Faustus Resurrectus

by Thomas Morrissey

“No, no, no!” She screamed and dug her scythe into the corridor wall, tearing chunks of wood, plasterboard and brick. “I didn’t ask you to forgive me! You ain’t got the right!”

  “Forgiveness isn’t a right bestowed by man, my child. It’s a gift from God, given freely. I give it freely to you.” He wiped a clammy hand across the sweat on his forehead. “If I am to die here, now, I can think of no better legacy to leave.”

  Bridget’s nose sniffed this unfamiliar perspective. Father Carroll blacked out…

  …and came to.

  The first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was the decapitated rabbit head. He jerked to a sitting position. Bridget cocked her head. “I thought you was dead.”

  “Soon, I think.” Every word felt pulled from his mouth with pliers. “I’m going to pray now. Would you like to join me?”

  The suggestion shocked her. She shook her head and scurried to the other side of the hall. “What? No! I can’t—I can’t pray!”

  “I’ll help you with the words. They aren’t difficult.” The cross on the gold chain had miraculously survived the attack and remained around his neck. He clutched it in his trembling fingers.

  She shifted her weight on her feet. “Why don’t you just die? I killed you. Why aren’t you dead?”

  “Perhaps because my…work here isn’t…finished.”

  “Leave me alone! Just leave me alone! Don’t forgive me! Don’t save me! I don’t want it, I don’t deserve it! Just leave me alone!”

  “I could never do that. Nothing is worse than being left alone.”

  “You’re dying! That’s worse—”

  “But I’m not alone,” he said softly. His eyes cleared for a second as he focused them on her. “And I notice that your words sound less diabolic and more like the woman you are, Bridget. You can fight. You can be forgiven your sins. It’s never too late to seek God.”

  She stared at him for long seconds. Outside on Central Park West, a lone siren raced by. The candles of the gateway sputtered, casting shadow-fingers along the ceiling above them.

  “I’m—” The dam broke. She collapsed in a heap at his feet, sobbing inconsolably. Her voice, like her words, was now human. “I’m sorry…”

  “Ssh. Ssh. I’ve already forgiven you, my child. I’ve already forgiven you.”

  “Please—help me. Make it stop! Take it away!”

  He struggled to kneel beside her. She slapped his outreaching hand away and suddenly sprang to her feet, her face twisting and reforming. Her mouth stretched impossibly wide to reveal rows of churning, grinding teeth before snapping back into the plain, doughy features she’d worn all her life.

  “God damn you! You’re going to suffer—no!”

  Screaming obscenities, she bolted into one of the rooms off the corridor. Father Carroll heard wood shatter. He lurched upright and staggered after her. A sickening water balloon splatter painted the courtyard. Bridget’s body had landed and impaled on an iron signpost jutting up from the cracked concrete.

  “Oh, God,” he groaned.

  Like blood, a black shadow leaked from her prone body. Without a living human host it was drawn back to the gateway, shrieking soundlessly at the priest as it passed. He leaned away to give it a wide berth. When it had gone he made the sign of the cross towards her body. “Your work is finished. God will forgive you, my child.” His breath hitched in his throat. “My work, however, remains to be done.”

  He gripped the windowsill until the pain passed. Blue-black fluid mixed with the blood running down his legs. Determined to face whatever the Lord had in mind for him on his feet, he straightened and staggered back to the corridor. The iron spire was where he’d dropped it.

  He retrieved it and, keeping pressure on his wound, headed for the portal.

  ***

  The drive up from Columbus Circle had been tense—Fullam had been monitoring the radio frequency the police were using. What he’d heard so far filled him with both dread and determination. A few minor roadblocks the cultists had thrown up proved no physical obstacle, but the dark smears left behind on the fire truck’s windshield worked on his psyche, especially after the wiper-wash had failed to completely clean them.

  When he wrenched the wheel to go off-road from the East Drive towards the Great Lawn, he hit all the lights and the siren. He pulled the air horn before wrapping his arms around the steering wheel and bracing himself. Crashing through the brush bounced him in his seat but he kept his eyes focused straight ahead. To do otherwise would invite the worst sort of speculation about what he was seeing. He thought about being “in the Twilight Zone” and a smile of gallows humor spread across his face.

  “‘A journey into a wondrous land whose boundaries are those of imagination’,” he quoted softly. “That’s the signpost up ahead…’”

  At the bottom of the Lawn, a circle of flame burned down to embers. He turned towards it. As he got closer, in the truck’s headlights, he saw “Welcome” spelled out in what looked like human limbs. Surrounding the word were stakes driven into the grass, stakes topped by decapitated heads.

  Jesus Christ…

  The sight disturbed and infuriated him, but at the same time he felt a surge of confidence. He would make a difference, maybe the difference, in everything because of what Donovan and Maurice had shared with him. Whatever arcane knowledge they possessed, he believed it more potent here than a squadron of Cobra attack helicopters. He stomped the gas pedal and pointed the nose of the truck towards the chaos.

  Yarborough saw him first, and began to jump up and down, flagging him over. Fullam gritted his teeth and swerved around the bodies of several officers. The derelicts in his path scattered. When they saw where he was aiming, the police also dove for cover. At the last moment he slammed on the brakes, skidding on the dirt of the softball field. The fire truck’s nose plowed into the structure, shattering its headlights but crumpling the barrier like a recyclable can.

  Fullam leapt down and ran around the truck’s side. He pulled one end of a rope, and an enormous racket clanged down the back. “Take these!” he shouted, gesturing at the pile of iron spires he’d released.

  “Your plan to help is this?” Yarborough sputtered. “What—what are these things?”

  Fullam didn’t answer. His eyes went wide, and he lunged to grab a spire. Yarborough gaped as the sergeant threw him aside and swung the iron bar. It connected at its apex with the scythe-blade a cultist had swung at the chief’s head. Fullam wrestled the scythe to one side, kicked the cultist in the groin, then whipped the spire around and cracked the cultist’s kneecap. The cultist screamed, an unearthly howl full of pain and indignation, and scuttled into the dark.

  “Fuckin’ A, Frank!” Darenelli hefted one like a baseball bat. “Now we’re talking!”

  “Get those hostages out of here! All police personnel who can stand fall in!” Shaken, Yarborough sought to regain control. He grabbed Fullam’s arm and spun him around. “I asked you a question, sergeant. Where’s the additional ammunition? The heavier firepower? We need more guns and bullets and you bring us…pieces of fence?”

  Fullam wrenched his arm free. “Guns and bullets been working for you so far, chief?”

  “Goddammit, sergeant, I will not tolerate your insubordination—”

  “Kill the rest!”

  One cultist growled it and the rest picked up the chant as they regrouped. For a second, nobody moved. The only illumination came from sparse torches and the revolving lights atop the fire truck.

  “Fuck!” Darenelli swore from somewhere in the dark.

  Fullam grabbed a nozzle from the side of the fire truck and carried it with him as he climbed on top. “Fall back to me!” he shouted, waving one arm. “Everybody, fall back!”

  All around them the white shapes gathered, flickering in and out of sight as the lights revolved. “Kill the rest!”

  The sergeant pulled a radio from his coat. “Bring the trucks!

  “Now!”

  ***

  Lucifer c
limbed slowly to her feet. Donovan thought she looked more curious than anything. No dirt clung to her in spite of where she’d fallen. She still looked perfect. “You’ve…bound Us. To this female.” She extended her hand. “With this ring.”

  My engagement ring.

  “Cornelius Valdes?” She raised a hand to her face. No mark bruised her perfect visage. “What is the meaning of this?”

  Astonished by this turn, Valdes could only gape.

  “The ‘meaning’? You’re Lucifer. First of the Fallen. God’s favorite, before…” Mephistopheles slowly circled her. “Don’t you know?”

  The meaning of what she’d said hit Donovan, and he felt blood drain from his face. He repeated the words softly. “You bound her.”

  “What’s going on?” Valdes managed to ask. “You said ‘entwine.’ Is that like the binding spell Faustus cast on the gateway?”

  “More powerful is the binding for humans,” Faustus confirmed. “Lucifer is trapped inside the Vessel until she is—”

  Donovan tried to shut out the word.

  “Dead,” Mephistopheles finished.

  “In binding Us to the Vessel you have limited Our access to Reality. Limited, but not prevented. Nothing of this world harms Us lest We will it.”

  “I’m looking forward to testing that claim.” Mephistopheles grinned. “Believe me.”

  A golden throne, upholstered with living flesh and adorned by skulls and fresh hearts, appeared onstage. The Prince of Darkness moved towards it.

  “What is this…?” Donovan said in disbelief. “You’ve done this to my fiancée for some kind of…political gain?”

  “When the Ruler of Desire usurps the Throne of Hell, it’s a bit more impressive than a ‘coup.’” Mephistopheles sat on the throne and narrowed his eyes at him. The peak of his robe’s hood formed a vulture beak above his forehead. “You come here soaked in holy water and armed with blessed iron. You resist my will and come very close to disrupting my intentions. Neil, who is this person?”

  “His name is Donovan Graham. He’s the Vessel’s fiancée.” Valdes continued to process everything, and he spoke in a distracted manner. “I, I still don’t understand. Why are you doing this?”

  “Why? After everything you’ve done and endured, you ask why?” Mephistopheles paused, his restraint palpable. “Do you think you’re the only one who’s ever experienced the unfairness of reality, Neil? Do you think you’re the only one who’s ever done something about it? My existence has ever been one of bondage, fulfilling the desires of others. Why? Because I was ordered to.” He sneered. “What sort of prince is a servant?”

  “Desire is a servant, not a master.” One corner of Lucifer’s mouth rose, truly interested but not in any way threatened. “Reality is not decided by the whims of desire. It cannot be, for desire is transitory. You, the Devil of the Bargain, ought to recognize that. Reality is eternal, and you must find your place in it to become part of it.”

  “I have found my place.” Mephistopheles settled back on the throne. “And I rather like the view from here.”

  “You desire the Throne of Hell and in the plotting, the intricacies of the game and the pursuit of it is your true being revealed. But kingship for you,” she shook her head again, “is not Reality. A triumph of desire is temporary, a Pyrrhic victory which will inevitably turn to the reality of ash.”

  “ Pyrrhic? Isn’t it better to rule in Hell?”

  “In Reality, Mephistopheles does not.”

  “He does now.”

  “Does he?”

  Mephistopheles sank further into the flesh cushions even as his head shrank into his shoulders. The atmosphere around him thickened with smoky, oily darkness. “You will acknowledge me.”

  “Desire cannot rule, for it is a limited point of view. We do not subscribe to ‘points of view’; We simply acknowledge what is. You do not. It is why you are not a king.”

  “My, my. Detached arrogance, and arrogance that isn’t detached.” Mephistopheles pointed to the earth before him. “Kneel before me or suffer.” Lucifer stood her ground. Mephistopheles sat for another moment before offering a shrug and a chuckle. The sound fooled no one; it covered none of his hatred. He set his gaze upon her. The air around him began to darken, and as far away as he was, Donovan could feel it grow colder. Mephistopheles seemed at first to join with the darkness, but Donovan saw it was emanating from him, forming tendrils that drifted like a fog bank towards Lucifer.

  “What about me?” Valdes interrupted. “This is all supposed to be—”

  “For your benefit?” Mephistopheles sneered. “Hardly. You describe your ignorance in magical matters and think you did all of this without help? Who do you think created Coeus and sent him to you, sent him to show you the way to the book? That was my grimoire that showed you the resurrectus maledicat. Who do you think allowed Faustus to leave Hell so you could do all of this? This has always been about me.”

  “But I made the choices! I did the work!”

  The darkness enveloping the throne was silent for a second until, from within, came a creepy laugh. “Kudos,” Mephistopheles said, “for a job well done.”

  Valdes turned to Faustus. His face was flushed and he breathed through his nose, trying to keep calm. “Herr Doktor?”

  Faustus, Donovan noticed, had edged closer to Lucifer. From where he stood, he could also see the sorcerer had a piece of paper and something shiny up his sleeve. “Thy reasoning is flawed, Valdes. Emotion is key, ja, but thou payest no heed to the subtleties of magical study.” He took a step as if to approach Valdes, but in fact it brought him even nearer to Lucifer. “Incanting requireth both emotion and knowledge for mastery. Thou hast ignored one element of that vital equation to thy detriment.”

  “‘There’s no such thing as a free lunch’ is not the best choice of words here.” Valdes brought his hands together in front of his face and rubbed them together. He turned back to Mephistopheles. “Because in fact, nothing has changed. What I want benefits whoever is in power. I can still generate the emotional energy needed to open any gateway. As a token of faith I offer you, Your Highness,” he paused to emphasize the use of title, “the six hundred sixty-six sacrifices we held for Lucifer.”

  Mephistopheles’ lips twitched, restraining a smile. “For a novice,” he said, “you have a rather developed acumen. Unfortunately, what you don’t have is sacrifices.”

  Valdes glanced to the southern end of the Lawn. “Have they escaped?”

  “Oh, no, they’re there. And We—” Mephistopheles paused and chuckled as he caught himself indulging the royal phrasing. “We will kill them in many delightful ways. But they are not what’s required for your end of the deal.”

  Donovan’s eyes went to Faustus. The sorcerer had managed to sidle next to Lucifer and slip her a scroll of paper. He had no idea what was going on but he sensed it was important enough to let it continue.

  Valdes started to turn back to Faustus.

  “In magical terms, Valdes,” Donovan quickly said, drawing Valdes and Mephistopheles’ attention to himself, “a sacrifice is an offering to appease the deity on arrival, or to entice one to appear. If you want to bargain you have to offer something more enduring than the physical.”

  “Like what? Their souls?”

  “What, did you think you could invoke and just smooth-talk the King of Hell?”

  Valdes spun towards Mephistopheles, accusation in his face. “You never told me I needed more than their bodies. I didn’t know that. How was I supposed to get six hundred sixty-six people to sign contracts giving their souls to Lucifer?”

  “You weren’t. Does that make it clearer? It was all about Us, from the beginning.” Mephistopheles grinned. “You served your purpose. You invoked Lucifer and enabled all this to occur. For that you have Our gratitude.”

  “But I signed a contract!”

  “Really? Why would you do that?”

  Valdes whirled and pointed at Faustus. The sorcerer stood next to Lucifer, holding the scr
oll Donovan had seen. “He told me I needed one—there! That’s it! He’s holding it!”

  Lucifer raised her eyes to inspect him with a gaze Donovan had seen Joann use to size up a guilty defendant. “‘I, Cornelius Valdes,” she read, “of New York City, New York, do, by this document, give both body and soul to Lucifer, King of Hell, and furthermore grant unto him, when twenty-four years have expired, full power to carry the above articles into his habitation wheresoever it may be.’”

  Faustus unrolled a bit more, allowing Lucifer to continue. “‘However, said period shall be considered expired immediately and all articles collectible forthwith should Lucifer immediately and unconditionally release from eternal bondage the soul of Doctor Johann Faustus in trade. Alter valorem rei.’ ”

  “What?!” Valdes flushed bright scarlet. “That last part wasn’t there when I signed it!”

  “Is this your blood?” Lucifer asked. “Your signature?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Then no dispute have you. Done.” Faustus slapped the contract into Lucifer’s hand. The parchment dissolved. “And filed.”

  The sorcerer bowed as a golden aura enveloped him, making him glow like a stained glass window at dawn. In the midst of all the death and horror his soul stood out as a shaft of the divine, and although it was a brief vision, the manifestation rivaled Lucifer’s appearance in beauty.

  When the light had absorbed into his body, and everyone was momentarily distracted, Faustus slipped from his sleeve the other item Donovan had seen. It was a sacrificial dagger. “Auf wiedersehn, Your Highness.” He lunged.

  “No!” Darkness burst from Mephistopheles’ hand, a riptide that knocked Faustus off his feet and buried the knife. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Do thy worst, Mephistopheles.” The sorcerer fought to sit up. “Faustus is free.”

  “Faustus,” Valdes whispered, “what did you do?”

  “Si una eademque res legatur duobus, alter rem, alter valorem rei,” he gasped, the weight of the darkness slowly crushing him. “‘If something is bequeathed to two persons, one shall have the thing itself, the other something of equal value.’ This eve hath Faustus accomplished what four hundred years ago he could not—retrieval of that which God hath bequeathed. Faustus is at last free of Hell.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “My apologies, Lucifer, for not fulfilling the remainder of the deal.”