by Mark Carver
The old man huffed wearily. “My boy, holiness isn’t in your actions; it’s in your attitude. Take that whiskey, for instance. If I take a drink to calm my nerves after a demanding sermon or a hard days’ work, that is not a sin. But if I drink because I want to rebel against the church or society, then that is a sin— not because of what I do, but why I do it. In this way, even a ‘righteous action’ like charity can be a sin if it is done for the wrong reasons, such as selfishness.”
Patric’s eyes narrowed as he mulled the priest’s words. He then took a dismissive swig from the flask and turned his attention to the tranquil countryside racing past. “Well, that’s all fine for you, Father. I’ll enjoy my sin any way I want.”
The old priest smiled politely and finished his cigarette. He stubbed it out in the ashtray mounted on the wall and turned to go.
“Father?”
The priest stopped and turned around. Patric had heard the desperation in his own voice and wished he could take it back, but it was too late. Yet something compelled him to go on.
“Father, I have a question that maybe you could help me with.”
The priest was surprised. “Are you sure I’m the person you want to talk to? After all, we’re on different sides of the equation.”
Patric looked around uncomfortably. “Yeah, well, sometimes it helps to get an outside opinion.”
The priest stepped closer. “What is troubling you?”
The flask trembled in Patric’s hands. Jacque’s demonic warning hissed in his ear.
We have eyes and ears everywhere....
He swallowed nervously and looked over his shoulder and behind the priest to make sure they were alone.
The priest frowned at Patric’s paranoid behavior. “Are you all right, son?”
Patric nodded absently. “Yeah, yeah, I just…I’d like to....”
His brain seemed to freeze for a moment, then he heard himself blurt out, “Does your Bible say anything about Satan being able to see the future?”
He was as shocked to hear himself say these words as the priest was to hear them. For a moment, neither man moved, staring into each other’s bewildered faces. Finally the priest cleared his throat and glanced at the floor, as if looking for an answer that had fallen out of his pocket.
“That’s a troublesome question, my son. Church tradition holds that he cannot, except what has been revealed to angels or to man. I would say that Satan knows the fate that awaits him in the lake of fire, as it is written in the Scriptures. But as to what will happen tomorrow, I would venture to say that he does not know for sure.”
A small bead of sweat traced down Patric’s temple. “And can he see us wherever we are? Does he know what anyone is doing at any time?”
The priest shook his head.
“Satan is not omniscient; only our Father in Heaven has that ability. But Satan also has plans, and since his intellect far surpasses our own, he can predict and manipulate events with much greater dexterity that any man could.”
He squinted at Patric and cocked his head to the right.
“Why do you ask these questions? And why do you look so distraught?”
Patric sniffed nervously and put on a weak masking smile. “I’m just…I’m curious to see what the other side think of...thinks of what we believe.”
“Do you believe?”
Patric started. “What?”
“Do you really believe? Because it sounds to me that you are a very doubtful young man.”
Patric didn’t know how to answer. He felt his lips move and sounds come out, but it felt as if he wasn’t speaking. “Of course I believe. I would be a fool not to.”
The priest smiled warmly and nodded. “I believe too. That’s one misconception that Satanists often have of us ‘Delusionals’— that we don’t believe in Satan’s power. We most certainly do. We know that he is strong, dangerous, and above all, the enemy of God and all things holy. My faith in him is as certain as it is in God above. But you, my boy...I do not question your faith, but I have talked with many doubters in my life and I recognize the ring of that bell in your voice.”
Patric could do nothing but take another drink from the flask, and his hand trembled as he offered it to the priest. “Father...are you afraid of God?”
The priest froze in the middle of his sip. He brought the flask away from his lips and his eyes narrowed severely.
“Young man, God is the creator of the universe, even of Satan. He can smite entire worlds with a mere thought. The descriptions of His wrath in the Scriptures are unspeakable. I fear God more than I fear anything, even death. But I believe that His love is greater than His wrath, and I choose to accept the love that He offers. That is one crucial difference between your god and mine, my boy. My God is wrath, but He is also love. Your god has no love. Just wrath.”
Patric leaned against the wall of the rail car and closed his eyes. He and the old priest swayed as the rail car jerked and jolted, and neither spoke for a few minutes. Then he pocketed the whiskey flask and looked directly at the old man.
“Can Satan kill people?”
The priest fixed upon Patric. “Young man, are you in trouble?”
“Can he?” Patric repeated.
The priest’s answer was simple yet cryptic. “This world belongs to the devil.”
He coughed and closed his mouth tightly. Patric’s eyes fell away from the old man’s face.
“Thank you for your time, Father,” he said quietly and stepped out of the compartment.
The priest said nothing.
Patric made his way back to Natasha and collapsed in the seat next to her. She was sleeping and looked surprisingly peaceful. Patric rubbed his temples and closed his eyes. He felt like he had just climbed a mountain.
A few minutes later, the old priest returned to his seat. He glanced at Patric but remained silent, and his face bore no expression. He eased into his seat and picked up his newspaper. Patric watched him for a moment, though he wasn’t sure why. Then he nestled deeper in his seat and tried to fall asleep.
****
Marseille, France
President Nicholas Merdans fell heavily into the gigantic leather chair and massaged his aching brow. He shut his eyes and tried to concentrate on the patient ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner, or on the distant sounds of life outside the window — anything to take his mind off of the events of the last few days. His hand dropped onto the birchwood desk and he exhaled wearily, like a deflating hot air balloon. Ever since France had elected him president three years earlier, he had regretted his job at least once a day.
Now it was at least once an hour.
Merdans’ stomach felt a slight stab of pain, and he was surprised to realize that he was still clenching his abdominal muscles since this morning’s televised tirade against the Christian terrorists. He was usually a soft-spoken man (at least compared to some of his contemporaries in politics), but he had shocked even himself with the venom that boiled inside of him as he delivered the remonstrance. The violence in Italy had genuinely frightened him, even though similar attacks had already occurred in France.
But this new violence...it wasn’t just terrorism, it was sadism. He felt the taste of bile in his mouth as he recalled the gruesome television footage of the Vercelli attack. He hoped that such horrors would not infect his beloved France.
With a growl of frustration, he gave up trying to massage away the headache blossoming between his eyes, and he rose to his feet and walked over to the expansive Gothic window at the east wall of the presidential office. He forced his stomach muscles to relax as he surveyed the distant skyline. His shoulders instinctively loosened as well as he noted with satisfaction that the horizon was thankfully clear of smoke from burning churches and synagogues. Of course, France was no stranger to public turmoil, but this was far more serious than racial tension or a labor dispute.
“Damn them all to hell,” he muttered.
The phone chirped and he jumped. He impulsively
glanced out the window in case anyone saw his embarrassing reaction, which was quite foolish considering that the window was five stories up and looked out upon the gardens, which were designed by King Louis XIV himself, according to popular tradition.
The phone rang a second time and Merdans jabbed the intercom button.
“Yes, Madeleine?”
“She’s here, sir.”
Merdans swallowed a lump of fear. He dared not pray. After all, he didn’t know who was listening....
“Send her in,” he said, looking around for his copy of the Satanic Bible. He found it at the bottom of a drawer, and he placed it near the corner of his desk just as the mahogany door to his office opened with a whisper.
Madeleine peeked into the office. “Sir?”
Merdans tried to position himself causally in his leather chair, which felt like it was going to swallow him whole. “Please,” he said with a beckoning wave.
Madeleine opened the door wider to allow the visitor to enter. Nearly everyone in the country agreed that Merdans’ secretary was one of the prettiest in the country, but as the visitor stepped into the office, Madeleine’s beauty seemed to fall under a shadow.
The visitor could have been considered more striking than beautiful, but she clearly dominated the room as she stepped inside. She seemed to radiate seductive darkness, if that was possible. Her hair, her eyes, her clothes were all as black as a raven’s feathers, and her poise and stature enhanced the aura of mystery and danger that shrouded her like mist.
Merdans rose to his feet and waved his hand again, and Madeleine closed the door with a blush and a bow. The spectral woman remained motionless in the middle of the office, and the president stared at her not with enchantment, but with fear.
“I come on behalf of His Worship, Vocem Satanam,” the woman said.
Her voice was like frost.
Merdans nodded. “Please...sit down.”
The black-clad woman did not move.
Merdans waited for a moment, then coughed uncomfortably. “So what can I do for His Worship?”
The woman regarded him with scornful eyes. “The Christians are leaving France. The few Muslims and Jews that remained after our Master’s manifestation are leaving as well.”
“Yes, I am aware,” Merdans said as he sat down. His mother, God rest her soul, had been a devout Catholic, and she would have been mortified to see her son at this moment.
The woman tilted her head back and regarded the president with chilling eyes. “His Worship wants you to mobilize the police and army reserves to shut down and seize the Christian churches, starting in larger cities, then later in the suburban and rural areas.”
Merdans jumped to his feet.
“Are you mad? It’s bad enough that I stand by and let the mob drive the Delusionals out like rodents, but I swear to you, the entire Christian world will take arms against us if we attack their holy places.”
The woman smiled wickedly, and Merdans’ mouth fell open.
“Is this what you want?” he accused. “Is that what His Worship really wants to happen? For France to become ground zero for Armageddon?”
The woman’s face was made of stone.
Merdans could feel the anger rising within him again. “This is my country! I will not sacrifice it for yours or anyone else’s religion. You can hold the battle of Armageddon somewhere else!”
In the blink of an eye, the woman lunged at Merdans and seized his throat, hoisting him in the air like a broom. He clawed frantically at her arms as he gasped and choked for the smallest breath of oxygen. The woman’s eyes simmered as she glared at her helpless prey.
“You do not command us, ver. You obey.”
Merdans was turning blue.
“This is not your country,” she continued. “This is his country. Do you think it was random chance that Paris was selected as the stage for his grand appearance? And so it shall be again. On the next full moon, His Worship will hold a great and glorious mass and our Master shall usher in the next age. And you are going to help us.”
She dropped Merdans on the floor in a heap, and the president clutched his neck and coughed violently. The woman stood to the side and made no move to help him. She waited patiently for him to regain his breath and struggle to his knees.
Merdans hung his head as he rose on unsteady feet, and he croaked, “Okay....Okay, I will do it. But I warn you: this will tear France into pieces, and probably the rest of Europe too. They will go to war with us.”
The woman laughed mirthlessly. “Are you joking? Have you seen the mayhem and chaos taking place in the airports and train stations? They are all running like beaten dogs. There are a few who stand up against the mobs, but most of them flee like frightened children. Many of the churches have already been abandoned.”
Merdans stumbled to his desk chair and sank into it, still rubbing his bruised throat. “It is one thing when the Satanists take over a church; it is another when the government does it.”
“The Christian church has long been impotent. You fear a toothless old dog, Merdans. It has no power, no influence, and best of all, no public support. Even those who have been reluctant to join our church see the Christians as a nuisance, a relic, a dusty antique to be tossed out with the rest of the useless things.”
With trembling hands, the president cracked open a cigarette case and put one to his lips. “What about the assassins roaming Europe and dispatching your holy men? There were three new attacks, including the one at Vercelli. They are becoming bolder, and that kind of brashness inspires others.”
The woman snorted with contempt. “They will be dealt with soon. In the meantime, you will do as I say. Remember who put you here, and to whom you owe your allegiance. I remind you: this is not your country.”
A strange, echoing vibration rumbled in the woman’s throat as she spoke these last words, and a chill seared Merdans’ heart. He nervously fumbled with the lighter and after several unsuccessful clicks, he threw it on the table in disgust and ripped the cigarette from his mouth.
“Are we finished?” he demanded in exasperation.
The woman’s black lips curled in a feline smile. “We are never finished.”
She turned and wrenched the door open with alarming force, then disappeared. A moment later, Madeleine’s head poked through the doorway.
“Are you all right, sir?”
Merdans’ teeth were chattering.
****
Something above Patric’s head chirped, and a soothing female voice said, “Now arriving at Vizille.”
Patric wearily rubbed his eyes, then patted Natasha’s head resting on his shoulder. “Hey, wake up. We’re here.”
Natasha mumbled something, then bolted upright with wide eyes. She looked around in a panic, then breathed a sigh of relief and turned to Patric.
“That was quick,” she said with a sleepy smile.
Patric returned the smile, but it came out as more of a smirk. He glanced at the empty seats in front of him. The water-toting nuns were gone, as was the elderly priest. Patric instinctively brushed his pentagram necklace, reassured that it was still there.
As the train slithered to a stop, Patric and Natasha rose from their seats and collected their small bags from the overhead compartment. The train braked with an unexpected lurch, and Natasha yelped and clasped her stomach. Patric looked at her with worry, but she just nodded.
“I’m okay.”
They were the only passengers in their car getting off at Vizille, and only a handful of people on the entire train stepped out onto the platform. With a rush and creak, the train sped away down the snaking iron tracks and was soon lost from sight.
Patric squinted as he looked up, expecting to see bright sunshine. To his surprise, the sky was clotted with heavy gray clouds milling like aimless giants, and he let his eyes relax. He took Natasha’s hand and led her through the nearly vacant terminal and out to the road, where several idle taxis waited.
A chubby middle-aged man, l
eaning against an ancient taxi and reading a newspaper while smoking a hand-rolled cigarette, spotted the couple as they emerged from the terminal. He quickly approached them.
“Where to, sir?” he asked politely, stooping to take Natasha’s bag.
Natasha coughed in annoyance, and the man hastily threw his cigarette away.
“The Hospital of Saint Camillus,” Patric said.
Natasha’s head snapped around. “Your mother is in a hospital?”
Patric didn’t say anything. The driver opened the trunk of the car and Patric stuffed their bags inside. He walked around the vehicle and opened the rear passenger door, climbing in the car ahead of Natasha. He slumped on the worn leather seat and stared straight ahead.
Natasha slid in next to him and shut the door. As the driver started the car, he secretly regarded his passengers in the rear view mirror. Patric’s eyes met his, and the driver looked away in embarrassment. With a nervous cough, he engaged the clutch and guided the shuddering car out onto the road.
Despite the clouds, Natasha’s eyes sparkled as she looked out the smudged window. The houses were quaint and charming, some well-tended and some neglected, but the gardens and trees were vivid with autumn palettes. They passed a shy little church with a graceful steeple nestled in a grove of trees, and Natasha was suddenly struck by the realization that they hadn’t passed a single temple since they had arrived. She felt a stirring in her soul, a twang of discomfort as she thought of how far she was from her spiritual home. The idea of being in a charming countryside town that was ruled by Delusionals did not sit well with her.
She couldn’t deny the tranquil beauty and serenity that flitted past them, and every flourishing tree seemed to stroke her restless spirit with a warm, invisible hand.
“It’s lovely here.”
Patric made no reply. Natasha turned towards him. His eyes were still fixed straight ahead, glued to the road rushing underneath them. Far in the distance, thunder rumbled impatiently.
Natasha opened her mouth to speak, then closed it, and turned her attention back towards the scenery outside.