flesh beneath. If he was to eventually heal, this would need to be done to his entire body; all the burned, dead skin would need to be removed. It would be a long, painful process, but it was something Verchiel was willing to endure—the penance he would pay to receive the Creator’s forgiveness.
The sound of a child’s moan distracted him from his agony.
The Nephilim’s brother, the imperfect one called Stevie, sat on the far side of the altar and rocked from side to side, staring wide-eyed at what had been placed before him.
It was a helmet the rich color of blood, cast in the forges of Heaven—a gift to the child from his new master.
The child groaned again, his eyes transfixed upon it, almost as if he were somehow cognizant of the fate he, and it, would eventually share.
“I shall change you, my pet,” Verchiel said with a hiss, his body trembling with torment as more of his skin was cut away. A pile of dead flesh grew at his feet as the healer continued his gruesome task.
“Transforming you into my hunter of false prophets—”
The child rocked from side to side, his repetitive cries of “no” echoing through the once holy place.
“A tool of absolution,” Verchiel said as he leaned his head back against the chair and again looked to the church ceiling and the all too human images of Paradise. A place that, if he were to have his way, only the truly worthy would ever be allowed to enter.
“My instrument of redemption.”
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Document creation date: 2010-01-17
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