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Chapter Eighteen

The roaring beats against my ears, my skin, shivering and shaking my body, filling my head until I fear it must burst!  

If I concentrate on the flames, I can almost forget the crowd, can almost believe the roaring comes from the great fire, alone . . .   

That I am alone . . .   

The faceless one comes, his head enclosed in a lopsided cone of dark leather. I try to see the color of his eyes but the eyeholes reveal nothing but deeper shadows. I look down and see the iron pincers in his massive hands, its curved and sharpened ends glowing a dull, cherry red like the baleful eyes of deep-dwelling demons from Hell.  

I force my gaze away—away from the executioner and the judges. Away from the accusers and witnesses. Away from the coming horror . . .    

A horror like that which I wielded when I took my turn beneath the castle as de facto judge, witness, and executioner . . . tormenting Her unwilling guests while She looked on, seemingly apart yet more the participant than we who wielded the whips, the pincers, the irons, and the blades at Her will. 

At Her pleasure.

The others will hold their tongues despite this final, excruciating injustice. Erzsi has escaped their net, so far, but I think she will not live long. She is doomed as we all are for having come under the Witch's spell.   

Our dark Mistress maintains Her hold over us still, though Her bloody reign of terror has all come unraveled and we have been bound with the chains with which we once played. She formed our answers as the questions were asked and the heated irons were applied like lovers' kisses, subtle, intimate, then ardent . . .  

Even the countess, shackled not with chains but with stone and mortar, high in her dark tower—but I cannot dwell upon this last, great injustice.  

She will not let me, still. 

The secret will die behind our blackened lips.  

The secret will only be told by the blood, the blood that has no voice of its own.  

I turn back to the fire and stare into its shimmering depths. The fire is all. The flames fill my field of vision as they fill the town square. The screaming starts and the world begins to burn.  

The fire is all.  

Some say the world will end in fire.

Others, ice.

Perhaps there was a third alternative: water. Not too cold, not too warm. But dark. And something akin to desolate nothingness.

My return to consciousness was like a reversal of my descent into its watery depths. I was a bubble trapped under layers of dark silt and mud. Slowly, drowsily, I slipped the confines of my premature burial and began to rise, ascending through the heavier strata of cold, dim waters and moving toward the light and warmth that lay just beyond the surface, high above.

As I ascended, the murky, muffled sounds resolved into voices—clarified—until I could finally distinguish words and phrases. Then sentences.

Although the water was warmer and clearer, now, I still had a ways to go. My eyes would not yet obey my desire to open.

But I could listen now.

So I lay quietly and listened to my first sermon on the other side of the grave.

"You have heard it said that God is an angry God, a vengeful God! That He delights in punishing the wicked and destroying the evildoer!"

It was a strong voice, a powerful voice. But it became soft and gentle a heartbeat later.

"I know that you say in your hearts: 'I am wicked! I am an evildoer!' And you believe that you are damned because fearful men, ignorant men, men with no love in their own hearts, have told you so!"

Near the surface now, I cracked my eyelids a bare sliver and squinted against the harsh whiteness that seared my eyes.

"These same men, out of the darkness in their own minds, the fear in their own hearts, would presume to enslave you—to shackle you to their own fears, their own darkness! In you, they see the reflection of their own evil, their own sin and corruption, and they have made you into spiritual scapegoats—the sin-eaters for their twisted purposes!"

My eyelids twitched and I began to bear a bit more brightness, now.

Again the voice thundered, "I say to you, do not fear the judgment of men! That is what has enslaved you! Enslaved your fathers! And your fathers' fathers, going all the way back to the ancient times! It is not by men that you will be ultimately judged, but by God! It is God's judgment that matters and not the fearful imaginings of ignorant men. And some of you should understand this all too well because some of you were once fearful and ignorant men. And women."

I lay on my back. Above me flared a panorama of white. Flickering white.

"Now, now that you should know better, you are still held hostage to the fear and ignorance of those who cannot see beyond the grave!"

I saw seams in the whiteness . . . stitches . . . 

"Do you truly believe that you are beyond redemption? Consider the words of Paul, an Apostle of Jesus, called Messiah by the Christian sects: 'There is no one righteous, not even one; there is no one who understands, no one who seeks God. All have turned away, they have together become worthless; there is no one who does good, not even one. Their throats are open graves; their tongues practice deceit . . .' "

Shadows of limbs and moss-draped branches danced, faded, and reappeared across the whiteness with the shifting patterns of light.

" 'The poison of vipers is on their lips. Their mouths are full of cursing and bitterness. Their feet are swift to shed blood; ruin and misery mark their ways, and the way of peace they do not know.' "

The voice paused dramatically, then continued: "Paul goes on to say that 'all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.' "

I turned my head and saw that my canopied ceiling descended to the floor in swooping drapes and folds. I was inside a tent.

"Have you done evil?" the voice asked. "Well, let me tell you that you are in good company!"

I wasn't sure about my afterlife theology. I might hear sermons in Hell . . . but would I see tents?

"This book that I hold in my hands contains a veritable roll call of evildoers! This Paul, the Apostle of Jesus, whom I just quoted a moment ago, went around arresting and executing Christians with a viciousness that made him hated and feared throughout his country. He held his friend's coat and watched in utter indifference while the man was put to death. And, when he finally repented of the evil that he had done, he had to change his name and assume a new identity, so utterly fearful was his reputation in the land!"

I looked down and examined my blanket-wrapped body. It lay upon a canvas and wood-frame cot. As far as I could tell, I still had a physical body and it ached like hell. Again, the theological rules regarding corporeal existence were unclear. Was I still alive?

"Remember the story of Moses? Moses was a murderer! Before his exile into the wilderness and his destiny on Mount Sinai, he killed an Egyptian with his bare hands! Not by accident, not in self-defense, but in a murderous rage—a rage not unlike that crimson tide of fury that has swept many of us to violent acts in our own circumstances!

"Solomon was an adulterer. His daddy, King David, was always getting into trouble on that front and even ordered his best friend on a suicide mission so he could possess the man's wife without complications! How's that for cold?"

As a matter of fact, I was cold. The blankets kept some of the chill at bay, but I didn't generate enough body heat for the blankets to trap it effectively.

"The prophet Jonah defied God. Jonah! Sent on a mission by his God, he effectively said: 'The Hell with this!' He defied God and abandoned his mission! Ran away from his responsibilities! Not because he was afraid for his life, not because it was too difficult! He ran away because he was afraid the people he was supposed to preach to . . . might be converted!

"He didn't want them to be saved! He wanted them to suffer! He wanted them to be damned to eternal hellfire! Now what kind of evil is that?"

I worked on unwrapping the blankets. Whoever had tucked me in had done a bang-up job of it. I felt like a moth seeking premature release from its cocoon.

"Peter. The Apostle Peter. What a disappointment!"

While the "Sermon in Hell" scenario seemed less and less likely with every spasm toward wakefulness, it seemed pretty clear that I hadn't fallen into the hands of the 700 Club, either. Nope, not the sort of material one would expect from Graham, Falwell, Robertson, or Swaggert. And definitely not in the province of those TV evangelists with the gold furniture and the lady who looked like the love child of Dolly Parton and Tammy Faye Baker.

"Peter who is all noise and thunder when it comes to proclaiming Jesus as the Messiah," the voice continued, "suddenly loses his spine and denies that he even knows this man! Not once, not twice, but three, count 'em, three different times! How's that for eternal damnation? Denying the Son of God!"

I managed to work an arm free and then lay quietly, waiting for the room—er, tent—to stop spinning.

"Except the New Testament doesn't say anything about Peter being damned!"

I—and, presumably, some unseen audience—endured another dramatic pause. The tent seemed to spin a little less. "So what is the message here?" the voice continued quietly. "It's a very powerful one."

I noticed a familiar quality to the voice when it spoke softly—I had heard it somewhere before. I couldn't quite put my finger on it but, in my present condition, I was just as unlikely to come up with my own telephone number.

"The message is simply this: the great men and women in the Bible, by and large, were guilty of great wrongs! They sinned on both sides of the aisle: the sins of 'commission'; and the sins of 'omission.' But—in spite of their failings, their fears, their acts of disobedience or destruction, even their acts of evil—God used them! In fact, God blessed them!

"Oh, there were struggles and consequences, to be sure. But the scripture says 'Nothing can separate us from the love of God!' "

I worked my other arm free and was gratified to see that, while the tent's interior continued to revolve slowly, the revolutions didn't increase in speed.

"Do you believe that you are damned for all eternity? Do you really believe that you are beyond the forgiveness of Eternity?"

A large shadow darkened on the wall of the tent, shrank and darkened as someone approached.

"The Bible says that there is only one sin that is unforgivable! Only one sin that is unpardonable! It is not murder! It is not denying the Son of God! These sins, though not inconsiderable in their consequences, are not beyond the possibility of redemption." The voice dropped in volume and then continued softly: "No, the only sin that the Bible claims as being beyond God's mercy is—"

Lost as someone swept the tent flap aside, the stiff canvas making the sound of a colossus striding about in gigantic corduroy pants. Three women entered, the last pulling the flap closed behind her.

"Ah. You're awake I see," said the first, an older woman with a scattering of long, dark hair amid the predominant gray. She could have been in her late fifties or early sixties—assuming she was human. Actually, she did look human, and more than a little Amerind, but I had long since learned to not go with my first impressions.

The woman just behind her left shoulder appeared younger, taller, and plumpish. She wore glasses and had a kerchief bound over her long, dark hair. The woman standing just beyond the first woman's right shoulder was smaller, roundish, with dark hair and skin tones evidencing Hispanic origins. All were dressed similarly in blue jeans, tee shirts, and sneakers. If they were the Three Fates they were remarkably casual dressers.

"How are you feeling?" Fate Number Two asked pleasantly.

"Like Hell?" I croaked.

"Well," said Fate Number One, "you'll feel better in a bit. We'll do a session, with your permission, and Father Pat will be collecting communion shortly."

I wanted to ask: "A session?" Then: "Father Pat?" And before I could even get my mouth open: "Communion?" Instead I bypassed all three and asked: "Where am I?"

They all looked at each other and Fate Number One asked, "Where are we, girls? I'm afraid I haven't been paying attention lately and lost track."

Fates Two and Three exchanged expressions of bemused befuddlement and shrugged.

"The swamps," said Two.

"There aren't exactly any streets, addresses, or postal drops out here," added Three.

"We move about on a regular basis," concluded One.

I sighed. "So, I guess I'm still alive."

The oldest one chuckled and her eyes crinkled up into a dozen smiling creases but her words chilled me: "Not necessarily . . . your aura is all wrong."

"My what?"

"And your chakras are all running backwards," chimed in Number Three.

"Angela!" Number One scolded.

"Well, they are."

"Reading someone's aura from across the room is one thing," One continued, "but we don't do scans until we have permission."

"But I didn't scan him—not really. I can see it from here! Can't you, Lynne?"

Number Two cocked her head and looked me up and down. Or, more accurately, from one end to the other as I was lying down. "Nooo," she said slowly with a slight shake of her head, "I need closer proximity to his energy field in order to visualize the patterns of flow . . . but his aura . . ."

"It is unusual, isn't it, girls?" One remarked.

"I've never seen anything like it!" Angela breathed.

"Except for the time," added Lynne, "that Brother Mike—"

"Ladies!" One sternly admonished, "we are being rude." She turned her attention back to me. "Forgive us our nattering. We would like to help you but first we must ask your permission."

"My permission?" I croaked.

"To do a scan," Angela elaborated.

"And adjust your energy fields," Lynne added.

"If we can," Number One amended.

"Marilyn!?" the other two gasped, as if she had suggested something unthinkable.

"Well, look at him," Marilyn said matter-of-factly. "He actually has three distinct auras. I'm betting that his chakras don't total the requisite number either. Tell me, friend; are you alive, dead, or undead?"

I shook my head, causing the tent walls to take a quarter-turn about me: "I honestly don't know."

She nodded, thoughtfully. "Well, you've got holes in your auras that I could drive a truck through. With your permission, we'll attempt to close those gaps and rebalance your ki."

"Anything to make the room stop spinning."

Marilyn nodded and the three ladies took their positions at my head, my feet, and my side. Hands were extended, turned palms down, and then floated over my body a few inches away from actual contact. Aside from a series of "hmmm"s, a sigh, and a couple of "now that's interesting," the tent was quiet for a time.

"Angela is right," One—er—Marilyn said after a prolonged silence. "I count fourteen definable chakras—doublings actually—and three, hmmm, I don't know—para-chakras? And more than half of them are running backwards!"

"Is that bad?" I asked, starting to raise my head. The tent started to shift to the right so I lay back and closed my eyes.

"Not necessarily," answered Marilyn's voice. "If you were completely human, your energy flows would be completely out of whack—you'd be one very sick puppy."

"Voilà," I said, making a weak gesture with my hand.

"But you're not human," she continued. "Aside from the evidence in your multiple auras and chakras, you simply would not have lived three minutes after being gut shot the way you were—never mind surviving these past two days."

"Two days?" I murmured.

"And not just survived," she continued, "but begun to heal. Wiggle your toes."

I complied as best I could, though my feet felt numb and far away.

"See? Already your severed spinal cord has begun to knit."

I pushed past that surprise to ask about my liver.

"I'd stay away from hard liquor for another week or two but you could probably crack a bottle of wine tomorrow."

I doubted that I would be up for much of anything by tomorrow but I learned a long time ago to not argue with one's nurses.

Unless, of course, the topic was bedpans.

"So, to answer your question . . . we don't know."

"Um," I said, "you don't know what?"

"Whether half your chakras running backward is a good thing or a bad thing," Lynne answered, her eyebrows performing a series of merry pliés.

"Normally we would work on reversing the vortexes that are turning counterclockwise," Angela explained.

"But normal is not the operative word here," I croaked.

"And because it isn't," Marilyn elaborated, "we might end up undoing some aspects of your—ah—rather unique metabolism."

"Hey," I said, "if it puts me back on a normal diet, I'm all for it."

"Well, there is that. But I'm more concerned that we might switch off whatever energy pattern that's slammed shut Death's Door and is currently keeping it triple-bolted, padlocked, and barred. You're on the mend—but becoming human at this stage of the process could still be fatal."

I thought about that.

I thought about the fact that I had cheated death more than once.

That living on borrowed time always involved heavy interest penalties down the road.

That living as a monster was only defensible when you'd tried every other alternative.

And maybe not even then.

"I'll take that chance," I said finally. "Take your best shot: make me normal."

"What about Father Pat?" Angela asked.

"We probably should ask him, first," Lynne agreed.

"Mr. Cséjthe has made his choice," Marilyn answered. "It is his life. We must respect his wishes."

The others nodded and, once again, all extended their hands, palms down.

"How come everybody seems to know my real name?" I murmured.

"Lynne, take his feet and ground him."

I wasn't sure what she was doing down there but the numbness in my lower extremities began to work its way toward my head.

"Father Pat?" I mumbled. "Any chance he's available to grant absolution?"

"Are you Catholic?" I couldn't tell who was speaking now as tendrils of Novocain had started to tickle the underside of my brain.

"Nooo . . ." The Novocain had already established a beachhead in my lips and tongue. "Jus like ta keep my basssesss coverrredd."

"Well, neither is Father Pat. But I'm sure he—"

Whatever else was said, I was beyond hearing it.

Everywhere I look I see a crucifix.  

Preacher Hebler would approve. Not only have my personal chambers been stripped of every luxury of the flesh, the walls and doors have been adorned with a hundred and more crosses—the Christian symbols of torment and death. The priests and magistrate tell me that they will serve as a constant reminder of the God whose laws I have violated in every way imaginable. That they are there to turn each waking minute to reflection and penitence. That although there can be no hope of forgiveness in this world or the next, perhaps some good may be achieved by surrounding me with the sigils of the only willing sacrifice of blood, the only holy use for which the elixir of life is sanctioned.  

But that is mere sanctimonious posturing: I know why my walls have sprouted a veritable forest of Christ-trees. The so-called Holy Father of the Romans has blessed each and they hope that these sacred objects will reinforce the earthen strength of timber and stone to hold me in this place. The peasants pray that I will be bound here beyond my sorcerous powers to squeeze through the slitted windows and fly upon the midnight vapors to seek more prey.   

They need not fear.  

Not myself, at least.  

Even should timber crack and stone crumble, I am held here by a dark power more terrible than they can yet understand. They believe that they are safe now that I am "bound." But it is not their strength alone that prevailed against us. And it will not serve them against Cachtice's Power.  

I shall make the motions and the mumblings of atonement. Who knows, perhaps I am not so damned as they think. Are the children worthy of the same degree of guilt as the adult who parents them?  

I shall repent of my dark artistries . . . but, before I do, I shall make this one last spell.  

A conjuring of the blood.  

I shall bind the truth in my own blood that it may speak for me yet.  

I shall send that binding through the blood, blood unto blood.  

Someday, the issue of my blood shall reclaim my name. I do not believe it shall be through my children, Pál, Anna, Ursula, or Katelin. The Witch's reach is long and my grandchildren—Ferenc, Anna, Maria, Erzso, and Janos—may not exceed Her awful grasp.   

In exchange for my silence, She promised to not touch my family unto the forth generation. She has even named them though they are as yet many years unborn: Ferenc, Nicholas, Pál, Antal, Michael, Tamas, Elisabeth Christine, Anna Teresia, Maria Magdolna, Orsolya, Juliana, Klara, Ilona, Zsigmond, Kata, Gregory, and the two Lazlos.  

My issue beyond that may be hidden even from Her as the fate of my own, illegitimate daughter is hidden from me.   

Strange that I should remember her now, as I have not thought of her since I wed Ferenc. So many years ago! She was taken from my fourteen-year-old breast, the issue of a summer dalliance with a beautiful peasant boy. A year later I was the mistress of Cachtice and wife to the Black Hero of Hungary. Though legitimately born and of noble pedigree, our children may not be so pure as that nameless, lost daughter of my childhood. Perhaps the witch does not ken her existence and it shall be her anonymous legacy that delivers my message.  

I cannot see what my dark Mistress sees. But I make this spell and bind the truth through my blood to be passed from one generation unto the next.  

Until those bindings shall be loosed for Truth's sake . . .   

I ascended into consciousness more abruptly this time, not as a bubble but as a drowning swimmer, choking on the flood of water . . .

. . . of blood that filled my throat and flowed over my lips, dribbling down my chin.

"Careful," said a voice, "you're giving him too much. Give him a chance to swallow."

I turned my face away, sputtered, and spat the thick, viscous liquid out while a bit more dribbled down my cheek and jaw. I coughed and felt my heart leap within my chest.

I reached up to wipe my face and found my arm moved with a strength I had forgotten I could possess.

"How are you feeling, Mr. Cséjthe?" asked the familiar voice.

I opened my eyes and looked at the strange, discomforting visage that was somehow familiar.

"I know you from somewhere . . ." I whispered.

He nodded. "St. Mark's, the other night. You were looking for a whore." He laughed at what must have been the expression on my face. "The Whore of Babylon," he elaborated. "Or maybe you were looking for Elizabeth Báthory."

"Who are you?"

He smiled a death's-head grin and I finally realized what wasn't quite right about his complexion from our first meeting. The light, here, was different than the chapel at St. Mark's but his pallor remained ashen, a luminescent gray.

"Call me Father Pat; everyone else does."

"Maybe I should call you the 'late' Father Pat." Among other things I was discovering that my near-death experiences weren't improving my manners.

He chuckled, seemingly unoffended, and nodded. "We have much in common, Chris. We have both been tourists in that undiscover'd country—"

"—from whose bourne no traveler returns? Well, the border seems to have been left open for some time now and nobody's checking passports."

The bowl was pushed toward my face and I looked up. "Jeepers creepers: Lurch in a fright wig!"

While the giant leaning over me actually did bear a passing resemblance to Ted Cassidy (not Carel Struyken or John DeSantis), his face was as preternaturally pale as the shaggy white hair that framed it. The features were strong, as if a sculptor had intended to create an eagle or a hawk in white onyx and then changed his mind and tried for a rough approximation of a human being. The massive brow kept the eyes in shadow, the nose jutted and curved like an insolent beak, and the mouth was a slitted cleft in impassive stone.

Father Pat cleared his throat. "This is Brother Michael."

Massive white hands clutched the golden bowl with its bloody repast. They offered the bowl again.

"Um, not really thirsty, big guy. Maybe you should pop that back in the fridge."

"Please," said Father Pat. "You need it. And you shouldn't waste the gift of life: it will go bad soon."

"Won't we all. Where did it come from?"

"It is a love offering from the congregation."

"The congregation? It's human blood?" I don't know why I was surprised; by all rights I should never be surprised by anything ever again.

"Some of my congregants are human, yes. And it was given freely and specifically for you."

"I—I can't accept this," I said, staring down into its crimson depths. Saliva started to flood my mouth.

"You would refuse more than the gift of life, freely given," he said, his voice beyond serious and suddenly edging into—what? Ponderously prescient? "You would be handicapping your role in the battle that is to come."

"Battle?"

He nodded and his eyes seemed focused on something outside the frame of time and space. "The forces of Darkness are preparing to roll across the lands of the living. Unless she is stopped, the Whore of Babylon will put on her red dress, drenched in the blood of the innocent, and open the Fifth Seal. The end time plagues will be loosed upon the earth and will hasten the Day of Final Judgment for all of Mankind."

An electric shiver worked its way down my spine but I suppressed it with a medicinal dose of annoyance and said: "Why is my drinking some blood so all-fired important in the grand scheme of the Apocalypse?"

Father Pat appeared to consider for a moment and then said, "There was another man who questioned the necessity of certain sacrifices. He said: 'If possible, let this cup pass from—' "

"Whoa! Whoa, whoa whoa!" I pushed the covers back and swung my legs over the side of the cot. "I may not be a believer anymore—maybe more of a secular unhumanist—but you're seriously edging into blasphemy, here!" A hand grenade of pain went off in my middle and I sagged back against my pillow.

"I am not anybody's Great Undead Hope," I said, a little more carefully. "I am not a leader, a Loa, a messiah, or a general! I am just a guy trying to make sense out of a universe that keeps changing the rules."

"We all are," Father Pat said agreeably. "But fate and circumstance call us to greatness out of need, not because we're ready and willing to answer the call."

"Yeah? Well: ring, ring . . . what's that? . . . nobody answering? Guess we'd better keep working our way through the phone book."

"Perhaps if you understood—" he began.

"Let me tell you what I understand . . ." The stress of the past few days, the repressed grief for the lives lost, my most recent trip to the edge of death and back were combining to fuel a desperate rage. "When I was a kid in Sunday school they told me I had to pay for my sins. Okay, that seems fair. What doesn't seem fair is when I keep getting the bill for somebody else's crap! Well, check returned, insufficient funds: I am closing out all my accounts! You want someone to do battle with the Powers of Darkness? Go recruit the WWF! Hell, I can't even wear spandex without getting a rash!"

A scream split the momentary silence as I drew breath. A second later the tent flap was pulled aside and a face that was half-human, half-wolf appeared in the opening. "Father Pat!" it growled. "Come quickly! It's happening again!"

Pat jumped up. "Michael, bring the Roman Ritual and the holy water! Hurry!" He ducked through the flaps and was gone in a human heartbeat.

The giant hunchback stooped over me and gently, but firmly, pressed the bowl into my hands. His face was like carved stone, not quite human yet gently reassuring in its stony calmness and resolve. He turned and shuffled like someone unaccustomed to walking, bowing deeply for his humped shoulders to clear the tent's human-sized opening. Then he was gone, as well.

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Framed

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Chapter Eighteen

The roaring beats against my ears, my skin, shivering and shaking my body, filling my head until I fear it must burst!  

If I concentrate on the flames, I can almost forget the crowd, can almost believe the roaring comes from the great fire, alone . . .   

That I am alone . . .   

The faceless one comes, his head enclosed in a lopsided cone of dark leather. I try to see the color of his eyes but the eyeholes reveal nothing but deeper shadows. I look down and see the iron pincers in his massive hands, its curved and sharpened ends glowing a dull, cherry red like the baleful eyes of deep-dwelling demons from Hell.  

I force my gaze away—away from the executioner and the judges. Away from the accusers and witnesses. Away from the coming horror . . .    

A horror like that which I wielded when I took my turn beneath the castle as de facto judge, witness, and executioner . . . tormenting Her unwilling guests while She looked on, seemingly apart yet more the participant than we who wielded the whips, the pincers, the irons, and the blades at Her will. 

At Her pleasure.

The others will hold their tongues despite this final, excruciating injustice. Erzsi has escaped their net, so far, but I think she will not live long. She is doomed as we all are for having come under the Witch's spell.   

Our dark Mistress maintains Her hold over us still, though Her bloody reign of terror has all come unraveled and we have been bound with the chains with which we once played. She formed our answers as the questions were asked and the heated irons were applied like lovers' kisses, subtle, intimate, then ardent . . .  

Even the countess, shackled not with chains but with stone and mortar, high in her dark tower—but I cannot dwell upon this last, great injustice.  

She will not let me, still. 

The secret will die behind our blackened lips.  

The secret will only be told by the blood, the blood that has no voice of its own.  

I turn back to the fire and stare into its shimmering depths. The fire is all. The flames fill my field of vision as they fill the town square. The screaming starts and the world begins to burn.  

The fire is all.  

Some say the world will end in fire.

Others, ice.

Perhaps there was a third alternative: water. Not too cold, not too warm. But dark. And something akin to desolate nothingness.

My return to consciousness was like a reversal of my descent into its watery depths. I was a bubble trapped under layers of dark silt and mud. Slowly, drowsily, I slipped the confines of my premature burial and began to rise, ascending through the heavier strata of cold, dim waters and moving toward the light and warmth that lay just beyond the surface, high above.

As I ascended, the murky, muffled sounds resolved into voices—clarified—until I could finally distinguish words and phrases. Then sentences.

Although the water was warmer and clearer, now, I still had a ways to go. My eyes would not yet obey my desire to open.

But I could listen now.

So I lay quietly and listened to my first sermon on the other side of the grave.

"You have heard it said that God is an angry God, a vengeful God! That He delights in punishing the wicked and destroying the evildoer!"

It was a strong voice, a powerful voice. But it became soft and gentle a heartbeat later.

"I know that you say in your hearts: 'I am wicked! I am an evildoer!' And you believe that you are damned because fearful men, ignorant men, men with no love in their own hearts, have told you so!"

Near the surface now, I cracked my eyelids a bare sliver and squinted against the harsh whiteness that seared my eyes.

"These same men, out of the darkness in their own minds, the fear in their own hearts, would presume to enslave you—to shackle you to their own fears, their own darkness! In you, they see the reflection of their own evil, their own sin and corruption, and they have made you into spiritual scapegoats—the sin-eaters for their twisted purposes!"

My eyelids twitched and I began to bear a bit more brightness, now.

Again the voice thundered, "I say to you, do not fear the judgment of men! That is what has enslaved you! Enslaved your fathers! And your fathers' fathers, going all the way back to the ancient times! It is not by men that you will be ultimately judged, but by God! It is God's judgment that matters and not the fearful imaginings of ignorant men. And some of you should understand this all too well because some of you were once fearful and ignorant men. And women."

I lay on my back. Above me flared a panorama of white. Flickering white.

"Now, now that you should know better, you are still held hostage to the fear and ignorance of those who cannot see beyond the grave!"

I saw seams in the whiteness . . . stitches . . . 

"Do you truly believe that you are beyond redemption? Consider the words of Paul, an Apostle of Jesus, called Messiah by the Christian sects: 'There is no one righteous, not even one; there is no one who understands, no one who seeks God. All have turned away, they have together become worthless; there is no one who does good, not even one. Their throats are open graves; their tongues practice deceit . . .' "

Shadows of limbs and moss-draped branches danced, faded, and reappeared across the whiteness with the shifting patterns of light.

" 'The poison of vipers is on their lips. Their mouths are full of cursing and bitterness. Their feet are swift to shed blood; ruin and misery mark their ways, and the way of peace they do not know.' "

The voice paused dramatically, then continued: "Paul goes on to say that 'all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.' "

I turned my head and saw that my canopied ceiling descended to the floor in swooping drapes and folds. I was inside a tent.

"Have you done evil?" the voice asked. "Well, let me tell you that you are in good company!"

I wasn't sure about my afterlife theology. I might hear sermons in Hell . . . but would I see tents?

"This book that I hold in my hands contains a veritable roll call of evildoers! This Paul, the Apostle of Jesus, whom I just quoted a moment ago, went around arresting and executing Christians with a viciousness that made him hated and feared throughout his country. He held his friend's coat and watched in utter indifference while the man was put to death. And, when he finally repented of the evil that he had done, he had to change his name and assume a new identity, so utterly fearful was his reputation in the land!"

I looked down and examined my blanket-wrapped body. It lay upon a canvas and wood-frame cot. As far as I could tell, I still had a physical body and it ached like hell. Again, the theological rules regarding corporeal existence were unclear. Was I still alive?

"Remember the story of Moses? Moses was a murderer! Before his exile into the wilderness and his destiny on Mount Sinai, he killed an Egyptian with his bare hands! Not by accident, not in self-defense, but in a murderous rage—a rage not unlike that crimson tide of fury that has swept many of us to violent acts in our own circumstances!

"Solomon was an adulterer. His daddy, King David, was always getting into trouble on that front and even ordered his best friend on a suicide mission so he could possess the man's wife without complications! How's that for cold?"

As a matter of fact, I was cold. The blankets kept some of the chill at bay, but I didn't generate enough body heat for the blankets to trap it effectively.

"The prophet Jonah defied God. Jonah! Sent on a mission by his God, he effectively said: 'The Hell with this!' He defied God and abandoned his mission! Ran away from his responsibilities! Not because he was afraid for his life, not because it was too difficult! He ran away because he was afraid the people he was supposed to preach to . . . might be converted!

"He didn't want them to be saved! He wanted them to suffer! He wanted them to be damned to eternal hellfire! Now what kind of evil is that?"

I worked on unwrapping the blankets. Whoever had tucked me in had done a bang-up job of it. I felt like a moth seeking premature release from its cocoon.

"Peter. The Apostle Peter. What a disappointment!"

While the "Sermon in Hell" scenario seemed less and less likely with every spasm toward wakefulness, it seemed pretty clear that I hadn't fallen into the hands of the 700 Club, either. Nope, not the sort of material one would expect from Graham, Falwell, Robertson, or Swaggert. And definitely not in the province of those TV evangelists with the gold furniture and the lady who looked like the love child of Dolly Parton and Tammy Faye Baker.

"Peter who is all noise and thunder when it comes to proclaiming Jesus as the Messiah," the voice continued, "suddenly loses his spine and denies that he even knows this man! Not once, not twice, but three, count 'em, three different times! How's that for eternal damnation? Denying the Son of God!"

I managed to work an arm free and then lay quietly, waiting for the room—er, tent—to stop spinning.

"Except the New Testament doesn't say anything about Peter being damned!"

I—and, presumably, some unseen audience—endured another dramatic pause. The tent seemed to spin a little less. "So what is the message here?" the voice continued quietly. "It's a very powerful one."

I noticed a familiar quality to the voice when it spoke softly—I had heard it somewhere before. I couldn't quite put my finger on it but, in my present condition, I was just as unlikely to come up with my own telephone number.

"The message is simply this: the great men and women in the Bible, by and large, were guilty of great wrongs! They sinned on both sides of the aisle: the sins of 'commission'; and the sins of 'omission.' But—in spite of their failings, their fears, their acts of disobedience or destruction, even their acts of evil—God used them! In fact, God blessed them!

"Oh, there were struggles and consequences, to be sure. But the scripture says 'Nothing can separate us from the love of God!' "

I worked my other arm free and was gratified to see that, while the tent's interior continued to revolve slowly, the revolutions didn't increase in speed.

"Do you believe that you are damned for all eternity? Do you really believe that you are beyond the forgiveness of Eternity?"

A large shadow darkened on the wall of the tent, shrank and darkened as someone approached.

"The Bible says that there is only one sin that is unforgivable! Only one sin that is unpardonable! It is not murder! It is not denying the Son of God! These sins, though not inconsiderable in their consequences, are not beyond the possibility of redemption." The voice dropped in volume and then continued softly: "No, the only sin that the Bible claims as being beyond God's mercy is—"

Lost as someone swept the tent flap aside, the stiff canvas making the sound of a colossus striding about in gigantic corduroy pants. Three women entered, the last pulling the flap closed behind her.

"Ah. You're awake I see," said the first, an older woman with a scattering of long, dark hair amid the predominant gray. She could have been in her late fifties or early sixties—assuming she was human. Actually, she did look human, and more than a little Amerind, but I had long since learned to not go with my first impressions.

The woman just behind her left shoulder appeared younger, taller, and plumpish. She wore glasses and had a kerchief bound over her long, dark hair. The woman standing just beyond the first woman's right shoulder was smaller, roundish, with dark hair and skin tones evidencing Hispanic origins. All were dressed similarly in blue jeans, tee shirts, and sneakers. If they were the Three Fates they were remarkably casual dressers.

"How are you feeling?" Fate Number Two asked pleasantly.

"Like Hell?" I croaked.

"Well," said Fate Number One, "you'll feel better in a bit. We'll do a session, with your permission, and Father Pat will be collecting communion shortly."

I wanted to ask: "A session?" Then: "Father Pat?" And before I could even get my mouth open: "Communion?" Instead I bypassed all three and asked: "Where am I?"

They all looked at each other and Fate Number One asked, "Where are we, girls? I'm afraid I haven't been paying attention lately and lost track."

Fates Two and Three exchanged expressions of bemused befuddlement and shrugged.

"The swamps," said Two.

"There aren't exactly any streets, addresses, or postal drops out here," added Three.

"We move about on a regular basis," concluded One.

I sighed. "So, I guess I'm still alive."

The oldest one chuckled and her eyes crinkled up into a dozen smiling creases but her words chilled me: "Not necessarily . . . your aura is all wrong."

"My what?"

"And your chakras are all running backwards," chimed in Number Three.

"Angela!" Number One scolded.

"Well, they are."

"Reading someone's aura from across the room is one thing," One continued, "but we don't do scans until we have permission."

"But I didn't scan him—not really. I can see it from here! Can't you, Lynne?"

Number Two cocked her head and looked me up and down. Or, more accurately, from one end to the other as I was lying down. "Nooo," she said slowly with a slight shake of her head, "I need closer proximity to his energy field in order to visualize the patterns of flow . . . but his aura . . ."

"It is unusual, isn't it, girls?" One remarked.

"I've never seen anything like it!" Angela breathed.

"Except for the time," added Lynne, "that Brother Mike—"

"Ladies!" One sternly admonished, "we are being rude." She turned her attention back to me. "Forgive us our nattering. We would like to help you but first we must ask your permission."

"My permission?" I croaked.

"To do a scan," Angela elaborated.

"And adjust your energy fields," Lynne added.

"If we can," Number One amended.

"Marilyn!?" the other two gasped, as if she had suggested something unthinkable.

"Well, look at him," Marilyn said matter-of-factly. "He actually has three distinct auras. I'm betting that his chakras don't total the requisite number either. Tell me, friend; are you alive, dead, or undead?"

I shook my head, causing the tent walls to take a quarter-turn about me: "I honestly don't know."

She nodded, thoughtfully. "Well, you've got holes in your auras that I could drive a truck through. With your permission, we'll attempt to close those gaps and rebalance your ki."

"Anything to make the room stop spinning."

Marilyn nodded and the three ladies took their positions at my head, my feet, and my side. Hands were extended, turned palms down, and then floated over my body a few inches away from actual contact. Aside from a series of "hmmm"s, a sigh, and a couple of "now that's interesting," the tent was quiet for a time.

"Angela is right," One—er—Marilyn said after a prolonged silence. "I count fourteen definable chakras—doublings actually—and three, hmmm, I don't know—para-chakras? And more than half of them are running backwards!"

"Is that bad?" I asked, starting to raise my head. The tent started to shift to the right so I lay back and closed my eyes.

"Not necessarily," answered Marilyn's voice. "If you were completely human, your energy flows would be completely out of whack—you'd be one very sick puppy."

"Voilà," I said, making a weak gesture with my hand.

"But you're not human," she continued. "Aside from the evidence in your multiple auras and chakras, you simply would not have lived three minutes after being gut shot the way you were—never mind surviving these past two days."

"Two days?" I murmured.

"And not just survived," she continued, "but begun to heal. Wiggle your toes."

I complied as best I could, though my feet felt numb and far away.

"See? Already your severed spinal cord has begun to knit."

I pushed past that surprise to ask about my liver.

"I'd stay away from hard liquor for another week or two but you could probably crack a bottle of wine tomorrow."

I doubted that I would be up for much of anything by tomorrow but I learned a long time ago to not argue with one's nurses.

Unless, of course, the topic was bedpans.

"So, to answer your question . . . we don't know."

"Um," I said, "you don't know what?"

"Whether half your chakras running backward is a good thing or a bad thing," Lynne answered, her eyebrows performing a series of merry pliés.

"Normally we would work on reversing the vortexes that are turning counterclockwise," Angela explained.

"But normal is not the operative word here," I croaked.

"And because it isn't," Marilyn elaborated, "we might end up undoing some aspects of your—ah—rather unique metabolism."

"Hey," I said, "if it puts me back on a normal diet, I'm all for it."

"Well, there is that. But I'm more concerned that we might switch off whatever energy pattern that's slammed shut Death's Door and is currently keeping it triple-bolted, padlocked, and barred. You're on the mend—but becoming human at this stage of the process could still be fatal."

I thought about that.

I thought about the fact that I had cheated death more than once.

That living on borrowed time always involved heavy interest penalties down the road.

That living as a monster was only defensible when you'd tried every other alternative.

And maybe not even then.

"I'll take that chance," I said finally. "Take your best shot: make me normal."

"What about Father Pat?" Angela asked.

"We probably should ask him, first," Lynne agreed.

"Mr. Cséjthe has made his choice," Marilyn answered. "It is his life. We must respect his wishes."

The others nodded and, once again, all extended their hands, palms down.

"How come everybody seems to know my real name?" I murmured.

"Lynne, take his feet and ground him."

I wasn't sure what she was doing down there but the numbness in my lower extremities began to work its way toward my head.

"Father Pat?" I mumbled. "Any chance he's available to grant absolution?"

"Are you Catholic?" I couldn't tell who was speaking now as tendrils of Novocain had started to tickle the underside of my brain.

"Nooo . . ." The Novocain had already established a beachhead in my lips and tongue. "Jus like ta keep my basssesss coverrredd."

"Well, neither is Father Pat. But I'm sure he—"

Whatever else was said, I was beyond hearing it.

Everywhere I look I see a crucifix.  

Preacher Hebler would approve. Not only have my personal chambers been stripped of every luxury of the flesh, the walls and doors have been adorned with a hundred and more crosses—the Christian symbols of torment and death. The priests and magistrate tell me that they will serve as a constant reminder of the God whose laws I have violated in every way imaginable. That they are there to turn each waking minute to reflection and penitence. That although there can be no hope of forgiveness in this world or the next, perhaps some good may be achieved by surrounding me with the sigils of the only willing sacrifice of blood, the only holy use for which the elixir of life is sanctioned.  

But that is mere sanctimonious posturing: I know why my walls have sprouted a veritable forest of Christ-trees. The so-called Holy Father of the Romans has blessed each and they hope that these sacred objects will reinforce the earthen strength of timber and stone to hold me in this place. The peasants pray that I will be bound here beyond my sorcerous powers to squeeze through the slitted windows and fly upon the midnight vapors to seek more prey.   

They need not fear.  

Not myself, at least.  

Even should timber crack and stone crumble, I am held here by a dark power more terrible than they can yet understand. They believe that they are safe now that I am "bound." But it is not their strength alone that prevailed against us. And it will not serve them against Cachtice's Power.  

I shall make the motions and the mumblings of atonement. Who knows, perhaps I am not so damned as they think. Are the children worthy of the same degree of guilt as the adult who parents them?  

I shall repent of my dark artistries . . . but, before I do, I shall make this one last spell.  

A conjuring of the blood.  

I shall bind the truth in my own blood that it may speak for me yet.  

I shall send that binding through the blood, blood unto blood.  

Someday, the issue of my blood shall reclaim my name. I do not believe it shall be through my children, Pál, Anna, Ursula, or Katelin. The Witch's reach is long and my grandchildren—Ferenc, Anna, Maria, Erzso, and Janos—may not exceed Her awful grasp.   

In exchange for my silence, She promised to not touch my family unto the forth generation. She has even named them though they are as yet many years unborn: Ferenc, Nicholas, Pál, Antal, Michael, Tamas, Elisabeth Christine, Anna Teresia, Maria Magdolna, Orsolya, Juliana, Klara, Ilona, Zsigmond, Kata, Gregory, and the two Lazlos.  

My issue beyond that may be hidden even from Her as the fate of my own, illegitimate daughter is hidden from me.   

Strange that I should remember her now, as I have not thought of her since I wed Ferenc. So many years ago! She was taken from my fourteen-year-old breast, the issue of a summer dalliance with a beautiful peasant boy. A year later I was the mistress of Cachtice and wife to the Black Hero of Hungary. Though legitimately born and of noble pedigree, our children may not be so pure as that nameless, lost daughter of my childhood. Perhaps the witch does not ken her existence and it shall be her anonymous legacy that delivers my message.  

I cannot see what my dark Mistress sees. But I make this spell and bind the truth through my blood to be passed from one generation unto the next.  

Until those bindings shall be loosed for Truth's sake . . .   

I ascended into consciousness more abruptly this time, not as a bubble but as a drowning swimmer, choking on the flood of water . . .

. . . of blood that filled my throat and flowed over my lips, dribbling down my chin.

"Careful," said a voice, "you're giving him too much. Give him a chance to swallow."

I turned my face away, sputtered, and spat the thick, viscous liquid out while a bit more dribbled down my cheek and jaw. I coughed and felt my heart leap within my chest.

I reached up to wipe my face and found my arm moved with a strength I had forgotten I could possess.

"How are you feeling, Mr. Cséjthe?" asked the familiar voice.

I opened my eyes and looked at the strange, discomforting visage that was somehow familiar.

"I know you from somewhere . . ." I whispered.

He nodded. "St. Mark's, the other night. You were looking for a whore." He laughed at what must have been the expression on my face. "The Whore of Babylon," he elaborated. "Or maybe you were looking for Elizabeth Báthory."

"Who are you?"

He smiled a death's-head grin and I finally realized what wasn't quite right about his complexion from our first meeting. The light, here, was different than the chapel at St. Mark's but his pallor remained ashen, a luminescent gray.

"Call me Father Pat; everyone else does."

"Maybe I should call you the 'late' Father Pat." Among other things I was discovering that my near-death experiences weren't improving my manners.

He chuckled, seemingly unoffended, and nodded. "We have much in common, Chris. We have both been tourists in that undiscover'd country—"

"—from whose bourne no traveler returns? Well, the border seems to have been left open for some time now and nobody's checking passports."

The bowl was pushed toward my face and I looked up. "Jeepers creepers: Lurch in a fright wig!"

While the giant leaning over me actually did bear a passing resemblance to Ted Cassidy (not Carel Struyken or John DeSantis), his face was as preternaturally pale as the shaggy white hair that framed it. The features were strong, as if a sculptor had intended to create an eagle or a hawk in white onyx and then changed his mind and tried for a rough approximation of a human being. The massive brow kept the eyes in shadow, the nose jutted and curved like an insolent beak, and the mouth was a slitted cleft in impassive stone.

Father Pat cleared his throat. "This is Brother Michael."

Massive white hands clutched the golden bowl with its bloody repast. They offered the bowl again.

"Um, not really thirsty, big guy. Maybe you should pop that back in the fridge."

"Please," said Father Pat. "You need it. And you shouldn't waste the gift of life: it will go bad soon."

"Won't we all. Where did it come from?"

"It is a love offering from the congregation."

"The congregation? It's human blood?" I don't know why I was surprised; by all rights I should never be surprised by anything ever again.

"Some of my congregants are human, yes. And it was given freely and specifically for you."

"I—I can't accept this," I said, staring down into its crimson depths. Saliva started to flood my mouth.

"You would refuse more than the gift of life, freely given," he said, his voice beyond serious and suddenly edging into—what? Ponderously prescient? "You would be handicapping your role in the battle that is to come."

"Battle?"

He nodded and his eyes seemed focused on something outside the frame of time and space. "The forces of Darkness are preparing to roll across the lands of the living. Unless she is stopped, the Whore of Babylon will put on her red dress, drenched in the blood of the innocent, and open the Fifth Seal. The end time plagues will be loosed upon the earth and will hasten the Day of Final Judgment for all of Mankind."

An electric shiver worked its way down my spine but I suppressed it with a medicinal dose of annoyance and said: "Why is my drinking some blood so all-fired important in the grand scheme of the Apocalypse?"

Father Pat appeared to consider for a moment and then said, "There was another man who questioned the necessity of certain sacrifices. He said: 'If possible, let this cup pass from—' "

"Whoa! Whoa, whoa whoa!" I pushed the covers back and swung my legs over the side of the cot. "I may not be a believer anymore—maybe more of a secular unhumanist—but you're seriously edging into blasphemy, here!" A hand grenade of pain went off in my middle and I sagged back against my pillow.

"I am not anybody's Great Undead Hope," I said, a little more carefully. "I am not a leader, a Loa, a messiah, or a general! I am just a guy trying to make sense out of a universe that keeps changing the rules."

"We all are," Father Pat said agreeably. "But fate and circumstance call us to greatness out of need, not because we're ready and willing to answer the call."

"Yeah? Well: ring, ring . . . what's that? . . . nobody answering? Guess we'd better keep working our way through the phone book."

"Perhaps if you understood—" he began.

"Let me tell you what I understand . . ." The stress of the past few days, the repressed grief for the lives lost, my most recent trip to the edge of death and back were combining to fuel a desperate rage. "When I was a kid in Sunday school they told me I had to pay for my sins. Okay, that seems fair. What doesn't seem fair is when I keep getting the bill for somebody else's crap! Well, check returned, insufficient funds: I am closing out all my accounts! You want someone to do battle with the Powers of Darkness? Go recruit the WWF! Hell, I can't even wear spandex without getting a rash!"

A scream split the momentary silence as I drew breath. A second later the tent flap was pulled aside and a face that was half-human, half-wolf appeared in the opening. "Father Pat!" it growled. "Come quickly! It's happening again!"

Pat jumped up. "Michael, bring the Roman Ritual and the holy water! Hurry!" He ducked through the flaps and was gone in a human heartbeat.

The giant hunchback stooped over me and gently, but firmly, pressed the bowl into my hands. His face was like carved stone, not quite human yet gently reassuring in its stony calmness and resolve. He turned and shuffled like someone unaccustomed to walking, bowing deeply for his humped shoulders to clear the tent's human-sized opening. Then he was gone, as well.

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Framed