The Harrowing
The Harrowing
BRUNO AND KATHY stepped out into the peace of midnight. The smooth stone face of the old cathedral was washed silver by the light of the new-risen gibbous moon. The great rose window above the portals glowed warmly over the plaza in the heart of old Alvarado.
As was usual, Chavez halted just outside to greet his exiting flock. The procession dissolved into a ragged reception line.
As they emerged, Bruno heard girlish squeals of delight above the murmur of the crowd. Beyond the knot of parishioners and clergy, Mike and the three servers stood on the small lawn. Marie and Beth had blown out their candles, handing them to the lanky boy who had carried the cross between them, and were jumping up and down hand in hand, laughing. While the adults watched indulgently, the kid wore a goofy grin like he had just been given a special honor by a pair of young goddesses. Perhaps he had, thought Bruno. Certainly, his daughter had never appeared so lovingly, achingly alive.
"We did it, we did it!" Marie shrilled as she spun herself into Bruno. "Whoa, girl," he said, laughing as he caught her. "Easy there, darling! Didn't your uncle warn you about the dangers of throwing up God?"
"Oh Dad, you're so naughty," she giggled, throwing her arms around him. He hugged back proudly, and then held her out at arm's length. Her luminescent beauty was flawless in the soft moonlight and the loose alb, bound at the waist, did not conceal that this twelve-year-old was becoming a woman. She smiled shyly and brushed her straight red hair back off her face. "I am unbelievably proud of you," Bruno said, "but you're growing up so fast."
She laughed again, kissed him on the cheek, and skipped off. "Now, Marie," Mike called as she raised her arms, "no handstands while wearing vestments!" She pouted for a moment then twirled away merrily with her longhaired companion. Bruno turned towards Kathy. "Well," he admitted. "You've done good. She's quite a fine young lady."
His ex-wife smiled proudly, if a little sadly, and took his arm. "We've done good," she said, emphasizing the "we." "But we could do a lot better, especially with her reading problems, if you'd show up and help more often. Maybe then you wouldn't be so surprised at how she's grown."
He nodded, unable to answer her criticism. He still owed her plenty of real amends, but her carping didn't help.
"Hey," he said, "I'm sorry I was late again with the payment. Tuition was due and the grant was even later than usual, so I —" Gently, she reached up and touched his lips. "You know that's not what I mean," she said softly. "You've missed so much by staying away. Marie needs a father, that's all. Your brother is closer to her than you are."
She saw the hurt in his eyes and hugged him. But her apology died stillborn, and her eyes widened angrily as she stepped back. "Bruno," Kathy hissed in a sharp, low whisper, "you didn't bring a gun to church, did you?"
Her former husband nodded red-faced, suddenly feeling totally stupid and aware that her voice had carried, though Mike was busy talking to an old couple. He could not tell her why. Apologizing seemed equally futile.
His former wife whispered icily, "Don't you even think of bringing it over to the house," and turned away, heels clicking sharply on the sidewalk.
Bruno turned towards his brother, still glad-handing the departing flock. "Hey, bro," he said when his turn finally came, "Good work. You taught Marie well."
Mike smiled feebly at the compliment. "She's a good kid. Better at it than we were at her age."
Bruno peered at him in mock amazement. "You're not thinking she might want to be ordained someday, are you?"
Mike laughed. "Well, if it was up to me...," he said and shrugged. "Maybe I should ask the Pope when he gets here."
"Anyway, Mike," he said, "You know I was no damn good. I couldn't even recite the Act of Contrition right, while you were made for this job."
Mike looked at him frankly and said, "Oh no, brother. You were the chosen one — until you threw it all away."
Before Bruno could retort Mike had turned and was already greeting a parishioner. Much calmer now, the girls had been listening, and his daughter tugged on his sleeve. "Dad? What did you mean, you couldn't even properly say the Act of Contrition?"
Bruno shook himself and chuckled uneasily. "Well, your uncle was so worried about going to hell if the Russians nuked us that he could rattle it off in thirty seconds, even before the air raid sirens stopped sounding. But I never got it right and was whacked more than once for saying it wrong. I thought it went something like 'Oh my God, I am hardly sorry for having defended me and we detest your just punishments, which aren't at all good —'" He was rudely interrupted by the noise of water pipes clearing their throats, and the sprinklers suddenly came on full all across the lawns around the church.
People shrieked, running for the sidewalks. Out of the corner of his eye, Bruno saw his brother hustle Marie over to the cement walk.
"Oh great," Mike said in disgust as he raised his arms, shedding water from his dalmatic. "I told the groundskeeper to be sure to disengage the automatic sprinkler system for this weekend. Look at us! We're soaked."
Bruno wiped the water off his face. He noticed Marie still clinging to Mike, and the wet linen clinging to her. Her blue-eyed gaze at her uncle contained something akin to adoration. "My hero," she said laughingly.
"Er, yes, well, that's okay," Mike stammered, stepping back, shaking water off his long stole. "I should have had a chasuble on — they were originally rain ponchos, after all. Isn't that right, Bruno? You're the historian."
Bruno was startled at the anger that rose in him. "Right as usual, padre," he said lightly and clapped him on the shoulder. "I think this is a good omen, don't you? Rain, anywhere in this desert is good — even up from the ground. It's a bloody miracle!"
"Yeah, I guess so," Mike grumbled. They looked around at the bedraggled group and chuckled. Marie, however, was beginning to shiver in her mother's ample arms.
"Hey, let's get you guys changed before you catch your death," said the ever-practical Kathy, as she bustled the girls towards the sacristy, shooting a final glare at her ex-husband. He turned to face Mike, but his younger brother had an odd expression. Ignoring Bruno and the milling crowd, he was staring upwards.
High above them came a slow grinding of stone on stone and a trickle of dust. Bruno glanced up too. The carved stone cross at the apex of the church between the towers tottered slightly in the gloom, an indistinct figure leaning against it.
Time seemed to telescope as Mike immediately turned, yelling, "Get down!" Bishop Chavez, still chatting with a little old lady, looked up astonished as the priest, arms outspread, wet stole flapping, leaped through the crowd upon him. The grandmother in black spun away into the mob. Mike and his bishop hit the wet flagstone pavement and rolled, knocking over even more startled parishioners and servers.
There was a terrible sound as the monolith gave way above. A falling scream — Bruno couldn't make out words — was drowned by a hard crash of stone smashing into flying bits against the pavement, and a softer, wetter thud, almost like a watermelon disintegrating into pulp.
Mike and the bishop stopped rolling. His left arm sprained, Mike lifted himself up gingerly and helped Chavez rise. "Are you okay?" Mike asked. His superior, pale and obviously shaken, waved him off. "Yes, yes, I'm fine. What happened? Is anyone hurt?"
Mike peered about. The old woman had landed amid a pile of deacons. She seemed dazed but undamaged. He moved forward, the stunned crowd parting before him. A shattered pile of stone, plastered white with over a century of pigeon droppings now occupied the spot where Chavez had stood by the door. A body was draped over it, blood dripping onto the rubble. Malachy was already there, feeling for the man's pulse.
The old priest grimly looked up at Mike and shook his head. He mumbled an absolution and made a sign of the cross over the corpse. "May God have mercy," he sighed and stood.
"Isn't that —" Mike began. Malachy nodded. "His name's Carlos. Troubled kid — climbed churches all over town — even the bell towers. I've caught him here several times."
"I saw him just this morning leaving Tom's office," Mike said. "Was he crushed?""
"No, I don't think so, son," Malachy replied. "See, he's on top of the cross, not under it. And look at what he's wearing — climbing shoes and shorts. No, he was up there all right. The old sandstone must have finally given way." They both glanced up at the stump on the peak of the building between the never-completed steeples.
The sudden intrusion of a glaring light informed them that the TV crew had come to investigate the commotion. "Just what we need," Malachy said, shaking his head.
Mike turned, rubbing his sprained arm with a grimace, and nearly ran headfirst into the chancellor. Bob Cruz was holding his bleeding head, looking dazed, his normally sallow face pale behind his thick mustache. "Are you okay?" Mike asked. Cruz swayed, mumbling, "Not real sure." Mike helped him lie down on a dry spot, and put his satin dalmatic under his head.
Apart from a few bruises, no one else seemed injured. A flustered crowd still surrounded the bishop. Several clerics were brushing the dust off his vestments, and two seminarians held his miter and crosier, the top bent markedly to the side.
The camera's light held him as Chavez dramatically pushed his way through the ring of people surrounding the body. "Oh my Lord," he said. "What a terrible, terrible thing to happen, especially on this holy night. May God have mercy on this poor boy." He peered up at the cathedral.
"We knew this church was in disrepair," he said quietly, almost to himself. "But we never thought that it was in any way dangerous. God forgive me for taking so long to replace it." Tears streamed down his face as he crouched, tenderly touching the dead teen's hair in a final benediction.
The bishop stood to face the camera as a reporter elbowed his way through the mob towards him. Malachy turned to Mike. "You better get out there."
"What about Bob?" asked Mike. "He needs a doctor."
Malachy shrugged. "I'll stay with him until the ambulance gets here." Noting Mike gingerly holding his arm, he asked, "Can you stand facing the cameras? Go on, then. You're the savior of the hour; they'll want you to say something."
Mike's protests faded as his mentor gently but firmly led him into the glare of public attention.
Not far away, Bruno tore his eyes off the grisly tableau, looking up. There, on the other side of the body, Monsignor DeLaval pushed through the crowded clergy for a better view, smiling crookedly. Gray eyes glittering, he looked around sharply at his fellow priests, and noticed Bruno gaping at him from across the death scene. Grinning, the priest blew him a kiss, mouthed the word, "Boo!" and then quietly slipped away.
Bruno froze for several long minutes. He could not move, not even to reach his pistol. When at last he could, he ran as fast as his legs could carry him back to the safety of his car, away from the lights, noise, and death.
Meanwhile, DeLaval fled into the cathedral as the commotion grew behind him, clutching his robes. "Oh my God," he called out loudly, urgently coaxing the stragglers outside. "There's been an awful accident! Someone call an ambulance!"
He strode quickly towards the sacristy, peering carefully around him. He paused at the door, and with a quick glance, stepped instead across into the side chapel of the Virgin, securing the door behind him.
The room was silent and dark — but not empty. The presence light flickering dimly by the tabernacle and banks of votive candles revealed the small porcelain figurine of Nuestra Señora de Victoria standing defiant and ready for battle in her niche in the reredo above the small altar. Her diminutive size belied her importance as the spiritual heart of Alvarado.
Patroness of the conquistadors who brought her with them from Spain, La Victoria was a martial queen. She proudly wore a crown turreted like a castle on her black hair and a silver breastplate over her scarlet silk gown. With a silver sword and white shield bearing a crimson Maltese cross, she stood forever on watch against Moors and all other such enemies of the faith.
The statue's presence always made DeLaval nervous, but never like now. He told himself it meant his magic was working. It was daring to hide the Codex again in such a spot, but the boy's sacrifice, even if Mike's heroics made him miss Chavez and the others, would not be in vain; for now his restless spirit would further guard Wilson's secret stash. Had not his sorcery also drawn the very one who had revealed the vault to him? Doubtless that was a good omen, and surely DeLaval's bold effrontery would please his Dread Lord and Lady greatly.
The fat man cautiously felt around the rim of the altar, wary of alarm wires, and finally found the button in the small rosette that popped open the front panel. DeLaval writhed, pawing at his robes until he drew out first the Cross, and then the Book. He carefully tucked them into the small dark void and shut the vault, muttering a spell of protection.
He impudently smiled up at the delicate features of the doll-like statue, its glassy gaze ignoring him as always. "Now I can go. I gratefully return the Codex to the place where I first obtained it," he whispered. "Kindly guard it better for me than you did for dear old Xaphon."
He chuckled deeply and bowed. Then, still laughing, he turned. He tore off the vestments even as he left the chapel.
†
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