Arcane II

by Nathan Shumate (Editor)

  ***

  I went to the mortuary on some pretext of accounting.

  “Has Martin requested next month’s orders for oils and linens?”

  I hoped Brother Dominic wouldn’t see through my ruse.

  “Not yet.”

  “He’s making a mess of my accounts.”

  I fussed and tutted, following him into the back room that stank of the slaughterhouse. Timothy’s body was being prepared. His body was beneath a sheet. The guttering of the slab was full of clotted blood. It had dripped into the bucket below the drainage hole.

  “Tell me what you need and I’ll take the order myself.”

  Dominic was glad to delegate the task to me. He went into his office and I could hear him rifling through his papers.

  I lifted the sheet.

  Timothy’s face had lost its sweetness. It was a bloodied pulp, rotted fruit about to burst open. Flesh mortified. That wasn’t all. There had been other outrages after death. He had been beheaded and dismembered, limbs segmented, all on this very slab.

  I dropped the sheet when I heard footsteps. Dominic’s eyes narrowed.

  ***

  “Walk with me.”

  It’d been some time since I’d been alone with Father Sebastian. The face I’d thought serene was guarded and calculating.

  “Do you miss your old work?”

  “Yes.” I hesitated. “I miss being useful.”

  “Or do you miss being important?”

  He held up a hand to silence me before I could answer. We turned from the path into the cathedral. Our sandals clipped on the stone floor.

  “Who’s our inspiration here?”

  “Saint Margaret.”

  “And her story?”

  He was trifling with me. It was the first lesson he taught me.

  “Margaret was abandoned outside the church during the pox plague of 1890. She’d been tied to the door by the villagers because she claimed visions of Christ. The priest, convinced of her holiness, took her in against all advice.” I chose my words with care. “The Inquisitor, who also sheltered there, suspected her of sorcery and questioned her so vigorously that she didn’t survive. But she refused to denounce her visions as anything other than God-given.”

  We walked through the puddles of coloured light shed from the stained glass windows.

  “Go on.”

  “The priest had prayed all night, begging God to give Margaret strength and that the town be granted freedom from the plague. Next morning all those who suffered were cured and not one more person succumbed.”

  “Margaret,” Father said as he opened the door behind the altar, “was the first saint created by the church.”

  I stooped as I followed him down the narrow corridor to the tiny room at the end. It housed Margaret’s reliquary. A casket carved in ebony.

  “What’s the lesson?”

  “Belief.”

  “Whose?”

  “Margaret’s. Father Ignatius’s.”

  “And the Inquisitor’s.” He opened the casket and was looking at her remains. “He trusted the role God gave him. His strength of purpose ensured that Margaret escaped the mire of the flesh and will shine at God’s side for eternity.”

  Dominic must have told him I went to the mortuary.

  “Her bones are our foundation. Saints are rare. Even a saint’s fingertip will rally the masses. When Margaret’s body toured the country we raised enough funds to send an army to India to suppress the mutiny. I pray every day for fresh inspiration.”

  I looked back at the collection of bones. The empty eye sockets. The curved ribs. The delicate wrists and ankles. The small bones of her fingers and toes.

  The bastard Inquisitor had broken every one.

  ***

  I followed Father out. The light stung my eyes.

  “Father,” a novice gasped as he ran towards us, “Father, it’s a miracle. John Lambert. He lives. He’s awake.”

  Father clapped my shoulders.

  “You see, Thomas. God hears us.” Then he prostrated himself on the cathedral’s steps and kissed the ground.

  ***

  The Gallery of Saints shaped fates. A place of veneration, but I saw its more sinister purpose. The Inquisitor and his men watched at peepholes. I should have acted on the impulse to steal Columba away before that day came. We could have gone to Bernica.

  “They look like they’re real.”

  Columba’s mouth gaped. The gallery housed some of the finest art outside London. John the Baptist’s head lay on a plinth before her.

  “May I touch it?”

  “Go ahead.”

  She reached out. John was carved in wood and painted in every detail. He seemed to watch her with half-closed eyes as she stroked his coiled beard. His parted lips revealed ivory teeth. I followed her as she walked around him. The head lay on its side so we could see his severed neck. Columba hesitated and then traced the outlines of the blood vessels and shattered bone. The jagged edges of flesh.

  It was terrible and beautiful.

  “Who’s that?” Columba moved on.

  “Saint Lucy.”

  Lucy, life-sized, on her knees in prayer, blue gown flowing around her.

  “Why did they do that to her?”

  Her eyes were seeping holes.

  “She was blinded by heathens.” I was loathed to say Bernicans. “She refused to denounce Christ.”

  We toured the gallery. Columba stopped before each saint. Apollonia held her broken teeth in her outstretched palms. Stephen, wounded by stones, lay crumpled on the floor. Catherine was on her wheel.

  “Who moves you the most?” Father had been most particular that I ask this. It would be the path the Inquisitor would set her on at the end. Timothy had adored Stephen.

  She fell at the Lord’s feet, sobbing.

  “He does.”

  Christ’s wrists and hands. The nails. The torment. The pallor and the crown. The beads of sweat and blood, the heaving chest, the straining sinews and flesh. The exhaustion of the cross.

  “Columba, we can leave.”

  It no longer seemed a place of adoration but of torture and despair. She shook her head.

  “Please don’t cry.”

  “He suffered, didn’t He? He suffered like my mother did.” Her tears were pity, not fear. “Why did they do that to Him?”

  How many people are pious enough to cry for Christ? The tears they shed are normally for themselves.

  Later, alone in my room, I cried too, but it wasn’t for myself or Christ. It was for Columba. She’d chosen crucifixion.

  ***

  I rose early and paced the cathedral’s outer wall as was my habit. I could see the town from the tower over the west gate. It had rained overnight and the cobbles glistened. I turned and walked down the steep steps. A watchman nodded as he passed me on his rounds.

  A figure was coming up the path. The man raised his arm to hail me. I saw it was William Lambert. I met him under the arch.

  “How’s John?”

  “Recovering. My thanks again to Father for allowing us to be petitioners.” His face was stone, his voice sarcastic. “Send my apologies for the delay. It was difficult to raise so much at once.”

  He put a pouch into my palms and put his hands around mine, pressing hard so I could feel the jagged edges of the stones within.

  “Money means nothing,” he said through clenched teeth. Spittle landed on my cheek. “My wife begged for the chance of a miracle. I’ve not told her the price. It’s all but bankrupted us.”

  He was strong for a small man. I thought he’d crush my hands.

  “Isn’t it remarkable that a miracle can happen if you wish for it enough? Did your apothecary keep John drugged? Was that it?” He mistook my shock for fear. “Don’t worry, I’ll protect your dirty secrets. Not because I’m afraid of you but because my wife believes with all her heart. But I don’t believe. Not you or your damn God.”

  “May He forgive you,” I stammered.

&n
bsp; “If God’s real, you’ll not be forgiven.”

  When he was out of sight I opened the leather pouch and saw a merchant’s wealth in uncut gems glittering within. I went back up to the tower where I could watch William Lambert go. When I turned back I saw Brother Martin hurrying towards the gate as if late for an appointment.

  ***

  I dreamt I was in the Gallery of Saints. Columba looked at me with shining eyes.

  “Why are you crying?” I asked.

  “Because you suffer.”

  Tears landed on my face. She kissed my forehead. I looked down. Nails were being driven into my wrists and feet. Blood seeped from the wounds. I couldn’t move. I’d been fixed on a cross.

  “Thomas, wake up.”

  “I can’t.”

  Someone struck me. A sharp slap. When I opened my eyes a figure loomed over me. Figures moved about my cell. I cried out before a rag was stuffed in my mouth. I thrashed about and being so big it took many hands to restrain me.

  ***

  I could hear dripping water. I was naked and I could feel eyes upon me even though I was blindfolded. I wanted to cover myself, ashamed of being as bare as a babe.

  “Where is it?”

  “What?”

  “You know what.”

  “Martin? Is that you?”

  It earned me a blow. The world went from black to bright white as my nose crumpled. I thought I’d be sick.

  “You’ve something that doesn’t belong to you.”

  “Martin, you’re an abuser of the faith.”

  “Sanctimonious until the end.”

  I heard the door open and close as he left.

  “There’s someone else who wants to talk to you.” It was the Inquisitor’s voice. He was at the root of this evil.

  “Thomas, it’s me.” Quiet, serene.

  “Father.”

  He pulled off my blindfold. The meagre candlelight hurt my eyes. It didn’t matter. For all our recent distance and disagreements he’d come for me.

  “Here, they gave me your rosary.” He twined it around my wrist. “Let’s pray together.”

  My stomach lurched. They’d abducted him too.

  “Father.” I tried to pull him closer. “They sold Timothy. The sold the petitioner’s right. The Lambert boy was drugged.”

  “Hush. Don’t excite yourself.”

  “You don’t understand. Martin. The Inquisitor...” I swallowed, tasting my own blood.

  “Tell them where it is. Tell them and they’ll let me help you.”

  My breathing was ragged. Blood bubbled from my nostril.

  “Where’s the bag?”

  “Hidden.”

  “Where?”

  Such avarice in his eyes.

  “You already know everything, don’t you?” I said. How could he not know?

  “I tried to explain to you.”

  “You lied.”

  “You’re an innocent, Thomas. The world is more complex than you imagine. You have the luxury of simple faith. Tell me what you’ve done with the purse and you can go back to your books.”

  “You don’t believe, do you?” I’d been a child all this time. “Not in God. Not in anything.”

  He hit me with his staff. I felt my cheekbone crack. He tore my rosary from my wrist. The beads bounced away on the stone floor.

  “I should’ve left you to rot in Bernica. You’re a viper nestled in my bosom.”

  My laughter and tears were mixed up.

  “Thomas, I can’t protect you now.”

  He left me then. Father, Father. The Inquisitor took up the seat beside me.

  “You’re astute, aren’t you? Only you and I can see into Sebastian’s heart. He’s an atheist, although he’d never admit it. When he’s served his purpose I’ll make him understand how much he’s served himself and not God. You, on the other hand, are different. Good but pompous. There are worse sins. Your real flaw is your lack of courage. God needs courage.” He stroked my forehead. “I’m fortifying God’s army, Thomas. I need all the funds I can lay my hands on. I needed to move money from Saint Margaret’s coffers. We knew you’d question it so you had to be removed.”

  He picked up a rag and dabbed my nose with it.

  “Along with the Lamberts’ contribution we’ll be able to march on London and overthrow the Pope. When I’m ordained there’ll be a new age. God will be glorified as he intended. It’s a shame to have to waste a man like you. You have so many useful skills.”

  His face was as close to mine as a lover’s. Fitting, as over the hours that followed he became well acquainted with the body that I’d never shared with anyone. He taught me the outrage and intimacy of true violence.

  “I’m not like Sebastian,” he patted my shoulder, “I believe with all my heart. That’s why you should be afraid.”

  ***

  A bucket of water doused me from unconsciousness. The table was wet beneath me. I could smell my own muck and piss and sick. The ringing of the Mass bells reached me through the layers of stone.

  The Inquisitor lifted a bowl to my lips. I drank.

  “I’ll let you have a quick and painless death if you tell me where it is. I laud your bravery but how much more can you withstand? ”

  “And make Timothy’s murder worth your while?” My words were a garbled whisper.

  I wanted to let go and float free into the long corridor of light that led out of the darkness.

  “The bells are for Columba,” he said. Her name drew me back.

  “You can’t fake another miracle.”

  “We don’t need to. People are hungry to believe. The crowd is huge. All people need is inspiration. The church will feast on Timothy’s bones for centuries to come. His head’s reliquary is being fashioned from ivory.”

  “She’s just a girl.”

  “Where’s Lambert’s purse?”

  “The west gate. The watchtower. There’s a loose stone on floor, just beneath the arrow slit.” There hadn’t been time to hide it elsewhere.

  He nodded. His minion went to fetch it. When they returned there was the click of stones in the Inquisitor’s satisfied fingers.

  “Let her go. Please.”

  “I take no pleasure in this. Events are already in motion. Father Sebastian’s holding Mass. The petitioner is a silk merchant from London. His wife can’t have a child.”

  Father Sebastian would be at the altar, the congregation at his back. The wafer and wine. The flesh and blood.

  “Please. Spare her. No one need know.”

  “Bring him out.” The Inquisitor got up from his chair. “Dump his body in the bog.”

  “He’s still alive.” That was one of his men.

  The Inquisitor thought on this.

  “I do this, Thomas, because you’re a worthy man.”

  He flicked a blade against my neck and opened a vein. Blood collected in the hollow above my collarbone and ran down my chest when they hauled me up. They redressed me in my habit, the fabric rough against my raw skin.

  My feet trailed behind me, then thudded on the steps as they dragged me up. Two others were behind me. They were to fetch Columba.

  The path to the cart took us past the applicants’ cells. I could hear the chants of Mass. Everyone would be there. The Inquisitor walked ahead of us, the key to her cell in his hand. I imagined Columba as she always was when I opened her door, sat on her cot with her legs folded beneath her.

  “Let me see her.”

  “Why not?”

  My blood had soaked through my habit.

  He put the key in the lock and turned it. The men let go of me and I pitched forward against the door as it swung inwards.

  I regretted my life of selfishness. I’d abandoned my family. I’d lived for books, not people. I regretted that I’d not loved God as He would want. I regretted the children killed as I looked the other way.

  Please God, cast me into hell. I’d endure the torment of the night a million times over, but save her.

  I beg you,
Lord, spare her.

  My head nodded and my life ebbed. No time, not even enough time to see her.

  The Inquisitor had fallen to his knees.

  Columba’s cell was filled with the muscular flurry of wings that exploded outwards, knocking me to the floor. Pink legs. Black dots for eyes. Open tails, like fans. The tiny plumes at the neck. Feathers, overlapped. Each one was perfect. Whiter than parchment. Whiter than saints’ bones. As white as Columba.

  We are carried upwards on the wings of doves.

  We are carried on the wings of angels.

  What It Means to Love

  Andrew Bourelle

  Michael walked through the milky fog with his shotgun raised. He could see only gray and could hear only his own breathing, amplified inside his gas mask. He checked to make sure Ashley was still behind him. Even though she was only a few paces back, she was barely more than a phantom silhouette in the fog. Her rifle was slung over her shoulder and her head was down. She labored to move, burdened by her bulging belly.

  When they emerged from the fog, relief came over him, as it always did. The creatures didn’t only dwell in the mists, but the fog hadn’t existed back when the world was what it had been. Back when Michael was an accountant and Ashley a schoolteacher. Back when cities were lit by electricity, computers linked every home, cellular telephone towers carried the voices of humans in the air across the globe. When the Event happened—global earthquakes rending crevasses deep into the earth—the patches of fog had appeared and so had the monsters. Since then, Michael and Ashley had associated the mists with danger, with growls and screams, with friends vanishing in the whiteness.

  When they were sufficiently far from the last tendrils of fog, they surveyed the land around them. They were on a hill that gave them a clear view of a broad valley. Mountains were in the distance, snowcapped, but the valley they walked through was vast, with fields of weeds where crops once grew and small copses of trees here and there. Ashley pointed, and Michael acknowledged that he saw it too. A house, perhaps a mile away, stood at the end of a dirt road that meandered through the fields.