The Monk

by Hallahan, William H. ;

  But something nagged her, would not let her rest. She felt a pull toward New York to find that purple aura ahead of Timothy. Where was he anyway—with that hated dog of his? At last, unable to remain, with only an hour’s rest, she gave a great flap and flew off blindly into the storm toward the city.

  Father Joseph woke with a start. He glanced around urgently and saw the time on a wall clock. Four o’clock. The superintendent was reading a newspaper, a cloud of tobacco smoke around his head. Beyond him, he could see through a window. It was very dark outside and the snow was thrashing against the window.

  “Oh, my,” he said, sitting up. “I must be off.”

  “Don’t rush on my account, Padre. I have an extra bed you can sleep in.”

  “I have urgent business.” But his feet were alarmingly hot and swollen. His ears burned and felt hot to the touch and his cheeks were feverish. He knew that he ought to take to a bed and rest for a long time. He was sure he had a high temperature.

  “Why don’t you rest a bit longer?” the superintendent asked. “Then I can make you something to eat.”

  Before Father Joseph could refuse, he’d fallen asleep. In spite of his terrible premonition, his body had failed him.

  Father Joseph awoke, frightened. His premonition was stronger than ever. The clock told him it was now after six in the evening. And the snow was rushing at the window more thickly than ever. The superintendent was asleep in his chair with a cat curled in his lap.

  The monk sat up. He was burning with fever. Up, he told himself. He feared he already might be too late. He stood and readjusted his heavy wool cloak.

  The superintendent woke and yawned. “Well,” he said, “that’s a fine coat all right. Should keep you warm enough.”

  “It used to,” Father Joseph said. “Now nothing keeps the cold out. From the bottom of my heart, I thank you. I’m sure you saved my life. I’ll remember you in my prayers.” Along with the workingmen who padded him with newspapers and gave him gloves, he thought, and the policeman who bought him the tea, and the waitress and many others. His list at prayer time grew with the years. And Brendan Davitt was unknowingly incurring a debt of gratitude through the monk’s efforts. Man damned himself with spectacular acts and saved himself with an infinite string of small ones.

  “You come back, Padre, if it gets too much for you out there. It’s a terrible night and it’s nice and snug here. I have an extra bed. Maybe before you go you’ll take a little supper with me.”

  “God bless you. But I can’t delay any longer.” Father Joseph walked uncertainly to the door. Why were his feet so hot and swollen?

  He buttoned the cowl of his cloak, pulled on the old work gloves and set off. There were over six inches on the ground, and in the wind the snow was blinding. He estimated his journey at a mile. A long mile, for walking would be extremely difficult. He started up Hicks Street, stumbling in and out of the auto tire ruts. Almost immediately he felt the cold begin to penetrate again and soon his fever had him shivering uncontrollably. God’s will.

  The hawk had reached the edge of New York Harbor. She stood miserably on the deep ledge of a factory window in Jersey City. It was a straight flight from here across the harbor to Brooklyn. Almost four miles over open water in the most punishing weather she’d ever faced.

  She’d had a difficult time since leaving the Dismal Swamp, and to reach this far she’d had to land repeatedly because of the snow and ice covering her wings. A number of times she’d lost her way in the wind and blinding storm. But now she was really stopped. She assessed her condition. She was very tired, almost exhausted, and she faced almost four miles with no landmarks to guide her, no place to stop and rest and shake off the ice on her wings. Her wing was troubling her, furthermore, and she doubted that it could carry her to Brooklyn without a complete rest. And even if the ice and injury weren’t a problem, she could get lost in the dark. She could end up flying in circles, become exhausted and drown in the waiting water.

  It was a malevolent force that was deliberately thwarting her. So she had two grim choices: She could risk drowning; or she could face extinction with all the other legions of hell, if she failed to find the purple aura first. She regarded the storm. There was no sign of its abating. She regarded it with hatred. She couldn’t go and couldn’t stay.

  Where was Timothy? How close was he?

  For the time being, she had to admit, she was beaten. The best she could do now was rest here on the window ledge out of the wind and snow until the storm passed. She tucked her head under one wing and tried to rest. Rest. Sleep. With her world threatening to end, how could she try to rest?

  In a sudden rage she shook out her wings.

  She’d never faced such astronomically long odds before, but at least, if she failed, she would die in action. She wouldn’t have failed cowering on a window ledge.

  She gambled the outcome of the whole war between heaven and hell on the next four miles. She flew into the night.

  When they came up the subway steps in Brooklyn, Brendan felt Anne take his hand. They’d agreed to tell Aunt Maeve after dinner of their engagement, and Anne gripped his hand as though she feared he would disappear.

  He smiled reassuringly at her. “I’m right here,” he said. But a vague anxiety had descended on him during the afternoon, and his confidence was waning. Although repeatedly he’d tried to shrug off a presentiment of something ominous, it had grown stronger. He wondered what danger he was exposing Anne to.

  Here in the darkness, however, the streetlights had turned the falling snow into a magical world. More than six inches lay on the ground, yet the storm still had not reached its peak. Few people were out; in the absolute silence, the snow seemed a setting arranged just for the two of them. Love pushed the anxiety out of his mind.

  Brendan looked up at a warmly lit window. Inside, a cat on a sill sat regally looking down at them from the midst of potted plants. Beyond the plants, Brendan saw the head of a young woman framed by a high-backed chair. She was chatting with someone. Home: The vision he had forbidden himself to dream was about to come true. He stopped Anne and kissed her.

  Her breath was sweet and warm on his cheek and her lips were soft. “I love you, Brendan,” she said, then kissed him again. When she stood back she lightly poked his arm. “And you’re going to love being married to me.” When she nodded at him, her hat showered his face with snow. They laughed together.

  Maybe she was right. Grab life by the ears. But somehow he didn’t believe they were going to get away with it.

  Aunt Maeve’s house had a festive air. When they approached the front door, Brendan could see, through the door pane, merry flames dancing in the kitchen fireplace. And when he unlocked the front door, the odor of food mixed with burning applewood greeted them.

  Aunt Maeve helped them take off their overcoats as they stamped the snow from their feet. Then she led them into the kitchen for hot mulled cider.

  “Happy birthday, Anne. And many more.” They clicked their glasses. The cider was laced with applejack and seasoned with cinnamon sticks, one of Hardy’s recipes.

  For the first time Brendan saw the cane. It was black with a white rubber ferrule and it was hooked over the back of a kitchen chair. And when Aunt Maeve crossed the kitchen to check her oven, he saw her favoring her right leg. It intensified his feeling that something was closing in on him.

  All through the meal Aunt Maeve seemed ebullient. She told them stories about Hardy that made them laugh. But while she talked, while they ate, while later they cleared away the dishes and brought out the birthday cake, she kept glancing at them. Brendan saw that she was trying to read their faces. And as he watched her put the candles on the cake, he knew she’d guessed.

  She asked Anne, “What did you get for your birthday?”

  “Brendan.” Anne looked at her with overjoyed eyes. “We were going to tell you after the cake. We’re getting married.” She put her arms around Brendan. “Aren’t we, champ?”

  Aunt M
aeve clapped her hands together. “How wonderful! For both of you!” And she quickly kissed them. “My favorite dream come true! My two favorite people!” She put her hand on Anne’s hand and patted it. Then she watched Anne blow out the candles.

  Brendan’s anxiety had been increasing all through the meal. Now without any warning or preamble he felt a sudden panic. He almost upset his chair when he stood, feeling more waves of panic. He wanted to run.

  Aunt Maeve stared at him. “What is it, Brendan?”

  Anxiously, he stepped away from the table. “Something—” He listened. A shadow fell across the front door pane. Then a fist banged on it. Hesitantly, Brendan stared at the door. He saw a figure there covered with snow. The banging sounded again, more urgently. Brendan went and opened the door and Father Joseph stepped inside. He stared with awe at Brendan.

  “Dear God. I was right,” he said. “It’s like a bonfire. You must leave immediately.”

  Brendan stared at the feverish eyes. “Leave?”

  “Now. Tonight,” Father Joseph said. “You must run for your life. Pack a bag quickly.” Father Joseph’s premonition was excruciating.

  Brendan needed no further prompting. His own sense of panic told him something was approaching rapidly. He ran up the stairs. Father Joseph followed him, talking to him. The two women watched, totally bewildered.

  Brendan returned skipping two steps at a time, banging a suitcase on the railing.

  “Leave now,” Father Joseph said.

  “But where?”

  The monk whispered instructions in his ear, then held up a hand. “Tell no one where you are going. No one. Just go. Run!”

  Brendan pulled on his overcoat and stepped to the doorway. Then he paused.

  “Run, man, run!” the monk cried.

  Brendan did no more than touch Anne’s fingertips before he turned and ran into the night. She watched him through the door pane as his figure became progressively smaller, hurrying from streetlamp to streetlamp, until he disappeared in the snow.

  The hawk burst through the snowstorm with the last strength in her wings and skidded and slipped on Aunt Maeve’s roof, grabbing for something to hold on it. She was now completely exhausted. And as she clung to the roof, she also knew she’d arrived too late. There was only the faintest residue of a purple aura in the air. Her quarry had fled.

  In the snow-filled street below her, under a streetlamp, Father Joseph shambled, drifting, also exhausted and partly frozen.

  He’d beaten her.

  She refused to accept that. She gathered her leaden wings and flew into the storm, turning back to the waterfront, intending to fly back across the harbor to Manhattan in pursuit of the fleeing Brendan Davitt.

  But over the docks she began to lose altitude. She fell, tumbling in air, unable to make her wings hold even a short glide. She hit the edge of a pier and clung to the piling. Her claws were so weak she almost fell into the gurgling black water. She could barely hold her head up.

  The snow was beginning to relent. As she gazed across the harbor she could get hazy glimpses of the lights of Manhattan. Festive, abundant, the lights seemed to mock her.

  You failed. You failed.

  PART

  III

  CHAPTER 7

  Life in a Monastery

  Satan sat upon his throne, brooding over Brendan Davitt. He had escaped—the most dangerous man who had ever lived had completely disappeared.

  Satan’s eyes roved over the great Hall of Pandemonium and everywhere he saw the lords of hell standing in small groups, arms crossed, talking softly and looking at him upon his throne. There was Beelzebub, and Belial, Moloch and Ashtaroth, Thammuz and Dagon, Baalim and Rimmon—all of them in fact, all murmuring, all staring at him from a distance. Satan had a major revolt on his hands.

  He was the leader, the one with all the skills and tricks, and they wanted him instantly to eliminate this threat of extinction. And how did they expect him to do that? The quarry had escaped. Wasn’t that clear enough? Disappeared. Wherever that old monk Joseph had sent him, Davitt was beyond finding at the moment. And there was no sense blaming the hawk. She’d performed superbly, beyond her own endurance. And already she was back in the air, flying on the point of collapse, searching for Davitt. Satan wished he had more hawks and fewer critics.

  He thought about the possibility of his own extinction with growing awe. Could it really be near? And what was it, this final punishment the Lord had promised? He gazed again at his sullen lieutenants. In a way it would be a relief, having done finally with this collection of carpers and slackers, the whole ungrateful pack. If it hadn’t been for him, they would still be sulking around in the darkness and misery. And not one of them would lift a finger to help search for Davitt. They just stood in the Hall in groups and waited for him to do something. It was his problem. He could read their thoughts. One hawk on the point of collapse—was that the best he could do to fend off their imminent destruction? A hell filled with fiends, and all he could manage was one exhausted hawk?

  Beelzebub stepped away from his group and approached the throne. He had the merciless eyes of the true predator, like a cheetah who could study a herd of gazelles and pick out the weak one, the slow one, the one with a secret flaw. And now Beelzebub searched for a flaw in Satan’s eyes, a hint of weakness, a slackening of resolve, a loss of leadership ability.

  Satan nodded at him, giving him leave to approach the throne.

  “Is it true, Satan, that the hawk has found Timothy?”

  Satan nodded. “Timothy is halted in a seminary, stopped by the snow and shin splints. He obviously has no idea where Davitt is.”

  Beelzebub nodded but continued to stare at Satan.

  Satan sensed the challenge. “As long as Timothy hasn’t found Davitt, we have no problem,” he said. “And I have Timothy under constant watch.”

  “Of course, Satan. But the old abbot from the monastery, Joseph. He knows where Davitt went. Can we talk to him?”

  “He’s dead. He died from exposure, sitting in a church pew with his rosaries wrapped around his hands. How saintly of him.” Satan shifted irritably in his seat. Joseph could become the leading saint in heaven for what he did. “Soon enough, Beelzebub, the hawk will find Davitt,” he said in a tone of dismissal.

  “But is that enough, Satan? If Davitt keeps his head covered and stays indoors he’ll be very hard to find, even for the hawk.” There was a tone of near contempt in his voice. “Finding babies is easy. This Davitt is another situation entirely.”

  “Speak plainly, Beelzebub.”

  “Some of us think the hawk is losing her skill. This Davitt was born and lived twenty-four years right in New York City and she never discovered him.”

  “I explained that to you.”

  “But we are all dependent on that one hawk for our survival. Might there be other undiscovered Davitts?”

  “Go on.”

  “We have no other eyes on earth because you ordered all the demons back here.”

  “Of course. Without visible demons, man stopped believing in hell and our success rate soared.”

  “But isn’t it time, Satan, to send them back on earth to help search for this Brendan Davitt?”

  “They do incredible mischief—more harm than good.” “But they will give us many more eyes to search for Davitt.” The rebuke was clear. The hawk had failed. So Satan himself had failed. They wanted more action now.

  “Very well, Beelzebub. What did you have in mind?”

  “Populate the earth with some chimeres again until Davitt is found. Then you can bring them back here until the next time.”

  The next time. Another rebuke. Satan fixed his mad green eyes on his lieutenant until Beelzebub lowered his gaze. “As you wish, Beelzebub. A limited number though.”

  Beelzebub nodded and withdrew with a bow.

  The chimeres were hideous, corpselike creatures who for millenniums had exhibited a genius for finding and seducing weak men into mad abandoned ways. Their ex
cesses always raised armies of witch-hunting do-gooders in reaction. Because of the chimeres on earth, the churches had been packed, men believed fervently in eternal damnation and were very wary of the seductive corruption of Satan’s other minions.

  Satan had another reason for disliking the chimeres: They wore the true face of evil and he found it repellent. But they were superb hunters and soon a band of them was once more on earth. They searched eagerly for Brendan Davitt.

  It was snowing heavily again when Brendan stepped off the Greyhound bus with his suitcase, in far-upstate New York near the Canadian border. Opposite him were a country store and an old barn, standing side by side. Next to them was the road he wanted: T 421. He regarded it with dismay. It hadn’t been plowed, it was filled with snow and it looked impassable. Even its name—a letter and three numbers—made it sound military and furtive, just the kind of designation that would lead to a secret hiding place. An old weathered sign said WOODMERE LAKE 2 MI.

  Brendan walked across the road and past an assortment of cars and trucks. The two great doors of the barn stood open and a group of men were standing in a circle inside. In their midst lay a horse. It was obviously dead; it lay on its side, just outside its stall, a sorrel with three white feet. The neck had been broken, and the head had been twisted completely around as if it were looking back over its rump. There was something very familiar about the arrangement of the head.

  “How did it happen?” Brendan asked.

  “Didn’t do it itself, I can tell you,” and old man answered.

  “Nothing human did it,” said another man in a red hunter’s cap.

  The group went on staring down at the dead horse for a few moments. The animal was strikingly handsome even in death: sloping flanks, splendid muscles, bulking power under a beautiful glossy coat. The group was enveloped by the beast’s smell of clean, innocent horseyness.

  Brendan turned his eyes away in pain. Wickedness. He looked out at the snow-filled road, keeping his eyes away from the horse. “Any of you thinking of driving down T Four-twenty-one?”