The Age of Apollyon Trilogy (The Age of Apollyon, Black Sun, Scorn)

by Mark Carver

  Patric seemed lost in a trance; even his eyes forgot to blink. Yet despite his frozen facade, his mind was a flurry of memories. It had been so long since he had seen his mother’s face, even looked at a picture of her. He could still piece together her eyes in his mind — that was something he could never forget. Those eyes that wrinkled so pleasantly when she laughed, or wilted so mournfully when he had abandoned his family. Those eyes had haunted his thoughts as he had read her handwritten letter informing him of his father’s death, and as the funeral date had come and passed without Patric in attendance, those unseen eyes glared at him with shame and disappointment. Even when he had received a letter from the Hospital of Saint Camillus to inform him of his mother’s condition, her eyes had peered at him across time and space, wordlessly expressing her heartbreak that his name was missing from the hospital visitor’s logbook.

  He was dreading seeing those eyes again.

  The taxi driver steered the car off of the main road and up a lazily sloping road that meandered through a sparse forest dotted with houses. Natasha noticed Patric looking through the window with her, watching the trees and foliage with vacant interest.

  Her hand sought out his and clasped it tightly.

  “Have you been here before?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he answered after a moment. “We used to come here when I was a little boy.”

  “What is special about this place?”

  Patric craned his neck to stare at a passing cemetery. “This is where my mother was born.”

  The taxi’s nearly bald tires crunched over gravel as the car turned onto a long, narrow driveway that followed a disappearing path through a cluster of massive poplars with fiery leaves. Natasha peered at a worn but regal sign: Hospital of Saint Camillus de Lellis. At the end of a cul-de-sac encircling a dry angelic fountain stood a once-majestic building built in the Neo-Gothic style. The roof jutted heavenwards like a spear, and the lower windows were pointed at the top, some crowned with remaining bits of ornate tracery twisting within the chipped window frames. Despite its faded glory, the hospital building was still quite an imposing structure, made even more ominous with the swirl of storm clouds overhead.

  Patric and Natasha piled out of the car and paid the driver after he had helped them unload their bags from the trunk. The taxi ambled down the hill, and Patric felt a sinking feeling as he looked up at the worn but stern facade.

  His mother, whom he hadn’t seen in nearly ten years, was inside.

  Dying.

  Natasha tugged at his arm. “What are we doing here, Patric?”

  He gazed at some wilting flowers beside a post supporting the portico.

  Find your brother, or the child dies....

  His decisive step forward was his answer, and Natasha followed him, though somewhat reluctantly. She glanced around with anxious eyes as they stepped through the massive double doors into an ornate but dismal foyer.

  They approached a large desk, behind which sat a round woman staring intently at a computer screen. She turned and smiled mechanically at the visitors.

  “May I help you?”

  Patric cleared his throat and glanced at the cross hanging from the woman’s neck. If she noticed his pentagram necklace, she made no visible sign.

  “We’re here to see Caroline Bourdon,” Patric informed her.

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No.”

  The woman looked back at the computer screen for a moment and her fingers danced over the keyboard. “Can you please tell me your name?”

  “Patric. Patric Bourdon.”

  The woman’s fingers fluttered over the keys for a few seconds, then she hit the last stroke with an authoritative tap. “You are her emergency contact,” she said with surprise. “To be honest, Mr. Bourdon, it’s rather rude of you to have waited this long to visit your own mother.”

  Patric shied away from the woman’s disapproving scowl. “I’ve…been busy....”

  The receptionist looked over at Natasha’s protruding belly. “I can see that.”

  A flush of impatience colored Patric’s cheeks. “Can I see my mother, please?”

  The woman pursed her lips, nearly losing them within her fleshy cheeks. “Visiting hours don’t start until the afternoon.”

  Patric’s shoulders slumped and he glared at her with annoyance.

  “But…” she continued with more than a hint of exasperation in her voice, “since it’s been so long since you’ve seen her, and your wife looks like she needs to sit down, I can let you go on upstairs.”

  Patric nodded and smiled politely. “Thank you.”

  The receptionist smirked and waved a male orderly over to the desk. “Take Mr. and Mrs. Bourdon to 203.”

  “I’m not—“ Natasha began, but Patric shot her a silencing glance. She rubbed her stomach as she walked beside him up the wide, creaking staircase. They entered a long, well-lit corridor lined with closed doors. Above each doorframe hung a crucifix, each different than the others. Patric and Natasha exchanged uneasy looks and kept their eyes ahead.

  The orderly stopped in front of a grey door with cracking paint. Without a word, he gestured robotically towards the door, then left them alone in the hall. Patric looked up at the number 203 and the image of the crucified messiah hovering above it. He took a deep breath, then turned the copper doorknob.

  The bed was empty, and immaculately made. A large machine stood beside the bed like a sentry, its unused wires draped over a hook. A massive overstuffed chair was nestled in the opposite corner with a brown blanket thrown carelessly upon it.

  Patric and Natasha scanned the room, but could find no indication that anyone lived there. Patric’s heart shrank with the sudden fear that his mother was dead, but he countered himself with the rationalization that the receptionist had simply given them the wrong room. He turned to head out of the room, but Natasha grabbed his arm. He followed her wide eyes to the brown blanket crumpled on the easy chair.

  It was moving.

  A skeletal foot slipped out and sought out the floor like an antennae. The blanket was weakly thrown aside and a disheveled head of blonde hair emerged. Squinting like a waking child, Caroline peered around the room. She saw them. Her mouth fell open and her eyes widened, elongating her face into a ghoulish expression of shock.

  “Patric!” she croaked.

  Patric felt his knees shake, and he clutched Natasha’s hand tightly. He couldn’t speak. He could only stare, oblivious to the tear that fell from his eye.

  Caroline pushed herself into a sitting position and extended a toothpick arm.

  “Patric, come here.”

  Her voice was stern yet infinitely soft.

  Patric let go of Natasha and slowly stepped towards his mother. He reached out and took her frail hand.

  “Hello, Mother.”

  With a tearful smile, she placed her other hand on top of his. “Patric.”

  Patric’s heart thundered like a freight train.

  Say something, he commanded himself. Anything.

  He turned back to Natasha, his eyes pleading for help. Sensing his panic, Natasha approached the chair.

  “Madame Bourdon, I am Natasha.”

  Caroline turned towards her with a jerk, as if just now realizing that Patric wasn’t alone. She smiled politely, and the smile twitched but did not waver as she spied Natasha’s pregnant stomach.

  “Pleased to meet you,” she said with genuine warmth. She looked back at her son. “I am so happy to see you, Patric. It’s been ages.”

  Patric’s mouth gaped open, and he waited stupidly for the words to come out. They finally did.

  “Mother, I’m sorry that I didn’t come earlier. I....”

  Caroline stroked his black hair. “It’s all right.”

  Patric wiped a tear from his eye. “I didn’t know that you were…were....”

  “Nothing lasts forever,” his mother said. “When your father died, I poured all of my energies into our church and I neglect
ed my health, and now I’m paying the price.”

  Patric licked his dry lips but it didn’t help. “So, what do the doctors say?”

  “They say my kidneys are failing,” Caroline sighed, “and finding a donor is nearly impossible with the way things are going these days....”

  “I’ll get my blood checked,” Patric blurted.

  Caroline smiled again. “No, Patric. You need to take care of yourself.” Her eyes gestured towards Natasha. “Things are too far gone now anyway. I’ve accepted what’s coming.”

  Patric looked down at his mother’s hands, which remained cold despite being clasped in his. He looked up at her, and he saw it. That look. He felt a thick wave of sorrow ooze over his heart, but he made no outward expression. He didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing.

  After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, Natasha cleared her throat and spoke up. “Um, I need a bit of fresh air; I’m going to step out onto the porch. You two have a lot of catching up to do....”

  Patric looked uneasy, but Caroline nodded. “Don’t stay too long, my dear. I would love to get to know the mother of my grandchild.”

  She looked down at Patric and smiled.

  Natasha folded her hands. “Okay then, I’ll be back soon.”

  After hesitating a moment, she turned and left the room.

  Patric watched her leave and suddenly felt nervous about being left alone with his mother’s eyes. He looked at her hands still resting in his. The question was burning inside him like a piping kettle ready to boil over.

  “Are you angry with me, Mother?” he asked her hands.

  There was no answer. Patric waited for several seconds, his heart quickening with each passing moment. Finally, with great effort, he turned his eyes upwards to her face.

  His mother wasn’t looking at him. Her gaze was directed towards the window, where sparse but heavy raindrops had begun pattering against the ancient glass. Her eyes were absent, though, and Patric knew that she was as uncomfortable as he was. She eventually wrenched her eyes away from the tranquility of the rain-streaked window to look at her child who had abandoned her and her family so many years ago.

  “I was,” she answered quietly, and her voice trembled. “I think I still am, but it’s not anger anymore.”

  She sighed and squeezed his hands. “You will always be my son, Patric, and I will always love you. And even though you don’t believe it, God loves you too. I think that’s what pains me most; you turned your back on everyone who loves you. I’ve spent the last ten years wondering why.”

  A needle dipped in anger, guilt, shame, and contempt pricked his spirit, and Patric took a deep breath to steel his nerves.

  “I left,” he began with a very steady voice, “because I couldn’t follow something that I didn’t believe. I know God is real, Mother. I know He is real because I know Lucifer is real. But there are many things that are real that do not touch our lives.” He paused, searching for the right metaphor. “It’s like this: if a star suddenly winked out, it would have no impact on our life whatsoever. That’s what God is now. He’s not the sun; He’s a distant star, and He doesn't touch the world anymore. When the Great Dragon appeared, that was the sign that I had been looking for. Not only was it real, but it was here. I could see Satan, I could feel his presence on earth. God was just a shadow then, and even more so now. His church is being wiped out, Mother, and He isn’t doing anything.”

  Caroline smiled with sympathy and touched Patric’s hair again, and he could feel affection in her touch.

  “Oh my son,” she said softly, “God touches the world every day, though us. Every act of kindness, every sacrifice, every action that goes against our animal instinct and ‘survival of the fittest’ mentality is God’s fingerprint upon the world.”

  Patric shook his head. “I’m sorry Mother, I can’t believe that. What you say is a sacrifice, someone else would say is simply the collective good outweighing the individual good. Any ‘moral’ action can be spun either way. I don’t want to live my life by faith, Mother; I want to live it by facts. I saw the Dragon; I heard him speak. Perhaps I’m wrong, and maybe one day God will return to the world to judge us heathens, but I don’t want to life my life on maybes and what-ifs.”

  A tear sparkled in Caroline’s eye, and Patric felt ashamed. He rubbed her hand gently. “No matter what I believe, Mother, that doesn’t change who I am. I’m still your son.”

  Caroline sniffed and turned back towards the window. The rain was becoming heavier.

  “Why did you come here, Patric?”

  Patric cocked his head, surprised at the question. “What do you mean?”

  Caroline looked at him through her tears. “Why now? Your ‘Great Dragon’ is making war with my family and suddenly you show up here, without a call or letter or anything? Why?”

  “I…I wanted you to meet Natasha, and let you know what we’re going to have—“

  “Don’t lie to me,” Caroline snapped. Her face flushed with embarrassment, and her tense body relaxed. “I’m sorry, Patric. I’m not feeling well these days.”

  Patric nodded and looked down at her hands.

  “Please,” his mother implored, “tell me why.”

  Patric sucked on his teeth. He spoke each word carefully and deliberately. “It is very important that I find Tourec. I need you to tell me where he is.”

  Caroline suddenly pulled her hands away from his. “Tourec? Why on earth do you want to find him?”

  Her horrified reaction startled Patric. “Please Mother, don’t be upset. It’s just…I really need to find him....”

  Caroline stared at Patric’s bowed head for a long moment.

  “No,” she answered.

  “Mother, please!” he begged. “Please tell me where I can find him!”

  She whipped her eyes back to the watery window.

  “There is something you’re not telling me, Patric. I never liked secrets, especially when they are in my own family. Either you tell me exactly what is going on, or you and your fiancée can leave right now.”

  Patric’s chest heaved with anguished breaths, and even though she wasn’t looking at him, he could feel her eyes piercing his soul.

  ****

  Natasha rubbed her arms and suppressed a shiver, even though the air was still warm. She watched the drops pooling on the ground beneath the leaking gutters and she listened to the rhythmic creak of the chair as she rocked back and forth. This place wasn’t safe. She could feel it deep within her, like a faint moldy odor that was barely perceptible but impossible to deny.

  She turned around when she heard the door open and exhaled with relief as she saw Patric emerged onto the porch. To her surprise, he was carrying their travel bags. She rose to her feet and look at him quizzically.

  “Are we leaving?”

  Patric looked out into the curtain of water. “Yes.”

  Natasha’s face wilted with worry. “But...but your mother.... Didn’t she want to—“

  “She’s resting now.”

  Natasha bit her lip, and looked down at the piece of paper Patric clutched tightly in his hand. “What is that?”

  “A cheque.”

  Natasha paused for a moment, then her eyes widened. “Did she tell you where—“

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  A rattling, jittery van sloshed to a stop in front of the porch, and the driver hurried out, brandishing a large umbrella.

  “Let’s go,” Patric said flatly. “The van will take us to the station.”

  Natasha’s eyes widened further. “We’re going now? In this weather?”

  Patric glared at her with stony eyes, and Natasha swallowed her reluctance. Ducking under the driver’s cavernous umbrella, she descended the steps and disappeared into the van’s back seat. The driver returned to the porch for Patric, who slipped the cheque into his coat pocket before venturing out into the rain. He flopped onto the seat next to Natasha. She desperately wanted to say something but held her
words back with great effort. As the van slipped and slid down the driveway, Patric gazed up at the hospital, which towered above them like a stern headmaster.

  Or mother.

  PART II.

  I trust in the grace of Jesus Christ, who shall free you

  from every bond.

  —Ignatius of Antioch, Letter to the Philadelphians

  ——————————

  Say unto thine own heart, “I am my own redeemer.”

  —Anton LaVey, The Satanic Bible

  CHAPTER 5

  The distant rumbling of thunder sounded like an army of warhorses pounding the earth, bearing down upon the Council cowering in their secret enclave.

  Or perhaps Father DeMarco was just letting his imagination getting the better of him.

  “Be still, my brothers,” said Bishop Valenti at the head of the table, one that was far less grand and storied than the table buried in the rubble of the collapsed crypt at Milan. Two members of the Council were immured there along with it, their decimated bodies abandoned to the hungry bowels of the earth since there had been no time to recover them after the attack. Fearing for their lives, the Council had abandoned the church like a battered ship upon a reef, but they vowed to return soon and restore her glory, though everyone present knew that dream would never come true.

  The threat of further violence was what had driven the Council to this dismal cellar, and as Father DeMarco scanned the weary faces, he couldn’t fight the feeling of despair that fell over his heart.

  Oh God, I beg you....please give us strength....

  The clergymen fell silent and took their seats, directing their attention to their leader. For a long, terrible moment, there was a deathly silence. The old bishop gazed at the candle shimmering on the table as if in a trance, and the other brethren had no power to speak up. The timid flame in the center of the room seemed to suck all of their energy into it, burning away their faith.

  “Let us pray,” the bishop finally said, and those around the table bowed their heads.

  Bishop Valenti lifted his palms towards heaven and began the prayer. “O Heavenly Father, grant wisdom and perseverance to your children in this hour of great tribulation. May the Blessed Virgin give us serenity and peace, and may Michael and his angels surround us with your holy might. Amen.”