Of course, Sarah always knew that the Big House was just one cog in the larger machinery of a working farm, but until the still warm carcass of a hen was plopped down in front of her, it hadn’t really occurred to her that one of her whims might influence the farm so that something had to die.
“Go pluck that, girl. You remember how to clean a chicken.”
And, honestly, Sarah didn’t. She recalled, as a child, wanting to be with her friend Alice whatever that entailed, but she had no recollection of plucking chickens.
Sarah said, “No, I don’t remember. I’m going to go up and check on Momma and look over my translation before I go. Can you please take care of it?”
Alice looked at her, brow furrowing.
“Alice.” Sarah tilted her head to the side and smiled. “Please?”
Alice sighed, then smiled, flashing white teeth in a brown face.
Sarah found she was less willing to submit to Alice’s will than when she was younger. Life for her had been one submission after another, and now she wasn’t going to do it anymore.
Alice had fried the chicken, and now it rode happily next to Sarah in a small basket, swathed in cloth napkins like some fragrant deep-fried infant.
The Chrysler rolled past the green shores of England, past the silos and grain bins and hoppers, into town. She stopped and asked directions from a gas station attendant who cheerfully filled her tank. She drove on to the church.
St. Thomas of Aquinas’ church was small, wooden, and empty. A humble building, with scaling paint and small steeple, it reminded her of the Big House, though the Big House dwarfed this small building.
She parked the car in the gravel lot adjacent to the church and approached the double front doors. The church was in a nice little neighborhood of Stuttgart; tiny gingerbread houses lined the street, along with hoary, old oaks, while new cars sat in driveways and children played in yards, or rode bikes down the pavement. People were happy here, and in a different life, Sarah could see herself here, spending her days in an apron, watching Fran grow up—tame and beautiful and desperate, not wild haired and tawny and dirty like she was now.
Sarah shook her head, smiling sadly. No, I like the wild Franny better. At least she’s happy. The Franny who lives on this street might be happy, but the wild Franny is happy now.
The church doors were unlocked, and Sarah entered, the basket of fried chicken in the crook of her arm.
The church consisted of narthex and nave and almost nothing else. A forlorn confessional sat at the rear of the church.
“Hello?” Sarah called. “Hello? Father Andrez?”
Sarah looked at her watch. It was a little past four. Right on time.
At the far end of the nave, past the altar, was a small door. It opened to the outside, a small concrete walkway leading to a very small house.
She knocked on the door of the house, and after a moment, a man dressed in black came to the door.
“Father Andrez?” she asked as he cracked the door. “I’m Sarah Williams.”
“Sarah! Please, come in, come in.” Sorrah. Plis, kammin kammin. The sound of his voice and the lilt of his accent put her at ease.
Inside, she could see Andrez a little better. If the church could be considered small, this house would be tiny, and the man minuscule. White haired and wrinkled, he was no larger than a boy. But lean as a tightrope.
Andrez grinned at her, looking up slightly.
“Eh… most people are surprised when they first meet me. Growing up in Montenegro, I learned at an early age to defend myself. Of course, mostly from my brothers.” Andrez winked at her, and raised his arm to make a muscle.
“Oh!” she exclaimed. “I was only—”
“Sarah, it is no matter. I might be small in body. Not in spirit, not in heart, and that is all that matters.”
“Father, I—”
His eyes fastened on the basket. “Is that—”
It was Sarah’s turn to smile. “Yes. Fried chicken.”
The man clapped his hands together, looked to the ceiling, and said, “Bless you, child. You would be better named Providence than Sarah.” He winked again and looked at her more closely. “But Sarah suits you well. Yes, I see the Sarah in you.”
Andrez took the basket of chicken from her like he was lifting a chalice. Sarah sat her purse down on a small linoleum table near a window and brought out the copy of Opusculus Noctis and the pages of her translation.
“Would you like some ice tea? I dearly love the tea in this country. A neighbor taught me to make it the correct way, and I cannot get enough.”
“Yes, please. Is it sweet?”
“Yes, Sarah. Very sweet. Very good. Yes?”
The house resembled the church itself, small and composed of just two rooms: a living room with a kitchenette and, through the door in the back wall, a bedroom. Sarah peeked through the door into the bedroom.
Andrez bustled in the kitchenette, pulling chipped floral glasses from the cabinets.
“Father Andrez? Um… is there a… um, restroom I might be able to use? I’ve been in the car for a while.”
“Oh! My apologies, Sarah. The sight and smell of the chicken has made me lose all my wits. Go out the front door, to the right, and you will find the outhouse right by the tall hedge. A privy by the privet, so to speak.”
Sarah raised her eyebrows. She remembered the days before plumbing in the Big House. Chamber pots and outhouses were the course of her early years. It seemed that in this age of technology some people still lived like their parents and grandparents, stretching back into antiquity.
Andrez smiled and raised his shoulders. “I am sorry, Sarah. We are a small parish, and I did take a vow of poverty.”
Sarah laughed and said, “I used an outhouse until I was near eighteen and went to college. I can handle it.”
“I’m sure it was a… eh… how do they say? A two-holer. I will wait until you get back.”
The outhouse had a moon on the door, and true to form, a Sears-Roebuck catalogue as well. Luckily, it also had toilet paper.
When Sarah returned to the little house, she found Andrez sitting at the linoleum table, looking at the Opusculus Noctis pamphlet and frowning. He looked up when she came in through the door.
“Ah, Sarah.” He was smoking now, and sipping tea. “I am puzzled. How did you come by this piece?” How deed you cam by thees peeze?
“It came from my family library.”
“Family?”
“Yes. Is there something wrong?”
“I know this work, the Opusculus Noctis. From first glance it seems quite ordinary, but just glancing over it you’ll notice it is not printed, though it looks like it, the hand that wrought this was so sure. Also, the paper is thick and handmade, not milled, which means… well… it’s more than likely three, maybe four, hundred years old.” Andrez smiled.
He put down the pamphlet gingerly, as if it was spun glass. Or a gun.
“You have been translating this?”
“Well… yes. To the best of my ability, which isn’t much. And I’ve only gone through a little bit. I have trouble with the lack of separation between the words.”
Andrez smiled again and took a sip of his tea. “Let’s have some of this wonderful-smelling chicken and we will talk all about it. Afterward. It has been a tradition of my family dating back, eh, at least a century to reserve meals for talk of good things, happiness and art and current events.”
Andrez brought a head of lettuce out from a cold box under the counter and quickly mixed a cold salad of greens, olive oil, and vinegar. With deft, delicate fingers, Andrez prepared Sarah’s plate, giving her a small wing, poured her a glass of tea, and then, as an afterthought, set the table with place settings.
On his plate, he placed the two thighs, a leg, a breast, and the bony back piece, followed by the greasy giblets that Alice had included. When Andrez saw them, he clucked in his throat strangely, obviously happy, but Sarah had never heard nor seen any man act as oddly
before.
He noticed her watching him, and flushed.
“Sarah, I am a poor priest. This is a German town, but founded by Northern German immigrants who favored the Luther’s Church over the church in Rome. I have been here, hmm… let me see now… ten years now, and my congregation has gone from fifty families to thirty people. This country is not suitable to Rome and the Church. I often find myself hungry. My parishioners provide me what they can, however, it can be paltry for,” he smiled again, winking at her, “a man of my stature.”
Indeed, he was a strange man. His features were delicate and childlike, possessed of some innocence that even Sarah did not have. But his skin was heavily wrinkled and his hands had liver spots, making Sarah think he had to be in his sixties at least.
“It’s all right. I brought the chicken for you. I’m not really hungry.”
“Oh? Well, then. I shall start.”
As he ate, between bites, they spoke.
“So what made you interested in translating this pamphlet?”
“I found it in my family library, and it seemed the most inviting, really. The text was clear, compared to some of the other volumes in the library, and it was smaller than many of the other books. And it sort of drew me in, so to speak. Once I had figured out the title.” Sarah laughed. “Even though I’m still not sure I got the title right. Is it The Little Night Book? Or the Little Book of Night?”
Andrez put down the breast he was devouring, wiping his chin with a napkin. “Either. Both. Neither. Hard to say. We can’t know really. The author of Opusculus did not tell us, did he? But the Little Book of Night sounds right to me. Misleading though.”
Sarah nodded. “I’d taken Latin in college and recently…”
Andrez looked at her with clear eyes, nodding and watching her closely.
“I’ve gone through some problems with my… the man I used to be married to.”
“This is a strange way of saying husband.”
Sarah scoffed. “Marriages are a contract. He broke his side of the bargain.” She resisted raising her hand to her cheek. It had stopped hurting weeks ago, but the memory of pain remained.
Andrez eyes grew wide. “You are right. Many forms of interaction and communication become contractual, though most people do not believe that.”
They were quiet for a while. Andrez ate steadily, with small exclamations of joy and delight of the meal. Sarah sat contemplating the man.
“So you’re from Montenegro? I’m afraid I don’t know very much about that country.”
“I am Montenegran, but my father was English. I had many brothers, though quite a few of them are dead. My youngest brother has made quite a name for himself in New York. The Lupa family has many ambitious men, Nero not being the least.”
“Lupa? I thought your name was Andrez.”
“Yes. Andrez Lupa, at your service.” The man raised his chin and cocked his head at her like some black-clad little king until she laughed.
He laughed too.
“So, how long have you been here? I mean in America?”
He picked up a napkin and wiped his mouth and fingers. “Eh… twenty years now, I think. I am just recently beginning to dream in English. And you? You mentioned your family library. Do you have a large family?”
Sarah paused and sipped her tea. It was very sweet.
“No, just my mother and my daughter. It was a bigger family years ago, but my brother was killed in the war, and my father died… well, during the war as well. Heartsick, I guess.”
“Ah… this is not good. Will you take back your family name, since your… eh… divorce?”
“Rheinhart? I haven’t thought about it—”
Andrez’s face turned white, and he dropped the thigh he had been eating. He stood up and carried his plate to the counter. He rinsed his hands in the sink, then dried them on a towel, silent but clearly thinking. From his black shirt pocket he took a cigarette and lit it, hands shaking.
“What’s wrong?” Sarah asked.
Andrez stared into space, unconsciously bringing the cigarette to his lips.
“Eh? Oh, you just startled me. I know of a Gregor Rheinhart. I must think on this.”
Sarah stood. “My uncle? Gregor? I don’t know what could be—”
Andrez shook his head and waved her to sit back down. “Eh… this makes things different. You are a Rheinhart, yes? Then there are things I must speak to you of. But first, let us look at this. This Opusculus Noctis. Then we will speak of Gregor.”
Puzzled, she brought forth the translation from her purse and set it down on the table in front of Andrez.
He read Opusculus Noctis in silence, smoking, holding his cigarette away from the pamphlet so as not to get ash on the paper. His expression grew dark at times. Finally, after he had read quite a bit, he looked at Sarah and gave her a pained smile.
“Sarah? What do you know of this piece? What do you think it is about?”
“I don’t know. Sometimes it seems like a legal document, sometimes it seems like poetry, sometime like recipes. I can’t figure it out.”
“Have you read it aloud?” Andrez face became very serious. He leaned closer, eyes wide. “Have you spoken the Latin aloud?”
His intensity startled Sarah.
She shook her head. “No. I’m doing the best I can to just understand the words.”
Andrez exhaled, relief washing through him. His shoulders slumped.
“This is good. This is a good thing.”
“What is going on here? This whole conversation is starting to get me worried.”
He sighed again and got up, went into the kitchenette. From a cabinet he retrieved a bottle of claret and two short glasses.
“In Montenegro, we do not use wine glasses. We use these,” he said placing the smaller glasses on the table. “No stems.” With precise movements, he popped the cork, placed the glasses on the table, and poured each a full measure.
They both sipped at their wine. It was good. Sarah had become used to the sharp, sweet tang of the toddies that Alice made for her. The wine had a body and depth to it that reminded Sarah of meat, smoke, and spices.
“Sarah, this book is not what it seems to be. Its title is misleading, and it misleads on purpose. To all prying eyes, this pamphlet looks like a religious document from the Quattrocento… eh, the fifteenth century. And it is a religious document from the fifteenth century, though it is not Christian. It is written in Ecclesiastical Latin for… how do you say this… protective coloration. Eh, what do the hunters call it? Camouflage. That is what this is. It seems harmless; the title indicates it is a ‘little book.’ It is not.
“Here is what the first page says: ‘The Little Book of Night, a labor of… or the work of… Beleth, wrought by his great hand with instruction from the Prodigium beyond the cold silences. If one would like to make covenant with the entities locked beyond the stars, in the abyss, you must be willing to enter shadow. A warning to all: Do not call up what you cannot put down.’”
As he spoke, Sarah grew puzzled. “But what does that mean? I don’t understand.”
Andrez nodded and placed a finger on his temple, looking at her seriously. “I will read a little more, so that you might come to understand more fully, then you can ask questions.”
He cleared his throat and took another sip of wine. “‘Any summoning or compact with the… here the author uses the word prodigium again, which we’ve changed over the centuries to become ‘prodigy’ but what it really means is ‘vastness’ or ‘omen’ and even ‘monster’ but… really something huge and unknowable. So the sentence reads, ‘Any summoning or compact with the Prodigium must be first consecrated with blood and a willingness to sacrifice the innocent as sign of one’s intent.’”
He shut the pamphlet and sniffed, showing a hint of his own revulsion to the text. “This text is mentioned in some ancient tracts and at least two Papal missives. When you mentioned it on the phone, I didn’t… how is it said? I thought I had heard you wr
ong.”
Andrez held up the pamphlet with an unsteady hand. “Earlier this century, it was stolen from the protected vault in the Vatican where it was stored. And that brings us to your uncle. Of course, all of this was unknown to me before you came here. The fact that you have come here, the blood of the man I’ve been looking for… I don’t know what to think. Did someone send you? Can I be so fortunate?”
“Andrez, please tell me what you’re talking about. I don’t understand.”
He reached forward and grasped Sarah hands in his own. They were warm, soft.
“I know you don’t. This will be hard to understand. I need you to try to keep your mind open. Things are not as they seem. They never were. This Opusculus Noctis, it is a very evil book. It outlines, for someone with the knowledge to read it, ways to summon and make bargains with… other things.”
“You can’t be telling me that… that you believe this? You’re a priest!”
He looked pained for a moment, embarrassed, the wrinkles at the edges of his eyes deepening. He looked out the kitchen window, and he sighed. Then he turned back to her. His eyes searched her face.
Sarah felt a building urge to release his hands and leave, just grab the pamphlet and her translations and run, run back to her car and haul ass back to the Big House. Andrez looked at her as though trying to detect something that might be hidden in her composure, her features.
She began to draw away, but he held her hands firm, his fingers clasping like stone traps, not hard, not rough, but immovable.
“I wear the garb of a priest. I was a priest once. But I have eaten of the fruit of knowledge. I have learned things I’d rather forget—”
Sarah shook her head. “It’s,” she hesitated. “It’s… absurd!”
She laughed, and watched as Andrez’s face grew somber.
He bowed his head. He remained that way for a long while.
He took a large breath; his shoulders rose and fell, and raised his head to look at Sarah with pained eyes.
“I need you to believe what I’m about to say. It will go against everything you’ve ever known or believed.” He looked at her, thinking, an interior dialogue that she couldn’t fathom going on inside his head. “The Catholic Church, Gods forgive me for what I’m about to say, has waged a war that has been going on for centuries. This war is not with Satan, or the Devil.”
Southern Gods Page 15
