The Mer- Lion (6 page)

Once the two had scurried out of sight, Seamus knelt before the white-robed Dominican friar. Silently, he held out his bundle toward the priest. Without thinking, Father Cariolinus took it and cradled it in his arms. He was about to unwrap the bright red swaddling when an unpleasant thought stopped him. "Is this his—?"

Seamus nodded.

The priest swallowed. It was one thing, he thought, to see a traitor drawn and quartered, his limbs chopped off, his guts spilled; that was just punishment seen at the distance of one's choosing. It was another to be handed a true live—no, not live, he corrected himself—
a
true fragment of a friend. He shuddered with revulsion and thrust the bundle back at Seamus, but Seamus's upheld palm stopped it.

The priest was perplexed. His duties as chaplain to the Seaforths had never exposed him to a similar situation. Despite belonging to an order devoted to scholarly work, Father Cariolinus had somehow avoided the byways of esoteric theoretical theology. Seaforth had requested as chaplain a man who was more living exemplar than learned sermonizer, and Father Cariolinus was well-suited to such
a
domestic role. One look at the frail, stoop-shouldered monk whose expression radiated inner goodness had persuaded Seaforth that mis was a wise choice.

"What would you have me do with it?" the priest whispered.

"Could you not say some words o'er it?" Seamus whispered back.

"Words?" whispered the dazed priest aloud, at the bundle he cradled in his arms.

"Bless it, maybe. Give it a sprinkling of your holy water. This arm has done its share of deeds and not all them good, I warrant."

"My blessing? Yes, of course, and the holy water. Good thinking, friend Seamus. Follow me." Determinedly, he led Seamus into the chapel, through the nave and into the apse. Genuflecting briefly before the altar, he went around it behind the rood screen, and into the sacristy. There, while poising the bundle upon his hip as would a mother with her babe, he took up a small purplish glass flagon. Still governed by some unspoken resolve and trailed by a puzzled but obedient Seamus, he returned to the sanctuary and proceeded to the baptismal font.

"Here, hold it," he commanded, holding out the arm. Seamus, before he could refuse, found himself again custodian of the arm in its wrappings—as red as a Scottish bride's finery. The priest removed the cover from the font and placed the flagon, after unstopping it, within its proper receptacle.

"Open the wrappings," the priest directed, and Seamus, although he wanted nothing more than to refuse, found himself unwinding the cloth from around the limb. Except for the contorted hand with its massive golden Mer-Lion ring, it looked more like a slighdy hairy leg of mutton than the once-living arm of a man. The priest blanched and closed his eyes in disbelief as he murmured in Latin an almost inaudible prayer, then continued in Scots:

"Hear, O Lord, the sound of my call; have pity on me, and answer me. Of you my heart speaks; you my glance seeks, your presence, O Lord I seek.

Hide not your face from me; do not in anger repel your servant. You are my helper: cast me not off; forsake me not, O God my savior. Though my father and mother forsake me, yet will the Lord receive me."

Then, they waited. The priest quietly, motionlessly. Seamus, with growing impatience as the arm cradled cautiously in his hands grew heavier and heavier, and, it seemed to him, wetter and wetter. He strained his ears for a telltale drip, but the silence was complete. At last the priest, his eyes still tight shut, spoke again—still in Scots, but this time joyously:

Blessed be the Lord for he has heard the sound of my pleading, the Lord is my strength and my shield.

In him my heart trusts and I find help; men my heart exults, and with my song, I give him thanks.

The priest appeared a different man. Drawing confidence from somewhere, he seemed to know exactly what to do. He began anew and mis time in Latin. The words were familiar ones; and when he paused for a reponse, Seamus answered without thinking, then realized the priest was saying Mass. Gradually his voice grew stronger, he began to gesture and project as if to a gathering.

Seamus, puzzled, looked about. Perhaps others had entered the chapel. But no, the two men and the limb were alone. Turning his attention back to the priest, he realized the other had opened his eyes and, irritated, was looking at him. "Well?"

Seamus, bewildered, temporized with "Et cum spiritu tuo."

"Nay, I asked you a question. Do you agree?"

Agree? Agree to what? Seamus feared to ask. Instead, he nodded his head. But the priest wasn't satisfied. He hissed, "Say 'I do.'"

"I do," the giant rumbled back uncertainly; best humor the priest, he decided.

Cariolinus: "Dost thou renounce Satan?"

Seamus: "I do."

Cariolinus: "And all his pomps?" Seamus: "I do."

Cariolinus: "Dost thou believe in God, the Father Almighty, Creator of heaven and earth?" Seamus: "I do."

Cariolinus: "Dost thou believe in Jesus Christ, his only Son, Our
Lord, who was born of the Virgin Mary, was crucified, died, and was buried, rose from the dead, and is now seated at the right hand of the Father?"          '

Seamus: "I do."

Cariolinus: "Do you believe in the Holy. Spirit, the Holy Catholic Church, the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body, and life everlasting?"

Seamus: "I do."

Cariolinus: "This is our faith. This the faith of the Church. We are proud to profess it, in Christ Jesus our Lord. Amen." Seamus: "Amen."

Cariolinus: "Is it your will that this arm be baptized in the faith of the Church which we have all professed with you?" Seamus choked.

He stood there speechless as the realization sank in. Not only had he taken part in the Sacrament of Baptism for a dead arm, but he was also being made to stand godfather to it. Inside, he wanted to scream out his "No! Never! Not I!"; instead in answer to the priest's unwavering stare, he heard himself say, "I do."

The priest, sprinkling the holy water, sonorously pronounced: "Arm, I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Arm, go in peace, and may the Lord be with you."

Seamus, essentially a god-fearing man even less versed in theology than the priest, wondered if such a baptism might be considered blasphemy
...
and if so, what supernatural being could have taken possession of the priest. He shuddered to think what all of this might portend for the priest
...
himself... and Seaforth. The sooner this arm was disposed of the better.

The priest began to tremble. "Quick, wrap it up. I can't stand the sight of it," Father Cariolinus confessed. "Besides, someone might find us with it."

Fumbling with the now stiffening arm, Seamus held it in one hand, red wrappings trailing, while with his free hand he tugged powerfully at the Mer-Lion signet ring on the grotesquely flexed, yet rigidly inflexible, index finger. Suddenly, the finger bent, hie ring came off. Re wrapping the arm quickly, he looked again to the priest for guidance,

"What now?"

"Now?"

"Now!"

"We give it Christian burial."

"Father, 'twould be madness. If we're caught, no one will believe we're burying the arm. They'll think us grave robbers."

"Then I suggest we not be found in a graveyard. We'll bury the arm in a place I know at St. Giles. Next week, when Seaforth dies, we can retrieve it and bury the arm and the man together."

"Father, do you know what you say?" groaned the new-made godfather.

"I know that arm has been baptized and blest. It deserves Christian burial and it shall get it." Once determined on a course of action, Father Cariolinus had the same fixation of purpose that makes men martyrs. "Give me but a moment to get my breviary."

"Father, have you no' said enough over this arm? After all, it is no' a man you're burying, just his arm."

The priest drew himself up to his full height, a head shorter than Seamus, and seemed so firm in righteous indignation that Seamus gave in.

"Father, while you do so, best get your black cloak also. Your white habit will give us away in the dark. But hurry," he called after the priest who had put action into words and disappeared behind the rood screen.

The priest returned walking slowly, like a man whose parole has been revoked, but properly cloaked and ready to leave. Seamus gave him no chance to change his mind. Firmly tucking the dead arm under his own left, he grabbed the priest's arm with his free hand and propelled the three of them forward and out of the chapel.

Keeping within the shadows of St. Mary's Wynd, they made their way past Blackfriars Wynd and the archepiscopal palace of Cardinal Beaton, the "Burning Beaton," who pursued heresy without mercy, swiftly consigning sinners to the stake. Seamus wondered what the cardinal would do if he knew that earlier that night one of his priests had baptized an arm and given it a spiritual mentor
...
and further that priest and godparent were on their way to bury the arm at Beaton's own cathedral. At the thought, Seamus so quickened his pace that the priest at his side soon gasped for mercy.

Once at St. Giles, they went past the graveyard and on to the church itself. The three massive doors to the south had all been fastened. Carefully picking their way—for there was little moonlight and the south vestibule had juttings of statuary—they finally stumbled onto the modest porch on the west with its smaller, unlocked doorway.

Inside, they faced complete blackness until their eyes adjusted. Father Cariolinus now became guide, cautioning Seamus in a whisper now and again to step up or down as they traversed the aisle and crossed the transept, their footsteps echoing loudly upon the marble floor.

"Where are we?" asked Seamus.

"Shush, not so loud. There's a brother somewhere about charged with keeping watch," the priest whispered. "We have just left the navrand should be under the tower about now. Trust me, I know where we go."

The church was large—206 feet long across the transepts—but it seemed four or five times that to Seamus. Finally, Father Cariolinus stopped, Seamus bumbling solidly into him. The priest went sprawling, sending something metallic crashing to the floor. Seamus dropped the arm, and somewhere within the church a door opened with a grating sound. Just so must the gates of Hell rattle, Seamus surmised, when they open to admit some poor sinner.

"Quick, Seamus, the arm," hissed the priest, "give it to me."

"I do no' have it," the giant rumbled back, busily crawling about on all fours, desperately searching the floor in circles about him with outstretched hands for that other hand. He touched something with his left hand, but before he could do more than, grab, his right touched something also. "Is that your hand, Father?" he whispered, freezing in his tracks.

"What hand? You touch me not," came the whisper from behind him.

"Then, I've found something," Seamus whispered back, still absolutely immobile. Nearby he could hear the priest's robes rustling on the floor; in the distance, footsteps paced eerily, now ebbing, now advancing. Again and again, out of the comer of his eye, Seamus saw a stab of light, as if from a torch, pierce the darkness of the transept they had traversed.

"What is it?"                  -

Seamus jumped, the voice was at his ear. "Feel down my right arm with your hand." He could feel the priest do as he was told. "Ah, you found Seaforth's arm." "Then, what the hell am I holding in my other hand?" "Shame Seamus, No cursing before God's altar." "Answer my question." "You have both."

"Both?"
Seamus screamed in a whisper.

"Of course. Hand them to me, I'll put them away."

It took all of Seamus's willpower to pass over first one, then the other of the two hands—both were so hard and so cold to the touch. Only when the second had left his grasp did the pain in his knees remind him that he had balanced motionlessly upon them for these many long moments. He would have risen, but the priest's hand stopped him. "Here, help me lift this up. Quickly! The brother comes."

With Seamus doing most of the heaving, the two of them lifted the heavy metal object above their heads and slid it onto the altar before which they knelt. As they did, the priest began chanting in a quiet voice.

"What are you doing? The watcher will be here," Seamus was frantic. "No time for that, let,us out of here."

"Quiet!
Kyrie eleison,"
he chanted, then in an aside commanded, "Pray!"

"Ho, who's there?" called a suspicious voice from their left. The torch, raised high, cast its beam upon them, reflecting off the gleaming tonsure of the still-chanting priest, kneeling before the altar. Reassured by the sight, the brother came closer.

"Ideo precor beatam Mariam semper Virginem, beatum Michaelem Archangelum,"
chanted Seamus, reciting the first thing to come into his head.

"Don't stop," Father Cariolinus demanded quietly. Ceasing his own chanting, he gathered his robes about him, then laid a heavy hand on Seamus's shoulder, using it as a crutch, simultaneously forcing the young giant to remain kneeling and praying.