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

by Mark Carver

  Three days had passed since the devil had appeared in the skies over Paris. And the world had changed more in those three days than in the last three centuries.

  Postulants and monks at the monastery were traditionally forbidden to expose themselves to potentially negative influences. Specifically, popular media and entertainment. No access to radio, music, computers, or television. These rules were quietly accepted and never questioned.

  So you can imagine what an odd sight it was to see a group of young and middle-aged men wearing ash-colored robes and crowding around the ancient television that had been left in the chapel. There was certainly no doubt about its negative influence, but no one was thinking about the rules.

  Everything was pretty much out the window now.

  After my momentary lapse into insanity during the burst of violence that blazed through our quiet town of Susa, I kept to myself, preferring the condemning silence of my room to the agitated companionship of my brethren. I wanted to know what was going on in the world, but at the same time, I didn’t. I knew that the horror sweeping across the world was like what I had seen with my own eyes, only far worse. If people were tearing themselves to pieces in a tranquil Italian tourist town, I didn’t even want to think about what was happening in Paris, or Barcelona, or Berlin.

  Or Rome.

  Kneeling before the hand-carved wooden cross hanging on the wall above my bed, my nerves were flooded with a sudden wave of panic. If the heathen mobs were assaulting and defiling the churches, what would happen to the Holy See?

  My thoughts returned to the clergyman who had mysteriously appeared at our humble monastery. He had introduced himself as Bishop Valenti, and as such he would have had authority over the diocese to which our monastery belonged. He and Father DeMarco seemed to be close friends, but this wasn’t surprising. There was hardly a member of the Italian clergy that Father DeMarco hadn’t met before. It was no small wonder why he chose to remain a priest instead of use his vast network of important connections to climb the clerical ladder.

  But these were thoughts for another time. A more peaceful time. At that moment, I remember experiencing every unpleasant emotion all at once. My heart felt like a piece of fabric pulled by countless hands. Guilt, terror, anger, grief, rage, doubt, anxiety… My mind was in so much turmoil that I couldn’t pray. I felt like a frail old woman fretting about her grandchildren thousands of miles away. I was completely and utterly powerless. Even my soul didn’t have the strength to beseech the throne of God.

  I unclasped my hands and stared at my trembling fingers, almost expecting to see them stained with crimson blood. My spirit crumpled inside me as if struck by a powerful blow.

  I was a murderer. I could try and rationalize it, of course – I had been fighting for my life and the lives of my brethren; I was attacked first so my reaction was only in self-defense; they were heathen monsters who would have desecrated every holy place in Susa unless someone stopped them… But it made no difference. People were dead because of my actions, and even though I had also saved many, the weight of these living souls seemed feather-light compared to the burden of the dead.

  One soul in particular pressed down on my shoulders, even though I had nothing to do with her death. Part of me wanted to dash out of the room and run all the way to Paris, to get down on my hands and knees and hurl away the stones that buried her. Despite the physical impossibility of such a notion, there was also the other part of me, a much larger part, that wanted to shut myself in my tiny room forever, to eat shadows and drink darkness until I wasted away into nothing. I no longer wanted to live in this world. This wretched planet belonged to the Prince of Darkness, and his slaves were consumed with madness and violence. God had done nothing, either to stop the manifestation or to support His church in the bloody aftermath. It was like He was just sitting on His radiant throne, leaning forward, a curious expression on His face as He watched us tear each other to pieces.

  Was this some kind of test? An answer to a challenge? A demonstration to His host of angels?

  Entertainment?

  I knew that those who put their trust in God were never promised an easy life with answers to all of their difficult questions. But what kind of loving God lets beautiful, innocent girls get crushed to death by the devil himself?

  Of course I didn’t get an answer. I knew I wouldn’t. I also knew I didn’t owe God or this world anything. Let the heathen mobs storm through the streets and burn and plunder. Let the cowardly Christians fumble with their rosaries as they hide in the shadows. Let God and His swarm of angels watch us in amused silence.

  And let me die without any more heartache…

  The door to my room burst open and I flinched.

  “Brother Tourec!”

  I whirled around and stared at the young man who had intruded on my grief. He was a postulant, a pupil like me. I could never remember if his name was Alex or Alexi.

  “What is it?” I asked, hastily wiping my face. I hadn’t realized that I had been crying.

  Alex or Alexi gulped deep breaths. “The television…the news…Rome…”

  The last living piece of my heart shriveled like paper thrown into the fire. I knew what was happening.

  The two of us rushed into the chapel, which was already crowded with robes and shaved heads. There was a strange sound echoing off the stone walls, like an undulating hum.

  It was the sound of collective weeping.

  I pressed forward as much as I could, but I only managed to catch bits and pieces of the news broadcast.

  “…shocked as a massive mob, at least one thousand strong, tore down the Vatican gates and stormed across St. Peter’s Square. They quickly overcame the Swiss Guard and proceeded to de… windows and doors were demolished. The mob then forced their way into St. Peter’s Basilica and began destroying anything they could lay their hands on. Our eye in the sky is circling above the square right now – let’s go live to that feed.”

  The broadcast cut to a shaky overhead view of St. Peter’s Square, which was absolutely packed with people. The reporter in the helicopter was attempting to narrate what was going on but it was difficult to hear her over the beating chopper blades.

  Her words were not necessary. The carnage was all too plain to see.

  Several bodies were lying on the square, not moving. Many of them wore liturgical robes. As the camera panned across the basilica’s historic facade, a window exploded. The cameraman immediately zoomed in, giving the television audience a close-up view of a man being hurled through the glass and slamming head-first onto the square. Several brethren in the chapel cried out in horror and the air trembled with prayers. Despite the violence that I had been a part of two days earlier, the sight of that innocent man’s death made my stomach lurch.

  The chapel doors flew open behind us, flooding the chamber with weak sunlight. I looked back and saw Father DeMarco and Bishop Valenti shuffling towards the group. The bishop’s face was dark and grave, while Father DeMarco looked like he had been crying for hours.

  The priest stared through the cluster of monks and pupils and caught a glimpse of the chaos on the TV. Immediately, he sank to the floor and a heart-wrenching groan escaped from his lips. Several brethren rushed to him as he pulled at his clothes as if they were on fire.

  “Oh God!” he wailed, staring up at the arched ceiling. “Oh God!”

  Bishop Valenti stood over him like a physician watching a suffering patient. “Take him to his chambers,” he said. “Stay with him.”

  Four young men hoisted him into their arms and hurried him out of the chapel. His terrible sobs faded away, and we all stared at the bishop. He seemed like an apparition, not really there. For a moment, we forgot about the horrors in Rome, and we stared at this strange man standing amongst us. He was quite old, his beard long and white, and his joints jutted through his robe. But at that moment, he seemed like the only source of strength left for us to hold onto. Father DeMarco had always been our beacon, our guide in times o
f doubt and uncertainty, but his grief was too much, and he couldn’t help anyone right now.

  No one said it, but as I searched the faces of my brethren, I knew we were all thinking the same thing.

  God has abandoned us.

  So naturally we sought out whatever we could to sustain us. And at that moment, that ancient clergyman looked as strong as an oak tree. But as I studied his face, I saw the very thing I did not want to see.

  Fear.

  Thinking back, I realize that perhaps I judged the old bishop too harshly. After all, who wasn’t afraid? But as I recognized that crippling emotion in the bishop’s face, I felt like a drowning man who had been been cast an inflatable tube, only to discover that the tube was riddled with holes.

  I must admit that I’ve never been a good leader. I am decisive and quick-thinking when it comes to my own life, but I hesitate to make decisions that affect others, especially important decisions. But I knew that something had to be done, and that I was the one who had to do it.

  Drawing a deep breath, I pushed my way to the front of the crowd and seized the television set. I wrenched it to one side, yanking the electrical wire from its socket. Before anyone could react, I smashed the television to the ground. It burst open like an overripe watermelon, spewing glass and electronic components across the feet of those standing close. The brethren jumped back as if their feet had been spattered with acid. My chest heaved as I stared down at disemboweled plastic box. The air in the chapel was strangely silent. The eyes of the brethren were wide with astonishment.

  I suddenly felt embarrassed and I thought I should explain myself, even though I didn’t exactly know why I had just done what I did. My throat was dry as I spoke in an unsteady voice.

  “Forgive me, I…this thing was filling our minds with…we need to face this catastrophe with courage and not…”

  I was interrupted by the sound of clapping. The crowd of robes parted and Bishop Valenti came forward. He was applauding.

  My eyes also grew wide. I didn’t know how to respond so I just stood there like a scarecrow.

  “My sentiments exactly, Brother Tourec,” the bishop said as he stepped around the television’s corpse. “Your method was rather abrupt but you speak the truth. It will not do anyone any good to sit in here, hypnotized by this box as it feeds our fears. We cannot be prisoners of our fear. I will find out exactly what is happening in Rome, but in the meantime, we must prepare ourselves for whatever comes next. I have known Father DeMarco a long time, and even though he is not himself right now, he is strong, as are you, and I know he has trained all of you to be men of faith and of action. Now is the time for both.”

  The brethren stirred uneasily, and some cast mournful glances at the decimated television set, as if they had lost a source of comfort.

  I looked at the bishop and was surprised to find his gaze fixed on me.

  “Young man,” he said, his voice stern, authoritative, “come with me.”

  I felt like I was out of my body. I was an outside observer, trying to figure out who this new person was inhabiting my skin, this person who charges into street brawls and destroys monastery property.

  Then I felt that outside observer give me a hard nudge in the ribs.

  The bishop wasn’t asking.

  I snapped back to life and stumbled through the group at the front of the chapel.

  Did none of them listen to what the bishop had said? I thought in annoyance. They were like chickens in a coop.

  I followed Bishop Valenti out of the chapel, feeling a fresh wave of sadness as I looked up into the smoke-streaked sky. The faint odor of charred wood drifted into my nostrils, and I wondered if I was smelling the only earthly remains of priceless relics.

  Bishop Valenti also stared off into the distance. I couldn’t tell if he was studying the town or was simply lost in thought. Then he turned to me, startling me with his fierce gaze.

  “Do you understand what is happening, young man?”

  I shook my head no.

  “This is war.” The bishop’s voice sounded like crumbling stones. “Our territory is under attack, and we cannot retreat.”

  “But Your Eminence…Rome…”

  “Rome is lost. I knew it would come to this, after I saw what was happening to the churches and cathedrals. It was only a matter of time before they channeled their anger to the source.”

  “But why, Your Eminence? Why are they doing this? They should be coming to us for guidance, not burning churches and murdering priests in the streets. The church is the only place for answers in all of this.”

  The bishop’s eyes were cold as ice. “Do you have answers, Brother Tourec?”

  I hung my head and said nothing. Then I felt his hand on my shoulder.

  “Do not lose heart, my son. I confess that I too have no explanation for any of this. We must trust in our Savior to lead and protect us, but we must also take measures to protect ourselves.”

  “How? We are not fighters. It’s a miracle that we weren’t all slaughtered when we went into the town and…”

  My voice trailed away and my eyes fell to the ground once more. For some reason, I wondered what Isabella would have thought of me if she were still alive. I expected the memory of her to reignite a murderous fire in my veins, but I only felt more helpless than ever.

  Bishop Valenti seemed to sense my turmoil and he leaned forward so he could look into my downcast eyes.

  “My son, I want you to listen very carefully. The Vatican has fallen into the hands of our enemies. I do not know what will happen to the Holy Father; he is in God’s hands now. But it is clear that the Catholic church has no central leadership anymore. That means that every province, every diocese, every church, every monastery is on its own. We don't know what the government or the military will do to intervene, but we can reasonably assume that their resources will be stretched thin, and it is small parishes like this one that will suffer.”

  “So what can we do?” I begged, struggling to stay on my feet.

  Bishop Valenti inhaled a long, slow breath. “You are a man of action, Tourec. Your emphatic demonstration in there proved that. Perhaps you are a bit rash and impulsive but these traits can be an asset in times like these.”

  He looked over my shoulder at the chapel doors. No one had come through them since we had stepped outside.

  He sighed. “Your brethren are good men, but they are like sheep without a shepherd. And with Father DeMarco’s overwhelming grief, I fear that this monastery will quickly fall to pieces, especially if there is an attack. Several of the postulants have already fled back to their homes.”

  I nodded, unable to meet his eyes. I felt as if their shame was my own.

  “Don’t let it trouble, my son. It may be a blessing. Fewer people here means fewer people that can get hurt.”

  I was beginning to feel sick in the pit of my stomach, but I knew he was right. The assault on the Vatican proved it. This wasn’t just random violence, a frightened world lashing out with blind fury.

  We were being exterminated.

  I looked at the old man, narrowing my eyes and studying him as a skeptical scientist studies a new specimen.

  “So what is it that you want me to do, Your Eminence?”

  If he was surprised by my directness, he didn’t show it. He seemed like the kind of person who preferred direct and open communication rather than deference to titles and hierarchies.

  In answer to my question, he simply gave me a sad smile. “Pray. Our faith is our greatest weapon, no matter what happens.”

  Then he leaned closer and spoke in a low tone, even though there was no one else around.

  “But in addition to faith, young Tourec, we must be prepared to use necessary force.”

  My eyes couldn’t meet his. “I…I can’t, Your Eminence,” I said as I shook my head. “After what happened before, I don’t know if I…”

  He grabbed my shoulder and I instinctively tightened every muscle in my body, prepared to flee or fig
ht. Then I saw him staring at me with a strange light in his eyes.

  “You are a man of action, Tourec. It is a characteristic that is not easy to miss. We must pray every day for a miracle, but if one does not come, we must take matters into our own hands. Every country has men and women who are ready to do unspeakable things at a moment’s notice in order to keep that country safe. And what is a country but one large family? It is the same with us, the church. We must endure, my son. We must.”

  I was frightened by the intensity of his expression but his words pierced my soul.

  Unspeakable things at a moment’s notice…

  Like what? Kill people who tried to attack us? That was hardly unspeakable, and in most cases, quite reasonable, even for men of the cloth such as us. I had already shed blood for my church family, and I knew that if I had no other choice, I would do it again.

  But only if I had no other choice. I wasn’t going to volunteer for some kind of holy security detail, which is what the bishop seemed to be hinting at. And there were plenty of other broad-shouldered postulants and several monks as well who were fit and stout and would probably be far more useful in applying “necessary force.”

  The old bishop seemed to be reading my mind as I struggled with these thoughts. I watched his bristling eyebrows rise and fall as he listened to the brain waves emanating from my skull. Or perhaps he was losing control over his facial muscles in his old age.

  “Think about what I’ve said,” he commanded gently as he turned towards the dormitory building. “I must go and see Father DeMarco.”

  I nodded.

  “Pray, Tourec. Pray like you’ve never prayed before.”

  I had already been doing plenty of that.

  ****

  “Father, they’re coming!”

  I lifted my head, glancing at the Virgin Mother’s mournful expression before turning around with the rest of the brethren. Father DeMarco, who had been kneeling in our midst and praying fervently with the rest of us, rose to his feet and looked at the young monk standing in the chapel doorway.

  We all stared up at the priest, unsure about his mental stability. He had emerged from his quarters several hours after his breakdown and mingled with the brethren, encouraging us as he had always done, though there was a noticeable difference in his demeanor. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but it seemed as if he were an actor playing a role. His words of encouragement, his supportive smile didn’t seem entirely real for some reason. But I didn’t say anything and when he clasped my hands in his and looked into my eyes, I saw what he was really thinking.