Destiny: An excerpt from work in progress
Destiny
Bishop Clearey stepped into the confessional. He nestled in there in the dark, the only light coming from candles filtered through the screened, latticed window. He moved aside the slide, signaling whoever sat in the other side of the booth that he was open for business.
A woman’s voice. Her voice. “Forgive me, Father, for I am sin. I gave my last confession at the moment of my death.”
He frowned. Reached for the window slide, then let his hand fall into his lap. He started to speak, halted, began again. “It is a grave matter to intrude here. I am here to hear the confessions of priests, a sacred charge. You profane this place with your words.”
“Such is my intent, sir.”
“Who are you? Get out. Leave this place and do not return with your profanities. Our Heavenly Father will forgive you if you repent.”
She chuckled. “There is no forgiveness for us.”
The hairs on the backs of his hands stood on end. The remains of the wispy, white hair on his head did the same. “Who are you?”
“You know who I am. You stole my baby and tortured my lover. I have come for you.”
“No. Demon.” He stood, reaching for the large, wooden crucifix hung from a loop of cloth around his neck. His other hand gripped his stole. “Get out. How dare you come to this place – this church, this holy room? Get out. I command you. Our Father commands you.” He pushed open his door, stepped out, flung open the other door.
The room was empty.
He stood to one side of a chapel. Dark pews made a ladder of shadows reaching back into the depths of the church. From the far side, a priest entered, young and fresh of face, hands clasped around a Bible. “Father?”
“Young Father Bertrand. Come here. Bring out your cross. Hold it up, so. Open that book, boy. The Gospel of John. Read it aloud. Now.”
The younger priest complied, a concern drawing down his brows and confusion making him clumsy. Clearey dropped to his knees on the spot. “Mary, Mother of God, hear my confession. I have been prideful. I have taken it to myself to judge the weak among your Son’s clergy. Now I take it to myself to chase demons out of this most holy of places; necessity does not blind me to the sin of pride. Protect us in our hour of need.” He mumbled something in Latin as Bertrand began to read, also in Latin, from the prescribed verse.
Nothing seemed to change. The confessional remained empty. Candles burned around the place, steady and warm.
Both men finished their benedictions. Bertrand said, “Bishop? What is this about?”
He did not answer. He went to the baptismal font, up at the pulpit. He wet his hands, still muttering in Latin, then returned to the confessional. He sprinkled water from his fingers into the little cell.
Another chuckle rattled through the echoing space of the chapel. It sparkled like the stained glass in the windows.
“Bishop?”
“Keep reading that passage. Repeat it until I tell you to stop.”
“Yes, Bishop.” He began again.
“Demon, show me your face. I command it. The father commands it. The Son commands it. The Holy Ghost commands it.”
Her voice, coy, wheedling: “The Father has turned away from you. The Son died long ago and the Romans lost his body. And ghosts… You don’t believe in ghosts, do you?”
“The Lord will not be mocked.” He turned in a circle, cross upraised, gripping his stole once more. “Show me your face. I command it. Tell me your name.”
In a dark whisper: “Ysabeau!” She sprang out of the air, becoming real, taking shape. She landed on him, knees astride his chest, face in his throat. He stumbled back under sudden weight, crashing into Bertrand. They both fell against a pew. Bertrand splayed out across the floor, losing his Bible but retaining his crucifix. Clearey fell between the pews. He cried out, voice full of fear and pain.
Bertrand gained his feet and rushed at Ysabeau with cross upraised. “The power of Christ! I compel you with his word, his love, with the authority of the risen savior!”
She turned and looked back at him as if her neck lacked bones. “Speak your command, slave of the blood god.”
“Trickster. Heathen devil. The Master compels you with his voice. It is my voice. I fear no evil. Flee this place, demon.”
Blood coated her chin. Her eyes were green and bright in the candlelight. He advanced on her and she did as he said: she fled the cross he held between them. Her body moved away, and then dissipated: a weak fog and then nothing at all, no sign but a dull sigh.
The young priest stood for a moment, victorious and stern, before kneeling to check on the bishop. That man lay with his throat open, pale as a wisteria bloom in moonlight. “Bishop?”
The old man reached up with one hand, gripping the other’s cassock. “You did well, boy. But the devil has many tricks. He will come back. Be ready… for…” His hand fell to the floor.
Bertrand put his ear to Clearey’s chest. He listened, then ran from the chapel. He came back with two nurses, each adorned with habits and crosses.
My eyes cracked open to a scene of faded daylight illuminating a close-up view of my kitchen table. The grains in the wood stood out, a map to the future. Half a pizza occupied an open box in front of me, grease congealed, reeking and alluring at once. I had eaten like a starving woman then crashed hard. Over-salted and dehydrated. My throat tasted like the floor of an abattoir. My head ached, with no intervention needed from my dead roommate.
“Ugh.”
Water. Two glasses, cold. I glanced at the clock on the stove: four twenty. A little daylight left but nothing to be done with it but wait for dark. For Her.
Bishop Clearey stepped into the confessional. He nestled in there in the dark, the only light coming from candles filtered through the screened, latticed window. He moved aside the slide, signaling whoever sat in the other side of the booth that he was open for business.
A woman’s voice. Her voice. “Forgive me, Father, for I am sin. I gave my last confession at the moment of my death.”
He frowned. Reached for the window slide, then let his hand fall into his lap. He started to speak, halted, began again. “It is a grave matter to intrude here. I am here to hear the confessions of priests, a sacred charge. You profane this place with your words.”
“Such is my intent, sir.”
“Who are you? Get out. Leave this place and do not return with your profanities. Our Heavenly Father will forgive you if you repent.”
She chuckled. “There is no forgiveness for us.”
The hairs on the backs of his hands stood on end. The remains of the wispy, white hair on his head did the same. “Who are you?”
“You know who I am. You stole my baby and tortured my lover. I have come for you.”
“No. Demon.” He stood, reaching for the large, wooden crucifix hung from a loop of cloth around his neck. His other hand gripped his stole. “Get out. How dare you come to this place – this church, this holy room? Get out. I command you. Our Father commands you.” He pushed open his door, stepped out, flung open the other door.
The room was empty.
He stood to one side of a chapel. Dark pews made a ladder of shadows reaching back into the depths of the church. From the far side, a priest entered, young and fresh of face, hands clasped around a Bible. “Father?”
“Young Father Bertrand. Come here. Bring out your cross. Hold it up, so. Open that book, boy. The Gospel of John. Read it aloud. Now.”
The younger priest complied, a concern drawing down his brows and confusion making him clumsy. Clearey dropped to his knees on the spot. “Mary, Mother of God, hear my confession. I have been prideful. I have taken it to myself to judge the weak among your Son’s clergy. Now I take it to myself to chase demons out of this most holy of places; necessity does not blind me to the sin of pride. Protect us in our hour of need.” He mumbled something in Latin as Bertrand began to read, also in Latin, from the prescribed verse.
Nothing seemed to change. The confessional remained empty. Candles burned around the place, steady and warm.
Both men finished their benedictions. Bertrand said, “Bishop? What is this about?”
He did not answer. He went to the baptismal font, up at the pulpit. He wet his hands, still muttering in Latin, then returned to the confessional. He sprinkled water from his fingers into the little cell.
Another chuckle rattled through the echoing space of the chapel. It sparkled like the stained glass in the windows.
“Bishop?”
“Keep reading that passage. Repeat it until I tell you to stop.”
“Yes, Bishop.” He began again.
“Demon, show me your face. I command it. The father commands it. The Son commands it. The Holy Ghost commands it.”
Her voice, coy, wheedling: “The Father has turned away from you. The Son died long ago and the Romans lost his body. And ghosts… You don’t believe in ghosts, do you?”
“The Lord will not be mocked.” He turned in a circle, cross upraised, gripping his stole once more. “Show me your face. I command it. Tell me your name.”
In a dark whisper: “Ysabeau!” She sprang out of the air, becoming real, taking shape. She landed on him, knees astride his chest, face in his throat. He stumbled back under sudden weight, crashing into Bertrand. They both fell against a pew. Bertrand splayed out across the floor, losing his Bible but retaining his crucifix. Clearey fell between the pews. He cried out, voice full of fear and pain.
Bertrand gained his feet and rushed at Ysabeau with cross upraised. “The power of Christ! I compel you with his word, his love, with the authority of the risen savior!”
She turned and looked back at him as if her neck lacked bones. “Speak your command, slave of the blood god.”
“Trickster. Heathen devil. The Master compels you with his voice. It is my voice. I fear no evil. Flee this place, demon.”
Blood coated her chin. Her eyes were green and bright in the candlelight. He advanced on her and she did as he said: she fled the cross he held between them. Her body moved away, and then dissipated: a weak fog and then nothing at all, no sign but a dull sigh.
The young priest stood for a moment, victorious and stern, before kneeling to check on the bishop. That man lay with his throat open, pale as a wisteria bloom in moonlight. “Bishop?”
The old man reached up with one hand, gripping the other’s cassock. “You did well, boy. But the devil has many tricks. He will come back. Be ready… for…” His hand fell to the floor.
Bertrand put his ear to Clearey’s chest. He listened, then ran from the chapel. He came back with two nurses, each adorned with habits and crosses.
My eyes cracked open to a scene of faded daylight illuminating a close-up view of my kitchen table. The grains in the wood stood out, a map to the future. Half a pizza occupied an open box in front of me, grease congealed, reeking and alluring at once. I had eaten like a starving woman then crashed hard. Over-salted and dehydrated. My throat tasted like the floor of an abattoir. My head ached, with no intervention needed from my dead roommate.
“Ugh.”
Water. Two glasses, cold. I glanced at the clock on the stove: four twenty. A little daylight left but nothing to be done with it but wait for dark. For Her.
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