On the Third Day

by David Niall Wilson

  “The Lord will keep your going out … and your coming in … from this time forth.”

  One force, one huge sigh of indrawn breath, one voice.

  “Amen.”

  ~ Twenty-Two ~

  Father Thomas stood as still as stone on the altar. He might have been carved in the likeness of the huge Christ behind and above him, except his head did not loll to the side. His stance was powerful, filled with strength, and yet bereft of anything that resembled self-control. He was controlled, but Quentin Thomas had little or nothing to do with it.

  Father Prescott stood and licked the taste of the final words from his lips. He watched in stunned amazement as the blood flowed, coating Father Thomas’ cheeks and matting his hair. Donovan leaned into the force that held him so still – so easily – and held out his arm to Father Thomas, but it was like pressing into a wall, or fighting the hold of strong rubber restraints. He made no headway.

  To the right of the altar, another figure appeared, and Donovan turned to stare. His jaw dropped slightly, and he quit struggling, just for a moment, as Gladys Multinerry stepped forward in front of the congregation. Gladys held a Bible open in her hands. It was a large, ornate book, but she held it easily. Sunlight from the windows far above washed the white pages in the colors of stained glass. That light glowed from the pages and washed over Gladys’ face so that, despite the distance, Donovan saw her expression clearly.

  A thought passed through his mind, closely followed by the realization that it was a thought he would never have believed possible. She was beautiful. Her eyes sparkled. Her hair glimmered in the sunlight and her wide, heavy form seemed, somehow, appealing. Despite her size and weight, she looked innocent and vulnerable, and when she looked up from the book in her hands rays of light emanated from the tips of her fingers and the lines of her face. She began to read.

  “Lo! I tell you a mystery. We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed, in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet. For the trumpet will sound, and the dead will be raised imperishable, and we shall be changed.

  “For this perishable nature must put on the imperishable, and this mortal nature must put on immortality. When the perishable puts on the imperishable, and the mortal puts on immortality, then shall come to pass the saying that is written:

  ‘Death is swallowed up in victory.

  O death, where is thy victory?

  O death, where is they sting?’”

  Gladys fell silent, but the words hung heavy in the air. They lingered, sifting into Donovan’s mind slowly. He knew them, could probably have recited them backward and forward with almost equal facility, but he had never felt them as he did now. He had never heard such an angelic voice utter scripture, nor had he ever heard any words spoken with such conviction.

  He turned and tried to force his way along the aisle. He knew he had to move, had to free himself from the grip of whatever had taken control of the cathedral, but he didn’t know how to do it. He also didn’t know how to convince himself that he wanted to – that he needed to. If it had not been for the blood matted on Father Thomas’ face – Donovan no longer considered that the liquid might be anything else – he might not have tried at all.

  Father Thomas raised his arms. He held them over his head, as if beseeching, though his gaze never faltered. He stared unflinchingly out over the crowd, and Donovan would have bet that no matter where he stood in that cathedral, Father Thomas would meet his gaze, and that of every other person present, with that same beneficent expression.

  Slowly, as though rotating parts of some great machine, Father Thomas turned his arms so that his palms faced the crowd. A low murmur began in the crowd and rose to a wail seconds later. Dark red patches had formed on the insides of Father Thomas’ writs. This was not like the trickling blood on his forehead. A red, sticky river flowed down each upraised arm. His vestments soaked. Large spatters and droplets hit the floor, reminding Donovan instantly and vividly of the red rain in the jungle. There was too much. No one body could have contained the amount of blood now flowing steadily in and down toward Father Thomas.

  Oddly, in that moment, Father Prescott’s training kicked in. His mind shifted to the ritual, to the mass. It was time that the gifts should be delivered to the altar. The moment of communion was nearly at hand, but there was no bread, no wine, no candles had been brought forward. He knew that the altar boys had been dismissed for the day, and he wondered how it would be handled.

  Donovan turned slowly, scanning the cathedral for movement other than that before him. There was nothing. The outward physical symbols he’d so long associated with the moment would not be a part of this. His mind warred over the concept. He had never felt the spirit as powerfully as he did in that moment, never felt anything at all that approached it, and he had always assumed that when, and if, he reached this point he would be propped and supported by the objects of faith – by the ritual.

  Donovan closed his eyes, willed his mind as silent as possible, and began to move sideways down the pew. He had to force himself around those seated between himself and the aisle. They didn’t do anything to actively block his progress, but they were so rapt on Father Thomas, so caught up in the moment, that they were unaware of his passing.

  Father Prescott had no time to be polite, and after the first few feet began considering them all as part of one great whole that he swam through, working toward the edge where he could reach the aisle and face the altar unimpeded. He didn’t know exactly what was happening, but there was something nagging at him, and somehow he knew that the ritual was not absent, just changed. Something was about to happen that he should prevent, something he should know was the natural continuation of what had happened thus far, but it eluded him.

  He nearly stumbled into the lap of a woman in a long, green gown. Her hands were clasped in her lap, and her gaze was locked on Father Thomas’ face. Her eyes shone with reflected light, and her lips were parted. Donovan caught that gaze, just for an instant, and was nearly swallowed whole. As he stared, his knee made contact with a wooden brace on the pew in front of the woman and he fell into her.

  In that moment, his hands planted on either side of her shoulders, their faces so close he could have shared her breath, kissed her, whispered for her only, despite the man seated at her side, so obviously her husband, caught up in his own little world of amazed rapture. Her expression changed only slightly. She seemed confused, or mildly annoyed, that he was blocking her view of Father Thomas, but even this interruption was not enough to shake her from the trance-like state she’d fallen into.

  Donovan pushed off and continued down the aisle. He nearly tripped twice more, but eventually reached the final seat and staggered into the main, central aisle of the church. In that instant he felt very exposed. No one turned to look at him. Father Thomas’ stance and expression never changed, but the sensation of judgment, and disapproval was palpable. It hit him like a wave of emotion, nearly driving him to his knees on the soft carpet and stinging the corners of his eyes with sudden tears. He blinked, bit down hard on his lip until he nearly cried out from the pain, and stood his ground.

  Right or wrong, he had a duty to perform. If this was truly The Mass, as it was meant to be celebrated, and if the rituals that gave it relevance and power were a reality, then so was the job he had been sent here to perform. The authority behind Rome came from the same set of beliefs, the same scripture and faith that washed around him and threatened to drown all thought.

  He turned to face the altar fully. Father Thomas spoke.

  “Father, bless me. Cleanse this flesh and send your light and love through my veins. Bless blood, flesh, and spirit, accepting this our offering in Thy name…”

  “No,” Father Prescott whispered. “Oh my God, no.”

  Donovan staggered forward. He stretched out his arms and fought the force that wanted to drive him to his knees, to send him tumbling backward down the aisle, or to blind him with tears. Even as he fought, some d
eeply seated part of him wanted to go back to his seat, or to any seat, to watch, and to share, and to carry the moment forward into history. Even as he struggled he wondered if he was actually fighting an external, physical force, or something inside himself. In the face of the rapt attention of the congregation, and of the eerie voice that had seemed so detached and had apparently still been Father Thomas, it was still possible that he was experiencing some sort of mass hysteria. It was possible that he felt unable to move, or to interfere, because in his heart he did not want to interfere with what might be a genuine miracle. Too many things were possible, and he had no time to consider possibilities, so he acted.

  One piece of the puzzle had dropped into place. The host and the wine weren’t necessary. There was no need for unleavened bread when there was flesh. There was no need for wine when the blood flowed so freely. Father Thomas had begun the blessing, and the invocation. He did not consecrate wafers or wine, he consecrated himself, which made him a sacrifice, and that was something that Father Prescott wasn’t going to allow, miracle or not.

  The congregation had still not acknowledged Donovan’s motion. He might have cried out and tried to distract them, but he feared it would be a wasted effort. Their eyes were fixed on the spectacle before them. He wondered if they all saw the same thing. He wondered how their stories would stack up against one another when all was said and done. He didn’t wonder what would happen if he didn’t reach the altar.

  The crowd responded to Father Thomas’ words. Their voices were like a combined whisper, blowing through the room. Donovan actually felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck in response, and he shivered violently.

  “May the gifts be worthy, for the Praise and Glory of Thy name, and of Thy Church, in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Amen.”

  Donovan broke into an awkward run. He caromed off the pews to one side of the aisle, gasped at the pain, and tottered forward. Each forward step met such buffeting resistance that his course skewed. He banged his knee painfully, and then his shin. His ribs ached from the first impact with the pews, but he didn’t let up. He thought of Rome. He thought of his childhood. He thought of sitting and talking with Bishop Michaels and tried to find the anger he’d felt so he could ride that to the altar. Anything to clear the words and the moment from his mind long enough for him to reach Father Thomas.

  The crowd spoke again. Tears rolled down Donovan’s cheeks as he fought not to listen, and not to feel what the listening brought in its wake.

  “Holy, Holy, Holy Lord, God of power and might, Heaven and Earth are full of Your glory. Hosanna in the highest! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord. Hosanna in the highest.”

  The congregation rose to their feet. It wasn’t a sudden motion, but smooth and uniform. They rose as a single entity at the proper moment, and they never removed their gaze from Father Thomas. The blood, if anything, flowed more freely down his arms. Gallons of blood. More blood than any ten men could have produced.

  As a body the congregation of the Cathedral of San Marcos by the Sea knelt. They brought their knees gently to rest behind the pews on the soft, upholstered kneeling pads. Their hands were clasped before them. Their heads were thrown back to allow unrestricted sight of the altar, and their eyes were bright, almost hungry, with anticipation. Something important had come to them, and they were ready to be changed. They were ready to transform into whatever was necessary to take this to the next level. They would accept the sacrifice, and gladly, for what it promised.

  Father Prescott trembled with frustration. He knew the Mass, knew the rituals inside and out. He knew he should be kneeling before the altar. Every forward motion denied him more of what he’d sought for so long. The promise hung heavy and enticing. He knew if he fell to his knees, right there in the aisle, he could be part of this, still. He could allow the words and the moment to sweep him away. He could become a willing participant in this sacrifice.

  With a soft moan, he pressed on. Each motion took his entire concentration. He felt something close in on him from all sides, knew that if he relaxed, he would hang there, or drop slowly to his knees. Breathing was more difficult, but not impossible. He turned his gaze up and Father Thomas met his eyes. There was such compassion, such utter release in that expression that Donovan’s moan became a soft cry.

  Then the altar and the cathedral faded, and he slipped away.

  ~ Twenty-Three ~

  The village square spread out around Father Prescott, stark, empty, and silent. The statue stood before him, as it had that long ago night. The night he tasted the blood. The night the words formed in the dirt for the final time. Moonlight gleamed off every surface.

  He could not rise. His knees felt like jelly, and he trembled so violently he had to grit his teeth to keep them from chattering. The dirt was bereft of symbols or words – as if they’d never been there at all. Tears streamed down his cheeks, and they were hot, like rivulets of molten wax sliding over his skin. Every time he thought of moving something inside prevented it. He dropped his eyes to the dirt and stared.

  Very slowly, like the wings of a thousand locusts flying in toward him from a great distance, the whisper of voices rose. They echoed off the walls, skittered through the dust and tingled through the hairs on his neck, moving them one at a time with infinite patience. He managed to turn his head, first one way, then the other, but he saw nothing. No shadows moved. No eyes stared at him in accusation or in forgiveness. There was no one there at all, but still the sound of voices rose to confuse his senses.

  Donovan concentrated. He couldn’t move, but he could hear. He sorted the sound, fighting his way through the confusion of voices for words, or meaning. As he listened, a pattern emerged. At first it was no more than a pulse, like the too-loud rush of blood through the artery in his neck. The rhythm ebbed and flowed, then arranged itself. Voices slid away from other voices, and words tickled his senses.

  It wasn’t a long message, and eventually, punctuated by the loud, strong beat of his heart, he heard them clearly. Whispered from every direction and assaulting him from every shadow, the words drove into his brain.

  “I believe in God.”

  Donovan closed his eyes.

  * * *

  The words echoed in Father Prescott’s mind, voices from a far away place and time and reality that clawed at his concentration. Feeling like a slow-motion parody of himself, he opened his eyes.

  The center aisle of The Cathedral of San Marcos stretched before him. He stood near the middle of that aisle, he knew this at the base of his perception, but from where he stood, the pews on either side appeared to stretch endlessly forward. Behind him, everything was larger, and closer. The doors felt close enough to touch, though he knew they were half a room away. Whatever presence and energy had invaded the cathedral, it did not want him to reach the altar. He tried to shake his head and clear his thoughts, but this caused a roaring in his ears that faded quickly into the voices of Father Fernando’s congregation. The motion blurred the image of the pews and the altar, the lone figure standing with his arms outstretched, and the carpeted floor beneath his feet. Flashes of other times and other places threatened to intrude and he held still. He didn’t want to get lost in a flashback. He wanted to help Father Thomas any way he could, and at any cost.

  Fresh sound invaded his mind, and he was vaguely aware as it broke free of the roaring in his ears and clarified that this was all he had heard. It was all he could possibly have heard.

  The sunlight that had been so bright when The Mass began had faded to a very dull yellow haze about the windows. On the altar, Father Thomas stood bathed in some sort of glow, as if he had been backlit by a floodlight. That didn’t seem right, though. The illumination rose from within the young priest. It fell from his lips and drained from the dark liquid band about his forehead. It passed through his form and shot at brilliant angles toward the walls.

  It was blinding, and Donovan found he had to stop every few steps, close his eyes, a
nd wait. He didn’t want to trip and fall. If he knocked himself cold, he would be no help to Father Thomas, and he knew, deep inside, that if he did not reach the younger man soon, he would be too late. He didn’t even know if Father Thomas would thank him, or curse him if he interfered. All he knew was that he had to know exactly what was happening, and he had to do what could to protect his friend.

  Father Thomas seemed unaware of anything around him. He stared at nothing and everything at once. His voice louder even than the PA system could make it, filled the room. He continued the Mass in deep, measured tones that reverberated from wall and ceiling and floor and shook through the walls of the cathedral.

  “Hic est enim corpus meum.”

  The glow surrounding Father Thomas brightened at these words. The light expanded about him in the shape of his body – arms extended – and he shone with the brilliance of a star. Donovan shielded his eyes and almost stepped back. He caught himself, leaned forward, and pressed on. The light held him. He might as well have leaned into a huge net, or a curved, giant palm.

  “Hic est calyx sanguinis meus.”

  The glow receded to the background, not less brilliant, but revealing Father Thomas more clearly at its center. The slow trickle of blood from his brow had become a steady stream. He was drenched, soaked in blood. His hair was matted to the sides of his head and his eyes, open far-too-wide gleamed white with reflected light. The dark liquid pulsed, and Donovan realized that its color was becoming clearer. What had been dark stains gleamed wetly, and from within the trails, puddles and steady drips a second glow – deep, crimson, and in constant motion – became visible. The blood had light of its own, contrasting brilliantly with the piercing white light beyond.

  Donovan stared, fascinated, but at the same time four words alternated in his mind – paired off as Father Thomas had spoken them. Corpus meum…Sanguinus meus…this is my body, this is my blood…