by Mark Carver
I could barely concentrate during morning Mass, but I didn’t want to arouse anyone’s suspicions. Well, I was really only concerned about Father DeMarco, and I was sure that he kept a keen eye on me during the service. After the concluding rites, I slipped out of the chapel as innocently as I could. My heart pounded in my chest and I felt like a spy on a mission. The life of a postulant is insufferably tedious and bland, and this mystery would have been exciting even without a beautiful damsel in the story.
A heavy fog had descended upon the monastery that morning and it still clung to the trees and stones as I crept down towards the south wall. I carried a shovel just in case someone discovered me, and I could claim that I was merely transporting eroded topsoil. But no one seemed interested in my activities as I descended the hill. I felt a flutter in my heart as I passed our secret crevice in the wall, and I began searching for the red stone.
It was easy enough to find. With a cautious glance over my shoulder just to be safe, I reached out and placed my hands on the stone. It was loose, and I lifted it up very carefully. A scraping sound that made me wince. I was certain that Father DeMarco’s hand would fall on my shoulder at any moment.
The stone was only a little larger than a brick and I easily lifted it out of its cradle. The clay that had acted as the mortar for the wall had been scraped away, leaving a shallow depression beneath the stone. And in that recess lay a small package wrapped tightly with canvas cloth. It was the shape and size of a book.
Carefully, as if it were made of glass, I took the bundle out of the wall. Why would Isabella give me a book? I certainly had plenty to read at the monastery, and I wasn’t interested in the broad world of mainstream fiction and self-help books that crowded secular bookstores. They weren’t allowed at the monastery anyway. My eyes whipped left and right to make sure the coast was clear, then I unwrapped the bundle.
It was a Bible, a delicate cross branded into the leather-bound cover. I opened the book with gentle fingers, as if the pages might break free and fly away.
Her beautiful handwriting decorated the dedication page.
“To my dearest Tourec. With love, Isabella.”
I nearly fainted. My trembling hands clutched the blessed book to my chest and I looked up through the mist into the unseen sky.
“Thank you,” I said softly.
“For what?”
My entire body jolted and I whirled around to see Brother Fredric. He was holding a shovel just like the one I had brought with me.
My mind stumbled over itself as I stood there gaping like a fish. I finally managed to sputter, “I’m…thanking God for…for showing me something in His Word.” I held the Bible towards him as evidence. “A promise.”
Brother Fredric peered at the book, but I knew his eyes were nearly useless and he wouldn’t be able to tell that it was different from the Bibles issued by the monastery. He nodded absently and jerked his chin towards my shovel leaning against the wall.
“God may be showing you His promises, but Father DeMarco wants you to get busy with the eroded topsoil.”
I blinked rapidly. “Father DeMarco?”
“Yeah,” Brother Fredric said with a glance up the hill. “He sent me down here to give you a hand.”
The Bible nearly fell out of my hands. I managed a weak smile, then tucked the book in my robe.
“Let’s get to it then.”
I began shoveling like my life depended on it. Brother Fredric’s eyebrows rose at my enthusiasm, then he joined me.
He paused for a moment and reached for the red stone. My heart froze. I had left it on top of the wall. But he simply replaced it without a word and continued shoveling. After several moments, I realized that I was still holding my breath and I exhaled slowly.
Since Brother Fredric was essentially blind, the rest of his senses had to make up the difference, and he turned his head towards the sound of my breathing.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
I swallowed roughly. “Of course. Just…a lot to think about lately.”
I couldn’t read his lopsided smile. I was certain that several brothers knew about or suspected my affections for Isabella, and I wouldn’t be surprised if many of them felt the same way about her as well.
Thankfully, he didn’t say anything more, and we continued our work in silence. After nearly an hour, we had created a substantial pile of reclaimed topsoil, and Brother Fredric trudged back up the hill to locate a wheelbarrow. I wasn’t sure why he hadn’t brought one down with him in the first place, but I was thankful for a moment alone. I took out Isabella’s gift, holding it gently. The husky leather scent was warm and inviting, and I was seized by a new excitement to read God’s Word. Perhaps that was her intention after all…
I didn’t notice the first time the bell rang. But it clanged again a moment later, hard and shrill.
And urgent.
It rang out a third time, and I could sense the panic vibrating through the mist. I looked around me and saw the ghostly shapes of my brethren dropping their tools and rushing towards the monastery like water flowing into a drain. My feet kept slipping on the slick grass as I scrambled up the hill. I was one of the last to step inside the chapel. The Bible was tucked away inside my robe, and my fingers held it tightly to keep it from spilling out.
All of the brethren, pupils and teachers alike, were gathered in the chapel, milling about and murmuring to each other like a flock of agitated birds. I had no idea what was going on but I knew the news wouldn’t be good. I could see it on everyone’s faces, even though they had no knowledge of why they had all been summoned so quickly.
Father DeMarco was kneeling in front of the altar, his back to the rest of us. I don’t know if anyone else noticed, but I saw his shoulders trembling. He was crying.
Father Patrelli stepped to the front of the chapel and raised his hands.
“Brothers, please, be quiet. Everyone, please.”
It took a few minutes, but eventually everyone settled down and took their seats. Father DeMarco still hadn’t moved, and several brothers began whispering to each other.
Moment by moment, a black pit grew in my stomach. I could sense the storm clouds gathering, and my fear deepened with each passing second. My fingers squeezed the hidden Bible.
Father Patrelli looked ten years older to me. He had always been one of the more handsome members of our flock, and it filled me with foolish pride when people remarked that I looked like him. Truth be told, I admired the man. Not for his good looks, of course, but for his honest, genuine warmth that gave everyone a sense of peace when they were around him.
But now, that feeling was gone. His handsome face seemed almost withered by despair, and I saw desperation in his eyes when he glanced down at Father DeMarco, who looked like a penitent statue.
Father Patrelli cleared his throat and clasped his hands in front of him.
“Brothers,” he began in a weak and quivering voice, “there has been…something has happened.”
My first thought: The Pope is dead.
“Tell us,” one of my fellow postulants said.
Father Patrelli swallowed with great difficulty. He looked back at the crucifix mounted on the wall behind him and hastily crossed himself. Several brothers did the same, though their confusion was written on their faces.
“There has been…an event,” Father Patrelli said. “It seems impossible, and perhaps it is, but…”
His voice failed, and he seemed to teeter for a moment. The blood drained from his face and his hands began to shake. I thought he might faint, but he regained his composure, though beads of sweat sparkled on his forehead.
“My brothers,” he said with a weary voice, “the unthinkable has happened. We cannot be sure, but…it seems the devil has come to the Earth.”
Silence. Thick, sticky silence. I exchanged baffled glances with those seated around me, but no one said anything.
Finally, one brother spoke up. “What do you mean, Father?”
&nb
sp; Father DeMarco rose to his feet and slowly turned around. His face was streaked with tears and his cheeks looked as though they had been scratched. I peered closely and saw flecks of blood on his fingertips.
The look of pain and anguish in his face was too much to bear and I lowered my eyes, unable to look at him. He spoke with a trembling voice that quaked with grief.
“Satan… He destroyed Our Lady’s Cathedral… He killed my…my…”
He collapsed before the altar. Everyone bolted to their feet and several hands lifted the priest up off the floor and carried him away. Prayers and whispers were on everyone’s lips, but I was gripped by a special kind of fear. There was only one thing that could make Father DeMarco faint with grief…
Father Patrelli tried to calm the agitated group. “Please, my brothers. We will take care of Father DeMarco, but you all need to listen!”
The din in the chapel slowly quieted down. Father Patrelli sighed loudly, and some of the color returned to his face.
“We don’t exactly know what is going on, but sometime around mid-morning today, a strange sight appeared in the skies above Paris. It looked like…a dragon.”
Gasps of shock and disbelief arose from the gathering. “A dragon?” a voice rang out.
Father Patrelli nodded to some men standing against the north wall of the chapel. They wheeled over an old television set that looked like it hadn’t been used in a decade. I had never seen it, of course, and I wondered what it was doing here at the monastery. We had a telephone to communicate with the outside world, and the town wasn’t too far away in case of urgent news or other emergencies, but a television was forbidden.
The rest of the brethren were also startled at the appearance of the television. They crowded forward, curious and anxious. Father Patrelli stepped up and switched it on, though I saw the hesitation flash across his eyes. I could tell that he didn’t want us to watch what we were about to see.
I will never forget that moment when I saw the television come to life with a white glow that blossomed into a blurry image. We heard the words before the picture came into focus.
“…believe what I am seeing. It…it looks like a creature of some kind, almost like a dragon… This is impossible…”
The image on the television screen sharpened into view. Everyone gasped with horror, including myself.
On the screen, right before my eyes, I saw the most hideous, monstrous creature I could ever imagine hovering above Notre-Dame Cathedral. The sky was black and the clouds swirled and boiled like the ocean in a tempest. I was mesmerized by those glowing eyes, those gigantic fangs, and I could feel my heart wither in my chest.
The monster was easily as big as the cathedral itself, and the cameraman was having a hard time keeping the lens pointed upwards.
“It’s not real,” someone said in a shaky voice. Part of me wanted to agree – it looked like something out of a Hollywood movie. But then I remembered Father DeMarco’s grief, and the truth came crashing down on me.
Isabella. She was at that cathedral, singing hymns with the girls’ choir. She was there when that thing was –
The dragon opened its mouth and a strange language exploded across the sky. Even though we were watching a tape of something that had happened thousands of kilometers away, the sound was agonizing. Everyone in the chapel clutched their ears and groaned with pain.
I don’t know how, but in spite of my agony, I could clearly understand what the beast had said.
“I am the Lord of this world. I bring liberation for those who would seize control of their own destinies. Thou shalt swear allegiance to no master save thine own desires.”
Reams of lightning split the sky. There was a sound like mountains being dropped, and then…
Oh God.
The memory sickens me. I shall never escape the horror of that moment.
I watched the glorious Cathedral of Our Lady crumble like ash. I heard the screams bursting from the mouths of my brethren.
I didn’t realize that mine were loudest of all.
I reached out my hands towards the ancient television set.
“Isabella!” I cried. “Please, God! No!”
Father DeMarco, weeping. Fainting.
My blood hammered in my ears, drowning out the sobs and wails. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think.
Maybe she’s alive…maybe she got out…maybe she overslept…maybe she became sick…
My knuckles were white as my hand clasped the Bible. Isabella’s gift.
A great cloud of dust spewed out from the gaping hole where the most majestic cathedral in the world once stood. The news reporter was babbling incoherently, and the camera was shaking violently.
“It is the end!” someone wailed. “It is the devil!”
I looked over at Father Patrelli. He stood off to the side, watching the television as tears streamed down his cheeks.
Then a fresh round of shrieks arose from the brethren and I whipped my head back towards the broadcast. My stomach lurched.
Dark shapes, blindingly fast and black as sin, gushed out of the crater where the cathedral once stood. They seized anyone who hadn’t already fled, and in an instant, the entire plaza became a field of carnage. People who had stood transfixed with shock suddenly became hysterical maniacs, pouncing on one another and ripping each other to pieces. I saw a shaky image of a woman bending over a man’s corpse and ripping a chunk of flesh from his shoulder with her teeth. The camera zoomed in, and I couldn't believe my eyes as I watched her eat the bloody mass.
“God have mercy!” several voices cried out. Two monks vomited on the floor.
The picture jerked as the cameraman tried to flee the horrific scene, but something grabbed him and the camera dropped. The last sound we heard were his screams.
The program cut back to the newsroom where a wide-eyed male anchor sat trembling behind the news desk.
“W-what you have just seen was filmed this morning in Paris, France. It is not a hoax... I repeat, what you have just witnessed is real. The city of Paris is in chaos as rescue crews and police converge at the scene of the disaster. No word yet from the French government, but the world has reacted to this news with shock and disbelief. No one is yet sure what exactly happened at Notre-Dame Cathedral, but it is clear that this is a history-changing event. Hundreds are believed dead and the extent of the damage remains to be seen. This… I cannot believe this is happening… We…we will bring you more information as this horrific event unfolds…”
Father Patrelli muted the broadcast, though he let the television continue to display image after image of death and destruction.
“This is indeed a pivotal moment in human history,” he said with new-found strength. “There are many who claim it is a hoax, or a terrorist attack, or even extraterrestrials. But what I feel in my heart, and what you all must also be feeling, is that we have just witnessed the manifestation of Satan on Earth.”
The monks erupted with shouts and cries and prayers.
“It’s impossible!”
“It’s a hoax! It has to be!”
“How could God allow this?”
“This is the end of the world!”
“Silence, brothers!”
Every mouth snapped shut and every head turned towards the humble doorway in the corner of the chapel. Father DeMarco was standing on his own power but he seemed like he might topple over at any moment. He looked like an old man on the verge of death.
With tears streaming down my cheeks, I watched him hobble to the front of the chapel, his downcast eyes carefully avoiding the sickening images on the television. He placed a hand on the altar to steady himself and he raised his chin to look at all of us.
“We don’t know what this means for us and for our world. But we do know that someone, or something, destroyed Notre-Dame Cathedral, and that means war against our church and against God.”
“But is it real, Father?” someone pleaded. “It can’t be real.”
Fresh tears brimmed
in the priest’s eyes, and he looked directly at me. Any shred of hope I had left evaporated in that moment.
“It is real,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “Something appeared in the sky over Paris, destroyed the holy cathedral, and turned men into monsters. I have been contacted by Bishop Valenti in Milan and he has confirmed what you just saw. The Holy Father has convened an emergency meeting with every available cardinal and bishop at the Vatican and they are formulating a response to this tragedy. I too am shocked beyond belief, but if this really is Satan himself coming down to Earth and showing his face to mankind, then we need to be ready. God’s children will look to us for safety and protection, and we must be prepared for anything. Gird yourselves with prayer and fasting. Go now. If you have anyone that you wish to call, you may use the telephone in the refectory.”
Some of the brethren jumped out of their seats, while others moved sluggishly, as if they were in a trance. As the brethren began pouring out of the chapel, I pushed my way through the crowd, fighting to get closer to Father DeMarco. His eyes fell away as he saw me approach. My heart was in my throat, but I had to ask him.
“Father! Father, please, what about Isabella?” My voice quivered like a bowstring.
Tears began pouring out of his eyes as he looked at me. “She’s gone,” he sobbed. “That monster…that devil stole her from me…”
“But how do you know, Father? Maybe she wasn’t inside, maybe – "
Father DeMarco shook his head. “I can’t reach anyone. Her school hasn’t received any word from the chaperones and they’ve been trying all morning. I feel it in my heart, Tourec. I feel an emptiness where she used to be.”
He placed his hand on my shoulder but I shrugged him away.
“No!” I said defiantly. “God would never let her be taken away like that! He would never –“
“Tourec!” he snapped. “Don’t you understand? I sent her to France to keep you two apart! And now she’s…”
His legs wobbled and he collapsed on the floor. I was too stunned to help him.
No… I won’t believe it…
My lungs felt like they were made of stone. I left Father DeMarco lying there on the cold stone floor and I walked like a reanimated corpse towards the open chapel door.