by Mark Carver
My soul cried out to heaven. God, where are You?
The cries of the priest and nuns brought me back to earth. Seizing the edge of the fabric, I shouted for the others to do the same. Several pairs of hands firmly grasped the curtain, while some of the brethren remained on the periphery to catch those who fell, since they would inevitably bounce out of the fabric. I begged God to keep the curtain strong.
Looking with fear at the smoke gushing from the arcade like smoke from between a dragon’s teeth, I locked eyes with the frightened priest.
“You have to jump, Father!”
Father Angelo shook his head like a frightened child. Impatience collided with my anxiety.
“Father, please! You and the sisters need to jump, now!”
One of the nuns gripped the priest by the shoulders. “Have faith, Father,” she said with a strong yet gentle voice.
Father Angelo swallowed nervously, then nodded with reluctance. “Okay…okay. Sister Bella, you go first.”
Exchanging a fearful glance with her fellow nuns, Sister Bella swung her tiny feet over the stone balustrade, then jumped. For a moment, time stopped and I saw her suspended in air, motionless billows of smoke frozen behind her like a photograph.
She landed in a sitting position on the taut curtain fabric and the brethren grunted as the force pulled them inwards. They didn’t lose their grip, however, and Sister Bella flew over their heads in a rather graceful arc, like a gymnast tumbling over a springboard.
One of the monks on the outside, Brother Carlos, gasped with fright as he saw a flailing nun hurtling through the air towards him.
“Santa Maria!” he cried as the nun crashed into him and they both collapsed to the ground in a heap. Brother Carlos had taken the brunt of the impact and the nun struggled to her feet, shaky but unharmed. Moaning like a winded prizefighter, Brother Carlos also stood up and winced in pain as Sister Bella threw her arms around him and squeezed with all her strength.
“God bless you, young man!” she exclaimed, seeming to be determined to crush Brother Carlos to death. He gasped for breath and smiled weakly to us.
I was encouraged that our rescue mission had saved one soul so far, and I looked up at the building again. There were still two nuns remaining along with Father Angelo. The nuns, seeing that their sister had landed unharmed, brightened with courage and hope, and they jumped fearlessly onto our makeshift trampoline. Both of them bounced like rubber balls, and one of them fell just out of the reach of the monk who had attempted to catch her, but she didn’t seem seriously hurt. The other uninjured nuns rushed their sister to safety, and we all turned our attention back up to the priest.
“It’s your turn, Father!” I called out. “Jump before the fire gets any worse!”
“I can’t,” the priest shouted. His face, which had beamed with joy when he saw that the nuns had landed safely, was lined with fear again. He had the familiar look of a man who was terrified of heights.
“Father, please!” I was nearly hysterical. “For God’s sake, jump!”
Like a man flinging himself over the edge of a cliff, Father Angelo suddenly fell down from the smoke-filled arcade. Terror ripped through my heart when I saw that he was falling head-first. Even if he landed squarely on the fabric, the impact would snap his neck like a brittle tree branch.
My soul unleashed a torrent of prayers. Then, like a miracle, an unseen hand seemed to reach down from heaven and turn the priest’s body in mid-air. My heart rejoiced as I saw the priest plummeting in a seated position, and I saw the strength in my brethren’s hands as they braced for impact.
I didn’t hear the charging footsteps behind me until they were nearly on top of us. I turned around just in time to watch a fist streak through the air and feel it crash into my cheek. As I went down, I saw a tidal wave of bodies barrel into the monks. Everyone went down in a tangle of arms and legs. My shoulder hit the ground and I began to topple down the stairs. I saw Father Angelo slam into the ground with a sickening smack just before my head cracked against the hard stone.
Darkness washed over me.
I must have only been unconscious for a few seconds, though because when I opened my eyes again, I saw the melee still raging furiously in front of the blazing church.
My hand touched my temple and I felt hot blood oozing down my face. But it didn't matter. The only thing I knew was that these hooligans had murdered a man of God.
And they were going to pay.
With a barbaric roar, I launched myself up the stairs and slammed my fist into the first face I saw. I felt the youth’s jawbone shatter with a satisfying crack! and the shockwaves of pain that seared through my hand only fueled my bloodlust. I picked up one of the wooden chair legs with the nails sticking out and I swung it like a hammer towards the head of another assailant. I missed and my momentum carried me forward into the frenzy. I tripped over something and sprawled out, my face sliding across a slick of blood. The wind was knocked out of my lungs and I coughed harshly.
I recoiled with horror. Father Angelo’s broken face looked at me with mournful, glassy eyes. I immediately turned my head and vomited on the ground. Tears burned in my eyes, but they weren’t from the smoke.
I felt something inside me snap, and then shatter. With a savage growl that sounded more animal than human, I pushed myself to my feet and hurled myself at the assailant again. I must have made a fearsome spectacle – a blood-spattered monk with murder in his eyes and a wickedly crude weapon held high above his head. The young man’s eyes grew wide and he stumbled backwards, giving me just enough time to slam the club down on his head. I felt the nail penetrate his skull as if it had been made of wood. The young man crumpled at my feet, the nails lodged in his head and holding the wooden chair leg in place.
My chest heaved as I stared down at the body. The young man looked like he was my age, maybe even a little bit older. But he seemed like a child to me as he lay there at my feet. My head started spinning. Sights and sounds and smells collided in my brain and for a moment, I thought I might pass out.
But the nausea passed and I felt stronger, as if I had purged something that had kept me weak all these years. I looked around at the chaos surrounding me, and my eyes blazed. Before all this madness, when I saw the secular world and looked at the drawn, anxious faces of people living their lives without the light of God in their hearts, I felt pity.
Now, I felt hatred.
Susa had always been a quiet, pious town, with more than dozen churches and chapels. But now I saw it for what it really was. I saw the people for what they really were.
It had all been a mask, a veil. These people weren’t lost sheep; they were heathens. Their hearts had always belonged to the devil and now that he had officially arrived, their true ugliness was revealed. In a matter of hours, they had turned their backs on the God and the church that had given them their history, their culture, even their livelihoods. And I realized that it was what they had wanted all along. Their master had come and his children were following his voice.
I looked out at the destruction, the flames, the burning cars and burning shops, the bodies in the street. I looked back at Father Angelo’s mangled corpse.
I felt darkness seize hold of my soul.
There was nothing left for us here. The tranquil town of Susa was going to the hell that it had always wanted. My hands curled into fists at my side.
“Let’s go!” I cried out. “There’s nothing we can do here! We must go back and defend the monastery!”
Several of the brethren were still locked in combat with their assailants, and I threw myself into their midst, flinging every hooligan I could lay my hands on down the stairs. Fortunately none of the brethren seemed to be seriously wounded, though there were many bruised and bloody faces.
“We have to go back,” I repeated, panting hard as the adrenaline surging through my veins began to subside. “We can’t let them destroy our home.”
They looked at one another and nodded. We picked ourse
lves up and made our way through the smoke-clogged streets, careful to avoid any roving mobs out for blood. Several cries rang out over the screams and sirens.
“Hail Satan!”
“This is the day of the devil!”
“God is dead!”
“Repent! Repent!”
“God will judge you!”
I gritted my teeth with anger. The words of the man Brother Frederic killed echoed through my mind: Where is your God now?
I froze.
Brother Frederic…
I whirled around, looking frantically in every direction. “Where’s Brother Frederic?”
The others also stopped and began calling out his name.
“Brother Frederic!” I shouted at the top of my lungs.
Something made me turn to my right. Through a heavy bank of smoke, a shape emerged. His bloodstained robes billowed expansively and I saw the shovel that rested on his shoulder was almost completely covered in blood.
The brethren and I were speechless as Brother Frederic strode into our midst. His face still wore the same grim, stone-cold expression as before, but there was a wildness in his eyes that frightened me more than the bloody shovel in his hand.
“It’s time to leave,” he said simply and started heading up the road without another word.
We all followed after him, and we suddenly felt incredibly fatigued. It took all of our strength to trudge back up the hill to the monastery. I had been gripped with the fear that we would emerge from the town and see our beloved monastery ablaze on the hill, but it appeared untouched. My heart refused to relax, however. I knew that just because the building was intact, it did not mean that some other evil had not taken place. Guilt and shame weighed on my heart as I rushed up the hill as fast as my weary feet could carry me.
What if there had been an attack while we had been gone? What if everyone inside was dead?
I pushed these thoughts out of my mind. I knew that worrying would not change the truth. I would simply have to find out.
We burst through the monastery gates, our eyes whipping across the property. It seemed deserted. I didn’t know if that was good or bad.
I motioned for the brethren to fan out, and they crept forward like a hunting party stalking dangerous prey through the brush. I wished I had a weapon. Then I remembered the wooden chair leg embedded in that boy’s skull.
I remembered the feeling of the nails sinking into his brain. It was my memory, but it seemed like I was thinking about another person. I felt completely different from the Tourec Beauchamp who had woken up this morning, excited about Isabella’s mysterious gift.
Suddenly, I panicked.
The Bible… Where was it?
I reached into my robes and practically collapsed with relief as my fingers brushed against the soft leather cover. I hadn’t felt its weight as I had gone through the day’s events, but I was so glad that I had carried it with me. Perhaps it had protected me…
I crept towards the chapel, listening and watching carefully for anything that would indicate intruders. The silence was jarring after coming from the chaos in the town below. I glanced back and saw the smoke growing thicker. I wondered which part was coming from St. Stephano’s church.
The silence at the monastery made me think of death, of cemeteries and catacombs. A creeping sense of dread trickled through my nerves and I crouched low as I approached the chapel door.
I turned the handle and flung the doors open wide.
The monks who were praying at the altar turned around and looked at me in surprise. Father DeMarco cried out with shock and disgust as he stared at my blood-smeared face and torn robes.
He moved towards me, through the crowd of kneeling monks, his arms outstretched and a pained look on his face.
“Oh my son, what have you done?”
My legs gave way and I fell to the floor in a faint.
****
I awoke to the feeling of something warm and soft pressing against my throbbing temple. My eyes refused to open right away, and after several moments of extraordinary effort, I pried my eyelids open.
All I could see was more darkness. My heart began racing. Had I gone blind?
Then, like a photo developing from a negative, things began to come into focus. I was in a dark room, but I could see things. Familiar things. A chair, a desk.
A Bible on the desk.
I was lying on my side. An unseen hand was washing my wounds.
And I was a murderer.
The dam burst and tears started gushing from my eyes. I didn’t care that I wasn’t alone, and that fact even gave me a strange sense of comfort. I heard someone’s gentle voice telling me it would be all right, to be still, but it made no difference. I wanted to throw myself into a fire, to hurl myself down a mountain. I wanted to rip my teeth out.
After a few minutes, the heavy weight of grief began to ebb, and my sobs turned to silent shudders. I finally found the strength to turn over and I saw Father DeMarco hovering over me.
His brow was furrowed with worry but his eyes were gentle.
“I’m so sorry, Father,” I whispered.
Father DeMarco gave me a comforting smile. “It’s all right, my son.”
“No, it’s not,” I insisted as I shook my head away from the wet cloth in his hand. “You didn’t see what we…what I…”
I had to stop, since I knew if I spoke another word, the tears would start flowing again.
Father DeMarco mopped my sweating brow. “You did what you thought you had to do.”
“I killed him, Father!” I cried, startling him and making him pull back. “That boy, I murdered him in front of the church!”
“What boy?” he asked with concern.
I couldn’t stop the tears. “At St. Stephano’s… It was burning, and we had to save Father Angelo and the sisters… But they attacked us, and he fell… And I killed him!”
Father DeMarco swallowed nervously and pressed a firm hand against my shoulder. “Lie down, Tourec. You’re feverish and it won’t help you to become agitated.”
I reluctantly obeyed, and I felt a cold shiver race through my body. “What about Isabella?” I asked quietly, licking my parched lips.
Father DeMarco handed me a glass of water. “I’m afraid…she’s gone, Tourec.”
“How do you know for sure?” I pressed after I had taken a long drink.
Father DeMarco uttered a heavy sigh, then turned his gaze towards a dark corner of the room. I followed his eyes and saw a man sitting on a chair in the shadows. I couldn’t see his face but I could tell that he wore the robes of a bishop.
“Who is that?”
“I am Bishop Valenti,” the dark figure said in a low, almost ominous voice. He rose to his feet and stepped forward into the feeble light.
He was quite old, with a creased face and a long white beard. He looked like a wizard from a fairy tale.
Father DeMarco looked down at me. “Bishop Valenti has come to us from Milan. He has confirmed that there were no survivors at Notre-Dame Cathedral in Paris.”
The bishop rested his hand on the priest’s shoulder.
“We all grieve with you,” he said with a warm voice that contrasted sharply with the tone he had used to introduce himself. “She was an angel, and despite our sorrow, we can rest in the knowledge that she is in the presence of God now.”
Father DeMarco nodded, biting his lip to keep from crying.
I blinked slowly, struggling to keep my eyes focused. I felt very sleepy.
“What is happening, Your Excellency?”
Bishop Valenti folded his hands in front of him, and they were lost among the folds of his robes.
“We are not sure, my son. But we believe that what we have seen is real. The devil has revealed himself to the world, and now everything will change.”
I looked at Father DeMarco. “We’re not safe here, Father. They will come – “
Father DeMarco pressed me back down onto the bed. “The brethren are keeping wat
ch. But if an attack does come, we cannot properly defend ourselves, so we must put our faith in God.”
He reached down and picked up Isabella’s Bible from the desk. He placed in my hands and closed my fingers around it.
“Stay in the light, my son.”
As he rose to his feet, he motioned for Bishop Valenti to lead the way out of the room. When they were gone, I listened to the sound of my breathing for several minutes.
Then I opened the Bible and looked at the beautifully written inscription.
“To my dearest Tourec. With love, Isabella.”
I slammed the Bible shut and stared up at the ceiling above me.
“You could have saved her,” I whispered into the darkness. “You could have saved her, but you didn’t.”
I rolled over onto my side, clutching the Bible to my chest.
I didn’t say anything more but the words seemed to speak themselves.
…And I hate You for it.
****
THE JERUSALEM CHRONICLES
Volume Three:
The Persecution
Copyright 2014 Mark Carver. All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. All names, places, locations, and corporate entities are either the product of the writer’s imagination or are used in a satirical/non-literal manner. Any resemblance to any persons, either living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Susa, Italy
I felt like I was walking in a dream.
I hate using such a bland cliche, but when I dream, I am unable to distinguish the dream from reality, no matter how surreal or terrifying it is. And that’s how I felt at that moment – like I was in the middle of a surreal, terrifying dream that felt completely real.
Because it was.