On Broken Wings

by Francis Porretto

  Still, he took the law into his own hands.

  The law is always in someone's hands. Why not Louis Redmond's? Whose hands are more trustworthy than those?

  There are procedures...

  What procedure would have intervened to save their lives if Louis hadn't acted as he did? What procedure would have intervened to save this lovely young woman from being forced back into the hell she risked her life to escape?

  I can't just keep silent over this!

  Yes, you can. You must.

  In that moment, Schliemann realized that only one of the voices in his head belonged to him. Already off balance from Christine's circumstantial narration of the assault on Louis's home, the new discovery made his sanity reel.

  Who is it that speaks in my skull? Who is it that argues with me?

  The old priest had a sudden sense of vast, inhuman amusement.

  Ask Christine.

  The alien presence faded. With difficulty, the priest returned his attention to the world around him. Christine was watching him with mounting anxiety.

  "No, child, I'm not going to tell them, or anyone else."

  She relaxed. "Thank you. Until a minute ago, I didn't even think that I might be getting him into trouble."

  "Come sit by me, child." He waited for her to join him on the sofa. When he reached for her hands, she gave them to him, as always.

  "Christine, you have a talent for shaking me up. Not one of our conversations has left me undisturbed. That's quite an accomplishment. You have no idea of the range of things a priest hears. I know it's a silly thing to ask, but do you look for ways to shock me, or does it just come naturally?"

  "I don't try to do it, Father. Honestly."

  "I believe you, child." You've trained me to believe you. "I'd like to ask you one more silly question, if you think you have the patience for it."

  "Go ahead, Father." There was new tension in her hands.

  Schliemann gathered himself. "Do you ever feel as if you're holding a conversation with someone else, but inside your head, where no one else can hear you?"

  She relaxed again. "Oh, sure."

  "You do?" He had difficulty believing she had answered him seriously.

  "Well, yeah. It happens a lot, in fact. Why?"

  "Who is it that you're talking to at those times? Do you have any idea?"

  She shrugged. "I call him the Nag."

  " 'Him'?"

  "I guess it could be a woman. It's hard to tell from nothing but a voice you can't really hear."

  "And you're sure your, ah, conversational partner is always the same?"

  She smirked. "No doubt about it, Father. I can tell it's him, just like I can tell it's you talking with me now."

  "What do you and the Nag talk about?"

  "Well, they aren't really conversations. He tells me stuff."

  "What kinds of stuff, child?"

  "Mostly, he just tries to keep my backbone stiff."

  "What do you mean?"

  She looked uncomfortable. "You know. He tells me that I know what I ought to do, and that I have to do it even if it's going to hurt."

  "And you're quite certain you're not talking to yourself?"

  "Quite certain, Father." She looked away, out through the sitting room window. Color had risen into her face. "I don't like hearing from the Nag."

  "Why?"

  "Because I only hear from him when I'm starting to get weak, when I'm getting close to giving in." She gave a small sigh. "I guess that's the only time I really need him. But you don't have to like all the things you need."

  "When did you first hear from the Nag, Christine? Was it before or after you met Louis?"

  "Oh, the Nag and I go back as far as I can remember, Father. If it weren't for the Nag, I'd probably have cut my own throat ten years ago."

  Schliemann stared at his young guest in speechless amazement.

  What business have I, trying to instruct this girl? She's being cared for and tutored by the finest man it's ever been my privilege to know. She has attained a degree of maturity that I myself have struggled to achieve. So what if she swears a little? Is my desire to instruct her based on anything more than personal presumption?

  I shall call you child no more, Christine Marie.

  "Weren't we supposed to be talking about religion, Father?"

  "Eh?" I hardly think we've talked about anything else! "Well, yes. But I've decided that where I'd intended to start is, ah, inappropriate." He went to his bookshelf and pulled down an old leather-bound Bible. "May I read you something instead?"

  "Oh, sure. Louis reads to me now and then."

  "What kinds of things does he read you, dear?"

  "Mostly poetry."

  "Ah. This is poetry of a kind, too, but written very long ago. It deals with the beginning of things. Would you like to hear it?"

  "Sure." She slumped back slightly against the arm of the sofa as he thumbed open the old Bible. He'd read the Gospel According to St. John so many times that he could probably have recited it to her from memory, but it wouldn't have felt right without the Book open before him, weighing down his hands.

  "'In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God....'"

  As it always did, the sonorous majesty of the story suffused and exalted him, and made his rheumy seventy-four-year-old voice once more an instrument of power and beauty.

  Christine listened in fascination.

  ***

  Louis knocked at the rectory door at two o'clock. There was no response. Finding the door unlocked, he let himself in. Father Schliemann's voice, deep into the Gospel According to St. John, reached him at once. He closed the door as quietly as he could and stood motionless in the hall, listening. No sound except the old priest's voice reached his ears.

  I can't interrupt this. He's probably got her hypnotized by now.

  He lowered himself to sit on the hallway floor, making himself as comfortable as he could against the wall.

  It's going to be a while.

  He leaned back and allowed the story to wash over him.

  ***

  Schliemann closed the Bible and sat with bowed head. The shadows of evening had begun to extend across the room.

  Christine spoke hesitantly.

  "Is it true?"

  He gave the tiniest of shrugs.

  "No one knows, dear. If it happened, it was two thousand years ago. There are no records of it, except what I have here."

  "But you believe it."

  The priest nodded. "Yes, I do. Oh, some parts more than others. But this is the central story of my Church." He caressed the Bible's cover. "I've lived with it all my life. In a way, it is my life."

  "So what's the point?"

  Schliemann frowned. "What do you mean?"

  "What's the moral of the story? A story has to have a moral, doesn't it?"

  The old priest was aghast. "Christine, God sent His only begotten Son into the world to suffer and die horribly, because that was the only way the world could be freed from the burden of original sin. Does it need to have a moral beyond that?"

  The young woman held up a hand. "Wait a minute, there. It didn't say any of that anywhere in the story."

  Schliemann sputtered. "But...but of course it does!"

  Christine fixed her eyes on his. "Find it."

  The old priest drew himself up to his maximum dignity. "Very well. Which part?"

  "What you just said about Jesus being the son of God. If he ever said he was any such thing, you skipped right over it."

  Schliemann reopened the Bible and began to scan the text. He knew the Gospels better than he knew his own history, and he was certain he could find whatever he needed in them with a few seconds' search.

  He was wrong.

  Fifteen minutes of fruitless page-turning had elapsed before he looked up, pain and embarrassment mingled in his face. "I'm sorry, Christine, I can't put my finger on the passage. But I'm certain it's here somewhere."

  She
shook her head. "It isn't. Or that bit about original sin."

  Schliemann rose from the couch in exasperation. "And what makes you so sure of that, young lady?"

  She seemed to search his face for the source of his discomfiture. "You just read it to me. Didn't you think I was listening?"

  The old priest was dumbstruck for the third time that day.

  "She's right, Father."

  Schliemann whirled to see Louis emerge from the hallway.

  "Louis?"

  He nodded. "Christ never claimed to be the Son of God. Other people called him that, never He himself. Nor does the part about original sin appear in any of the Gospels."

  "But --"

  The priest's knees began to buckle. Louis crossed the room quickly, put an arm around him and eased him back to the sofa.

  "Remember your lessons from seminary, Father. It came later, as a teaching of the Church. Paul of Tarsus was the first to proclaim the divinity of Christ." Louis's eyes were deep wells of sorrow. "It was the Church that named Christ the Son of God and the Redeemer of Mankind, not Christ Himself."

  Schliemann fainted.

  ***

  "Will he be all right?"

  "Of course, Chris. He just needs to rest." Louis tried to concentrate on the road. The cabin of the truck was warm and crowded.

  He just heard me blast the foundation out from under his Church. In front of you.

  "What was this all about, Louis?"

  "We'll talk about it another time." He forced himself to look straight ahead through the windshield. The darkness was broken only by his headlights.

  "No! The Father is our friend, or at least I thought so. You put us both through this for a reason, and I want to know what it is!"

  "This is not a practice run, Chris." His grip tightened on the steering wheel. "This is your actual life, beginning now. You get one shot. If you blow it, that's that." He tried for calm, but it evaded him. "Father Schliemann is my pastor and my confessor. I love him dearly. My life has been far better for his part in it. You, on the other hand, are my ward. I have responsibilities to you that I am going to fulfill, no matter how much it costs either of us. And one of those is to see to it that you learn how to listen, and how to choose what you'll believe."

  "But it's your religion! You believe it too!"

  "No, I don't."

  Her gasp was painful to hear. He kept his eyes straight ahead.

  "The Church purveys two things. One is the mythos of Christ the Son of God and the Redeemer of Mankind. The other is the Christian ethos, a set of rules for living. I live by the rules, or did, until recently. I've never bought into the myth."

  "Then why accept the rules?" she whispered.

  "Because they're good rules. Most of them."

  ====

  Chapter 22

  "Are you ready?"

  Christine raised her chin and presented her mentor with a feral smile. She had waited for this morning with a Christmas-like anticipation.

  "Bet your ass." I've never wanted to be anywhere as much as I want to be here in your basement, with you, learning this. Except in bed with you, in your arms.

  Louis grinned. "You might find yourself changing your mind about that. What is combat, Christine?"

  "Huh?"

  "What is combat? How does it differ from other kinds of human interaction?"

  "Well, you're trying to hurt somebody."

  Louis cocked an eyebrow. "You're never trying to hurt somebody under other circumstances?"

  She thought it over. "Well, yeah."

  "So what's the difference?"

  "Well, you have to have an opponent."

  He waited in silence.

  "And he has to be trying to stop you."

  "From doing what?"

  "Whatever you're trying to do!" She was growing impatient.

  "And what are the rules?"

  "Um, do there have to be any?"

  He shook his head. "There have to be none."

  "What?"

  "You heard me. If it's combat, it has no rules, only objectives. That's really the defining characteristic."

  He went to a wooden rack across from his punching bag and lifted a large, gently curved sword from it. She had never seen him handle the thing before, and had wondered why he had it.

  "This is a medieval saber. A thousand years ago, it was one of the most potent weapons a man could carry. Moreover, possession was restricted by law. You had to be a member of the ruling class to own one legally."

  He swung the sword in a complex pattern that defeated her attempt to track it.

  "You can kill with one of these, if you have enough strength and skill. Of course, it's a little conspicuous, and it takes a lot more effort to use than most people would guess. Would you want to have to tote one around?"

  "No."

  "And why is that?" He laid the tip of the saber in his left hand and held out the sword as if offering it to her.

  "Because there's better available. We have guns now."

  He nodded. "Yes, we do. And for quite a wide range of combat situations, a gun is a better weapon than a sword. In fact, there are a number of cases where bare hands are better than a sword, but that's beside the point for now. If you were in a combat situation, where you had this and your opponent had a gun, what could you do about it?"

  She looked hard at the old weapon. It had a certain antique beauty and simplicity, but she couldn't imagine ever wanting to wield it.

  "Not a lot. Try to take the gun away from him, maybe?"

  Louis snorted. "I hope you never have to do that, Chris. The odds are going to be on his side. But one thing you wouldn't do is to shout, 'Hey, that's not fair.' Right?"

  She laughed. "Silly man!"

  His face went dark. "I'm trying to make a very important point here, Chris. Combat means no rules. What he has is what you have to deal with, period. If you can't face his size, his skills, or his armament, you'd better be prepared to run."

  "Well, you know I can do that."

  He glowered. "I said prepared to run." His voice had acquired an edge she hadn't heard before. "Emotionally. You don't ever duke it out with someone who's got the edge. A lot of guys have been killed by pride and unwillingness to admit they're facing superior force. Chris, this might be the most important thing anyone will ever tell you. Do you understand?"

  His eyes bored into hers. Her sobriety returned with a rush.

  "I understand, Louis."

  After a moment, he nodded. "All right. There are many different approaches to combat, and many different states of armament you can find yourself in when the lead begins to fly. We're going to start out with basic unarmed techniques for several reasons. First, your body is the only thing you can rely on absolutely. You simply can't leave it home. Second, many of the techniques of unarmed combat are good stepping stones for learning the use of various weapons. The control of your body you acquire from perfecting your barehanded techniques will translate into improved control of your weapons. Third, barehanded combat skill is invisible. Unless he knows you very well, your enemy doesn't know you have it. That could lead him into underestimating you, which is usually a decisive advantage for you."

  He weighed the sword a moment longer before returning it to the rack. His deadly seriousness was beginning to seep into her. She found herself wondering whether she was truly ready for this.

  It doesn't matter. He's ready. Therefore, you'll be ready, whatever it takes. It's taken him too long to get to this point.

  Oh, for Christ's sake, Nag, shut up. I know it's important.

  He stepped back onto the exercise mat and faced her from about ten feet away, his bearing oddly formal. To her surprise, he bowed to her from the waist, smoothly and slowly. To her greater surprise, she returned the gesture without thinking about it. He smiled.

  "We begin."

  ***

  He trained her.

  "Combat is about advantages and how fast you can use them. Everyone has both strengths and we
aknesses: you, me, those creeps who came here for you. You never pit strength against strength. You always look for weakness. If you can concentrate your strength against your opponent's weakness before he does the same to you, you have the advantage, and you win. Otherwise, you lose."

  "You make it sound like a game."

  "It is a game. There are no rules, and the stakes are your life, but aside from that..."

  He melded philosophy and physics with gymnastics and calisthenics. The initial movement drills were designed to get her thinking in three dimensions, the first and most important hurdle a new student of the martial arts must surmount. She soaked it up. After only one session, she was ready to proceed.

  "Strength is an advantage, but not the only advantage. Speed trumps strength, and so does mental agility. You have to have a wide range of tools, and they have to be available all the time. A lot of people who think of themselves as ace fighters have one or two tricks that they use exclusively. Whatever else they might have learned once is gone. If you've got two moves, you can beat anyone who has just one. If he's got two, all you need is three. When I'm done with you, you'll have about a hundred."

  "How many do you have?"

  He smirked. "About a hundred and one."

  Before the end of the week she had mastered balance, kinesthetics, and all the natural levers and flexures of her body. He was not an indulgent teacher. He knew the quality of that body, and of the mind that controlled it, and he was determined that her competence should equal his own. He put her through balletic drills of ever-increasing speed and complexity, and criticized even microscopic deviations from perfect form.

  "Get your weight off your heels, damn it!"

  "Why?"

  "Because you can't spin when you're flat-footed like that. Spin is one of your best ways of generating force and evading a blow." He demonstrated with a lightning triple pirouette that descended into a tight crouch, his head less than three feet from the floor.

  "Well, if I'm supposed to be on my toes all the time, why couldn't I have worn my pumps?"

  He raised an eyebrow. "Because they don't go with my old shirt, and because I don't want a spike heel through my solar plexus."

  She came to understand her body as a weapon: what it could do, what its proper targets were, even how to field-strip and maintain it.