Abominations of Desire

by Vince Liaguno

  Arriving at an enclave hidden in a crevasse, Sister Aveline paused at the opening to sing a hymn to Mary, the Mother of the Christ. Although she knew the inhabitants of the stony rooms carved into the cliffs couldn’t hear her song, she sang glorious praise anyway.

  The deformed ones scurried for the protection of their caves. She assumed they sensed her footsteps. At one time, she might have known a few of them, but as the years passed, she no longer recognized any of them.

  “It is Sister Aveline,” she announced, knowing it didn’t matter if she spoke aloud. She lowered the basket to the ground, and laid the food on a flat rock chiseled for that purpose.

  And though the creatures cowered in the shadows, she could make out the half-faces formed onto leathery skin stretching tightly across their skulls. Dead eyes searched for anything to see, and wisps of thin hair flicked on the morning breeze. Fingerless hands rose to shield their faces as if they could remember who they had once been. Blind. Deaf. Dumb. They scrambled on toe-less feet. And, even though they were cloaked in heavy woolen habits, she knew their limbs and bodies were rotted and misshapen.

  She made the Sign of the Cross. At least les déformés were safe here, waiting for Judgement Day. And who knew what thoughts went through their minds? Perhaps, as she often prayed, redemption and salvation still awaited them.

  Sister Aveline turned and walked down the trail. Even when she could hear them groping and fighting to take the food, she didn’t turn to gape at the horror of their pain.

  She loved them too much for that.

  *

  In the cloister of the Abbey of St. Sebastian was a garden filled with orange and olive trees and planted with rosemary and basil. The fragrance of herbs filled the enclosed space. In the center of the garden was a bench for contemplation, and upon this bench sat a woman clothed in a filthy velvet and lace dress. The woman’s face was hidden in her cupped palms and her body heaved as she wept.

  Leaning to rub a sore ankle, Sister Aveline paused to observe the stranger and rested the empty basket on the mosaic floor of the processional hallway. Having been the daughter of an indentured farmer, she had few occasions to glimpse wealth from such closeness.

  A moment later, the Abbess strode into the garden and knelt by the visitor. Although Sister Aveline could not hear the two women speaking, she knew the Abbess spoke comforting words.

  A ripple of surprise came with the light touch of a hand on her shoulder. Turning, she smiled at Sister Gregory. Even after all these years, her heart beat faster and her cheeks flushed.

  “Your journey was uneventful?” asked Sister Gregory.

  “As always, praise God.”

  In the garden, the velvet-clothed woman rose unsteadily to her feet and the Abbess stepped to support her. Lit by sunlight, the woman’s face was swollen and bruised. A strip of cloth stained with dark blood lay matted against her cheek. The skin around her eyes was mottled purple, yellow, and black.

  “I dressed her wounds this morning,” whispered Sister Gregory.

  “Who is she?”

  “Isabelot du Maurier, a dressmaker from Paris. The Abbess says she was the lover of the Countess de Moreau of Toulouse. Apparently the Count himself discovered the two women in an indiscreet situation.”

  “Surely, such behavior is not unusual amongst Royals,” Sister Aveline observed. “I have heard lovemaking in all forms is well tolerated amongst the rich.”

  “By most,” agreed Sister Gregory. “But the Count is apparently a zealot filled with papal ambition. According to Isabelot, the Countess was hung naked for three days in the cells of the Chateau D’Moreau. She was tortured with a poire d'angoisser and Isabelot only escaped a similar fate by bribing a night guard and fleeing Toulouse.”

  Sister Aveline reached for the comfort of her lover’s hand. The Pear of Anguish was a wicked device with a handle that, when turned, expanded its “pear” wider and wider. Capable of being inserted into any bodily opening, it would stretch, tear, and rip flesh until the victim confessed. And then died.

  “Do you think the Countess kept our secret?” asked Sister Aveline.

  “That’s what the Abbess is trying to learn.”

  Sister Aveline understood. Isabelot du Maurier had come to claim sanctuary. And strangers needing protection always brought danger to the Sisters of St. Sebastian. Still, none had ever been turned away.

  Later, as pale moonlight filled the abbey with a milky glow, and unable to find comfort in sleep, Sister Aveline meditated as she walked to the north transept of the chapel. In an alcove, a handful of candles flickered. Hands quivering, Sister Aveline lit a fresh candle to the memory of Queen Marguerite de Provence, the long deceased benefactor of the Abbey of St. Sebastian.

  Falling to her knees, Sister Aveline prayed their secret would remain safe.

  *

  As each day of the next three weeks passed, the Sisters of St. Sebastian relied upon duty, habit, and ritual to offset the fear that filled them. There were forty-three nuns in the enclave, and Isabelot du Maurier had become the thirteenth initiate, and for all of them, each day was planned much like another.

  Upon rising, the nuns attended the service of divine office: Lauds followed by morning prayers. Throughout the day, there were Terce, Sext, and Nones, the three Little Hours of the Divine. Between these services, the nuns washed and cooked for the abbey, provided medical care for the poor, educated the novices, illuminated manuscripts with fine drawings, and made embroidery to sell in the village to pilgrims and crusaders. Before the evening meal was Vespers, followed by an hour of conversation. At the end of the day was Compline, the last service before sleep.

  On the twenty-second morning, a cold and dreary fog drifted into the valley, and a heavy pounding at the abbey’s gates shattered the hope that danger had passed. Two initiates ran flat-footed to open the heavy oaken panels, and three men, regally attired, clopped into the courtyard on horseback.

  “Abbess!” the lead man shouted at no one in particular. “You!” he pointed to the cowering initiates. “Bring my horse a bucket of water.” His horse snorted in agreement as the initiates ran to comply.

  Sister Aveline watched from the chapel doors as the Abbess went without haste to meet the men. Impatiently, the man dismounted his horse. He was more rotund than he seemed in the saddle, and the dampness of fog had combined with dirt from the road to coat his face with grime. He wiped his visage clean with a handkerchief pulled from a sleeve, and discarded the soiled cloth to the ground. No doubt he was a man of wealth and authority. Dressed in fine buckled knee-boots, leather pants, and a heavy fur coat of red fox, his black hair was topped by a stylish hat. A neatly trimmed goatee and thick eyebrows accented his dark stare.

  The other two men were also well dressed, but their weaponry and posture meant they were adventurers or soldiers for hire. Watchful, they remained mounted and whispered to each other as if nuns were to be feared.

  “The Count de Moreau of Toulouse,” the man announced, placing a hand on the hilt of his sword. He neither bowed nor removed his hat.

  “I am the Abbesse de St. Sebastian,” said the Abbess, placing her hand gently on the wooden cross she wore as a necklace. “Are you lost?” she queried. “The monastery you likely seek is in the village.”

  “I know where I am. I have my wife’s confession that this cursed place is a nest of bestial practices and cursed harlots. You would do well to give me what I want before I lose patience.”

  The Abbess hesitated but a single breath. “If you seek Isabelot du Maurier, she has taken her initiate vows. I have granted her sanctuary. You have no dispensation within these walls.”

  “I care nothing about the whore from Paris.” The Count signaled to his men and they dismounted. “I demand The Holy Relic kept within these walls.”

  “The Bones of St. Giles are in the village. You must take your request to the monks.”

  “I seek not the bones of St. Giles. You know of what I speak, for the Countess told me all before she
died.”

  A moment of silence passed. The Abbess straightened her back. “The relic belongs to the Sisterhood,” she said. “It may not be relinquished to any man.”

  “I come as an advocate of the Holy Roman Empire. If you do not relent, I shall strike you down with the authority of God and the Pope.”

  “You may not plunder in my abbey, and if you step past me, you will not prevail. For your own sake, I advise you to leave.”

  Behind the Count, the two mercenaries unsheathed their swords.

  Sister Aveline hurried to the nave of the church. Her footsteps echoed as she approached nuns praying on benches near the altar. Sister Gregory was among them.

  “Take refuge,” said Sister Aveline.

  The nuns hurried from the chapel but Sister Gregory remained. The two nuns clasped hands.

  “They know,” said Sister Aveline.

  “I will make ready.”

  “Be safe,” said Sister Aveline, and kissing Sister Gregory she hurried to the chapel entrance. Perhaps the men had departed and all would be well.

  The men remained.

  Blood pooled around the Abbess’ body. Her eyes stared lifelessly at the sky. She was with the Heavenly Father.

  The Count wiped his sword blade on the wool of her habit and stepped over the dead bodies of the two initiates and past the spilled bucket of horse water.

  He motioned to Sister Aveline.

  “Take me to the relic.”

  *

  Inside the chapel, Sister Aveline removed a key from the leather strand encircling her neck and turned it in a locking mechanism near the altar. Unseen gears whirred and clanked. Finally, she pressed her weight against an oaken panel and it opened like a door.

  The Count de Moreau and his mercenaries thrust her aside as they pushed into the dim light of the secret chapel. The sanctum was narrow and the ancient walls were carved of chalky yellow stone.

  A mosaic floor dominated by azure blues and deep blacks depicted a night scene in Bethlehem. A yellow star announced the arrival of the Magi on the night of Christ’s birth.

  Their swords raised against danger, the Count and his men halted to absorb the beauty.

  Sister Aveline stepped into the chapel.

  Perhaps it was time for a younger nun.

  Surely not yet.

  On the farthest wall was a massive crucifix, carved of wood. There, his head slumped; the man-Christ hung lifeless, forever trapped in his moment of surrender to human death.

  Beneath his nailed feet was an unpainted wooden table upon which sat a leaden box, encrusted with red and green and amber jewels. Dim light trickled from high windows to poorly illuminate the room but the box glimmered nonetheless.

  Spying the leaden box, the men edged forward.

  “Wait,” said Sister Aveline, closing the massive door behind her. “I am compelled to issue you warning,” she said, making the Sign of the Cross.

  “Do not interfere,” said the Count over his shoulder as his men approached the simple altar. “If we are feeling generous after seeing the Relic of the Abbey of St. Sebastian, we may permit you to live.”

  Sister Aveline spoke quietly, yet her voice echoed in the narrow chamber. “You will be unable to open the box or remove the relic until you hear what I have to say for I hold the key.”

  With those words, the three men paused to listen.

  *

  “The Holy Relic came to this abbey from Queen Marguerite de Provence when she returned from her crusade in Egypt over a hundred years ago,” began Sister Aveline. “Her husband, Louis IX, was captured and held for ransom by foreign fighters, during which time she commanded the Crusader Army. The Holy Relic came into her possession from warring knights returning from Jerusalem. It is the first and most important of all relics. It led the Magi to the birthplace of the Christ. It is the Star of Bethlehem. After it fulfilled its heavenly duties, it fell to Earth and was found.”

  “So the legends are true,“ said the Count. He pounded his chest with his fist and said to his men. “Many have sought it, but I have found it.” “I tell you of its provenance because I offer warning. If you are not pure in your faith, it will be revealed for all to see.”

  The Count laughed. “Surely you seek to make me a fool.”

  “No. I offer you a chance to leave and seek redemption for your sins elsewhere. This is a true Holy Relic and it judges men for the light or darkness in their hearts.”

  The Count laughed. “Why should I listen to foul beasts that sleep with their own kind? Be quiet or I shall rip your tongue from your head.”

  “I will pray for your souls,” she said, tossing the key to the Count who snatched it with a gloved hand.

  “You should pray for your own damned soul.”

  “I am filled with love,” said Sister Aveline. “I have nothing to fear.” She bowed her head in prayer.

  Deus, in adiutorium meum intende. Domine, ad adiuvandum me festina.

  The Count reached the sealed box, and inserting the key, raised the lid. The sides of the box opened automatically like a morning flower, revealing a stone of seared metal interlaced with gleaming crystals.

  Fully exposed, the stone grew brighter. A flash of light flared from it and knocked the men to the ground. The stone grew brighter until the chapel was filled with the light of a dozen suns.

  Black and crimson welts opened on the faces of the men. Straining to rise and escape, they crawled but a few footsteps from the burning star before collapsing.

  Sister Aveline wept and prayed, her heart aching because of their pain. O God, come to my assistance. O Lord, make haste to help me.

  The men were still. Tendrils of steam appeared from rupturing blood vessels as their clothing leapt into flame. The three men were purified in holy fire. Fingers and toes and ears and lips and faces and genitals and hair were seared to nothingness as the star cleansed them.

  Light receded as the star went dark.

  Sister Aveline knocked three times on the oak panels of the door. A clicking of the locks from another key, and Sister Gregory entered, a wooden pole in her hand. Prodding carefully, she closed the box, and retrieving the key, locked it.

  A few other Sisters of the Abbey of St. Sebastian entered the chapel with gauze and balm, herbs and prayers. Sister Aveline and Sister Gregory carefully placed the Count du Moreau and his mercenaries on stretchers. Nuns spent the balance of the day dousing the charred flesh with blessed sheep’s milk.

  *

  As spring of the following year approached, the trail through the desolate oak grove was still covered in snow. Sister Aveline carried a basket of bread and cured pork. In her other hand, she gripped a rope that led three creatures clothed in heavy woolen habits.

  Les déformés.

  Moving through the trees to the escarpment ahead, she didn’t need to see the trail.

  She knew the way.

  God is love.

  Kissyface

  Stephen Graham Jones

  “I hate that I was hiding in the closet,” Mark says.

  Chrissy Carlton looks over to him then straight ahead again, to blow a stream of smoke out.

  “Kind of fits, doesn’t it?” she says.

  “That’s what I mean,” Mark says, and holds his hand out for the cigarette. She takes one more deep drag and passes it across to him.

  What they’re sitting on, in the rec room of the church Chrissy’s probably still a member of, is a great inflatable log.

  The reason Mark was hiding in the closet was that he doesn’t know the way out of this place—that’s the immediate reason he was hiding in the closet. The bigger, more pressing reason is that there’s a killer out there in the sanctuary. Or up in the balcony. Or rising up from the baptismal. Skulking behind a pew. Maybe even standing at the altar right now, staring out at the absent congregation with his all-white eyes that Mark assumes are contacts. Because even mad-dog killers at least need pupils to see, right?

  You should have paid more attention in biolog
y, Mark tells himself.

  And: a self-defense course might not have hurt either.

  What they’re calling this killer is Kissyface. It’s because of his cheeks. Because of what happened to them—to him—on the playground one recess. According to school legend, Chrissy’s big brother had talked him into a prank that was supposed to have been played on a cheerleader, but kind of, according to Chrissy’s big brother, hit a patch of bad luck.

  Kissyface would probably have a different word. Or, he wouldn’t even bother with words, probably. Which is kind of exactly what he’s been doing these last two hours, Mark’s pretty sure: not bothering with words. Just letting his hands do his talking.

  But, that recess.

  It wasn’t just bad luck, it was the worst luck. After school a few days before, Chrissy’s brother had shaken and rocked the new machine at the bowling alley until it spit out what everybody at first thought was a rubber spider on an elastic string, but then started looking more like a plastic spider with a ring-part for a finger to slide through. Either way: big deal. If you knew where to plug a water hose into the ground, you could flood out real tarantulas, ones too big and hairy and hissy to even think about cramming into a plastic bubble.

  But then it hadn’t been a spider. It wasn’t anything anybody’d ever seen the machine spit-up before. Because Chrissy’s big brother had stolen it? Did the machine know who paid their quarter and who didn’t, and dole out its gifts accordingly? What was in the bubble this time, it was a gag fish hook, a big black honking treble made of rubber. And it looked for all the world like it had real barbs. It was big enough for the crusty mouths of deep sea fish. You could tell just by looking at it.

  Still, until Chrissy’s big brother was fooling around in his uncle’s garage, it was just a big stupid treble that wouldn’t catch anything, right?

  He’d kept it in his pocket with the vague notion of finding some perfect place to hang it, but he was almost already forgetting about it when, looking for the leaf-rake so he could drag the frisbee off the roof—he was under orders not be stomping around on the roof while his and Chrissy’s aunt was sleeping—he stumbled onto his uncle’s dusty fishing rig way back in the corner, from three or four years ago.