Appalachian Galapagos (32 page)

"The place hasn't been used by people for over a hundred years. The abbot at the time used the catacombs to hide escaped slaves until safe passage could be arranged. Before that, it was used as cells for those brothers who had transgressed against the faith. It was a place for redemption on earth—a place of contemplation and revelation."

Brother Peter shuddered as he stared at the walls. Being down here was too much like being buried.

Too much like being dead.

Brother Sebastian removed his hand from younger brother's back and muffled a sneeze. Now side-by-side, they paused at each empty cell and genuflected to the iron crosses inlaid in each wooden door. These sturdy doors had been solidly hinged in the rock by long forgotten masons and were masterly crafted.

They halted at the end of the single hallway, a closed cell door to their left. The iron cross upon this door had been polished and reflected the flashlight like a mirror. Several locks, including an iron-banded wooden bar, kept the door closed as if there was an occupant who needed to be contained. A barred window was set at eye level, a molasses darkness brewing behind it.

"It seems that we're here," sighed the older brother. "Brother Peter, what you see and hear within these catacombs is never to reach the light of day. What you witness for the good of the world is to never become known. No one, not even your best friend. Not even your confessor must know what is here. The truth, this particular truth is to stay buried. Forever." He paused to lick his lips. "Understand?" The subdued words were a command, punctuated by hard nods of the old man's bald head.

Brother Peter nodded slowly, fear and excitement in full battle behind his glassy blue eyes.

Reaching into the depths of his robe, Brother Sebastian grabbed a white candle and passed it to Brother Peter who took it, levered the flashlight between his arm and side, and pulled out a box of matches. He lit the candle, blew out the match and cast the dead stick aside. With direction from the older brother, he pointed the flashlight at the ground and
clicked
it off. Suddenly, they found themselves shrouded in the sick yellow candlelight of a pre-technological age.

It was too easy for Brother Peter to imagine himself in the Middle Ages, perhaps helping Michelangelo escape or hiding sacred texts that spoke the true name of God. He finally turned, excitement rekindled in his eyes. He stood back, a quivering smile of apprehension slow-dancing on his otherwise stoic countenance.

Brother Sebastian paused to admire the youth's naiveté and remembered when he, too, didn't know. He turned a granite face to the door. He sucked in a strained breath, gathering strength, and realized that this would be his last trip into the catacombs. He seemed to rise several inches as he used the stored strength of his faith. He was suddenly more than the hunched old monk that needed a younger man's assistance.

"Spawn of Satan. Servant of Hell. A poor servant of the Lord would have traffic with you." Brother Sebastian's voice rang with angelic purity as he spoke the old words.

Brother Peter stared, waiting, two hands on the candle to keep it from quivering. Two full minutes passed before the barely audible words intruded on the monks' silence like the sound of paper rustling in the wind.

"Don't you think
Spawn of Satan
is a bit melodramatic, Sebastian?" asked a very masculine, but weak voice.

Sebastian sighed and Peter shifted nervously.

"I was losing hope you or one of yours would deign to visit me. I always look forward to your visits...remembering how refreshing the visits are of course."

Brother Sebastian glanced quickly at Brother Peter, sad for the boy and his innocence. "I was beginning to hope you were dead."

"Not very Godly of you." Rough laughter like coughing came from the darkness of the barred window set in the door. "Then our God has never been known for his humanity. Strange, that. Don't you think?"

Sebastian ignored the retort. "I have the letter here as contracted, Brother."

A serpent's hiss escaped like the air from a dying tire.

"My eyes are quite old. A bit of light, if you would," the voice commanded as a white bony hand accepted the letter through the rusted iron bars.

Sebastian stood back and nodded at Peter who tentatively passed the candle through. He held it with two fingers and fought the urge to jerk his hand back as two spider-like digits gripped it. For a split second their finger's almost touched. Sebastian could almost see sparks of life and death trying to jump the tiny gap before the emaciated hand pulled the candle into the depths of the cell. Peter pulled his hand back and tried to stop its shaking by placing it in the pit of his arm. He slid near his smaller, older peer and finally beheld the small frail figure that was suddenly illuminated in the halo of yellow light from the old-fashioned tallow candle within the cell. He shuddered and watched, eagerness evaporated.

The ancient brother slowly opened the envelope and extracted the two pieces of parchment. So sturdy was the paper that it unfolded almost completely as it exited the envelope. The brown blotches that adorned the prisoner's hands and arms shook with palsied urgency as he opened the pages the rest of the way.

He shifted his brittle frame—six feet somehow folded into four. The nails on his hands and leather-sandaled feet were black and decomposing. The wisps of hair that escaped the
coarse
, brown wool cowl were long, white and spider-web fine. An aquiline nose hung from his face like a well-used hook. Once proud, it now sagged as did the rest of his face.

His hands shook so much with the infuriating combination of age and need that after a harried glance at the two monks eyeing him closely he was forced to place the pages of the letter side-by-side on the rough wooden table in front of him. He sat down in an old, but sturdy chair and placed the dancing candle in a holder so that it illuminated the word she so desperately needed.

He tried unsuccessfully to conceal a smile, but his traitorous crusty lips peeled back, revealing stain-blackened teeth and green-white gums. A nasal cackle of pleasure escaped the hole before his lips snapped shut. He was once again in control. He leaned forward, milky-white eyes inches from the rust-brown ink.

Brother Martinez,

With the death of one's parent, a person does not expect such a legacy as I have inherited.

I had never imagined such a blackened soul as yours being possible. Admittedly, I have never believed in a God, either. Now, as surely as I know you are real through your deeds, I know he is real by your pathetic need for redemption.

Seven generations of my ancestors did you subjugate. Four before their move to America and three after.

You kept them as your herd—feeding, fornicating and devouring at your whim. I have read the testimonies. I have read copies of the coroners' reports. I have read the secret church documents supplied me by the priests who knew of you and sought your destruction. I have seen the missing person's reports and followed the
labyrinthian
connections that led each and every one of them back to you.

I have read and have seen paintings of your abattoir, where you kept the women and children of my family half-alive, suspended from chains where you let them hang like sides of beef until you felt the need to feed. These ancestors of mine hung for decades. They were never able to feel love or the soft breath of a tender kiss. Not even the whispered promise of rescue disturbed their hopelessness.

They were animals, who knew of no other existence, but that of an animal. You even left them hanging when you escaped. Dried mewling husks of humanity—half alive and blood crazed.

I know not why you chose my line, but it is fitting that the tables are now turned.

I sit at my window watching my children playing on my lush green lawn. I smell the rich loamy aroma of the Appalachian Mountains. I can reach over and trace my fingers across the lush velvet of a book. I watch as my most perfect wife picks a bouquet of flowers from our garden—brilliant hues of yellow, blue, red and orange.

All these earthly pleasures are now forbidden to you. Since you were captured by the abbot some hundred years ago and made your strange and disturbing choice, you have been removed from everything. I hear that you are buried somewhere in the mountains, entombed until redemption.

I also know that I hold the key to your atonement within my soul. The power to help decide your fate. The power to determine if enough time has passed for you to finally confront God's justice.

I know not if you are true in your confessions. Neither am I qualified or am I ready to make this judgment. Until I find myself able, you shall await my family's discretion.

The two brothers watched as the abomination within the cell leaned its head back and howled, the peeling octaves investing panic in their human cells. The cowl eased away revealing a half-bald, mange-ridden scalp. The ancient monk's entire body shook with rage. The agonizing cry reverberated against the walls of the cell. The brothers covered their ears, pain in the lines of their faces. The sound went on for several minutes, finally ending in a cackle of satisfied laughter.

It turned toward the two brothers.

"This is what you call mercy?" it asked, emotion heavy in the voice.

"This is the mercy of the Lord," said Sebastian in response, his voice weak with the strain.

"Indeed," was all the thing said.

It picked up a page in its hands and licked it from top to bottom, maniacal laughter escaping in short gasps. It began to eat the page in great bites, appearing to savor each and every word.

The brothers noticed the head first. They watched as the patches of diseased baldness, the head that had previously held only a few wisps, sprouted a mane of long, flowing, white hair.

They saw the sagging shoulders lift. The wool of the robe stretching and filling as muscles once again returned to the ancient bones.

They watched as the nose become firm and patrician, once again lording over beautiful cheekbones in a face that was growing handsomer by the moment. They saw the teeth whiten and the lips fill as they chewed, swallowed and savored each word—still laughing between bites, giggling at fickle fortune.

When it was finished, it fell to its knees, shoulders shaking, head bobbing as it wept. The baby soft
coo
, so unlike the peeling keen of the earlier creation. Finally, it stood and turned.

Immediately, the young monk felt the pull of the beautiful face. He felt the heady warm aura that poured from it in waves. He admired the tall powerful body and wished to touch it, to feel the muscles hidden beneath the ragged Dominican robes. Had the door not been locked, Brother Peter would have launched himself towards the creature who even now had tears sliding down perfect cheeks from eyes that begged for death.

When Brother Peter saw the perfect twin fangs that descended from the clean red gums, he realized that the letter had been written in blood.

"I've got
somethin
' to show you that might find very
interestin
'," the man drawled from the car window, pushing his black cowboy hat up with his thumb.

The man had a thick mustache, accompanied by bushy, long out of style sideburns. A big teeth-revealing grin flashed gaudily, but one look into the man's dark eyes and Kevin could see that the smile was fake. The man reeked of masked danger.

"I'm not interested, thank you," Kevin said, and started walking again.

The car followed him—moving slowly.

"Trust me, you don't wanna miss this little bit of news," the man said, the smile still glued to his face.

Kevin stopped. "Listen, I just want to be left alone. Whatever you're selling, I'm not buying, okay?"

The stranger's smile vanished, seemingly devoured by his thick southern-style mustache. "What if what I was
sellin
' had to do with
Ariana
?"