To Dust You Shall Return

by Sean Melican

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  Later, Pádraig says, “I will interrogate it. Look: I told you that they speak with thoughts. It wants me.” He touches his neck though doesn’t seem to know it. “That hunger will make it speak to me more easily.”

  Lommán says, “How come they didn’t do this when we fought them?”

  “Same reason you don’t speak when you fight,” says Pádraig.

  Lommán grunts. He has a new sword. “We will stand beside you, to be certain it doesn’t win.”

  Pádraig nods. “I would not have expected anything less.”

  When the barn door is opened, it is chained to a heavy plough in a dark corner, but not dark enough. Some light touches it and it begins to smoke. The doors are closed. It is dark inside but bright out here. The sky is without a cloud.

  What images does the priest see? They are necessarily different, but fundamentally the same. Freedom is what it offers, freedom from responsibility and decision, freedom to follow only the simple needs of life.

  In the fields the harvesting has begun. Sighing, you do what must be done.

  Some time later, the priest emerges into the sunlight. This time the doors are left open so that the demon burns, then falls as ashes.

  Pádraig takes a large pitcher of water, swallowing most of it in a single draught. Some of it spills on his tunic. You have arranged to be close enough to hear his words. His eyes are red but already dry. “It used to be who you think it was. It told me that there is a chieftain of sorts. I believe he was once a Roman centurion.” He takes another drink, then wraps his arms around his legs. He is on the ground in a ball. “It showed me a stone place that I believe is the Roman wall. If we kill the centurion, then, like any army, they will be easy to rout. But he keeps himself surrounded by children. They serve as food and as,” he pauses, wipes his lips. “As a shield.”