Triumphant Return

[This post was written by another person that I collaborated with on The Unsaintly and his portion was obtained with permission]

Wings blanketed in feathers the color of the purest snow wavered through the wind at the behest of their angelic owner, in their strength reaching speeds that would cause him to gain on the robed sorcerer as he fled. “Give yourself back to The Lord, Marco. None can hide from his judgment.”

The threat was sincere and so was the sound of the voice that carried it, powerful enough to reach the fugitive through wind screaming with velocity, but also echoing throughout the mind. The divine command irritated the senses of its intended observer, and Malum turned his head to see the angel rapidly gaining speed behind him. Empty sockets in the skull illuminated with flame in place of eyes in his anger which was accented briefly by a scornful clamor. Deciding to conserve his energy, the necromancer dove from the skies and into a graveyard below. In faithful pursuit, the angel followed behind him. His path was littered with obstacles as the chase led him close to the ground, dodging headstones and corpses that were reanimated effortlessly along the way.

Malum continued to take circles around the area, more and more corpses digging their way from the ground as he attempted to buy himself more time. However, it was time he was out of when the angel had seemingly outwitted him, cutting him off on his third pass with a powerful blow of his sword. The steel cut clean through the leg, sending the lich crashing to the ground unceremoniously with an agonizing hiss to accompany such defeat. Feet gracefully touching upon the ground, the angel began his methodical, righteous march toward the crippled wizard who scurried with hand and backside away from his opponent. Appearing to be out of options, Malum relented, resting his back against an old oak as he awaited the closing of the final gap between them.

Sky blue eyes looking down with pity upon the fallen one, the heavenly one spoke in plea, “It is not too late for you, child.”

With that, he found himself surrounded with every corpse in the yard which served to distract him. Calling upon the divine power of God with one beautiful command, the corpses all ignited at the behest of the angelic prayer. Seizing his opportunity and discarding his facade of weakness, Malum sprang up and hovered.

“No, but it is too late for you.”

This fool had made his first and last mistake. The manifestation of such power allowed the competent mage to seize control of the fire, his hands were viciously thrown forward and the angel burst into flames. The first thing to burn were his wings, so fine and delicate as they melted easily in magically concentrated fire. God’s wrath was unyielding, and in it poured but it was futile and served as a boon to the wrathful caster. With full control, he called lightning down from the heavens as the angel screamed in prayer, the faith in his eyes that this was not happening remained until the last moment. And in that moment, Malum exerted the full potential of his power, his assertive, ungodly scream accompanying the rape of God’s law as the victim imploded into annihilation, then returned to mass from the void in an explosion that sent ash to scour the sky of the entire city. The shockwave blasted Malum back and he used the momentum to limp home in weak flight, the pain in his leg bones tingling out through his breathless, defiant cackles.

The thunder only added to what was already a dramatic sound, invasive in its declaration as the wind hissed through the sudden opening of the chapel doors. The creaking in decrescendo echoed acoustically throughout the vast room. The stone walls were wet with a mysterious, ectoplasmic influence that served only to molest the sound, lacing it with hallucinogenic whispers and faintly audible expressions of various emotions.

Upon the first steps taken forward, a sky briefly lit in the purple hue of electric whim betrayed the shadows that clung to his form as they reluctantly fled from him. The strike of lightning would also reveal the small troupe of figures behind, the stench of death and decay following them as mindlessly as they did their commander. When the sky returned to midnight, the ivory right hand of the skeletal figure was raised. A gesture was made in likeness to the cruel squeezing of an invisible object.

It was no coincidence that after making such a movement, the pack of zombies adorned in tattered priestly garments collectively belted out short-lived shrieks of agony. Their bodies were immediately reduced to ash, the thin orange paper of former flesh swam through the air and were soon out at sea with the wind’s breath, rain extinguishing the glow of the remains as quickly as their fate did their cries.

With every step toward her the world began to shrink in ways both metaphysical and plain. His presence between the angelic statues on his way drew out the bloody tears of their fallen saints. The candle light danced upon his umbral shell and was alive with the anticipation of his Queen, their shadows were like seductive hands wantonly combing his body for the memory of his presence.

He knelt and his cape blanketed him fluently. Head down. His voice was hollow with the absence of flesh, but thick with the power of the Unsaintly as it bounced from the floors to her undetectably perked ear. “My Queen. Your army awaits your command from every grave in Rome.” She turned to face him, footsteps invisible beneath her silky skirts causing her to appear to float dangerously close to his bowed head, perverse in her proximity but virginal in her grace.

Her voice was thick with regalia as she asserted her inquiry, but the unnatural whispers that accompanied the sound to his ears were something completely different. “And were there witnesses?” “Quite temporarily,” he replied. Her finger curled beneath his chin, the very touch causing the flesh to return to his body, warm with blood and faux mortality. As she brought his lips close to hers, one final gust of wind extinguished the candles and obscured her intentions.

[Developing Isabel]

            The morning light had trickled into the room along with the cool draft of winter’s air. Isabel stirred in her sleep, curling up deeper into her thick, wool blanket. Shivering a little, she’d squint and bring her knees up into the fetal position. Just as she was about to fall back asleep, she was awaken to the chill against her feet. Using her feet to tug the blanket down, she avoided full consciousness for another five minute’s rest.

            She began to shiver again, pulling her back from the sleep world. Opening one eye, she gazed down to see the blankets were off her legs. She sighed and tugged them over her body again, cocooning into it when the blankets were jerked off of her and crumpled at the bottom of the bed. With a gasp, she sat up and looked around, expecting to see someone there; another nun, Father Raphael or anyone.

            Even with the first light of morning, the grey was too dark to see much of anything and Isabel scooted to the top of her meager bed, drawing her knees to her chest. Tucking her freezing toes within the hem of her nightgown, she wrapped her arms around herself. Even beyond her shivering from the temperature, her hand trembled slightly. She’d glance down at it, then grasp it with the other and think nothing of it.

            “Just nerves,” she’d say to herself.

            Standing up from her bed, Isabel lit the candle beside her and shuffled into her shoes. She walked to the window to gaze outside and saw Marciel walking in the garden. A man she’d never seen before was at his side. The two seemed engrossed in conversation and Isabel wondered if he was just a visitor or if he was new to their town. She smiled a bit and backed up, closing the shutter to her window so that she could begin her morning prayers and dress for the day.

            Setting the candle on the small table, she kneeled in front of her crucifix and made the sign of the cross. When she bowed her head, she could feel the sour churning of her bowels before nausea rose up in her throat. It was so sudden that Isabel was drawn forward to one hand and felt as if the temperature in the room rose twenty degrees.

            Confusion set in and she braced herself just as the pain rose up inside her once more. “Oh God,” she whispered but the rest was cut off. She felt the familiar rush of saliva to her lips which had grown dry and the trembling that preceded the inevitable; her body was forced forward again and she felt choked, suddenly. The scraping in her throat brought about a new pain, more severe and she tried with all her might to help it up. Something was lodged in her throat.

            She gasped in small doses as often as she could but whatever was in there was tearing its way out and scraping against the tender flesh of her esophagus. Tears welled in her eyes and she rocked back and forth, afraid she would die from lack of oxygen. Another dry heave and she could feel it on the back of her tongue now. She was disoriented. She had to be. It felt like something metal.

            Reaching a trembling hand up, she dug her fingers into her mouth and scratched desperately to pull whatever it was, out. Fingertips found the edge which was sharp and thick. Finally getting a grasp on it, she tugged but the end seemed lodged. Her gasps turned to small wheezes and Isabel could feel the tingling of dark spots that came when one was about to lose consciousness.

            More desperate now, she pulled without care of the damage that was being dealt to her throat. Saliva mixed with blood drooled from her lower lip and her fingers of the hand that held her weight curled against the floor. The object was growing slippery but she continued to pull until finally it moved. Slowly she was able to dislodge the foreign object before she passed out and she heard it clatter to the floor amid the spit and blood. Isabel rushed to her feet, still lightheaded, nearly falling as she reached out for the candle and then collapsed to her knees again, bringing light to eye level. What she saw ripped through her with a fear she’d never known.

            Setting the candle down, she fought back the coughing from the itchy, scrapes against her tonsils, then picked up the object. It was a nail!

            Isabel’s teary eyes fixated on it for a long moment, lacking understanding. How could a nail of this size be lodged in her throat? Had she gone mad?

            The sounds of the bells sent her reeling and she nearly knocked the candle over. Afraid of what was happening; Isabel quickly hid the nail under the make-shift mattress of her bed and cleaned up the mess of fluid off the floor. Pushing it to the back of her mind, she did her best to look presentable. She threw her clothing on and ran out to meet the others for morning prayers, Lauds, chores, and breakfast.

            When Isabel passed me that morning as I was coming in from the garden, she looked pale and worried. I felt something in her that I had never felt since knowing her. Was her hand trembling?

            I nodded to her as she brushed past me, head down and caught a glimpse of blood against her collar. I frowned and turned back to the way I was walking and paused. Something was on the ground. I moved toward it and realized it was Isabel’s rosary. Picking it up, I quickly rushed back out to return it to her. It took me a couple of light jogs but I finally caught up with her and placed my hand on her elbow, “Isabel, you dropped this.”

            She tried to smile but I could see it was not genuine. Her trembling hand turned upward to receive the rosary and I cupped mine underneath, spilling the beads into her palm. Immediately, she began coughing more violently. The other nuns shot me a glare and rushed toward their holy sister to assist her.

            I felt the sickness in her but I did not want to believe it. Stepping back, I kept my gaze on her, consumed by worry.

            From behind, Father Dulante spoke, “Is she alright?”

            “Yes,” I said a little too hastily, and then smiled a bit to cover the truth of my concern. “She is fine. She probably just caught a chill.”

            Father Dulante tugged his robes to his body a little more, nodding in agreeance, “Yes, it is unseasonably cold.” His breath hung on the air between them.

            “We should get inside before we catch it, too. Father Raphael doesn’t allow for us to take ill. The Lord’s work does not sleep, right?” I grinned at him and he laughed.

            “Careful, Marciel, I think he has ears on every flower” he said. He pat my arm and started to walk toward the chapel when his words seemed to cause the hair to stand up on my arms. “Come! Let us go to morning prayers, brother!”

            As much as I tried to stay focused, I could not. After morning prayers I brought the soiled laundry to the lay women to be cleaned and knocked over a bucket of water. I was thoroughly chastised for my clumsiness before being shoo’ed back out.

            Being mortal was hard. As much empathy as we Angels had toward them, as much jealousy as some of us could muster, I could never conceive how easy it was to be what we were.

            Recording as much as I could about Isabel was getting harder, as well. She had become more of a recluse as the days went on. I worried that she might be growing ill from her exposure to the sick, and seeing her today confirmed some of my anxiety.

            Feeling the need for support, I decided to go watch the boys’ choir again. Their voices, so light and innocent, reminded me of home. It was the best place to be right now. Walking out into the garden courtyard, I caught sight of Isabel wandering through the labyrinth of trees. Smiling at the unforeseen opportunity to observe her, I followed her.

           The beauty of the garden was that it was a common area. Men and women were allowed to be in the same company. Though speaking for lengths of time would be frowned upon, I could easily sit quietly and feed the birds while keeping vigil over her.

            I must’ve been lost in my thoughts and missed a turn she made because I lost sight of her. Turning in circles for a moment, instinct guided me to the right. It was a more tranquil section of the garden. The foliage was thicker, making the path even narrower. I dipped my hand into the pouch at my waist grabbing some stale bread crumbs from the morning’s walk and began to spread them on grass. The birds were already flocking close to me and the free meal.

            Each step I took, I could hear the gravel crunch beneath my weight. The cowl of my robes enveloped my features which made hiding my eyes easier. I could scour the area for Isabel without drawing attention to myself. Pausing for a moment, I listened for any clues of her. The sound of water trickling was close by. Perhaps there was a water fountain? Then the sound of a few crunching footfalls off to my left was heard before going silent again. I turned in that direction and was about to take a step when a flock of doves fluttered quickly into the sky; a few of them circled as if protecting something before flying off again.

            Curiosity got the better of me. Isabel could be over there. I proceeded with caution and my guise at the ready, leaving behind me the trail of bread crumbs. So as to not startle whoever was there, I began to hum softly a song Father Dulante’s choir.

            As if on cue, a woman’s voice chimed in and I smiled, continuing toward it and rounding the corner until I saw her. Slowly my smile began to fade.

            Isabel was standing there in a strange, trance-like state. Her head was tilt back and cocked slightly to the side. Staring straight ahead, it appeared that she was captivated by the statue before her. I followed her gaze and saw it. A large angel was caught mid-flight, his spear aimed at the serpent coiled defensively on the rock. His wings outstretched in a glorious display. Beneath the rock was the source of the trickling water; it cascaded down into the fountain that, I assume, the birds were bathing in prior to her arriving.

            As breath taking as it was, I could not understand what had her as awe-struck as she was and so before I went to speak, something compelled me to wait. Other than the sound of the water, there was no other sound. No birds. No insects. No breeze. It was completely still. I looked around, unnerved by the silence and caught sight of Father Raphael just past the statue in the doorway of the chapel several yards away.

            In his hand was an apple and he was carving into it with a small, sharp knife. He smiled at me just as he turned, slipping the flesh of the fruit between his lips. Even at that distance, the sound of the door to the chapel slammed shut so hard that I jumped. The break in that dead silence shook me to the core at its suddenness and then Isabel’s voice came through, “Marciel?”

            It still didn’t register, so she repeated my name until I responded.

“Marciel? Can I help you?” She asked.

Blinking, I tried to make sense of everything, “I – No, Milady. I thought I heard someone” I finally said.

She watched me for a moment and I think she was expecting some explanation other than what I had given. She looked around as if wondering how she got there.

“I don’t recall this fountain being here.”

“Neither do I, sister” I said.

“Tis very beautiful, is it not?” She mused in a far away voice.

“Yes, mum. It is.” I agreed. And it was. The craftsmanship took on a life of its own. It looked as if the angel might land at any moment.

Isabel’s eyes watched me with curiosity for a moment. Something more was behind the gaze but I could not place it; awareness, maybe? Whatever she saw, it made me feel self-conscious.

“Are you alright, Milady?” I asked in genuine concern. She did not seem well, at all. Her face had grown pale and slightly gaunt and darkness crept around her eyes that I had never seen before.

She forced a smile and looked away at the fountain again, remaining silent for a moment before she responded, “I am.”

I nodded and gave a slight bow to her, turning to make my way back to my room when she broke in again, “How is your book coming?”

My spine froze and I could not move for a moment. I turned toward her again, my hands clenching around each forearm beneath the bell sleeves of my robes, “Milady?”

That far away stare was there again. Her eyes seemed cold and grey for a moment and I awaited her response but one did not come. I was about to repeat it when her eyes shone with life again and she spoke. It was like having two separate conversations; one she was privy to and one she was not.

“I was just coming out to cut fresh flowers and found myself here” she said. “It’s getting late; I should head back inside before prayers.”

I was speechless for a moment, my jaw slackening before I nodded and bowed again, keeping my head low until she passed.

 

            Marciel could feel the terror gripping the entire group. The tension was thick in the air as they all sat together in the library. The Catholic Church was not lenient with those that opposed them. What they weren’t sure of was who to fear more.

            The constant rattling and shaking of furniture had set all of their nerves on edge. The men were jumpy and even Miriam would recoil at the slightest noise or movement. Isabel’s condition wavered between bad and worse. There were days that the situation seemed like it would improve, or that she would be alright, and other days they feared for her life. The amount of blood loss made her look feeble and pale. All the weight she had lost caused her cheeks and eyes to sink in and grow dark.

            The mask over Isabel’s eyes had calmed her in the beginning like blinders on a horse,  but lately it only agitated her more. She would writhe and jerk at her restraints, pulling her arms out of socket resulting in her wailing in pain. The others in the convent could take no more, and they ran out to seek shelter elsewhere in neighboring villages or abbeys. The only ones left were the ones that aided Father Raphael and Isabel’s friends and family. Miriam tried her best to help the men looking after Isabel but the two nuns that were aiding Father Raphael made it nearly impossible. If she was caught bringing the men extra food or clean linens she would be punished severely. Marciel cringed every night he heard the woman weeping during her flagellation. And every night it seemed to last longer and longer. He admired her devotion to God and Isabel all the more because it was punishment required to be enforced by her very own hand. How she found the strength was beyond his comprehension. He knew, though, that it was Father Raphael’s hope, and pleasure, that she would eventually give in.

            Louis was growing fatigued in his faith, as well as, physically. The men could barely console him most days as he’d wake from monstrous nightmares, cursing and denouncing God for what he was putting his sister through.

            “This is too much!!” he’d scream to the skies, and Felipe would try to keep him from attacking those around him.

            There were days he’d rush the door, aiming his hate toward Father Raphael, sword drawn. It was those nights that the men had to be most vigil. Louis never gave any warning so they had to be on their best guard.

            It was on one of those nights when they were struggling to wrestle the Templar’s weapon from his white-knuckled grasp that they heard the most ungodly scream of all. Dropping his weapon, he rushed past Marciel and the other two to his sister’s door only to have it slammed shut in his face with such violence that the frame cracked and pushed inward. Louis tugged frantically at it while the others tried to catch up to him.

            “ISABEL!” he cried, his voice cracked and straining against his throat. “No..Not again!”

            Marciel nearly shrunk back at the amount of torment in Louis’ voice. Afraid of what was beyond the door, flashbacks of the last time filled his head causing the bile in his stomach to crawl upwards from the depths of his belly. Behind him, Father Dulant stopped dead in his tracks and Felipe barreled through them to help his brother-in-arms.

            The two men were nearly clawing at the door to wedge it free but it was sealed shut. The floor beneath them trembled and Isabel howled once more – a mix of human and in-human vocals reaching their spinal cords, traveling down to their knees. They all paused until their struggle returned with more urgency than before.

            Seeing how futile their attempts were, they cowered back as the room before them seemed to go silent and take a breath, pulling the door inward until it splintered and broke. The pieces exploded throughout the room, some of the sharper pieces embedding in the mens’ skin. They were undeterred by the danger, however, and all of them pushed against one another to the horrific scene before them.

            Louis’ body lurched forward and his back hunched while he grabbed at the nearest piece of furniture to steady himself. His companion Felipe, the large, stoic man with the eyes of a lion was forced to step back. Father Dulante and I were frozen where we stood even as the stench of Louis’ sickness filled the room.

            “My God..” was all I could manage to say. I could feel my entire body shaking at the scene in front of me. How could this all be real?

           Isabel was hunched in a corner near a wall stained with blood and feces. Crouched low, she looked like a feral stray, with the fluids matted in her hair and on her face. She was shoving something in her mouth. I couldn’t figure out what it was – no, I refused to process what it was – until finally, realization hit me. She turned and faced us, the ugly mask that covered her eyes only accentuating the demonic grin on her features. Her side was wide open and half of her intestines were oozing through the open wound. She was eating her own flesh!

            Louis was still emptying his stomach when Felipe finally lost it and drew his sword. “I will end this. We have to put her down..this is MADNESS!”

            Louis who was on his knees, now, grabbed Felipe’s ankle and cried out, “NO!” but Felipe was pulling away in disregard. Tearing my eyes from Isabel, I reached out for Felipe to restrain him causing Father Dulante to snap out of his shock and help. Isabel seemed amused by it all in some sick, twisted way. She crawled along the floor like a spider, even using her back leg to rest against the wall as if perching on her web. Her entrails dragging alongside her, she would cackle and hiss at us. The smell of death and feces, mixed with the coppery taint of blood made our stomachs turn, again. I had no clue what to do.

Prologue

Prologue

It was a warm, clear summer sky over the trail to the private garden of one of the monasteries in the south ofFrance.  During the hour following lunch and prayers, many of the clergy would tend to the garden.

Among the meticulously cared for roses were statues so lifelike it felt as though they would turn and move at any moment.  Saints with upturned eyes gazing infinitely into heaven were accompanied by angels with open wings playing with doves in the small ponds that trickled with the sounds of the fountain centered in it. Rows and rows of flowers teased the senses.  The aroma was not one that could easily be forgotten as each breeze brought about another waft of fragrance released from the petals that waved gently on the air.

Two men in particular, dressed in monks’ robes, followed the cobble stoned path to a more private area where benches would give them a place to sit.  The soft rustling of their hems passed over their sandals and they both held their hands clasped within large brown sleeves.  The man on the left kept his oversized cowl low over his face, shadowing his features while the other had his hood down, soaking in the light of the day.

Finding a secluded table, the older one was pleased to see the ornate table was topped with marble chess pieces carved by the hands of the monks inside.  He motioned to the empty seat across from him and the other chuckled before accepting the offer, sitting down.

The duo seemed deeply engaged in quiet conversation, leaning in as they took turns responding. Every so often one would look over their shoulder or around to keep their eye on their surroundings.  Sometimes, one would even laugh and shake his head at a comment made by the other.

Every now and then, between conversations a piece was moved by one and the other would quietly contemplate his counter.  As light as the topic may have appeared to be, the tension of competition radiated out from both of them.

“This is an age old debate between us” the man on the left said. He then peered up from under his hood at the old man on his right side.  His companion smiled and looked up at the heavens, crystal blue eyes rivaled any ocean and his hair was a brilliant white, betraying his age and wisdom.

The clergy around them never seemed to take much notice of them as they sat there.  The older male on the right removed his purse and opened it to stick his hand inside and throw out some stale crumbs for the birds that appeared drawn to him.  Some would sit on his shoulder and sing such beautiful songs that birds never sang.  He smiled at his new feathered friend then leaned forward sliding his piece over a few squares (Nb1-c3, Bc8-g4).

“So it is.  But do I not know all things?” was the reply.

“That has never been proven” Grinned the dark man.

“Hasn’t it?” replied the white haired gentleman.

A frown came over the older man’s opponent at the move and he refocused on the board as he responded.  Agitation was starting to show through in his voice as he lifted his piece and slid it into position (h2-h3, Bg4xf3).

“You always make it seem as if you knew I would question you.  I disagree.  I think you were shocked to find out that free will was a natural progression of my creation. I was your first, after all.” He chided. “The one made most like your image.”

“You’re a spoiled child, Lucifer.  You always have been.”

“Ah, but father, you made me this way and then you cast me away? Discarded like rubbish?” The dark man hissed his reply. “That will make this event all the more, sweeter. I shall, once more, taint your current fascination.  I will once again be that thorn in your side. I will never let you know peace.”

Though his expression did not change, the older man’s face grew stern.  It was a subtle shift in the air temperature which started to drop and announce the impending storm. The familiar chill to the air carried on it, the smell of the ocean to mix with the garden’s perfume and the power of the storm began to build strength pulling the nimbus clouds into a swarm like bees.

“You can shut the door, Father, but I will not be ignored” Lucifer condemned.

Then the man with the shadowed features stood up, bowing his head. Even after their tense conversation and harsh words he showed reverence, however resentful it was.  No response was shown to the one who still had his head lowered by the elder; the man seemed to be instead, struggling to control an underlying wrath.

Slowly lifting his head, glowing eyes from under the large cowl met the rigid face of his father. Lucifer growled then turned on his heel, stalking off into the distance.

Waking Nightmare [6]

          Father Dulante had a hard time sleeping most nights since Isabel began showing signs of the stigmata. The Church frowned upon such things and considered it a sign of possession or mental instability but he had witnessed the events for himself. His faith told him that something was amiss. Isabel was a pious woman who had devoted her life to d

            Rubbing his temples, he stared up at the crucifix from his knees praying for answers. He prayed for strength to carry him through and wisdom to pull Isabel through it. He’d been there for hours, rosary in hand repeating his Our Father’s, hoping that the answers would come but there was only silence.

            With a sigh, he bowed his head again making the sign of the cross then leaning in to kiss the beads laced between his fingers. Jus as he was about to stand, a cool breeze ran through his room. The candles flickered and danced angrily causing shadows to scurry along the walls. His spine froze, stiff.

            Glancing to his left, he caught a glimpse of a figure in the corner and spun around. Gripping the back of his chair to steady himself, he looked again but no one was there. The Father’s eyes closed quickly and he began to pray again. His lips moved swiftly and silently then grew to audible when he felt the hem of his robe being tugged. The young priest shook with fear, prying his eyes open to face whatever was in the room with him. Before his sight adjusted to the darkness, his rosary flew across the floor and the beads scattered to every corners.

            Flying backwards, Father Dulante pressed his back to the wall trying to gather his wits and senses. The beating of his heart was so strong that it caused his chest to tighten and ache. He could feel his stomach turn and the sickness began to crawl up into his throat. The whites of his eyes were wide like a spooked horse in his search for whatever entity was occupying the room with him.

            After a few moments of nothing, the muscles in his shoulders began to unclench. The shock of the build up of lactic acid caused a sudden soreness and he reached up with a shaky hand to knead his arm. His breathing had just returned to normal when he took a step away from the wall. Pivoting on is heel to steady himself, he was caught suddenly by the creature that flew at him. The world seemed to tilt on an axis and the ground dropped out from under him.

            Pain wracked through his head as the claws ripped at his flesh. He could smell the stench of his skin burning like blistering bacon and his screams tore at his throat. He flailed aimlessly trying to defend himself but it was no use he could not even see his assailant. Heat raged through his body, cooking him from the inside out. He felt his eyes seeping from their sockets down to his cheeks and he prayed for God to take him right then. An answer to his prayers came with sudden blackness. He heard and felt nothing. Deprived of all senses he wondered if this was how it felt to be buried alive. With no more fight left inside, Father Dulante slipped into the abyss, hoping that the Lord would be there to greet him. Instead, hour later, he felt his body being shaken, and through the muddled confusion, a voice called his name.

            “Father?” Marciel was trying to rouse him.

            “Father!” insistent shaking jerked him into the light of the next day. He was on the floor next to his bed, face down, arms spread to either side.

            Father Dulante didn’t know if he had died and been sent back, or if he imagined the whole thing. Moving his body was very difficult. When he got to his knees, he felt the sickness again, this time it spilled out onto the floor before him.

            Marciel’s eyes burned with concern as he lifted the priest, guiding him to the edge of bed with soft words, “sit down, Father. What happened?’

            “I’m sure I don’t know” he replied.

            “I was praying..”  pausing as if the memory suddenly left him him and he shook his head. Turning to look at Marciel again, helplessness filling his features, “I can’t remember.”

            It was too much. They were all trapped in this strange world, so far away from Heaven and from feeling safe ever again. Each one of them felt it. The darkness held new fears for each one of them. Silently, they endured it because they were too afraid of inflicting the repercussions of leaning on the other. If one could get away, then it would make all the suffering worth it.

            Marciel was torn between watching Isabel and now for the safety of his friend Father Dulante. The lack of sleep wasn’t helping him with ideas, nor was the lack of visits from God. At least when he walked with the Creator he would have moments where things were in perspective. The way it felt now, the world was a ride on a wild animal with a broken leg.

            Running his hand through his hair, Marciel stood up and paced. Father Dulante looked on appearing feeble and old for a man who was two years younger than Isabel. His feet passed gently over the cold stones on the floor over and over again until he stopped. Marco looked up at from the angel’s feet to his eyes and Marciel seemed to have a moment of perspective.

            “We need to all be together in a common area.” He said. His hand fell from his hair and he clasped the other behind his back. Leaning forward, his mind continued to work, albeit fuzzily, until he formulated an idea. “The library. We can all sleep there. It’s next to Isabel’s room.”

            Marciel was pacing back and forth trying to make things work in his head. Father Dulante just stared at him, emptiness filling his eyes with every passing moment until Marciel stopped and looked at him.

            “Get your mind right, Father. The Lord needs you.” He said. It caught the priest off guard and it seemed to reach him, instantly. When he moved his lips to speak, nothing came at first and Marciel cut him off, “Nothing makes sense. It doesn’t have to. God has called you to battle. You must set it all aside and answer the call.”

            Father Dulante’s eyes grew watery and he seemed to find a renewed strength in Marciel’s words. The weary father stood up and nodded, stiffening his lower lip and brushing off his robes. His hems brushed across the floor with each swift movement he made. Marciel couldn’t help but smile. His friend was back. They could do this.

            The two men began to draw out plans for the library. As it were, they broke every rule about mixing gender in the convent when this tragedy began. The Catholic Church was in an uproar and Marciel guessed that’s who the new, unknown priests were.

            They would pull the tables out and put them to the other side of the room so that they could eat and work through the night. They would bring in their beds, a simple enough feat; they were merely two boards on two wooden horses. It was Father Raphael they would have to contend with. The men were looking at excommunication and death if the church decided to get involved. It was something they would deal with when it came around, for now, it was about how to protect all of their lives.

            When an hour had passed the two men looked upon the plans, pleased with their results. Father Dulante could feel the weakness give way to fire within him and he grasped Marciel’s arm, “Let’s find Felipe and Louis. We must get to work!” Marciel nodded and the two men made their way out.

Help Me [5]

There were moments of clarity for Isabel during the torture she endured. She remembered things like flashes of memories from another time. She heard whispering in her head but the voices were not her own.

Was she going insane? How could she not trust her own mind? There were words being spoken by her own voice to those around her in another language she did not know but she could not stop herself. Slowly she could feel herself being imprisoned within this shell of a battered body. She tried to cry out but They wouldn’t let her.

She was so tired. She tried to sleep but as soon as she began to let go of consciousness her body would convulse into fits. Like being underwater, she could hear them shout around her, calling to her and praying but she was drowning. Weakness was seeping  into every pore both physically and mentally.

This had to stop. She was going to die if it didn’t. And the voices understood that.

“You’re going to die, Isabel” it would whisper to her. It’s voice cackled like an old crone just before Isabel felt the slam of her body against the wall. The voices punished her daily. They could hear what she thought and whenever she tried to pray, her body would be abused until she fell unconscious again. The wall would come slamming against the side of her face, or flesh would be opened and the trickle of blood could be felt seeping free. If she was going to die anyway, why was she being kept alive? Who..or what.. was doing this to her?

Isabel’s faith was weakening. Once, she was able to force through “the others” as she came to know them, within her. She was only able to muster two words but they were her words and those that were around her, heard them.  A small window of hope gripped her and was ripped away again by the ones inside her. They drug her, screaming into the dark recesses of her mind all over again.

“You’re going to die” they chanted, “Die for us. Die for us. DIE FOR US!”

It would go black again. She could never tell if she was asleep for days or hours. Her body ached and she could taste dried blood on her lips. Flashes of faces like blinding light filled her mind. Some too horrible to explain, some beautiful. Control of her emotions was slipping along with her sanity into the abyss. She understood now that the darkness was Hell.

Hell was not “some other place”. It was not fire and brimstone. It was the horrors buried within us all. It was the punishment we carried inside us all. Alone in our minds, all the atrocities were there. Murder, rape, torture..who better to destroy you but yourself?

She could hear her friends and family them talking around her. Some days it was the soft voice of her brother. His sobs made her own sadness worsen. Her brother could not save her. No one could. She could feel the darkness stretching it’s long fingers toward him,too,  pulling him under with her.

She tried with all her remaining strength to reach him. Not to comfort him but to warn him. She wanted to yell at him and tell him to run. Run for his life, his soul..but nothing would come out. Another spell of unconscious darkness and she awoke with a start. In the corner of her mind she remained still.

Nothing. Just silence.

Were they gone?

Cautiously, she mentally extended outward from the corner she was huddled in and slid slowly back into her skin. She could feel cold fingers, stinging with pain. Everything in her wanted to scream in pain but she forced through it. This may be her only chance. She continued to slowly push down to her feet wincing when she became aware of the pain there, as well. One by one, she sank into her toes and then lay quietly again.

Still nothing.

Concentrating, she could feel something was covering her head so she didn’t bother trying to open her eyes. She took a moment to pull more strength and focused on her hand. The pain was like fire seering at the flesh but still she pushed through it and forced her finger to move. She kept her thoughts quiet, afraid that they were only sleeping and could be roused, while everything inside her mind willed someone to see her.

There was movement to her left. She felt it and went still until she was sure it was from outside her body. She moved again, the same finger, then another. Still nothing. She was exhausted from that small measure of exertion and was about to fold into herself again when the touch encompassed her. A hand reached for hers and sent a warm sensation through her whole body. His voice came through so clearly, parting the water that she was under for so what felt like so long.

“Isabel!” it whispered loudly. “Do not give in. Be strong in your faith! We — “

She was smiling inside at the touch and bathing in its warmth when his words were cut off. They found her!  Her whole body thrashed as they ambushed her and pulled her back into the darkness again.

Her mouth opened to cry for help but all that came out were Their voices. They hissed and screamed out at Father Dulante.

“She’s ours!” They screeched then she felt her muscles contract, bending her hips upward until she felt like her spine would snap. Isabel howled in anguish and then the mattress below her grew warm and wet. She could smell her own urine as it pooled into the bed beneath her.

Introductions

I’d like to introduce myself to you. I’m the author of The Unsaintly. I have been working on this book for many years and have been through many trials and tribulations about getting it completed. Recently, I read a book by an author that started her book on a blog before getting it published and I was inspired by her idea. So I bring to you..The Unsaintly. Raw and uncut straight from my mind to you. And I shall let the readers decide if its truly a story meant to be bound and treasured.

Firstly, let me warn the reader that this story may offend you. It is not meant for the young or easily offended. It is a theological thriller designed to test your faith and shake your imagination.  It was designed to make you think and to make you uncomfortable.

I strongly encourage constructive feedback in a respectful manner. Thank you in advance.

Chapter Four

Chapter 4

The Book of Marciel

My  quill rested against the papyrus and I took in a deep breath, letting it out slowly to clear my thoughts and mind before I began to document the events.  I decided to begin with the family history of Isabel.

As the words were etched into the parchment, the syllables were whispered around me and lifted into the air toward Heaven.  I used angelic script so that no mortal could happen upon the book and read the sacred text.  My fingers would arc each beautiful scripted letter in my own hand.

Where it was necessary, I would also sketch out scenes on one or two pages.  The face of Isabel was there now, staring back at me.  Charcoal stained finger gently brushed the shading along her chin and high cheek bones as I reminisced at how beautiful she once was when I had first laid his eyes upon her.

The transformation happened so fast.  She was already so petite that any slight variation in her weight showed more pronounced in her small heart shaped face.  Even her hair, once shiny and healthy was ratted and clumped against her scalp.

Forcing back the tears I continued my documentation of the past week in as much detail as I could.

Isabel Agustus born unto noble blood to Blanca Alphonsa, Queen of France and King Louis VIII, son and successor of Philip II (Philip Agustus) in the year of our Lord, twelve hundred and twenty five.

I stopped and stared at the words as I wrote them.  My hand was possessed with its own life, documenting the events that I had gone through.  My words would become permanent scripture in the Great Book and this was an honor that was reserved for only God’s few chosen.  As much as I wanted to smile with the accomplishment, I was brought down again that I could feel any such joy when Isabel was suffering – and suffering now – as I sat here.

With all the events that had transpired documented, I stood up and replaced the book into its hiding spot and pushed the bed back against the wall.  I faced my room once more and decided that I would clean it.  Cleaning it would help me sort through some things and organize my thoughts.

I cleaned up the plates and dumped the rotting food then used an old rag to clean off what little furniture I had left.  I went to my desk and started to set the papers in a neat stack when there was a knock at my door.  A smile came to my face as I recognized the soft rapping as Father Dulante’s.

There was a small jingling of keys and then the sound of the lock being opened. When I opened the door, I saw him standing there with a small candle in his hand and a basket of what I assumed was food from the delicious smell.  A knowing smile crossed my lips and I opened the door a little more to let him in.

“You deviant” I whispered, “disobeying Father Raphael and sneaking me food and breaking me out of my prison?”

Father Dulante laughed at my accusation then set the basket of bread and cheeses on the table before setting a carafe of wine down beside it.  I handed him a clean cloth to wash his hands.  Pulling out a chair, I sat down across from him and took the bread graciously.

The candle that he brought made a nice centerpiece as we talked well into the night.  Father Dulante told me that both he and Louis were conspiring to move Isabel back into his own castle so that she could be safe from Father Raphael.  It was a delicate situation.  Even though that was still Louis’ sister, Isabel was a servant of God and escaped marriage only by convincing the Pope that she would give her life to her servitude.

That meant that she belonged to the church to some unspoken degree.  If Father Raphael had the Pope’s ear as well as we suspected this could lead to something we were not prepared for.

The two of us were silent for several long minutes and Father Dulante stood up to leave.  I felt a sudden rush of panic and I admit that I did not want to be left alone here.  I grabbed his arm quickly before I realized what I had done and Father Dulante’s eyes grew worried.

“What is it, Marciel?” he asked.

“I – I need to show you something.” I whispered.

The tone of my voice must’ve alerted him because he turned to look over his shoulder to be sure there was no one at the door and moved in closer toward me so that we could whisper.

“Marco, there is something you should know” I began, “it will not be easy for you but you’re the only one I trust.”

Father Dulante was taken aback by my familiar use of his first name and nodded while placing his hands on either of my arms.  He looked directly into my eyes as he spoke, emphasizing his sincerity.

“You can tell me anything” he said softly, “not only as a priest but as your friend.”

I wanted to break down right there but I just smiled in relief and led him toward my bed and pulled it out.  I handed him the book and sat down on the bed.  It had all the answers in it.  Everything and anything I had been through since my arrival on earth he would know it because I had the power to reveal the words to him even though they were written in angelic script.

Father Dulante began to read and once he got deep within the first paragraph, found he needed to sit down though he never lifted his eyes off the pages.  His jaw went slack and his hand covered his mouth while holding the large book’s cover in the other hand.  I saw the tears fall from his eyes and I could feel the emotion overtaking him as he was exposed to what was written in such sacred text.

I dared not go to him.  Not yet.  I needed to see whether he would accept it or call it heresy.  Some mortals did not take such things as you would think.  Some were so overwhelmed that they knew nothing else but to lash out.  Their minds could not comprehend what I was revealing to Father Dulante.  I could only have that that his could and that he would not feed me to the wolves.

The centerpiece candle was burning down when Father Dulante finished.  He took a deep breath and lifted his wet, puffy eyes to me.  I knew what he was searching for.  Some sort of confirmation that I was indeed the angel I claimed to be.  Here I was standing before him as a human.  No wings, no heavenly halo.  Just a man, same as he.

He tore his eyes from me and looked to the table where the jug sat that the Lord had praised me on.  His hands shakily reached for it, pulling it closer to him.  Very gently, he lifted it to eye level and studied the scene before turning to me again.

“Is this…the piece of work that the Lord complimented you on?” he asked.

“Yes.” I said.

“The Lord…touched this with his own hands?”

“Yes.“ I said, “Sitting in the same seat you are in now, we shared the water together and talked as you and I do, now.”

He brought the jug to his lips and closed his eyes, kissing it gingerly.  I was filled with empathy for him.  I wanted to comfort him but I could not.  I was losing my faith and it had been so long since I’d seen my Lord that I felt a bit resentful toward him.

Lowering my head I stared down at the floor while Father Dulante took everything in.  I had very little to offer him besides that book and I was secretly hoping that he would not ask me for anything else.

“I will help you. What do you need of me?” he said, breaking from his thoughts.

“I need you to know that this book is here in the event” I paused, lifting my eyes to meet his again, “in the event that something happens to me.”

He didn’t believe what I said, I could tell by the look in his eyes and then it dawned on him, suddenly.  He knew I was afraid and that there was something worthy of my fear.  He hadn’t pieced it together entirely, yet and I wasn’t going to fill him in.

“Have you told –“

“I haven’t told anyone else.” I broke in.

He nodded and looked back down at the book, running his fingers over the lettering and the leather binding.  I could tell that he was afraid, too.  He had every reason to be.  I knew that this would get much worse before it got better.  The problem was that I had no idea what Isabel had to do with any of this. What would God and Lucifer need with this mortal woman? And why was I chosen?

They were answers I may never get but I was not going to have all I’d done be in vain.  If I died, then my words would be protected.  The events would be documented and perhaps one day would serve as answers.

I found the strength to stand up and I walked to where Father Dulante sat.  Crouching before him so that he and I were eye to eye, I lay my hand on his shoulder and whispered quietly to him.

“I’m afraid that the knowledge I’ve given to you could be dangerous.  Maybe even endanger your life.” I explained.  “You must know this before you take on such a burden.”

“I will take up any cross for my Lord.” Father Dulante said with no hesitation in his voice.

I admired him even more right there.  He did not ask why. He did not question the motives.  He just wanted to serve the Lord and if his life was to be used or sacrificed for that cause then he was willing to lay it down.

I felt a weight lifted off my shoulders to know that I was not alone in this.  No matter what happened, I would not be forgotten.  The feeling of camaraderie I felt with him was strong; he was my friend.  I was fond of many people that I met on my journey but this was different.  I trusted him with my secrets and my life.

I could tell that he felt the same way and I embraced him in a brotherly hug.  I had not felt touch of another in this way since the Lord came to me and I realized I was not only struggling with my faith I was lonely.  I had no contact with my brothers in Heaven, no long talks with the Lord, no songs to fill my soul like the ones of angels. The choir that Father Dulante led was as I mentioned before, the closest thing to it.

“We must act fast” I said quietly as I pulled from his embrace, “I do not know how much time we have left or I have left.”

The words seemed to really trouble him as I spoke them.  His eyes studied me for a long moment before nodding and lowering his voice to a barely audible whisper.

“I will speak with Louis and we will devise a way for us all to speak together.  You formulate a plan and we’ll help you execute it.”

He sighed and looked around again and the worry caused his brow to crease again.  He was looking much older these days as I’m sure we all were.

“You were right, Marciel.  There is danger here.  There is evil in the house of the Lord.”

“We will fight it, Marco” I said, “together.”

He smiled and I returned it just the same before we both walked to the door.  He slipped a copy of the key to my room into my hand then held up a spare with a wink then stood outside my door as I closed it.  I could hear him lock it and quickly disappear down the hall.

I went back to my desk and turned it over using the sealing wax to adhere my key to the bottom, pressing the metal into it and adding more seal just in case.  I wasn’t sure for how long or how well it would hold up but it was the only place I could think of at the time.  Setting the desk upright again, I neatly arranged the papers to their original position and then sat down. I had to think of a plan.  They were counting on me and so was Isabel.  I didn’t even want to think of what would happen if my plan failed.

It had been days since I knelt down and prayed.  I looked over at the jug that Father Dulante was holding earlier.  The emotion that filled him as he touched the item that the Lord had touched not even a week ago played over and over in my mind.  I wanted to feel that again.

I stood up and walked over to the table and picked up the jug, running my thumb over the etched, wooden scene. Closing my eyes I brought it to my chest then and held it like a dying child.  All I could feel was loss.  I was slipping away from Heaven a little further everyday.  I couldn’t help but wonder if I would remember anything I once knew.  Already my memory of Heaven dwindled until most of my memories were consumed with the mortal life I had been living for the past few years.

Chapter Three

Chapter 3

It became a regular routine. Every morning I’d wake in a cold sweat to the sound of screams and things being thrown around.  Isabel was in a rage, again.  How could someone so lovely and pure be so grotesque and vulgar now?  I could not understand anything that was going on.  Nightly I wept and prayed for her soul.  I prayed for myself, for the courage to stick to my duty to God.

My visits from the Lord were fewer and fewer, now.  I was growing more depressed every day.  It helped that I had Father Dulante, Louis, and his companion Felipe.  To pass the time we’d alternate shifts and take walks in the garden just below her window.  We’d talk about idle things that had nothing to do with the nightmare that was going on inside the monastery walls or the evil that seemed to reign over it.

It was getting harder and harder to keep Isabel controlled, let alone clean.  The woman was filthy from her tirades where she’d throw herself against the wall and claw at it.  The blood from her fingers was used to draw words in a language we’d never heard of before.  Not even me.  I wondered if they were really even words or something she made up, sometimes.  The symbols looked so arcane and complex.  Dare I say, beautiful?

I sat for hours at a time staring at them, trying with my preternatural mind to break code or language.  I wanted to let out my own screams of frustration and anger.  Isabel could no longer be reached.  She was no longer Isabel as far as we could tell.

She looked like some kind of Hellish Harlot.  She ripped her clothes away whenever she was redressed and calm enough to be cleaned.  What remained were just dirty rags that barely covered her body.

As I said before, she was beautiful.  There were times that it was hard to look at her in this state. It aroused in me things I had never experienced before.  I felt like she knew.  There were moments when even through the leather mask that covered her eyes, strapped over her head to the back, leaving only the lower half of her face exposed, that I thought she was looking directly at me.

Though her face was dirty, I could not help but stare at her full lips.  It was as if she could feel my eyes on her and at the right moment she would run her tongue slowly over her mouth.

“I’m thirsty.” She’d say and I’d shift uncomfortably in my chair before standing up to get the ladle to offer her water.

She’d moan lewdly as she drank it in and lean toward me, nostrils flaring as she took in my scent.  Then she’d tug at the chains and try to press herself to me, knowing I was far enough that she could not reach me. I’d flinch back and she’d laugh.

It left me with disturbing dreams.  There were nights I’d wake up screaming and clutching my chest having visions of her doing salacious acts with me and then slamming her talons into my chest to rip out my mortal heart.  Sometimes the dream would end with her devouring it, other times she just laughed as I gasped for life and the muscle beat in her bloody palm.

I don’t think I was the only one with these dreams.  Father Dulante was looking fairly sleep deprived these days as well.  Felipe chose to keep his distance, keeping to the doorway rather than being inside the room.  I couldn’t tell if it was because he was going through the same thing or if he was scared.

Everyday, without fail, Father Raphael would come into the room and Isabel would through a fit worse than the day before.  She’d solicit him for unspeakable sexual acts as she rolled her hips at him suggestively.  Father Raphael never seemed phased by any of it.  I could’ve sworn I even saw a hint of amusement in his eyes.

Today was no different.  I sat there now, looking at Isabel’s bedroom. What once was a modest but comfortable bedroom was a prison.  Stone walls with no décor were dull and dreary.  The bed was replaced by a grass mat next to the wall she was shackled to.  In the far corner were heavy wooden bowls and cups used to feed her like some sort of animal.  The stone floor was removed of all the heavy, woven rugs and replaced with the stench of urine and other bodily fluids.

In my corner, there were two heavy but worn out chairs.  A pile of blankets sat neatly folded beside each chair and across from them was a metal tray with a cold pot of tea and stale bread.  Father Raphael insisted that we eat in the dining area when it was meal time so that we could join in on the prayers for Isabel and our monastery.  We knew it was a ploy to divide us and so we took food breaks in teams of two or three.

It was late and the night was thick with the fog from the storm that was out at sea just three miles from us.  I could feel the dampness in the air and it was heavy on me.  I became drowsy and started to nod off.  I looked across at Father Dulante and noticed that so was he.  It was some sort of spell, it had to be.  Were we poisoned?  My God, I never even thought to take that precaution.  I kept trying to will myself awake, seeing that Father Dulante was doing the same across from me.  It was of no use, I was drifting on a sea of darkness and all I kept thinking was that I was dying.  In a mortal’s body no less!

If I died in this body I would die a final death.  There was no way I could return to Heaven as an angel with a human soul.  The Lord did not die for my sins, he died for theirs.  I would be cast into the river of flames for eternity.  I tried to move but my limbs were heavy like lead.  I tried to move anything; a finger, a toe, a lash.  Nothing worked.  Finally, darkness pulled me under and everything was silent.

It’s like having no breath and then surfacing the water hours later at night.  No light, just inky water all around you in a vast abyss of black.  There is no up or down.  There is no direction.  Panic set in as I heard the screams and thrashes around me.  I heard them yell my name but I could not respond.  I heard Louis cry out for Isabel and the scuffle that incurred.  I was imprisoned in my body without shackles or a cage like an oubliette.

I heard footsteps shuffling back and forth, things being thrown and the sounds of Miriam’s cries.  Then I smelled it.  Jasmine filled my senses and I knew it was another stage of Isabel’s stigmata.  It was rare for anyone to go through more than one stage, but three?

The Stigmata in most parts of the world wasn’t even recognized as a real condition.  The Church did extensive study on it, treating each case cautiously.  Some said that it was the Devil’s work.  Some said that it was dementia.  Real or not, each victim of the Stigmata suffered the wounds of Christ’s crucifixion.  There were 5 major wounds; wound in each foot, wound in each wrist, the wound in his side caused by St. Longinus’ lance, the crown of thorns and the lashings on Christ’s back.

In reality there were many more wounds suffered by the Lord. It was said that the total amount of wounds suffered by him added up to 5,480. Later on in the future, Catholicism would focus on the minimal; the wound in each hand being two, the wound in each foot being two and the wound from the lance being one.  This would come to be known as Christ’s Passion.

A true stigmatic was one that was afflicted by the wounds through some unknown force. Whether it was through empathy or divine right, we never know.  All I know is that it is a horrific experience, both frightening and powerful at the same time.

When I finally was able to move, I woke in the eye of the storm.  Isabel was once more covered in blood.  Her eyes were black where the whites should’ve been and the retinas were drained of all color.  Her hair was matted over her face, dripping with blood as she shouted at them all in this other language.  Each point was emphasized by her jerking harder at the shackles which threatened to pull free from the large, stone bricks.

I wanted to run.  This could not be happening. I looked to the left and saw Miriam crumpled on the floor, half her cheek was missing.  Without hesitation I ran to her, sliding across the stone floor and tearing at my knees as I came to a stop beside her.

“Miriam!” I cried, trying to shake her awake.

I felt the crash of something hit the back of my head and the pain was like a white light exploding in my head. I slumped forward but would not give in to unconsciousness.  I felt the blood trickling down the back of my neck and ignored it, dragging Miriam to safety.  I shoved her out into the hall where there were other nuns standing by, unbelieving what they were seeing.

Looking back again I saw that Father Dulante was still out cold and that Felipe and Louis were trying to reason with Isabel and calm her from the safety of an overturned metal tray.  Beneath them the cold tea was pooled around their knees.  My heart was beating so fast I thought for sure it was louder than all the shouting around me.  My knees wanted to give in but I forced myself not to give in. I was an angel for God’s sake!  I had stared into the face of Evil many, many times!

Gravity seemed to pull within me and I was overcome with the sickness in my belly.  I fell to the floor and vomited a black substance so bitter I thought it would eat at my tongue.  It was bile.  The stench rose up into my nostrils and I turned to see Father Raphael standing over me.  I knew then, that he must be able to read my thoughts.

An icy wind blew through the room and put out the fireplace on the farthest wall.  Every candle was extinguished and blackness was like a blanket, again, covering my eyes like a blindfold and putting all my senses on high alert.  I stopped myself as I reached for my sword this time.  I knew it wasn’t there.  I might as well been naked, I had nothing to defend myself.

The storm brewed outside and I saw with each flash of lightening Father Raphael standing before Isabel, shouting out commands to her in the same language she had spoken earlier.  It could’ve easily been me that was chained up because I could not move.  Angrily, I cried out, expelling all the air in my lungs, screaming until my throat was raw.  I was tired of being helpless.

I felt like a broken animal, driven of all its spirit.  All I knew these days was despair and hopelessness.  I know that the Lord had gone through far more worse tribulations but I was beginning to feel like I could not go on.

Another flash of lightning lit up the room mimicking God’s wrath but it wasn’t good enough for me.  I wanted to tear the priest apart and it was at that exact moment I felt myself sinking deeper and deeper into sin.  On the far wall I saw my shadow and then it would disappear in the darkness only to reappear again.  Once more I saw it and gasped seeing that my shadow had wings and that the feathers were being blown away in the high winds that whipped through the small room.

I turned around quickly, grasping for my wings but they were not there.  I was going insane!  I did not imagine this vision, it was there!  I fell onto my palms again, panting and trying to shake the vertigo from my mind.  I felt the wetness as it fell down my arms and assumed it was sweat.  I closed my eyes and shut out Father Raphael’s foreign commands to a woman who was no longer Isabel.  When I opened them again and focused on my skin, I saw that it was not sweat it was blood.

My hand shook as I lifted it and ran it across my back as far as I could reach.  I touched my shoulder blades where my wings normally sat and pulled it back.  Staring down at my fingers covered in blood I began to sob.  I could see God’s plan for me now. I was to die, here on earth like his son.  The difference was that I would not go back to Heaven.

The storm began to dissipate and I could move, finally, as if the earth’s gravity no longer pinned me to the floor.  Looking across at Felipe and Louis I could see that they too, were able to move.  We all crawled forward toward Isabel and the priest whose robes whipped and billowed around him as angry as the winds.  His normally, neat hair was blown into a mess of dark strands about his face and Isabel was frothing in her contempt at his control over her.

The wounds on her brow continued to trickle down her face giving her a mask of dark crimson.  The older blood was nearly black and streaked down her face under the fresh trails.  Suddenly, the winds vanished and left behind an eerie silence.  Father Raphael’s robes fell instantly to the floor and he stood there, without uttering a word.

Isabel fell to her knees and slumped forward, hanging in likeness to the crucifixion.  Her breath was shallow and labored, a soft wheezing sound followed behind each struggled effort.  No one moved.  No one dared to speak.  She lifted her head slowly and tears spilled down her cheeks, washing away some of the blood.  The complexion of her skin was white against the dark red making it more horrific to watch.

“Help…me.” She was barely able to whisper the words.

Louis lunged forward and howled out a sorrowful groan as he lifted his sister from her exhausted position on the floor.  She crumpled against him like a rag doll, barely conscious.  The wounds around her brow poured out blood like a fount and I scraped my knees against stone and ripped my shirt into bandages to try and stop the bleeding.  Winding the long strands of material around her forehead, I prayed.  I prayed with unselfish desire.  I no longer cared for myself; I simply could not watch her endure this any longer.

“Unchain her!” Louis’ scream filled the room.  “I demand you unchain my sister at once!” he exclaimed through his uncontrolled sobs.

Isabel was withering away.  She was an even one hundred pounds at the start of this and now she barely weighed ninety.  Frail and fragile looking, her cheeks had sunken inward and her lips were puckering around her teeth. It was disturbing to watch a girl of such strength and youth suffer endlessly and take this abuse while calling it divine or a gift.

There was yelling in the hallway and I ran out to see what was going on.  In the center of the hallway, Miriam was throwing her arms up in exasperation.  Her cheeks were red and the veins in her neck were strained as she tried to yell her objections to Father Raphael.

Father Raphael stood there shaking his head, telling her in a calm voice that Isabel was not afflicted with Stigmata but it was the disguise of the Devil and that she must be exorcised.  Did I really hear this?  Miriam had the same look of astonishment on her face as I did.

He was ordering her to be placed in the monastery’s sanctuary.  I rushed out and ignored the pain in my stomach as I confronted Father Raphael.  My hand shoved him to the wall and with all the adrenaline rushing through me; I did not even feel the flesh that burnt to a bright red on my palm.

“She is not insane!  You will not treat this woman as a criminal or someone possessed by evil!  She is a servant of GOD!”  I was shouting now, filled with conviction and anger as I spit the words into his face.

Once more I was grabbed by the priests and Father Raphael took out a small handkerchief and wiped his face with that same smug grin he always wore.  He waved the handkerchief and I was pulled away.  The priests shoved me into my room and I could hear the door slam behind me.  The sound of keys jangled just outside the heavy wood and I rushed to open it but it was too late.  I was locked inside.

For hours I sat there in the dark.  I gazed around and it dawned on me that my room was in shambles.  It looked how I felt.  The bed was still broken, the papers on my desk were scattered all over.  Ink was everywhere and there was half eaten food on plates here and there.  Flies were beginning to gather on some of the decaying pieces of meat.

I lowered my head to my hands and curled my fingers into my hair.  What was going on?  I wrote and wrote but this whole thing had consumed me.  The emotions were drowning me and I was losing my faith.

How does an angel lose faith?  An angel, who had seen God’s face, heard his voice and walked with the Lord, himself? I have fought alongside my God and my maker.  I know that he exists, I’ve seen his miracles.

I looked at the wall behind my bed then pushed myself up off the floor.  I looked around before opening the small loose brick and removed my book.  Cracking open the leather cover and fanning through the pages I began to write again.

Chapter Two

Chapter 2

I sat that night, thinking of what to write. The more I sat there, the more I thought.  The more I thought, the less I could focus and the more my emotions took over.  The quill shook in my hand and then finally I broke the tip against the parchment and ink bled in a small pool and then absorbed into the porous surface.  Throwing my arm across the top of the desk, I shoved everything onto the floor and then dropped my head to my forearm as it lay on the edge.

I heard a knock at my door and I sat up abruptly thinking it was Father Raphael.  Closing my eyes, I tried to will it all away but the knock came again, a little more urgently.  Standing up, I crept to the door and whispered at the crack between the frame and the door itself.

“Who is it?”

“Father Dulante.  Marciel, are you alright?  I heard a crash.”

I breathed out a sigh of relief and opened the door, smiling at the young priest before opening it completely to allow him inside.

“Come in.  Yes, I’m alright.  Just – just writer’s block.” Again, it was not entirely a lie.

Father Dulante entered and looked around, turning to face me once more.  For a moment he was silent as if he were sizing up the situation then let out a laugh.  He shook his head and moved toward the desk to help clean up the mess.

“I never would’ve guessed that you had outbursts, Marciel.  You seem so calm all the time.”

“I could say the same of you, Father Dulante.” I smiled as I knelt beside him, picking up the parchment bleeding with black ink.

Father Dulante made me feel comfortable and safe.  Not in the same way the Lord did, of course, but he had that air about him that made it seem as though everything would just be alright in the end.  He had such a pleasant smile and a soft voice.  It was deep but not intrusive to one’s ears.  It was soft and lulling, like a quiet song.

He was also very intelligent.  I often overheard his practice sermons or him counseling another member of the monastery.  He was wise beyond his years but it was also his peaceful soul that set people at ease the same way it did mine.

I stood up and thanked him for his help then offered him a drink of wine to settle and unwind after such an eventful night.  He readily accepted and we sat near the window, talking by moonlight of many things.

I let him do most of the talking.  He told me of his calling to priesthood and how he met Father Raphael.  I did my best to keep my feelings unreadable to him.  If he knew, he did not say or respond.  Father Dulante was also a very polite man and very proper.  He, too, came from a noble family.

His speech was plain and yet still elegant at the same time.  He could speak Latin fluently as well as Italian, French and Portuguese.  Education was important to him, but his passion was music.  He said that it soothed even the most unsettled soul.  To him it was a language anyone could speak fluently and understand.

To hear him talk brought me much joy.  I could listen to his stories all night long.  I learned that his full name was Marco Dulante.  I said the name over and over in my head, loving how it was so fluent like everything else about him.

The night was starting to pull back and he stood, frowning a bit.  I thought perhaps my silence offended him and stood with him.

“I’m sorry.  Did I offend you, Father Dulante?  I was just enjoying your stories so much.” I offered.

“No, no.  It is just late and I remembered I have a meeting with Father Raphael in the morning to go over the sermon for my first mass.”

I must not have hid my disdain so well this time.  Father Dulante laughed quietly again and let his hand rest on my shoulder.  It took all I had to not wince.  He patted the same spot where Father Raphael’s handprint was now burnt into my flesh.

“He is not so bad once you get to know him, my friend.  He is just” the priest paused as he thought of a good word or description, “Well, I don’t know what he is, but he’s not all bad.  God makes all kinds.” He smiled as he said it and I could not help but mirror his smile.

I walked my new friend to the door and waved goodnight to him. I wanted to follow him and walk him safely to his door but I did not want him to get the wrong impression.  Instead I closed my own door and leaned my back against it hoping I could hear his footsteps and the sound the handle to his door.

I lost track around the last 25 steps and bit my lip.  I vowed that I would walk past his door in about twenty minutes to check on him.  The back of my head hit the door softly before I pushed myself off of it and headed back to my desk.  I sat down in the chair and ran my fingers through my hair.

It was thick and blonde, like a summer’s sun.  Like Father Raphael, I had an angel’s complexion; fair and glowing.  Blessed with eyes as blue as God’s sky and the vision of a majestic eagle, I also had supernatural hearing.

I was pleasing to look at, I decided, as I looked into the mirror above my desk now, but I was still a stranger to myself.  There were no wings, no golden chest plate, no golden sword. I didn’t know who I was looking at half the time.

Just as I was about to look down I saw a figure behind me and I jumped forward, knocking my chair over to turn round and round.  I reached for that golden sword that was not there.  Neither was the figure.

I couldn’t handle this, so I made up my mind to go sit with Isabel.  Word buzzed around the Monastery that her brother was coming to visit her and should be arriving tomorrow.  This was good news to me.  Her brother was very strong and brave.  He would let no harm come to her.

I listened to Isabel speak so fondly of her brother, Louis, who succeeded Louis VIII. He was renowned for the prosperity and peace he brought his subjects. He had even been captured at al-Mansurah and ransomed but remained in theHoly Landto strengthen the fortifications of the Christian colonies.

Louis doted on his younger sister.  The two were quite close and shared many talks about current events or his travels.  She would share some accomplishments she’d made with the poor and sickly and then the two would dine together before Louis set off again.

Tonight though, Louis was riding hard to reach his sister who he was told was very ill.  Arriving earlier than expected, the servants rushed to greet the man as he brushed past them to his sister’s room.  His responses to their elated greetings were polite but curt and I followed quickly behind the bustling crowd as they tried to take his coat and offer him wine.

He had just reached the stairs and turned around, waving them all off exasperatedly. Shooing them into the shadows they crawled out of.

“I’m fine! I will be in Isabel’s room.  If you wish to serve, have my dinner prepared and brought there.”  He went to speak again and we heard the screams. Louis’ companion shadowed him, followed by me and about 12 other servants to the source of it.  The closer we came to Isabel’s room, the louder it became.

Louis’ companion drew his weapon as he kept a close flank to his Lord.  It was apparent that his main duty was to protect Isabel’s sibling.  The man was nearly as tall as I was with long blonde hair such as mine.  His eyes were large and a striking color of green like I’ve only ever seen in nature in the Garden of Eden.  I could smell battle on him, it was in his veins and I could tell that he was a seasoned warrior and probably why Louis kept him so close.

Louis got to her door and went to open it but the handle wouldn’t budge.  It was locked from the inside.  He stepped back and after the split second moment of shock, he quickly threw his shoulder against the door.  It was futile but he would not give up and soon, his companion and I both joined in.

“Isabel!” he cried out. “Isabel, it’s me, Louis, open the door!”

There was no answer and panic was rising in the three of us.  Two more times of us hurling our full weight at the door and it splintered on its hinges and slammed against the wall.  Louis stumbled inside and ran to his sister’s bed.  She was flailing and screaming, drenched in sweat and her own blood.

Her brother gathered her up in his arms seeing that she was bleeding but unable to see from where.  He shouted at the nuns that started to trickle in, demanding that they bring him bandages and rags. I stood there in horror and disbelief as I looked down at the chair beside her bed and saw Father Raphael’s coat draped across the back.

Pulled out of my thoughts, I heard Father Dulante rush past me. His fingers curled into my bicep and drug me to the bed where we began to try and hold her down.  Miriam was pushing a long, round piece of wood into her mouth that resembled a bit that a horse would use, so she wouldn’t swallow her tongue.

Louis was shouting to her as he rocked her trembling upper body while Father Dulante and I tried to hold her down.  We were pleading with him to allow us to get to her upper body so that Miriam could find the source of her wound.  I was worried that her wrists were reopened.

Louis gently lay Isabel back down on the bed and snatched the cloth from the closest nun, wiping his sister’s face which looked as though it was covered with a red, leather mask.  He was trying to swallow the sobs but his eyes welled with tears betraying him.

We all stared down at Isabel and the scent of jasmine rolled in thickly, again.  Her eyes rolled back into her head and she thrashed her head from side to side.  Her hair was damp with her own blood and with each violent turn of her head, would splash those of us surrounding her.

Finally, and suddenly, she stopped.  She just lay there in a pool of blood and sweat, drifting off into a deep sleep where she panted and writhed like she was inflicted with fever.  Miriam began to wipe her down and Louis covered his face with his hands, sobbing over his sister.  It was only when Miriam gasped that he looked up again.

Isabel’s feet were covered in blood and two perfect punctured holes bled slowly on the tops of her arches.  I became weak in the knees and lowered myself to them, compelled to pray for this woman.  Father Dulante made the sign of the cross and kissed his rosary before kneeling beside me to do the same.

Miriam turned in time to see Father Raphael enter.  I felt him but I refused to let him deter me.  The sound of the hissing and static whispers rose up louder and louder in my ears, threatening to steal my equilibrium but I held my ground.  My voice was screaming in my own head as I prayed over it all.

The noise receded and Father Raphael stood behind Louis.  I looked up as I finished my prayer in time to see the sadistic mask and slither of his long black tongue over his lips when his hand touched Louis’ shoulder.  I shouted and fell back, slamming my head against the chair behind me.  I fought the darkness as it faded in to no avail.  It finally won and I was unconscious.

When I awoke, I heard the sound of the birds in the distance and I kept my eyes closed a little bit longer hoping it was all a bad dream.  Did angels dream?  I didn’t think so but I was in a human body and suffered human things.

Emotion was the biggest and most difficult thing to tackle.  I was thrown into this body like a newborn babe and I was flailing through everything.  I had to learn what it meant to relieve myself.  The pain in my stomach was so great until I felt the trickle of warm urine down my leg.  It probably wouldn’t have been so bad except I was sitting in a tavern asking the waitress what they ate here.

She looked down at my feet and started yelling obscenities at me, calling me a drunken idiot.  I ran out then stared down at my pants which were too short.  An old woman who was passing by took pity on me I suppose and called me over.

She muttered some things about the Devil’s drink and began to preach to me as we walked to her home.  I smiled and immediately warmed up to her, letting her guide me.  I sat up with her for most of the night, sharing a kettle of stew and freshly baked bread.  Her home was humble and there were holes in the roof and walls allowing for a terrible breeze to chill the bone.

We all know the Lord was a carpenter and my greatest teaching was how he would take such rough, raw materials and make things from them.  I decided that I would help this woman who helped me and over the next seven weeks, I fixed up the shack and made it a home.

I fixed the stairs so that she did not catch her worn shoes on the nails and fall.  I fixed the holes in her roof so that she did not get wet and suffer a cold from the dampness.  I patched the holes in the walls so that the warmth from her fire would keep her comfortable during the winter months and cold nights.

It was the night before I was to set off on my task to find Isabel, old lady Anne died in her sleep peacefully.  I felt her spirit tickle my cheek and I opened my eyes to stare up into her lovely face.  The Lord was beside her and she knew me for what I was.

It was a morning with the same sounds as I heard now.  The birds chirped in the distance and I felt fresh winds on my cheek as I lay under the open porch but somehow I knew I was not there again.  I opened my eyes and saw the Lord at my table, admiring a jug I carved from wood.  Around the surface were intricate details of Heaven and he glanced up at me from them.

“This is beautiful.  From one carpenter to another, I applaud your workmanship.” He said, ever present smile on his face as bright as the morning.

“Thank you, my Lord.” And I was genuinely touched by his praise.

I sat up and walked over to where he was standing and he began to pour the water that was in the jug into two cups before motioning with his hand for me to sit down and talk with him.  Without hesitation I did, quietly observing my greatest teacher as he moved.

When he sat down we were eye to eye and I never realized that before.  We were the same height in human form.  My entire body relaxed and I felt at ease once more in his presence.  Wrapping my hands around the cup he set before me, I took a drink of the water and new that he touched it.  It was cooler and purer than any water from the well I’d had before.  Instantly it seemed to revive and refresh me.  My smile let him know that I was aware.

“Sometimes, Marciel, we all need to have a moment to refresh our purpose and collect our thoughts.” He said.

I listened to his words and nodded.  I knew exactly what he meant.  Even now I was collecting my thoughts as I spun the cup between my hands, staring into that crystal clear water.

“When man was first created, we were jealous.” I said, speaking of the angels.  “Though, we did not know we were jealous because we had never felt such human emotions as I do now.”  I looked up from the water into the Lord’s eyes.

He smiled and remained silent but leaned back in his chair as a gesture that he was relaxed and wanting to hear what I had to say.

“I admire the humans now because it is so hard, Lord.  It is so hard to have faith and follow God’s plan when the plan is so obscure.” I was past the tears and the fear now as I spoke.  I was frustrated.

“Our Father in Heaven created all that you see here.  The heavens and the earth.  Could he be incapable of understanding his own creations?”

My brows furrowed and I felt suddenly ashamed.  Letting out a sigh, I too, leaned back in my chair and shook my head.  Something still felt wrong.

“No.”

The Lord stood up and walked to the window, his cup still in his hand as he spoke leisurely.  I watched as the sunlight moved just to caress his face.  His flawless complexion glowed in that light which became a halo over his head when he turned to me again.

“Have not the saints suffered in the name of God?” He asked.

“Yes, they have.” I replied.

“Have not they been rewarded in Heaven for their suffering here on earth?”

“Yes, Lord.”

“Treasures and comfort of this earth are nothing.  The humans know they must store their rewards and crowns in Heaven.  It is far more important.”

I offered him a small smile and nodded again.  I knew that he sensed I was still not happy with the answer but he did not push.  Walking to our table again, he sat down and leaned forward onto his elbows to level his gaze at me.

“You’re right, Marciel.  It is not easy to be human.” He said then reached across that table to pat my hand. “Did you forget that I, too, was human for over thirty years?  I went through birth and death and suffering as a human.  I know what you feel.”

Immediately, I felt the guilt.  How could that have slipped my mind?  Of course he knew what I felt.  I looked up, meeting his gaze and felt my strength return but the sadness of my weakness increased.

“I am an unworthy servant, Lord.  I will not question why you chose me; I will only have faith that whatever reason it was, I am the perfect choice for the task.”

His smile grew and I felt my heart swell.  It is impossible not to feel joy when your maker shows pride in you.  He stood once more and walked to the window, dissolving in the light.  I felt his absence as soon as he was gone.

It was then that I realized it was7 am.  The start of the boys’ choir warm up had begun.  I went to the basin at the side of my bed and washed up before hastily throwing on my clothes to check on Isabel.

I waved to Father Dulante as I passed the large, open double doors to their room.  He reciprocated with a smile and nod, never skipping a beat as his hands led the boys in their scales.  The sound was the closest thing to Heaven and it filled each corridor I walked through until I ascended the stairs to the top floor where Isabel’s room was.

I saw that her door was slightly ajar and that familiar fear crept along my neck.  Was Father Raphael going to be there?  I approached the door and stretched out my hand, slowly opening the large door.

A soft haze of light fell down through the windows.  The curtains were open and I saw Louis there beside Isabel’s bed, reading from scripture to his sister who was sleeping in her bed.  I could not help but smile.  Standing there for a moment I let that scene play for a moment before I looked down at Isabel’s wrists and feet.

She was bound again.  Her wrists were bandaged but small spots of blood seeped through.  She had fresh linen and clothes and her feet were bare except for the bandages around those wounds which had also seeped during the night.

Just as I frowned, Louis’ voice called to me.  “She’s going to be alright.” He said.

“Of course she is.” I said before I stood straight again.

Standing off the wall, I smiled and walked over to him. I looked toward the door again then back at Louis who was following my gaze. I could feel the same uneasiness in him that I felt.

“You feel it, too, don’t you?” he asked.

“Feel what?” I asked but I already knew.

“There is something about that priest.” He whispered, glancing every so often to the doorway.

I could only nod at first, too stunned that I was not the only one that felt the evil that Father Raphael gave off.  Even now as we spoke, I could feel the chill rise on my neck along with the fine hairs.

“I must stay here beside her.” He said.  “If I don’t, I fear something will happen to her. I just feel it.”

“I’ll help you.” I said.

Louis looked up at me and a face of relief covered his features.  He seemed to breathe then as if he was unable to before.  He even looked older overnight. Sleep deprived eyes were blood shot and I knew he had been awake all night, keeping vigil over her.

“There is a room set up for you next door. Go wash up and take a nap. I will not leave her side even for a moment.” I said.

Louis seemed torn and I patted his shoulder, nodding that it was okay.  He appeared to give in, then.  He knew that he could not stay awake much longer and accepted that he needed help.  His companion stayed up with him guarding the door and I looked over at him, too.

“You go with your Lord and clean up.  Take a nap and come back when you have had sufficient rest.”

The man looked over at Louis and Louis nodded, dismissing him from his post.  Hesitantly, the companion gave a small bow and turned to go.  Louis leaned forward and kissed his sister’s brow before turning to me once more.

“It’s alright” I said, “Father Dulante will be up after boys’ choir to look in on her as well. We will both be here to sit with her.”

That seemed to make it all the more convincing for Louis and he offered a weak smile. He gathered some of his things and lifted up his bible before pausing.  Staring down at it, the tears welled in his eyes and his jaw clenched to keep them from shedding.  He set the bible on her bed beside her and took a deep breath before turning to leave.

“Thank you” he said to me.  His voice was soft and humble as he added, “I’ll be back very shortly.”

“No thanks are necessary.” I said, smiling up at him.

Louis exited and I waited a moment before I took a small vial from my pouch.  It was the water that the Lord had served me in my room this morning.  Watching the door, I dabbed a few drops on Isabel’s forehead and around her bed before I sat beside her and very gently pressed the remaining drops to her lips.

As soon as the water hit her tongue she opened her eyes and smiled weakly.  A soft sigh escaped her lips and she closed her eyes again for a moment. Talking was a task for her in this state as she began to collect her thoughts.

“I needed that.” She finally mustered up, “I was so thirsty.”

I smiled down at her and brushed the hair from her face.  Even now she was so beautiful.  Her eyes were dark but her skin still held its natural glow.  I remember thinking that she was much like the Madonna with her head tilt to the side the way it was right now.

I was about to speak when the presence of Father Raphael was felt again.  I turned to look at the door and came face to face with the priest.  My stomach felt ill like I would lose my bowels at any moment and my features deepened into a look of anger. Creatures such as myself cannot stand evil even in human form.

Father Raphael stared up into my eyes and smiled but it was not a natural smile; it never reached his eyes.  It was plastered there coldly on his face before he turned her gaze down to Isabel.

“Good morning, Isabel. It’s good to see you’re awake.” He said.

I was staring sternly at Father Raphael and started to move between him and Isabel when Isabel suddenly hissed at him and growled.  The sound was feral and foreign coming from her.  When I turned to look at her, her eyes were narrowed and she was clenching her teeth at him.

I moved to try and calm her down, shoving past Father Raphael.  Just as I reached for Isabel, she ripped one of the binds from the leather strap and smashed me in the side of the head with Louis’ bible.

The blow was so strong that I stumbled and fell into the end table beside her, knocking the bowl of water over.  Shaking my head I stared at Isabel who was spitting out obscenities at the priest and making vulgar motions with her hands.

I was completely stunned but Father Raphael did not seem surprised at all.  He just stood there and watched her as she writhed on the bed.  Her hand was reaching for her skirts and lifting them up along her legs until she exposed herself to the priest.

I thrust myself at Isabel again, pinning her beneath me and pulling her skirts down as much as I could.  She only laughed and craned her head around the side of mine to continue her obscene verbal lashing at Father Raphael.

“Why do you touch the little boys, Father?!” she yelled. “Are you afraid to fuck a woman?” she cackled and began to undulate beneath me.

I was flush with embarrassment but I continued to pin her arm down and retie the straps that kept her down.  Once I had her retied she lunged toward me and tried to take a bite out of my cheek.  I felt the graze of her teeth along my skin but moved just in time.

I fell back on the floor beside her bed in shock and my eyes were wide with fear as I stared at this horrible transformation of such a gentle woman.  Father Raphael’s steps were heard as he came around the side of Isabel’s bed and into my peripheral vision.

“I want her restrained.  She’s suffering from dementia.” He said plainly.

The two nuns that always accompanied Father Raphael nodded and turned mechanically to comply.  I could not move, I was completely frozen where I sat. This could not be happening.

Father Raphael turned his head slowly to gaze down at me before he slid his fingers gently along Isabel’s cheek.  In horror I watched as she nuzzled his fingers and laughed at me.

He stepped back and the two nuns returned with a leather mask and shackles.  I stood up to protest but felt hands along my arms pulling me back.  Two unknown, older priests were restraining me as well.

Isabel was retied and the new shackles put in place before they began to place the mask over her eyes.  She let out a horrible scream that made my whole spine seem to melt.  Even the boys’ choir stopped.  Her scream left the monastery silent for only a few seconds but those few seconds felt like eternity before I heard Louis’ shouts.

He appeared at the door and lunged for Father Raphael. The priest slammed against the wall and growled out at Isabel’s brother before shoving him back into the crowd of priests that now began to filter in.  The men held Louis back as the two exchanged words.

“Are you mad?!” Father Raphael growled out.

“You will not get away with this!” Louis shouted as he pulled himself from the grasp of the priests.

“This is a church matter, Louis.  Surely, you do not wish me to have you removed.” The priest hissed out at him.

Louis threw the men off him again and his companion burst through the door to assist him with sword drawn.  Louis raised a hand to still him, knowing Father Raphael’s pull with the Pope.

“It’s alright Felipe. We are gentlemen and shall handle this civilly.” Louis said.

It was a long, tense moment before Father Raphael finally dismissed the other priests.  The ones behind me released me from their grasp and I turned to watch them go.  Louis and Felipe were still tense and Felipe’s hand was still resting on the hilt of his weapon when Father Raphael grinned at the three of us and casually walked toward the door and exited.  His whistle echoed through the hallways.