that it was no more than a waking dream brought on by one night’s hunger and six months of stress.
But closer it came, and even when I could not see it, I heard it. Down the aisle it moved, harsh breath growing more ragged as it neared me, each shuffling footstep louder than the one before, a meaty wet slap of torn flesh on stone.
The Christ seemed to linger outside the confessional, then I heard the rattling of the door to the priest’s booth. On the other side of that thin wall the Christ settled heavily upon the seat, bringing with him a stifling reek of blood and sweat.
I pushed the curtain back again and in the dim light thrown by the votives looked down at my wrists, unbloodied, then at the partition separating me from this Christ who’d ripped free of his cross. The panel between us scraped open. Through the screen I saw the outline of his head, misshapen with its wrapping of the crown of thorns. Fingers next — they clawed at the screen, then battered away until it buckled and fell out. The hand looked mangled beyond repair, and he held it up so I could see the damage it would never have sustained had that life-size crucifix been accurately rendered.
“Do you understand now?” he asked, in Latin.
“I’m … not sure,” I whispered, but suspected that I did. If sculptors couldn’t get anatomical details right, how much easier might it have been for scribes to propagate other fallacies?
The Christ’s head tilted forward to fill the tiny window. I was spared the worst of his burning and pain-mad gaze, his eyes veiled by the hair straggling blood-caked from beneath the thorns.
“Save me,” he begged, again in Latin. “Save me from that impotent, slaughtered lamb they have made of me.”
“You mean … you never died?”
“Everyone dies. Everyone and everything,” he said. “But there is no salvation in anyone’s death but your own … and sometimes not even then.”
“What … what of your being the Son of God, then?”
“There are many gods. There are many sons conceived by rape.” For a moment he was still, almost contemplative. Then he reached through the opening with a filthy arm, torn hand clamping upon my wrist. “The things I’ve seen, the secrets he keeps … if babies were born remembering these things, they would tear apart their mothers trying to return to the womb.”
His hand felt hot and wet, the splintered bones as sharp as nails, gouging deep scratches where before my flesh had opened of its own accord. He held fast as our blood mingled.
“ Demon est Deus inversus ,” he said, a phrase born of ancient heresy, yet coming now from the one I’d thought to be my Saviour.
He released me then, his arm withdrawing like a serpent back to its lair. A moment later I heard him abandon the confessional, and hurriedly I drew my curtain again, so I wouldn’t have to see him passing before me, lacerated and limping.
The footsteps receded into the chapel silence. For a moment I thought it might be safe to leave, but what I heard next persuaded me to remain until morning light had driven away every shadow:
The pounding of hammers.
*
When I came awake a few hours later and left the booth, the dawn showed no blood upon the walls, nor sticky footprints along the aisle. But I don’t think I was expecting any, really.
Later on in the day, I told the tribunal from Rome that I’d been causing the stigmata myself, and showed them the fresh wounds on my wrist as evidence. The matter was officially closed. Abbot O’Riordan seemed greatly relieved, and only mildly distressed when I informed him that I planned to leave Greyfriars.
The prior night could have been a dream, and I might’ve found it easy to convince myself, as I’d nearly done with that spectral comforter who’d at least been substantial enough to kiss the blood from my knee. What evidence to the contrary did I have, except for some deep scratches on my wrist that I could’ve made myself?
None, but for unshakable
But closer it came, and even when I could not see it, I heard it. Down the aisle it moved, harsh breath growing more ragged as it neared me, each shuffling footstep louder than the one before, a meaty wet slap of torn flesh on stone.
The Christ seemed to linger outside the confessional, then I heard the rattling of the door to the priest’s booth. On the other side of that thin wall the Christ settled heavily upon the seat, bringing with him a stifling reek of blood and sweat.
I pushed the curtain back again and in the dim light thrown by the votives looked down at my wrists, unbloodied, then at the partition separating me from this Christ who’d ripped free of his cross. The panel between us scraped open. Through the screen I saw the outline of his head, misshapen with its wrapping of the crown of thorns. Fingers next — they clawed at the screen, then battered away until it buckled and fell out. The hand looked mangled beyond repair, and he held it up so I could see the damage it would never have sustained had that life-size crucifix been accurately rendered.
“Do you understand now?” he asked, in Latin.
“I’m … not sure,” I whispered, but suspected that I did. If sculptors couldn’t get anatomical details right, how much easier might it have been for scribes to propagate other fallacies?
The Christ’s head tilted forward to fill the tiny window. I was spared the worst of his burning and pain-mad gaze, his eyes veiled by the hair straggling blood-caked from beneath the thorns.
“Save me,” he begged, again in Latin. “Save me from that impotent, slaughtered lamb they have made of me.”
“You mean … you never died?”
“Everyone dies. Everyone and everything,” he said. “But there is no salvation in anyone’s death but your own … and sometimes not even then.”
“What … what of your being the Son of God, then?”
“There are many gods. There are many sons conceived by rape.” For a moment he was still, almost contemplative. Then he reached through the opening with a filthy arm, torn hand clamping upon my wrist. “The things I’ve seen, the secrets he keeps … if babies were born remembering these things, they would tear apart their mothers trying to return to the womb.”
His hand felt hot and wet, the splintered bones as sharp as nails, gouging deep scratches where before my flesh had opened of its own accord. He held fast as our blood mingled.
“ Demon est Deus inversus ,” he said, a phrase born of ancient heresy, yet coming now from the one I’d thought to be my Saviour.
He released me then, his arm withdrawing like a serpent back to its lair. A moment later I heard him abandon the confessional, and hurriedly I drew my curtain again, so I wouldn’t have to see him passing before me, lacerated and limping.
The footsteps receded into the chapel silence. For a moment I thought it might be safe to leave, but what I heard next persuaded me to remain until morning light had driven away every shadow:
The pounding of hammers.
*
When I came awake a few hours later and left the booth, the dawn showed no blood upon the walls, nor sticky footprints along the aisle. But I don’t think I was expecting any, really.
Later on in the day, I told the tribunal from Rome that I’d been causing the stigmata myself, and showed them the fresh wounds on my wrist as evidence. The matter was officially closed. Abbot O’Riordan seemed greatly relieved, and only mildly distressed when I informed him that I planned to leave Greyfriars.
The prior night could have been a dream, and I might’ve found it easy to convince myself, as I’d nearly done with that spectral comforter who’d at least been substantial enough to kiss the blood from my knee. What evidence to the contrary did I have, except for some deep scratches on my wrist that I could’ve made myself?
None, but for unshakable
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