Death of the Body

by Rick Chiantaretto

  I was right in my assumptions about Ruth. She was smart, articulate, full of wit, and had a short fuse, just like Hailey. I was quickly convinced, however, that Nicholas and Ruth were not, in fact, Ralph and Hailey in the same way that I was both Alexander and Edmund. There were differences in their personalities that extended beyond the simple physical. Hailey was both warm and inviting while Ruth was slightly distant. This was a trait found among most of the children, and I decided that it was because they were all alone in the world. All of the children seemed to have one similar hope: to find a family to adopt them and to love them.

  I was different. I had a family that loved me. I had no desire for another family. I only wanted mine. And if I couldn’t have my mother and father, I still wanted my larger family—my people, the mages—my town. I began to realize that family, by definition here, was a close group of a few people who were biologically related. The idea of adoption was both foreign and common to me, as everyone in Orenda was “adopted” by all of society. The ability to adopt a single child into an already formed biological family was the part that was unfamiliar. Immediate family, extended family, and the human family all had different meanings here. I was more comfortable with “the human family” because it was communal.

  I didn’t sleep well that night, in spite of being tired. The dormitory slept all of the boys and there was more movement and noise than I was used to. To top it off, the night air sometimes grew hot and thick. My dreams translated my discomfort into nightmares with dark creatures that breathed hot, wet air into my face while pinning me down so I couldn’t move. I woke up more than once, sticky with sweat (this was becoming all too common), my finger with my father’s ring the only cool part of my body.

  The morning brought with it the promise of new experiences. A nun I did not recognize woke us, but at least I was now starting to get familiar with the unfamiliarity of my life in this orphanage. Unfamiliar faces were so common that I anticipated hearing a name or a word that would connect facts in my brain together with the newly impressed image of the face. After just one day of experiencing this pattern, I realized I had grown to expect it. This unknown nun became ‘Sister Mary Elizabeth’ as soon as I heard the other boys acknowledge her name. I knew she came to our convent three years ago and was one of just two nuns who were assigned specifically to our care. She was the closest thing any of us had to a mother, but I felt disconnected from her. The emotions that connected back to her name were emotions of indifference, not emotions of love. I didn’t dislike Sister Mary Elizabeth. I just didn’t trust her.

  Nicholas was by my side almost immediately. He yawned and stretched before wishing me a good morning. “Today is Saturday,” he told me with as much excitement as his just-waking body could muster. “We only have Sister Mary Elizabeth’s class, and choir. Then we are free to do what we want.”

  This thought excited me. I couldn’t wait to get back outside, hopefully alone, to talk to the trees. I asked myself if I should have felt guilty for wanting to ditch Nicholas, but quickly decided that any guilt I had was overshadowed by the importance of having a moment with the trees to get my questions answered.

  I followed the large group of boys into the locker room where we washed our faces and made our hair look somewhat presentable. I had to give up on a few strands that refused to do anything but stick straight out from the side of my head, but flattened the rest down over my forehead to where it fell just above my eyes.

  Breakfast consisted of a bran muffin that tasted like salt and a small carton of orange juice.

  Nicholas and I met up with Ruth at breakfast. She seemed eager and full of energy today.

  “Between classes, would you like to play chess with me?” she asked excitedly.

  Nicholas made a face while I searched for the word chess in my mind. “What’s chess?” I finally asked after finding the word, but not being able to connect it with anything else.

  Ruth looked disappointed and surprised. “Our favorite board game.”

  I shrugged and responded to her expression with an apologetic look. “You’re going to have to remind me how to play.”

  A calculating grin pursed her lips, “Hmm,” she sighed, “I guess that means you’re not going to have any chance of winning.”

  “Just remind me how to play,” I grinned.

  “Alexander will beat you even if he doesn’t remember how to play!” Nicholas interrupted.

  Ruth responded with a roll of her eyes. “Oh Nikki,” her voice trilled, “if you only had a brain.”

  “Don’t call me Nikki.”

  Ruth winked at me, ignoring Nicholas’s clenched teeth. “See you after class, Alexander.”

  She bounded away, leaving Nicholas fuming.

  I chuckled. “She likes you, you know.”

  I didn’t think Nicholas’s eyes could get any wider, but they did. “What?” he screeched.

  I laughed again. “You two remind me of Hailey and Ralph. Hailey is always giving Ralph a hard time, and—” I stopped, catching myself.

  Nicholas didn’t miss a beat. “Who are Hailey and Ralph?”

  I floundered, trying to come up with an appropriate response, finally deciding to keep my mouth shut this time. “Oh, never mind,” I said, grateful when Nicholas shrugged his shoulders and started walking toward our class.

  “I’m kind of excited for class today,” Nicholas changed the subject. “We’re supposed to start talking about the Council of Trent and the Catechism before the Catechism of Pius the Fifth.”

  He might as well have been speaking a different language. Council, I understood, and catechism was at least one of those black words, but the rest was just rambling.

  “I’m really fascinated by the doctrine of four hells. Aren’t you?”

  I stared at him blankly as we entered a large classroom. I recognized Sister Mary Elizabeth from this morning, standing in the front of the room. She was watching the clock with more zeal than she had for watching the students, obviously waiting for the proper time to start the lecture.

  “Oh come on, Alexander,” Nicholas continued. “We’ve been talking about this for days!”

  I was about to mouth some sort of apology or reminder about my lack of memory, but Sister Mary Elizabeth hurled a piece of chalk at Nicholas with such force that it bounced off his head in more than one piece.

  “Sit down you two—you’re late,” she boomed. “And you, Alexander, are lucky your head is already damaged.”

  She feigned throwing another piece of chalk in my direction. At least I now understood why my feelings for this woman were unpleasant: her presence was entirely overbearing and rude.

  I sank into my seat.

  “Now, the Council of Trent was the 19th Ecumenical Council of the church, and convened in Trent between December 13th, 1545, and December 4th, 1563. There wasn’t another council until the First Vatican Council which took place in what year?”

  Nicholas raised his hand excitedly. “1869,” he answered when called upon.

  I found myself re-evaluating my prior thought that Nicholas wasn’t book smart.

  “Correct. Now the Council of Trent was extremely important in the wake of one Martin Luther, who taught the doctrine of justification by faith alone. This is just one of the doctrines of the Protestant faith that the Council of Trent helped to solidify as false. In addition the relationship between faith and works as it relates to salvation was clearly defined.”

  I was already bored.

  Nicholas, however, was paying rapt attention. When he caught me looking at him he nodded his head excitedly at me, like some sort of encouragement for me to agree with him that this was the most fascinating thing I had ever learned. I yawned.

  The trees outside the window swayed back and forth gently in a light breeze and were more entertaining to watch. I strained to hear their conversation but the walls of the building and the ornate stained-glass windows were too thick to allow me to hear anything.

  It didn’t take long for the ge
ntle swaying of the trees to have me hypnotized and I watched their methodic dance as I slipped in and out of the moments before sleep. I could still hear Sister Mary Elizabeth droning on in my subconscious, but was only half aware as the words she said made connections to past events in my head. She discussed the concept of Christ before and after the Council of Trent, as well as the church’s teachings on prophets of the Old Testament, the idea of the sacrament and transubstantiation, of celibacy, and sainthood, and the challenges the church faced regarding Saint Mary (which helped me understand why all of the nuns took the name Mary).

  But it wasn’t until the talk of purgatory, and the pre- and post-council beliefs in limbo, that she said something that caught my attention.

  “… and so,” she was saying, “it could be said that in Medieval times, most theologians described Hell as divided into four distinct levels; the hell of the damned, purgatory, limbo of the fathers, and limbo of the infants.”

  This last sentence was said in summation, and I was disappointed I had missed the discussion of what these four levels represented. I wondered if they had any representation in the “seven levels” I had seen in my father’s letter.

  I must have flinched at the thought, because Sister Mary Elizabeth, who noticed the movement, glared at me. “Nice of you to join us again, Alexander. Did you have a question?”

  Actually, yes, but I didn’t know how to ask it without revealing my underlying purpose. I searched my mind quickly for something, and was surprised to find all of my new connections. Heaven and Hell were succinctly related somehow, so I chose this connection in hopes of forming a coherent question. “If there are four hells, how many heavens are there?”

  “There are not four hells,” Sister Mary Elizabeth said harshly. “Limbo is simply an idea, a possibility, not doctrine. Remember, a lot of time has passed since the Council of Trent.”

  Having thought she made me feel stupid, she turned back to the chalkboard and had her mouth half open to start on another topic when I interrupted, “How many heavens are there, possibly?”

  The chalk fell from her hand, her face twisted in annoyance. After letting out a sigh, she turned to her desk and picked up a book. She leaned against the desk and flipped through the pages—the entire class silent. I wasn’t sure if she was going to answer my question or not, but finally she found what she was looking for, stood, walked quickly over to where I was sitting, and dropped the book on my lap.

  “Second Corinthians, chapter twelve, verse two. Would you kindly read that passage for the class?”

  I found the resulting scripture and read aloud, “I knew a man in Christ above fourteen years ago, (whether in the body, I cannot tell; or whether out of the body, I cannot tell: God knoweth;) such as one caught up to the third heaven.”

  I closed the book and put it into her waiting hand. “Now that you have wasted our time, we can add that time to the end of the class.”

  A groan echoed throughout the room, but I wasn’t about to let the subject go. Three plus four equaled seven. My heart thudded.

  “If the four hells are the hell of the damned, purgatory, limbo of the fathers, and limbo of the infants, what are the three heavens?”

  The entire class was staring, dumbfounded, in my direction now.

  Sister Mary Elizabeth grinned at me. “More time after class, then. There are some theologians that believe the three heavens are literal, but our doctrine states they are the atmosphere, space, and the kingdom where our Holy Father resides.”

  “What do the other theologians call them? The ones who believe the three heavens are literal?”

  “You’ll have to ask the Mormons that question,” she sniped. “They are the only ones who believe that verse literally. But doing so will put in jeopardy your salvation!”

  “Who wrote that passage?” I asked.

  Sister Mary Elizabeth rolled her eyes, “If I had known your amnesia would have proved so difficult, I would have told Father Michaels that you were not welcome in my class.”

  Nicholas suddenly interrupted, trying to get me to shut up. “Alexander, you have a chess game with Ruth after this class. You don’t want to miss it and make her angry, do you?”

  I ignored him, and continued to address Sister Mary Elizabeth. “Can I speak to the person who wrote this passage?”

  Now the class erupted into laughter. Sister Mary Elizabeth responded, “Paul is the author of that verse, and he has been dead now for about two thousand years.”

  “Did Paul write that entire book? May I borrow it?”

  “The book is the Bible,” Sister Mary Elizabeth responded in unbelief, “and many prophets wrote it.”

  The Bible. The infirmary had one of those I was sure I could borrow. Now the stories I read while recovering became much more interesting and real.

  Sister Mary Elizabeth continued, anticipating my next question, “Prophets like Moses and Noah and apostles like Peter, James, and John. They wrote it so we would have a record of Jesus Christ, the Son of God. You’ve been taught this, Alexander, since you could understand plain English.”

  Her face was turning red, but I couldn’t let the chance pass to understand where I was, who I was, and what the seven levels were. I recognized one of the names: Moses. I had read about him. “Did all of these men perform supernatural acts like Moses?”

  “Yes. They all had the power of God.” The poor nun was getting exasperated now, but I was grateful she continued to answer my questions. “And the greatest of them all was Jesus Christ, who performed many miracles, such as changing water into wine, healing the sick, and raising the dead. It’s thanks to Him that you can be resolved from your sins and go to paradise when you die.”

  Paradise? When I die? That couldn’t be true. I had already died once, and this place was definitely wasn’t paradise.

  “Am I a Jesus?” I asked subdued, half wondering aloud to myself.

  Sister Mary Elizabeth heard the question, and her body started to shake with anger as her face burned a bright crimson. Her words came out in a spitting accusation, “You… are… not… like… the… perfect… Holy… Son… of… God!”

  The children in the class were now all pressed against their seats, straining to be as far away from Sister Mary Elizabeth as possible. I was so involved in my own thought processes that I was oblivious to her anger.

  “Then Jesus, Peter, Paul, and Moses. They were all like me?”

  Sister Mary Elizabeth lashed out, striking my face with the open palm of her hand. She hit me so hard that I flew out of my chair. I caught myself only momentarily before my hands instinctively covered my stinging cheek.

  My blood boiled. Why didn’t anyone understand that the people who had written the Bible were my family? I was one of them. How could I make them see? Should I make them see? I couldn’t just coddle my cheek doing nothing. If these people worshiped those like me, perhaps I could get them to help me find the survivors of my people. I stood slowly. Sister Mary Elizabeth glared at me venomously, still huffing in rage.

  “I’ll prove it,” I whispered.

  I knew she didn’t answer because she didn’t know what to say.

  Her desk was made of wood, just like everything in this place, and had a thick stone slab as its desktop. The stone called out to me as the words of Moses echoed in my head. It told me how Moses did it—how Moses simply had to ask. I walked to the desk cautiously, and once I was standing over it, punched down with all the strength the anger within me allowed. I hit the desktop hard, but I felt it give way to my request. At first, nothing happened. Then slowly, the entire surface of the desk began to sweat as the whole room sat in stunned silence.

  It started as slow drops forming like dew over the surface, but quickly turned into a puddle, like someone spilling a cup of water on the desk. Then, the water began to run, and soon, to flow. The water dripped over the edges, faster and faster until it poured.

  I heard a thud somewhere in the classroom and looked up to see Sister Mary Elizabeth unconsc
ious on the floor. The children looked at her, then at me, and started to scream.

  Nine

  I found myself in Father Michaels’ office. Sister Mary Elizabeth had just finished telling him what had happened in her class and now sat in the corner of the room, breathing heavily, almost hyperventilating. She clutched her chest with one hand while clutching an ornately carved rosary with the other.

  Father Michaels stared at me with vacant eyes. I could tell he was thinking about something, but he sat staring at me so long that I started to think he was being rude. He could have been mistaken for a statue with how still he was sitting, and, unlike the hyperventilating Sister, I couldn’t tell when he drew a breath.

  There were three sounds in the room. Two came from Sister Mary Elizabeth: the whoosh of her frantic inhalations, and the soft, puppy-like whimper of her exhalations. The third sound came from a large wooden clock hanging behind Father Michaels’ head: the ticking broke the silence with a regular and constant beat.

  The only word to describe how I was feeling was ‘smug.’ I had a hard time keeping my lips from curling at the edges, so I pressed them into a thin line while I waited.

  Oh, good, I thought. He blinked. At least he isn’t dead.

  Any minute now he would stare at me with envy, anticipating my next prophetic move. Then he would lead me to the prophets living today and I would have found my family. I had to press my lips harder together in order to stifle a grin.

  Finally he rubbed his temples. With his eyes still closed, he said, “I want you to stay in the infirmary again tonight.”

  My excitement fell.

  “I don’t even want to hear whatever your side of this ridiculous story is. For God’s sake, Alexander, you are a baptized, confirmed, God-fearing member of the Catholic community now. Whatever is affecting you needs to stop. I’ll have Sister Mary Chantale come visit you later to remind you of your part in the choir tomorrow. Tell Sister Mary Rafaela to keep an eye on you until Sister Mary Chantale arrives.