by H. G. Nadel
The biggest, beefiest one snarls, “It’s tempting to draw and quarter you.” He points at the predator. “Little Tibaut here is excellent in that department.”
“No. Old Canon gave strict instructions,” Tibaut says. “How will you show him what a good student you are if we kill you after the lesson? I hear you’re a religious man. You should thank us for making you perfect for the priesthood. You’ll find celibacy easy now.”
The men laugh again, cackling like old women, and begin to leave. Tibaut turns toward Pierre one last time and winks. The half-moon scar in the candlelight appears to be a third, evil eye that turns its gaze upon the lovers and condemns them to their doom.
TWENTY-TWO
Julia left her dad’s house at first light and headed to the lab to pick up the last of her personal belongings. There was no telling when Bertel would be back to himself or back to work, if ever. He was the one who received the funding for their work. Without him, there was no more grant. The project was, for the moment, dead.
She walked to the opposite side of the street, where Jack was parked, and told him where she was going. Jack argued with her and called Austin. But she was determined, so Jack followed behind her.
As she drove through the quiet Dana Point neighborhood toward the freeway, she was so lost in thought that she missed her turn. She continued on the side streets until she passed the old stone cathedral where her mother used to take her to school when she was a girl—before Julia let her father persuade her that it was all superstitious nonsense. A black-bearded man wearing a beige linen shirt and khakis was standing in the garden between the church and the rectory. He could have been thirty or fifty; it was hard to tell at this distance. He appeared to be cutting roses. He looked up and waved at her as she slowed at the intersection.
She waved back, which distracted her as she shifted gears. She didn’t fully engage the clutch, which caused the car to lurch and die. Another car pulled up behind her, and the driver laid on the horn. As she started her car up again, the other car pulled around her and sped through the intersection, burning rubber. She saw a teen driver gesticulating and shouting at her in a silent pantomime behind the glass. For some reason, the image of that angry teen, his face distorted with pointless rage, made her unusually distraught.
As her car’s engine turned over, the gardener caught her eye again, and he grinned at her. Then he did a double take, as if he recognized her. The clippers he’d been using to cut the roses fell from his grasp as he continued to gape. He took a step forward and beckoned her. Flustered, she grew clumsy with the clutch again and sent the car lurching to another stall. This time when she started the engine, she engaged the left turn signal and made a U-turn into the church parking lot.
As she stepped out of the car, she looked up at the tower on the church’s south end. It was topped with an intricately chiseled iron cross. She’d once told her mother that she wished all the crosses inside the church looked like that one: “It’s almost like a plus sign, and pluses are positive. But inside, the crosses are all just torture devices, with Jesus suffering on them. It freaks me out.” That had been when she was eleven, the year she’d stopped going. Now here she was again, staring up at the big plus sign, trying to stay positive. She passed the tiled fountain that gurgled in front of the entrance and walked toward the garden, but the gardener was gone. She stood on the bright green lawn for a moment and turned in a circle. He was nowhere to be seen.
Puzzled, she walked up the steps toward the heavy wooden doors of the church. As she pulled one of the doors open, she felt a sudden heaviness, as if something powerful were pushing her backward. At the same time, something else more powerful pushed her forward. She stumbled inside and blinked as the door slammed shut behind her, blotting out the bright sunny day behind her and leaving her in a sort of twilight.
Jesus and an anonymous crowd of saints and angels gazed down at her from the towering, candy-colored light of stained glass. She stepped up to a font, wet her fingers with the holy water, and made the sign of the cross. Then she stepped into the long nave, her shuffling footsteps echoing in the empty space, even though she was wearing running shoes. Behind the altar, two huge columns supported a high-arched alcove, where cherubim fluttered on tiny wings. She genuflected as she entered a pew, because it was what she’d done the last time she was here, but she thought actually kneeling to pray might seem hypocritical. She hadn’t, after all, nurtured her spirituality for nearly a decade. Instead, she sat and guessed the height and diameter of the columns, then mentally calculated their volume and weight based on the material: granite, marble, and cement.
She didn’t finish her calculations, as once again her eyes felt compelled by the image of Jesus bleeding on the cross from nailed hands and feet, rent side, and thorn-crowned head. Yet the image didn’t upset her as much as it used to. In fact, she found it comforting. It reminded her of her mother. She thought she smelled her mom’s French perfume, but then it became the smell of roses as a door opened in a side alcove.
She turned toward the smell, and there was the gardener again; this time, he was wearing a black shirt, black pants, and the clerical collar of a priest. His pale blue eyes squinted into the dimness of the church, studying her. Then he nodded, as if his study confirmed something. Without a word, he beckoned to her again before he disappeared through the doorway from which he had come.
He must think I’m someone else, Julia thought. She rose to follow him through the doorway, which opened into a respectable-sized library with packed bookshelves from floor to ceiling. The priest stood atop a rolling wooden ladder, reaching for a book on a high shelf. The smells of old wood flooring, wax, and moldy paper made Julia feel transported back in time. The smell of roses struck her again. The source was real enough: clipped white and maroon roses sitting in a vase on a small side table between two overstuffed leather chairs.
On the wall behind the roses hung two paintings. One was a flat medieval depiction of a man in monastic robes sitting next to a woman in a nun’s habit. The other showed a young man and woman sharing a tender embrace, him cupping her head with one hand as an older man wearing a black cape opened the door behind them. Julia’s heart raced as she recognized Fulbert, furious at catching Heloise and Abelard in an intimate moment. Both paintings were suffused with a sepia glow. Her skin felt damp with fear and yearning, and for a moment she felt dizzy with the sensation of being pulled into the painting. She’d seen these images on the Internet, but at this size it was even clearer that, allowing latitude for artistic interpretation, the couple portrayed looked very much like her and Austin.
She started at the feeling of a hand on her shoulder. “Those are reproductions, of course. But they are beautiful, aren’t they?” The priest’s voice was warm, soothing.
“Yes, they are.”
“You know who they are?”
“Yes, I do. Kind of an odd subject for display in a church, isn’t it?”
“Perhaps.” He set a large book on the table next to the roses. “But an argument can be made for the very real faith Abelard and Heloise possessed, the sinful cruelty that separated a man and wife, and their steadfast service to the Church despite the many reasons they had to turn their back on Her. The diocese doesn’t seem to mind my hobby, so long as I restrict it to the library.” He held out his hand. “I’m Father Anselm.”
“I’m … Julia.”
He gestured to the chair behind her. “Please have a seat, Julia. Can I get you something to drink? Water? Wine?”
“Water, please.”
“Of course.” He walked into another room and returned with two tall glasses, one filled with water, another with ruby liquid. “Please excuse me. I think I’ll be needing the wine to calm my nerves.” He wasn’t kidding. The glass of water shook as he handed it to her. “You’ll forgive me. I’ve seen your face so many times, but seeing it up close is—astonishing.”
“Seen my face where?” she asked.
He pointed at the second pa
inting. “Up there.” Then he sat down in the chair opposite hers and pointed at his own head. “And in here. I’ve had visions about you all my life, Heloise.”
“Julia.”
“Right, Julia. But you must know by now that there’s more to you than that, or you wouldn’t be here.” “Why am I here?”
He nodded. “I’ve been waiting a long time to talk to someone about that very thing. So many church leaders wish to see miracles and mysteries in modern times. Yet when a lone priest claims to have visions, he’s more likely to get the attention of a psychiatrist than the bishop. So I’ve kept my secrets secret. I have an ability. Some might call it a gift, others a curse. It is a gift for seeing the forgotten past, the hidden present, the unknown future. But the visions almost always seem to come back to these two.” He gestured at the paintings with his glass.
She rubbed her arms, which were covered with goose bumps. “What do you see in these visions?”
“I have seen the past through the eyes of the old man, Fulbert. I know what no historian has ever proven, though some have speculated: He lusted for his own niece to the point of madness. Because of that lust, he destroyed her life and her husband’s—two of the brightest minds the world has known.
“I have seen Abelard and Heloise find each other again in the present. Through the grace of God, and because of the goodness of their souls, they were given another chance to be together. From the underworld, Fulbert has watched his niece’s return to earth with jealousy, wanting her, wanting life, hating everyone she loves, hating everyone who loves her. He’s longed to find a way back to this mortal plane and back to her. Imagine his delight when she and her mentor discovered a way to shock the soul in and out of the body at will.”
Julia bolted out of her chair, knocking her glass to the threadbare Persian throw rug at their feet. “How did you … Who are you?”
“Don’t be afraid, Julia. God does not give these gifts for entertainment. I knew He must have a purpose for showing me what I’ve seen. I am here to help you. I remember you, you know. I came here after Seminary school, and I saw you and your mother here. I thought I recognized you even then, but I didn’t dare speak. You were such a skeptical child, always challenging Father Pete: ‘What does God care if I take His name in vain? I don’t care if he uses my name to swear with. If Jesus was from the Middle East, why is he always blond and blue-eyed in pictures?’ I never heard a girl ask so many questions.” He grinned and shook his head; and as his face relaxed, Julia realized he was younger than she’d thought. “I was sorry you stopped coming. But when I was assigned here as parish priest, I knew you’d be back.”
“Why?”
“In my visions, I have also seen the future and its possibilities. The future is always shifting, so my visions are tentative, uncertain. Only one vision has kept me up so many nights that I often look like a tired old man, even though I’m only thirty-three.” He took a sip of wine, looked at his feet, ran a toe across the rug, and looked up at her. “In that vision, I see people returning from the dead. These dreams don’t come when I sleep, mind you, but by day. They feel as real as you and me sitting here right now. When I saw you on the street just now, the vision hit me again, with more force than ever.”
Her shoulders sagged, afraid that Father Anselm had foreseen what she feared—that Fulbert would figure out how to bring back a legion of souls from the dead. “What do you mean, ‘returning from the dead’?”
Father Anselm misunderstood her question. “These aren’t zombies. They’re not dead bodies brought back to grotesque, shambling life. These are ordinary living people whose bodies have been invaded by evil souls.” He placed his hand on the book he’d taken down from the shelf, an old tome with a faded leather cover, its title barely legible: Divine Tragedy. He flipped it open to a dog-eared page and turned it to face her. She read first to herself, then aloud:
“Satan’s purpose is simple: to gain ground in the war against Heaven for dominion over all souls in the universe. On earth, Satan’s servants seek to terrorize the opposition by seizing human bodies. Widescale possessions could force the final battle between good and evil. Yet, so far, possessions have proven limited in duration and in number, due to inefficient transmission. Demons rely on extreme weakness: physical and mental illness, drug and alcohol addiction, troubled families, disaffected youth. Even under such conditions, humans can regain control of their bodies with the help of others through love, prayer, or exorcism. Meanwhile, corpse possession is unsustainable, making second incarnations brief and unproductive.”
Julia sat down heavily as the weight of what she had read hit her with full force. “Does this mean Bertel’s not dead?”
Father Anselm nodded. “His soul is still attached to his body through what is referred to as a ‘silver cord.’ He is struggling to push his way back into the carnal envelope.”
“Then maybe we just need an exorcism to get him back. Do you know how to do it?”
“I don’t think you’re following me, Julia. Dr. Bertel invented a more efficient way for souls to enter and exit the body with a mix of chemicals and electricity that makes transmission almost instantaneous. The sudden shock gives the living soul no time to fight back and gives the invading soul more control. Old-fashioned exorcism isn’t going to be enough. You’ll need to send Fulbert out more or less the same way he came in.”
“So if I give Bertel another jolt, Fulbert will leave, and Bertel will be his old self?”
“Theoretically. But you have another problem.”
“What’s that?”
“Fulbert is just the beginning. It is my belief that Fulbert is here not just to experience mortality again but to form—”
“A legion.”
Father Anselm looked at her quizzically.
“It’s something Bertel—I mean, Fulbert—said.” Julia shook her head. “I think we already ran into one of his recruits. He jumped on our car and tried to kill Austin—I mean, Pierre.”
Father Anselm and Julia sat in silence for a moment. Then Julia voiced the guilt that had been festering in her heart since Bertel’s electrocution. “Father,” Julia said in a husky voice. “This is my fault. I have been resisting what my soul has been telling me—to believe in God and soulmates and goodness—because if I do, I must admit to the wretchedness of my state before God. I am responsible for using that damned defibrillator to start the Apocalypse.” She erupted into a fit of sobs.
Father Anselm consoled her with the words of a practiced healer of souls. “Julia, this battle has been brewing for millennia. You didn’t cause it. But I’m afraid you’re the one who has to stop it.”
“Me? I don’t have visions. I’m no exorcist. I’m not even that good at science. All my best experiments end with soul-swapping or people puking their guts out.”
“You must move beyond the science fair. See it as a learning experience.”
“So they’re broadcasting that one on the Visions from God channel too?”
“Julia, don’t underestimate yourself. I’ve seen you in a hundred futures. In all of them you’re riding a thundering black horse among the living and the dead, throwing bolts of lightning in your wake, rescuing humankind, and returning their demon attackers to hell.”
“I can’t ride a horse.”
“Sometimes my visions are symbolic. But you’re missing the point.”
Julia took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. Her next words surprised even herself. “Well, Father, I may not be able to save the world or even Dr. Bertel. Hell, I may not be able to save myself. But I’ll give it my best shot. Tell me what I need to do.”
TWENTY-THREE
Father Anselm and Julia talked for more than an hour. When she left the church, she carried the book, Divine Tragedy, with her. As she walked toward her car, she saw Tyler leaning against it, waiting. Jack was nowhere to be seen.
“Tyler, what are you doing here?” she asked.
When he turned his eyes to her, they looked unsure, searching
, lost. It was all she could do not to put her arms around him and comfort him. He cleared his throat. “I, uh, ran into your boss.”
“Really? When? Where?”
“Last night at Shakes. He said he tried to talk to you, but you ran away before he could warn you about everything you’re up against. He says there are people who are desperately searching for your research. People who won’t stop until they have it. He says you’re trusting the wrong people.”
“Why doesn’t he call and tell me this himself?” After the last meeting with Bertel, she knew who she could trust. And it wasn’t Dr. Bertel.
“He thinks you’ll hang up or that Austin will trace the call. Really, Julia, the guy’s just trying to help, and so am I. I do love you, Julia.”
She sighed. “Tyler …”
“It’s okay, Julia. I know we’re over. But that doesn’t mean I want to see anything bad happen to you. This Bertel was very convincing. He gave me this.” He held out a piece of paper. She grabbed it with her key hand, since she held the book in the other. “He asked you to meet him tomorrow at that location, at that time.” He started to walk away.
She turned to open her car door. Her hand shook so fiercely that she could barely insert the key in the lock. She turned back toward Tyler, wanting to say something conciliatory, but he was already gone.
Julia still needed a lab, but her purpose had changed. She no longer needed to pick up a few minor things; she now had her own agenda. Bertel’s lab was off limits—it was now a crime scene. She needed to find a different place to work.
She was going to meet Bertel tomorrow all right, but on her own terms. She repeated Father Anselm’s words in her mind and steeled her resolve. “Even the strongest leaders rely on others for support,” he’d said. “But there will come a moment when you’ll be on your own. At that moment, remember, there’s Someone who is always there, even when you fall. Just put your trust in Him.”