by Sean Melican
#
On the eighth day the rain is terrific: falling in sheets, it is driven east by a ceaseless wind. Lightning flashes every dozen heartbeats, followed by the crack and boom of thunder. Whether it is day or night is impossible to tell.
There is finally the dark gray shape of the wall, visible only because the rain changes its motion there. The fortress juts north but beyond that detail it is only a shape.
Una shouts to be heard: “There are three gates: one here, one on the east side and one on the north. Beyond that, I know little.”
“We can’t fight in this,” shouts Dichu.
Pádraig shields his eyes. Water catches on his fingers, falls in a steady trickle over them onto his face and curves off his chin. He scans the horizon, shouts, “There!” and walks north. His crosier is his support. His black cloak flaps, reminding you of your wounded bird. Your father said to break its neck, but instead, you secreted it in a place in the oak glen, nursing it to health with food and water. When it recovered it left the hollow of the tree. Later, your father said that he always knew. He said too that you always had a weakness for the weak. He was wrong. It is not the weak you love but the very strong, who need only a lifting hand in their moment of weakness.
Everyone follows the dark figure like sheep. There is a momentary terror when you imagine that it is a demon who has replaced the priest and is leading everyone into an ambush. Others must think the same thing for chilled hands on shivering arms are wrapped around hilts.
He calls: “Here! In here!”
It is a granary, a large one. Everyone fits but barely. Elbows bump as do knees, and there are many apologies but they stop soon enough when it is realized that this is the way it will be. At least it is dry – the priest drops the heavy bolt across the door – and safe.
“It is nearly winter. Where is all the grain?” someone says. The voices are not Dichu’s people.
“That is how long the demons have held this land.”
There is a crushing silence for a long while. There is barely enough room for everyone to sit cross-legged.
“I’m cold,” says someone. “We need a fire.”
Someone else laughs. “Find us some dry wood then! And while you are, catch us a boar as well!”
There is the sound of a scuffle, a sharp noise of skin on skin, and then silence.
Pádraig says, “Those who have been baptized, please pass your bread forward.” He holds up his crosier, which is barely visible with the thin gray light coming from the high windows.
“We who are followers of Christ,” he says. “We believe that the Lord died for us to take our sins. I will bless the bread, and the wine that I have kept—“ There is a muted grumbling at this. “—and transform the bread and wine to the body and blood of Christ. We may each then partake of it, consuming a small measure of His immortality and His strength. We will need it for tomorrow.”
Una says, “You want us to eat the flesh of a god?”
“Yes. I should tell you it is truly the flesh and not merely a symbol. But it will taste like bread and wine.”
There are more muted voices. They are uncertain and repulsed.
“I will try it first,” says Una.
A shape rises from the crowd, steps to the priest. “My bread.” His hand is a shadow. There could be a demon here and no one would know until it was too late. You stare at the dark shadows but there is no way of telling man from demon here.
Pádraig says Latin words over the bread and wine.
Una says, “It is as he says: tasting only of bread and wine.”
You do not partake but find that your meager supply of bread, hard cheese, and dried meat satisfies as much as a great feast would. Perhaps more for there is not that bloated feeling.
You think of that bird, watching the priest who has his crosier in hand, and go to him. “I would like to be baptized too.”
“I would not have imagined this from you. It is best if we have a lake or stream.”
Someone nearby laughs. “Look outside! There is an ocean all around though it is above us.”
“Does anyone else wish to be baptized before tomorrow’s battle?”
Nearly everyone stands. Surprisingly, so does Dichu. It is difficult to strip when a careless elbow can easily blacken an eye. The clothes are left beside the door.
His hand lifts your chin. The icy rain hurts when it strikes skin. But once he says those Roman words there is a feeling of warmth like that a fire gives to a nearby stone.
Inhuman screams come from the south. It is a crazed rush of naked bodies to get through the doorway. The bolt is slammed and then there is the sound of long claws scraping at the wood.
“The windows!” someone cries.
Quickly a ladder of people is made and crosses hung over each window. There is no rest this night, not with the shrieks and the thud of claw against wood and the crash of lightning. Most people dress only in light underclothes for though it is cold outside the press of bodies is warm. The odor is strong but the feel of skin against skin is too welcome this night. It is difficult to imagine the priest utterly alone, struggling against those things. His god must be powerful to grant such strength. And terribly forgiving, to forgive the desecration of the cross.
It is a long night but you are awoken. Pádraig stands by the door and the clothing pile. Sunlight slants through the open door. The clothes are completely dry.
The light though it is watery, seen through a ragged blanket of cloud.
Outside, dressed, armored and armed, you listen as Pádraig explains why he has asked that everyone bring mirrors:
“Sunlight kills them. Reflected sunlight should do the same. I know that they have posted guards near each entrance, just beyond the reach of the sun.” He pauses. “But they won’t be out of reach for us.”
Dichu and Una assign three groups, the third led by Lommán. Una will go through the north gate, Dichu the east and Lommán the west. You are with Lommán. Pádraig is with Dichu.
When each group is in position, the mirrors catch the sunlight, which is a little stronger now though not much, and direct it into the gates. The guards erupt into flame for a brief moment before turning to ash. Others, hearing the cries, emerge from what must be the former barracks only to encounter the light too. Enough die that there is a thin pile of ash gathered at the west entrance. It is swept away by a cool, dry wind.
When they realize, finally, what must be occurring, they lie in wait. They can taste blood. Yours. They hear heartbeats because they have none of their own. They are only parasites. Like ticks. Your hand is tight on the hilt. It is an effort to relax it.
You will enter last since they will come for those who have been bitten first. The vanguard should have an advantage since their focus will be beyond their reach.
Lommán enters, followed by others. It is dark being on this side. The moment Lommán crosses the shadowy threshold the demons attack. They scream of rage and lust and hunger and anger and pain. They shriek all of these things like a bitter woman, but never do they scream from fear.
It is darker than it ought to be and reeks of copper and iron. The moment your foot crosses the threshold they are upon you. There is little room to swing a sword. They smash against the stone walls as much as they cut demons. But even the dullest of swords cuts through their thin black skin, curled in some places like burnt wood. They die. The air is thick with choking, black dust that stings the eyes. They fall upon you. It is a wonder anyone can survive.
You hear one in your mind: Why do you persist in that frail body? Why follow this perverse little man who believes in something that he cannot show you? I can show you—Ah!
He is dust.
The cramped interior works against the demons as well, forcing them into a frontal assault only two or three wide. Their chests are exposed; they cannot twist away. Your sweat becomes thick with dust, coating skin like mud.
There are screams as some are cut or bitten. Muttered, muted prayers echo
from the stone. The press of bodies is thick in the darkness. The ceiling seems lower each moment. This must be what it is like to be buried alive. There is not enough air. It is too thick with dust.
But finally – finally – only a few remain and there is time again.
There is the sound of heavy breathing. Your own chest visibly rises and falls. There is water from canteens to wash away the dust. It tastes better than water or mead or ale, or even wine. There is a momentary panic, thinking perhaps that this is life after death, thinking that the only evidence of death is the bottomless cauldrons. But you know this is not death: there is a man holding his neck and crying. The priest pours holy water over the man’s neck. He is escorted into the sunlight and freed when he does not burn.
Dusk. Night will come soon. This fight had gone longer than expected. It is not over.
There are many dead bodies. Several warriors are systematically cutting heads from bodies. Most are just dead but a few do open their crimson eyes and shriek before turning to dust. You wash away bile with a swallow of water.
There is a sound of soft rock on stone. It is Pádraig sketching crosses along the floor and sides of the western doorway. He nods wearily. No demons can enter.
He turns the stone corner. His sleeves are rolled. When he lifts you, there is distinct muscle beneath his skin. “There is a south door as well,” he says. “How are you, Aoife?” His blue eyes are shaded, concerned. There are lines etched from corner outwards.
“Alive.”
“We are not done.” He holds a crumbling white stone. He points to the doorway. “Through this is the Roman world,” he says. “It is only stone but the power that is invested in it makes it so much more. Like the sidhe, if you still believe in such things.”
It has never occurred to you to think of it in such a way, but there is a vast, nearly impenetrable difference between the sides.
“The Romans,” he says, “believe in stone boundaries. You can see what that has bought them.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
His hand is white and dry from the stone. “Bishops, like myself, must remain chaste. Other gods are given sacrifices; and this is ours. It is a sign of strength.” There are tears in his eyes. “I am a weak man. You are so beautiful. Roman women are too tame.”
Like most Romans, he shaves when he can. But it has been two or more weeks. His cheek is rough on your lips. “I am a married woman. You are my priest. It is common to be aroused during battle for the feelings lust and war engender are very much alike. You do not truly want this. Wait until the day has been won and then another day. You will be glad you did.”
He is silent. He seems to be studying the stones beneath his feet. “God forgive me,” he whispers.
Let him be alone with his god. But he is now your god and he is cruel to demand such a sacrifice. Yet the priest made that choice. He can unmake it if he wants, but not with you.
The wounded are moved.
Pádraig says, “The centurion is behind that door.” He leads the healthy to a door. “But there are hostages. Children,” he says to Una.
Without speaking, three men batter the door twice and then it falls inward. There is only the one door so only a few can enter at a time. There is a nothing impeding the way until there is a bend. Dichu rounds it first, then retreats. His voice is soft and yet hard at once. “Aoife. Pádraig.”
Once around the stone corner your hearts falls to your stomach. The demon leader stands half a dozen paces further. He holds Cuan. He is bruised and bloody but there are no marks on his neck.
Where is the priest?
“Here,” he says, stepping forward.
Ah. It is a deep sigh. It is you I want more than her, but I will take her too since she is nearly one of us. He is worthless. He twists his arms very fast and hard. The sound is like a twig shattering on a cold winter morning. Cuan’s eyes stare at the dark ceiling. His chest does not rise.
“No!” It is your voice but it is as it is far away. Cuan’s face is still warm to the touch.
Pádraig holds his cross and advances. The demon leader steps high and backwards. Though it is almost dark, there are a few torches. Those are children he has stepped over. They are emaciated and very pale. Tadhg is in the middle. His eyes are heavy as if he is very tired. His body wobbles as if it might fall at any moment. He has been bitten.
You wouldn’t kill them, not those that have not been baptized. He laughs, but it is only inside your head. The room is silent save for the shallow breaths of the children. And if you take another step forward, you will kill them. He takes Tadhg in one arm, another child in the other. His fangs are long and yellow in the torchlight. They are on Tadhg’s neck.
Those behind press closer. Their breaths are fast and shallow. They are eager.
“Move them away,” you say to Dichu without turning. “Take them into the light.”
He says, “But—“
“Now.”
The priest shifts unsteadily when he glances over. He wants to rub the tears away.
“All right,” says Dichu. “But if you do not finish this, we will.”
Their footsteps fade but do not disappear entirely.
“There is no escape,” says Pádraig.
There is always escape. Or haven’t you learned anything? My Lord loves children, but he loves priests even more. Ah, I will be richly rewarded when I take you with me. Or are you not going to offer yourself to save the children? What about you, Aoife? His face is hidden in the darkness. Only his long fangs on Tadhg’s neck, and his eyes, are visible. He has thought of women. What have you thought of? How have you sinned? Ah. Do you really love this child that much? His mocking laughter echoes from the stone.
The priest flicks something from his hands. Water. It touches each of the children as well as the demon leader’s face. He recoils as if burned.
The priest cries, “I baptize each of you in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost!”
NO! It is as if thunder has been said. Dust from the mortar in the ceiling sprinkles your shoulders. The centurion becomes a wisp of smoke or a shadow. He throws the child who is not Tadhg. You try to catch the child but drop him. He is dead.
But this has given the demon enough time to escape through a door at the back end of the room, made of stone to resemble the wall. The priest is after him first. You lay the child in a corner.
Through the stone door, the walls of the guardhouse are darker than before. Each shadow is deeper and more solid. Any motion causes the shadows to move. Each step increases your fear, because the demon seems to be in every corner and crevice.
“Aoife.” The priest is at the east end of a corridor that runs east to west. He is just barely visible in the gloom. “He’s gone this way,” says the priest, pointing south. “You go around that way. We’ll trap him where these meet.” He motions towards the western corridor that runs north and south.
You run down this corridor.
Why did he take Tadhg? There is only one good answer. Your heart pounds in your ears.
Wait. Perhaps he heard the priest’s plan. Perhaps he is waiting in the shadows, waiting for you to pass so he can escape.
Each step seems to take forever. It is important to study each shadow, each dark movement. The grip of the sword is damp. There is a bit of white in the corner. Tadhg.
You put your sword forward. The demon is fast and desperate. There will be only one chance.
There are two red eyes in the shadows, and they are staring.
“Let him go,” you say.
The demon steps out from the shadow. His claws are clean through Tadhg’s shoulder. The tips of them have ripped his shirt, and dark blood has stained his shirt. It is too late for him.
“Let him go.”
The demon starts to run down the corridor. Tadhg’s legs and feet are limp, bouncing on every uneven stone in the floor. Yet his eyes flutter and for a moment he seems to be aware. The demon should let Tadhg go. He would be t
oo fast and nearly invisible, and yet he doesn’t. If he let him go, the demon would win this battle. Of that you are absolutely sure.
That’s when you see that Tadhg’s small, white hands grip the thin, black stick of the demon’s arm. The demon wants to let go but his advantage is in swiftness, not strength. Even a dying boy can wrestle with him.
Dying. It is impossible to deny this. Tadhg’s eyes flutter again. His chest rises and falls with an alarming shallowness and rapidity. “Mommy,” he says, and it is only because of the echo his voice can be heard.
The demon turns a corner.
There is a scream, but not a human scream and not one of pain. It is rage.
Around the corner now, the demon is at the south gate, where the priest had chalked a white crucifix to keep the demons from the north. But now it keeps the demon from fleeing south to Roman lands.
The priest is on the far side of the corridor, his sword ready. He has proven he can fight and the demon can see that.
“Put the boy down,” says the priest.
Gladly. The demon pushes Tadhg from his claws, and he collapses on the floor. He can no longer hold onto the demon. The demon shoves Tadhg towards the priest with one foot.
“There’s nowhere to go,” says Pádraig. His sword does not waver. There is strength in this man. Perhaps his weak god has granted the priest his manhood for at least this moment.
The demon turns, looking at the door with its white crucifix, then at the priest, then you.
He’s mine now. When the sun is gone, which won’t be long now, he will be my son. The demon holds out his hand. They are both gone. But you can join me, and you will have at least your son. Our son.
Your throat is too tight to speak.
Pain. I know what pain is. I lost my son too. He was only half Tadhg’s age. A terrible illness. He was vomiting blood the last month of his life.
You are crying.
I can take your pain away. You know that. You know what waits you on the other side. Immortality. A life free from pain. He is coming closer, slowly, and he does not seem to want to kill. They are all gone. Let me help you. He is stretching out his hand.
Cuan’s hand was a man’s hand: large and strong and rough, and yet gentle when he made love. Tadhg’s hand was small and he held it tight whenever he was afraid.
You are crying. I know. I cried too. I loved him very much. But he is gone from me forever. You, though, you have a chance to love Tadhg again.
Behind the demon, the priest is kneeling beside Tadhg’s body. The priest is washing his wounds with holy water. It seems as if he is the Morrigan washing his body in her river. His skin smokes and there is a sulfurous smell in these closed walls. The priest’s mouth moves in that curious way when he speaks the strange Latin phrases. He looks at you, and he is crying too.
The demon looks back just at the moment that the priest cuts Tadhg’s head from his shoulders. There is only a small boy-shape made of ash on the stone.
The demon turns again.
How could you live with this man? Do you see how his god betrays you? The demon is closer now. You need only reach out a hand to touch his.
The priest says, “Do you remember, Aoife, when we spoke on the ship? You have seen enough to believe that my god exists. He has power over these demons, doesn’t He? Yet still you won’t believe.”
Your god doesn’t love them. He lets them suffer.
“I said that in the end it requires faith. Faith is hard. The demon can promise you a sort of immortality. He can show you what it means, because it doesn’t require faith. It is easy.”
Why should it be hard?
The demon echoes your own thoughts.
The priest is coming closer. His sword is by his side. He is looking only at you. “Because life is. The demon cannot promise you everlasting life, because what he promises is easy. It is a false sort of life. Empty, and devoid of meaning.”
“My son is dead. Tell me how life is not empty.”
I can take your pain, make you whole again.
The demon’s fingertips touch yours. You hadn’t realized your arm was outstretched. It is an effort to push him away.
The demon turns and it is painful that he has taken his touch away.
He screams and strikes at the priest. The priest blocks the demon’s arm with his sword and nearly falls to his knee from the strength of the blow. This demon is much stronger than his soldiers.
The demon dodges each of the priest’s thrusts and the priest blocks the demon’s attacks, but it is clear that the priest is losing. The screams are inhuman and they make your ears ache, but the grunts from the priest are worse, because it is clear he knows he is losing. He is pleading with his eyes even as he blocks another wicked claw.
Pádraig falls to the floor. The demon steps on his hand and kicks the sword away. He kneels over the priest, and traces a thin, bloody cross on his chest with a sharp claw.
The demon’s shoulder is cold. He is surprised when you touch him, but he smiles.
You hold out a hand. The demon’s own hand is cold.
Yes. Let me take away your pain.
The half-healed wounds itch and burn when he bends to your neck. It feels so good. He is warmth and contentment. The pain is not entirely gone, but, like a tree seen on the horizon, is so distant that it is only a vague outline of itself.
He screams and tries to pull away, but you hold the iron crucifix to his chest while your other arm is wrapped around so that he cannot escape. The smoke is sulfurous and acrid, and seems far away.
With strength born from rage, he pulls away but the cross is embedded in his chest and though he scrapes at it he cannot touch it long enough to move it.
And then he turns to dust, which swirls in the air that is now much colder than it had been only a moment ago.
Pádraig stands. He sways a little, more hurt than you thought. He opens his arms. All at once you are holding him, crying into his shoulder. “I know,” he says again and again.
#
It is a cold day when Cuan is buried. The ground is hard but no one complains about the effort. Simple wooden crucifixes are placed at the head of each grave. There is a grave for Tadhg because the priest says he died before his soul was lost. He says something about holy water and baptism. And faith. You cry so long that the dawn is breaking before you sleep.
The priest listens to every word for the next month. He says, “God forgives. It is right to be angry. He knows that we are weak. He doesn’t mind if you curse His name because He knows this. I don’t know if you will ever accept what has happened. But He accepts and loves you.”
He is a good man. His god is a good god. No more cruel than any other.
END
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