by Vox Day
“I made some excuse to my captain, told him I was unwell or something, I don’t recall. To my shame, I did not do more than make a half-hearted attempt to convince Walther to avoid the flight as well. I arranged to have lunch with him, but when I mentioned my fears, he laughed at me for being an irrational, superstitious fool and I was too embarrassed to argue the point with him. I bitterly regretted that a week later, when I received a telephone call from my captain. He told me that the Swiss flight from Zurich to Lagos had gone down not long after entering Nigerian airspace. There were no survivors.”
“Oh my God,” breathed Michèle.
“How awful for you,” said my wife.
The Swiss only smiled ruefully and lit a cigarette. He inhaled thoughtfully, and tapped out the small amount of ash on the tip. “Rather more awful for Walther and the others, I should think.”
“What caused the crash?” I asked. “I can’t imagine the aviation authorities attributed it to angry ancestral spirits.”
“After the black box was analyzed, the experts concluded that the co-pilot had fallen asleep and the pilot had a heart attack. But to my mind, that sounds like an attempt to explain away the inexplicable. There was no mechanical failure and no suggestion of distress in the cockpit. Unfortunately the plane burned, so conjecture was all that was left to them in the absence of anything conclusive from the black box.”
He looked at Bertrand. “So, have you an explanation for me, other than an unfortunate string of unlikely coincidences?”
Bertrand, to his credit, wasn’t inclined to bluster. “I fear you have anticipated me, monsieur. Of course, I am hardly an expert on aviation.”
We were all quick to protest the idea that Bertrand might be anything less than expert on everything. It was an old joke among us. Amidst the laughter, the Swiss extinguished his cigarette and rose from his chair.
“Ladies, gentlemen, I bid you une bonne soirée and a pleasant remainder to your vacation. And I hope my little tale has not disturbed you.”
Bertrand and I hastened to assure him that it was impossible, as we had enjoyed it immensely. Were we not all français, hailing from the most rational of nations? We bade him farewell, and the last we saw of him was his broad back, as he returned to the bar inside.
Later that evening, as my wife slept by my side, there was a soft knock on my door. It was Bertrand, and he was holding his iPad. “Come outside and look at this,” he whispered.
I followed him out to the patio where we had been drinking earlier that evening. We could hear the sound of the sea below us, but where there had been a broad expanse of clear blue water only a few hours before, there was now nothing but a vast black emptiness, devoid of reflections from the shore or even the pinpricks of starlight that animated the night sky above. The glow of the tablet screen was so bright against the darkness that it was almost painful to my eyes. And what had been unthinkable under the warm glow of the Italian sun suddenly seemed all too possible, when standing above the inky abyss of the Mediterranean at midnight.
“I looked it up. A flight from Zurich to Lagos that was carrying twenty deportees, eight police, and the two pilots went down about eighteen months ago.”
“So that much was true, anyhow.”
We stared out at the black depths of the sea. It was a quiet evening and the Moon was obscured by clouds that had crept in under the cover of darkness. The waves lapped at the rocky shoreline hundreds of meters below us, indifferent, mindless, uncaring, exactly as they had one thousand, two thousand, three thousand years ago.
“This doesn’t prove anything about the existence of ghosts, much less God,” Bertrand suddenly declared.
“Of course not,” I said. “But still….”
“But still,” he agreed.
Bane Walks On
He stalked into the shadowed vale
His six-gun at his side,
A twelve-gauge strapped across his back
And boots with knives inside.
He spared no glance for lives behind
Nor for the lurking dark
That shivered as he passed it by,
Eyes ever cold and stark.
A shrouded wight stood in his way,
Its bony hand did twitch
White-knuckled on its wicked scythe.
"Not you, son of a bitch!"
The tall man only grinned and told
His foe to go to Hell.
The Reaper bowed and stepped aside,
A past lesson learned well.
Beyond the darkness, blinding light
Caused his hard eyes to narrow.
And still the man stood tall and proud
His back straight as an arrow.
Then thunder roared high overhead.
"My son, you're here at last!
Fear not, I have much work for you
A labor long and vast.
"I am the God of Grace and yet
There must be Justice too.
I hear the cries of the despised
The wicked owe their due.
"Some serve with harps and sing My praise,
Hosannas with each breath.
But you shall sing a different song,
My new Angel of Death."
The tall man kneeled and bowed his head.
"Lord, I shall do Your Will."
And then he smiled, baring his teeth,
"Just tell me who to kill."
The Altar of Hate
There is little love in the great city of my birth. Hatred runs through Venezia like the rancid green water of our famous canals, dividing family from family as surely as the sea forbids us the mainland. I do not remember why it is that the Grimani hate us, nor can I recall why we despise them so. Was it the seduction of a daughter, the murder of a son, that began this futile cycle of brutal assault and violent reprisal? No, most likely not; this has always been a city of merchants, and I suspect the origin of this deadly feud, should anyone ever trouble to unexcavate the truth, will speak more of the market than the stage.
No doubt great-grandfather Grimani must have cheated my illustrious ancestor, Lorenzo Morosini, in some mendacious way, for surely that excellent and upstanding citizen would not have sinned against God and honor by failing to keep his solemn word. Not the noble Lorenzo, our late paterfamilias, whose haughty portrait still adorns the grand hall of my father's mansion on the Piazza dei Angeli! I jest, you understand, for in this forsaken place we harbor greater respect for the accomplished liar than for the man whose word is true, and even our churchmen will lie like Greeks for the sake of a silver coin.
Perhaps it was a contract that was broken, a shipload of our rightfully famous glass that was delivered from the glassblower's island, but for which payment was never received. No, even that is too romantic. There is surely nothing of beauty in this stupid dispute, and is it not far more fitting to imagine that such a ship would have stank of fish and their rotting corpses? Yes, of corpses there have been all too many, for in the time of my own memory have we not lost three uncles, one great-uncle, and eight cousins of various degrees to the blades of the Grimani? And, lest I forget, an aunt as well.
This is a bitter accounting. I exaggerate, perhaps, but not much. Even our thrice-cursed enemies do not make war on women, but my aunt died of grief, as surely as if a dagger had been thrust into her heart at the very moment her eyes were laid upon the body of Giovanni, her youngest son, sprawled upon the steps of the Basilica. Alas, poor Giovanni, surely his stay in Purgatory will be a long one. Though he was but a youth, his hands were well-stained with Grimani blood, and as my brother Taddeo prophesied, Giovanni died as he lived, by the knife's blade.
We have suffered much, but our enemies have suffered too. The wrath of the Morosini is now proverbial, even in this masked city of enigmatic crimes, and at times I have heard fearful whispers that the dread Council of Ten is in our pocket, that they aid us in secret. This is nonsense, of course, although it is true that for every fallen Morosini, two Grimani h
ave been laid to a watery rest. I myself have slain no man, although I was there when we trapped Luca, the third and most unwise of the Minister's four sons, in a tavern not far from the Doge's palace. He was a handsome lad, with sad, long-lashed eyes, though his beauty was well-ruined by the time Giovanni's eldest brother was finished with him.
It is a waste, this war, and yet we dare not lay down our knives until the Grimani abandon their own. Some say the Signory will intervene and declare a ban, but I think not. It serves the Doge's purpose all too well, the wily old man, to see two of Venezia's greatest families warring on each other, denuding their ancestral trees of the fruit that might otherwise one day ripen to challenge the primacy of his clan. He is an ambitious and dangerous man, and it is even whispered that he hopes to establish a dynasty here, to turn our Serene Republic into a kingdom.
He will fail, of course, for the Serenissima will abide much that does not threaten the fat pockets of its merchants, but it will never bow before a king. Still, what is that to me? I have more urgent concerns. The Grimani are about tonight, lurking enmasked in the shadows, searching for a Morosini upon whom they can wreak their vengeance for the handsome Luca. But be not mistaken, it is not for myself I fear. I am no innocent; I am strong and I well know how to use the three daggers secreted about my person.
No, it is for Taddeo's sake that I stalk these dark alleyways, that I hide behind this gilded domino. My youngest brother is sinless and pure, but he is also naïve and heedless of all danger. He thinks his saints protect him, those long-dead men whose sanctity was not sufficient to save themselves. The fool! He should have been a priest, or a monk perhaps, and I think he may well have taken vows had not our father forbidden him the Church. He was wise to deny Taddeo, was father, for in these violent times it is all too easy to lose an heir, or two, or three.
But he is nowhere to be found, my dear, imprudent brother, who will not carry a blade, not even for self-defense. You cannot turn the other cheek when you are dead, I tell him, but he only laughs softly and shrugs. God's will be done, he declares bravely enough, and though I admire the courage of his convictions, I put no trust in them. Where is God in this bitter swamp of hate? This is no Civitas Dei; this is Venezia. There are no graves to be found here, nor victory over them.
I will find him. He cannot be far. I will find him, and soon.
I fear for all my brothers, Heavenly Father, and for Matteo most of all, though I know you hold their souls in the palm of your mighty hand. But I fear this murderous struggle with our enemies will be the death of them, for they are men of blood. Tonight it is the Grimani who hunt in vengeance; no doubt we shall soon be stalking them in return. But vengeance belongs to you, O Lord. So Father Pietro told us in our youth, and so it is written.
Myself, I do not fear death, but neither do I seek it. What will be, will be as you will it, Lord my God, and I will not hide behind our high stone walls, behind the brave men of the Veneto we import to stand between us and those who hate us. They are good men, these rough-hewn peasants with their child-like faith, and though they cannot even read their own names, I think they understand more of your Holy Word than do my well-tutored brothers.
Thou shalt not kill! Is this so hard to understand? Can there be profit in survival when it comes only at the cost of one's soul? I know I see through a glass darkly, at best, but my brothers, they see nothing at all! Eye for eye, tooth for tooth, cousin for cousin, and never an end in sight. O Lord Almighty, will you not break this fateful chain? End it with me, if you must, but end it soon, and visit not our sins upon our children, as the sins of our fathers have been visited so terribly upon us. But let your will be done, Lord, on earth as it is in Heaven. Amen.
I am not far from San Stefano, the church that is my destination, when I see him. He wears a white mask, with a long bird's beak that is not unlike that of the chirurgeon. He is no healer, though, for even in the faint light of the moon, I can see the lethal purpose in his eyes. His hands are empty, but I have no doubt that somewhere about him is a dagger that will be sharper than any chirurgeon's blade. He wears a dark red cloak, a killer's cloak, one that will mask any betraying drops of blood that might spill upon it.
How long has he stalked me, this assassin? Has he marked me long enough to learn my routine, to know that I would surely be here this night to examine Father Giancarlo's new translation of Averroe's commentaries? Perhaps he knows nothing of the great philosophers, this crimson-shrouded executioner, but is he not a veritable image, a Platonic Form, one could even say, of Death? It is possible that if I run, at this very moment, that I might escape. Even if he is the dread Dario, the man they call the Scourge of the Morosini, whose hand has slain two of my cousins in as many years, he will not dare to violate the sanctuary of the Church. From this I know that the men of blood still hold a kernel of the truth in their rage-filled souls, would that this seed would bloom into full flower in every heart as one! But understanding only comes in its own time, and what is one man's sunset is another man's rising moon. Alas, that this should be so, but this is the world that the Lord has made.
I do not run. Instead, I turn to greet him, this man who seeks my death. I raise my hand and show him that I hold no weapon, nor ill will.
“Welcome in peace, my friend,” I tell him.
He does not respond, except to continue walking towards me. He walks carefully, slower than before, and his hand reaches inside his cloak. Behind the mask, his eyes are hard, and I can see that there are no words to dissuade him from his deadly purpose. Holy Father, give me strength! Did I say that I did not fear death? Then I lied, I realize to my shame, as I stare into the merciless gaze of this man who seeks my blood.
I am afraid! The realization is shocking, painful in its own right even as I cringe before the sight of the moonlight reflected off the transparent crystal in the hunter's hand. I fear the pain, and the mystery that lies beyond the final agony as well. What if all of my beliefs are lies, what if I am truly as Matteo has claimed, a deluded innocent enslaved by the greedy lies of priests who feed the cringing visions of old women in fear of the final dark. What if there is nothing beyond this life? Have I thrown everything away?
The man in the mask comes closer. I want to fall on my knees before him, to beg for my life. The instinct for self-preservation is strong. He sees my fear and is less cautious now, and perhaps I could strike out at him, kick at his knee or claw at his groin. But then my faith returns to me. It washes over me and fills me up like water engulfing a drowning man, who breathes the sea at last. Thank you, O Lord my God, for this comfort in my last extremis. I am ready now.
He is not cruel, this killer. This, my last clear mortal thought, surprises me greatly. His weapon is sharp, and I barely feel the blow as he drives his glasssy blade into my stomach, just below my chest. With the calm practice of the expert, he twists upward and the glass pierces my heart. Death comes quickly, but the pain does not linger and already I am rising upward as the darkness of the night sky melts before the grandest light of all.... Oh, praise the Lord Most High, you heavenly hosts! This is a beginning, not an end!
My heart stops when I turn the corner and see a silent figure lying in the flickering torchlight, only steps away from the side entrance of the San Stefano. A part of me dies inside even as my mind frantically creates a thousand alternate explanations, any of which would save me, would allow me to breathe once more. It could be a drunken tramp, a ravished woman, a murdered whore. Maybe an aged priest felled by the ravages of time and a weak heart. This is not the best of quarters, perhaps it is nothing more than an unfortunate accosted by robbers, or better yet, a thief slain by his fellows.
No. It is none of these. It is my brother. My youngest brother, Taddeo, and he is dead.
There is suddenly an aching pressure inside my head, and it takes me a long moment to realize that I am fighting the tears that threaten to fall from my eyes like a second Flood of Noah. But I cannot allow the dam to break, not yet, for surely all Venezia will drown be
fore my monstrous sorrow. What will I tell our father? Protect Taddeo, he said, and I tried. Oh, damn it all, how I tried! But you would not listen. Where were your saints, Taddeo? Curse them, curse them now and forever!
Oh, mother, will your tender heart shatter at this news and will you fall dead, like Zia Maria upon the bloody stones of San Zanipolo? You have lost one of your own, but it is the one it should not have been. Not you, Taddeo! Never you!
The looming tears feel like nails now, pounded into my skull by a screaming devil's hammer, and still they do not come although my head throbs with the anguish of their suppression. They cannot come, they will not come, for I will not weep until my brother is avenged. Oh, how you will be avenged, my brother, for my blade will not be sated until every last Grimani is destroyed, until the sea of our murderous vengeance has washed Venezia clean of their venomous brood.
How peaceful you look, Taddeo. You are still warm as I embrace you, as I kiss your pallid cheeks and your lifesblood stains my cloak. Would that it had been me instead of you! It was meet for Giovanni to die by the sword, but what weapon did you ever bear? These papers which now lie scattered about you? No, in murdering you they slew the innocent lamb, and for that, the lion shall surely devour them. Ah, did I not say there is no God - surely this is the proof! This Earth is all the Hell that Man could ever require.