The Monk

by Hallahan, William H. ;

  Birds had gotten in everywhere and nested, swifts and sparrows, several owls, a community of starlings—and a colony of bats. The walls were streaked with guano and the floor was littered with old nests. Near one of the two chapel windows a tree had grown up, desperately spreading its branches for the little life-giving light that got through the roof holes.

  Brendan opened the rotted door to the bell tower and saw the bell at his feet, fallen in a tangle of splintered beams and old rope. It must have made a great noise when it crashed.

  The air of desolation and abandonment filled Brendan with sadness. The monastery seemed an old battlefield in which the wrong side had prevailed. There was a mood of mourning. It was a place of defeat. Where had the monks gone? Why had they left?

  “Demons got in,” Timothy told him. “The battle lasted for a whole month, night and day. The monks won but the few who survived abandoned the place.”

  Brendan wished Timothy had chosen a site more auspicious.

  That morning Brendan went to Timothy. “Are you sure Satan and his followers will all be punished?”

  “The Lord Himself said it, Brendan.”

  “It seems to me that you paid for your part in the rebellion in heaven a very long time ago. It’s too bad you didn’t find a purple aura before the human race lived through all that terrible history.”

  Timothy nodded. “Satan has done unspeakable things to man.”

  “Man has done unspeakable things to man,” Brendan said. “He doesn’t need much help from Satan. When do we start the ceremony?”

  “Later today.”

  Timothy went into the chapel alone.

  Brendan paced. The several times he looked into the ruined chapel, Timothy was on his knees, praying.

  Brendan went for a walk. The rain had stopped and he walked to the crest of the road to look out over the range of low mountains that reached away to the north and west. Large flights of migratory birds were flying north. Spring again. He returned to find Timothy still in the chapel on his knees. And he remained there for hours more. When late afternoon sunlight was slanting into the ruins, Timothy still remained on his knees. At dusk Brendan was sitting on a fallen stone block when a shadow passed in front of him. He looked up and saw her, the magnificent black hawk, touched by the last light of day. She wheeled first left then right. A moment later, she whizzed by his head and alighted in a pine tree to regard him with her fierce eyes. Then she gave a great flap and flew off.

  Cree cree cree, she cried. Brendan went to the chapel to tell Timothy.

  Timothy came out of the chapel almost immediately. He stared with an unsettling intensity for a time into Brendan’s eyes. Then handed him a white robe. “Wash yourself and put this on. Hurry.”

  He had not asked whether Brendan would forgive him.

  The cold twilight air raised gooseflesh. Brendan drew up a bucket of water from the old well. It was numbingly cold water. After dumping it over himself, he toweled off quickly. When he’d put on the white gown, he hastened to the chapel. The wind was increasing. It soughed on the rough edges of the decayed walls and it rocked the bare trees.

  A familiar sound arrested him. Faintly at first, then clearly, he heard the hoofbeats.

  The chapel was lit by a scattering of candles. In contrast to the rising wind, it had a calm and serene air to it, a quiet festiveness. The candles, in sconces, were contained with glass hurricane chimneys. In the mounting wind, the small flames seemed vulnerable and fragile.

  As he entered the chapel, Brendan got his last look at the night sky, just before the moon was smothered. It was the angriest sky he had ever seen: black, twisted raging clouds, dead black with moonlit edges, immensely high, like a mad funeral procession with deep and frightful canyons between. As they crossed the chapel to the altar, drumming drops of rain announced the onset of a storm. Timothy removed his cloak and turned to face Brendan. He was stunning. His stature had increased; his presence was commanding; his beauty breathtaking. He was standing in his true angelic form. Brendan had never seen such radiance.

  Timothy turned to the altar and prayed with head bowed. The wind blew out several candles.

  The hoofbeats were louder. Brendan glanced at Timothy.

  “Do you hear the hoofbeats, Timothy?” he asked.

  Timothy nodded slowly.

  The hoofbeats were faster. The animal was at a full gallop. To Brendan the strategy was clear: Satan would use Death to stop the ceremony. The black rider and horse were coming for him.

  “Hurry, Timothy!” he called.

  The hoofbeats sounded on the flagstone walkway just outside the chapel. The horse that had haunted Brendan’s visions charged into the chapel and stopped in front of him. It was a towering animal, snorting, its ribs heaving, its wild eye ogling Brendan. The rider, hooded and gowned in black, stared down at him. And behind sat Satan, his mad, molten-green eyes filled with rage.

  “Brendan,” Timothy said. “Say you forgive me.”

  “Silence!” Satan roared as he stepped down from the black stallion. “Say one word and you will die!”

  “Brendan,” Timothy said softly. “Say ‘I forgive you.’”

  “If you speak,” Satan bellowed, “you will die!”

  “Speak, Brendan. Let your love speak.”

  Brendan looked at the great black saddle: the end of life. One word and he would be carried to hell. He looked at the fiery green eyes of man’s greatest tormentor. Then he looked back at the saddle.

  “Brendan,” Timothy said.

  Brendan nodded. “I forgive you, Timothy.”

  The black horse bridled violently. The rider pointed at Brendan, then pointed at the empty saddle behind him. Brendan shook his head. And Death pointed again. Brendan felt unable to resist. He stepped toward the saddle. He looked at the stricken face of Timothy, then reached up to pull himself into the saddle.

  “I forgive you, Timothy,” he said again. “May God hear your prayer.”

  But before Brendan could climb up, Timothy disappeared. Then the horse and rider disappeared. Satan’s bellow shook the building. Then he too disappeared.

  Trevor was coming for his answer at seven. Yes or no. Brendan or not. Marriage or not. Anne hurried home from the studio and immediately opened her closet. Standing on a chair, she got down her largest suitcase. She said aloud, “I can’t believe I’m doing this.” With a pencil and a pad she began making a list of what to bring to Bermuda.

  It was a relief: She’d made a decision. And she admitted she liked stepping into the magic world of great wealth. For the first time since Brendan had left nearly three months past, she felt a sense of well-being.

  Trevor rang the bell precisely at seven. And when she pushed the door buzzer to admit him, she was thinking of the great smile that would spread over his face upon hearing her say Yes. His footsteps were on the stair, bounding two at a time.

  He skipped into her apartment, slightly breathless, his mouth hanging open with expectation.

  “Yes?” he asked almost prayerfully.

  “No.” She had astonished herself.

  Trevor sagged. His smile fell. “Annie—”

  “Oh, Trevor, I’d give anything to be able to say Yes. I’m so fond of you I wouldn’t hurt you for the world.”

  “Then don’t.”

  “I can’t marry you out of pity.”

  “You can marry me for any reason you want, Annie—”

  “Oh, Trevor, you’re making this so hard for me.”

  “I want to. I’m trying to make you say Yes. Say Yes. Say it.”

  She put her hand over his eyes. “It hurts to look at you.”

  “I’ll never ever find another like you, Annie. You’re the most wonderful thing that’s ever happened to me. If you don’t marry me, I’ll be haunted by you for the rest of my life. I love you, Anne, more than anything in the world.”

  She touched his cheek. “Oh, I like you as much, Trevor—”

  “Sleep on it another night, Annie. Please?”
<
br />   She sighed, almost tempted. “If I said Yes tomorrow I’d only change it to No the day after.”

  He was bewildered. “Annie, I know this would be a wonderful marriage for both of us. Please think it out again.”

  “Oh, Trevor. I have thought—”

  He gripped her by the shoulders. “He’s not coming back, Annie. Never!”

  She raised her chin a little higher. “Yes, he is.”

  Trevor dropped his hands to his sides, then abruptly patted her arm and turned and left. She heard every one of his heavy steps going down the stairs.

  She watched him on the street from her window. She felt sick, a knot in her stomach. She’d hurt him terribly. And she knew that she still needed him; he’d kept her from going crazy with longing and loneliness and she’d become deeply fond of him. But she had to stay there in the apartment, for someday Brendan would come swinging around the corner and smile up at her. He had to. And she had to be there.

  As she stood on her chair, putting her suitcase away, she felt the loneliness flowing from the corners toward her once again, like a rising tide.

  “Oh, Annie,” she said aloud. “Brendan’s never coming back and now neither will Trevor.” Her loneliness had doubled.

  She was despondent the entire evening, feeling sorry for Brendan, feeling sorry for Trevor and trying not to feel sorry for herself. She could hear her friends shouting in baffled rage at her when she told them that she’d turned Trevor down.

  “For a ghost,” they would say. “You turned him down for a memory who’s never coming back.”

  Her odd compulsion had returned: Every few minutes she would go to the window and look down. But there was no Brendan striding around the corner.

  But one time when she went to the window and looked down, a man came around the corner and crossed the walk.

  “Oh!” she cried. She ran down the stairs, opened the door and ran into the street. “Brendan! Oh, Brendan!” She gripped the front of his heavy jacket in both fists to keep him from disappearing again. But his arms were firmly around her and she felt his breath on her cheek.

  “Oh, Brendan. I almost left! A few hours ago. I might have missed you!”

  She held his hand firmly in both of hers and led him inside. They were both trying to talk at the same time.

  “Are you all right?” she kept asking. “Is it safe now?” She sat with her arms around him, patting his back as though to ease a great pain.

  “Yes,” he said. “It’s all over. I’m home to stay.” He kissed her.

  CHAPTER 13

  Confrontations

  The confusion and alarm in the great Hall of Pandemonium was overwhelming, and Satan stood by his throne, quietly regarding the packed chamber.

  In his hand he held the faded blue ribbon he had taken from Eve’s hair. By the light of the flickering torches, his green eyes danced with excitement and anticipation.

  Every demon who could push and shove his way into the Hall now stood shouting conversation with others. They all pointed at Satan. Many scouting groups came and went, fully armed. Beelzebub and his staff stood holding unrolled charts of the fortifications of hell.

  Demons were sharpening their weapons everywhere. Someone had set up a forge and sparks were jumping with each hammerblow on the molten sword blades.

  “So!” the demons were shouting at each other. “It’s come to pass. Timothy finally won. We’re all in for it now.”

  Now no one was paying any attention to the damned in the torture chambers. Many of them had wandered off into other caves and tunnels, stunned and aware only that the pain had stopped. Down at Charon’s ferry, the latest shipment of dead souls had arrived from earth, and they stood on the dock, terrified and weeping, milling about, wondering what was going to happen next. They watched the great din in the Hall with awe.

  Beelzebub’s eyes were enormous with fear, anger and anticipation as he approached the throne. He held forth the chart. “We’ll have an extraordinarily difficult time defending this place, Satan,” he said. “I’ve been telling you since early days that we need better defenses.”

  “Put your charts away, Beelzebub,” Satan said.

  “Away! Minutes count! Possibly seconds!”

  “I understand. But that is not our battle plan.”

  Beelzebub snorted. It was the closest he had ever come to insubordination.

  Satan cast the chart aside. It rolled down the steps and was soon trampled by the scuffling crowd.

  “What are your orders?” Beelzebub asked.

  “There will be no final defense. No Thermopylae.”

  “I’m not submitting without a fight!” Beelzebub cried.

  “None of us are. We’ll fight. But not here.”

  “Not here?”

  “No. Sound the call for assembly.”

  It took Beelzebub a few minutes to find the bugler and a few more minutes to lead him to the dais. Satan nodded at him and the bugler raised his horn and sounded assembly. The incredible din of voices died slowly away and the chamber was filled with complete hushed silence. The bugler sounded assembly once again. This time a great shout went up and the demons hastened to their assembly places.

  Satan looked at them with satisfaction. He had taken them up, a battered band of defeated, humiliated, frightened fallen angels and wielded them into this tough, disciplined, fighting force that now stood silently watching him.

  “Hear me,” he said to the assembly. “This is the day we always knew would come. But this is not the day of your destruction.” There was a moment of hesitant silence, then a great shout went up. They brandished their arms and shouted his name.

  “We are not going to die like hunted animals here, scurrying through these caves and tunnels. No. We are going to fight to victory!”

  He watched their overjoyed faces. “We are going to fight to victory up there. In heaven!”

  The troops went wild. They waved their weapons and shook their helmets in air and shouted his name.

  “Hear me,” he went on. “This is the moment we have waited for, the moment we have trained so hard and long for. We should have done this a very long time ago. We are invincible.”

  Another prolonged shout went up.

  “We’ll have our revenge! And we’ll have it right now. Victory or oblivion. Follow me!”

  With a multitudinous roar in his ears, Satan rose, and with him rose all his legions. He led them to the passageway out and up. They streamed heavenward, rank on rank, column by column, freighted with enough arms and hatred to last a dozen wars. And every one of them had his eyes fixed on Satan. In a short time the place was empty. The underworld had not one fiend left in it.

  Up through the firmament they rose, up into the skies they had fallen through so long ago. They flew for days. They ascended through whole galaxies, moving on a fixed course, exultant, determined, hurrying eagerly to the final battle. Each day’s password was the same: revenge.

  Satan kept his eyes fixed ahead, alert for his first view of the great gates. This time he would conquer or be destroyed. If he failed, he would welcome oblivion.

  Heaven: How humiliated he had been there. All that loyal service he had devoted to the Lord. Then disgraced by demotion in front of all the hierarchy. He still burned with shame and fury every time he remembered the defeat and the Fall and the beating while chained to a wall. And the eternity in the burning lake that had seared off the last traces of goodness from his charred soul. And the Lord’s parting shot, the last thunderbolt that scarred his leg.

  He looked ahead. There would be no turning back: By now the angelic host must have been alerted. Satan pictured the alarums and trumpeting going on up in heaven, the hasty assembly, the seeking for weapons long ago laid aside, golden angels trying to recall the drills and military commands that hadn’t been used in tens of thousands of years.

  He had the advantage. He had the troops, with the muscle-hard training, he had the plan of battle and he had the advantage of Surprise. This time there would
be no Timothy to fail him.

  “Do you think,” Beelzebub asked, “the Lord has foreseen all this?”

  “If He has, then He has foreseen His own defeat!” Satan answered. “I will have Him! I will humble Him! I will make Him pay for every moment.” He looked down at the vast army that followed him.

  “Invincible!” he shouted. “Invincible!”

  And the hordes of demons shouted back to him, filling the firmament with their cries. Satan nodded grimly at them. He had made them the terror of the universe.

  Scouts had been sent ahead, the fleetest demons on point, watching lest the Lord sent an army to meet them in midair. Satan wanted to join battle in heaven itself, inside the great gates.

  But strangely, no angels were encountered. No watches had been posted by heaven. And soon Satan’s scouts came streaming in to report that the great gates of heaven stood wide open.

  “Don’t stop,” Satan commanded. “Full speed ahead. Before they shut them. Charge! Charge for victory!”

  The hordes of hell raised their weapons and shouted their war cries. They increased their speed and roared toward the great gates.

  There were no guards, no advance parties of angels to challenge them. Satan was the first to rush through the gates and into heaven.

  In spite of his vivid memory, it was far more beautiful than he remembered. But there were no angels. There were no challengers anywhere. And the terrain was changed: the pavilions, the flowers, gone; the fields of Elysium, fallow; the streams, dried up.

  His legions poured through the gates with murderous shouts. Arms clanking, swinging swords whistling, they quickly spread out.

  “Search,” he ordered. “They’re hiding somewhere.”

  Satan gathered his lieutenants on the hill where the Lord’s pavilions had stood. He took out the pale and faded blue ribbon and pressed it to his face. Faintly, almost beyond recall, the last whiff of the perfume of apples entered his nostrils. Soon now, he told himself. But now in the silence they all heard the voice of the wind. Its whine was unbearable, a chilly and lonely cry that would forever haunt the place, forever make heaven uninhabitable.