A Jealous God

I stood from the uncomfortable stone bench of the narrow transept and watched the exhausted peasantry shuffle out, a strangely familiar scene. Their long worn weariness had been eased by the sermon and the desiccated hand displayed prominently at the alter. The light from the stain glass mosaic of the crucifixion flashed through the withered slit in the palm, an occasional reminder of the weight it carried for us all. Supposedly. I returned a wave from a young boy in a faded burgundy tunic and straightened my shoulders wishing I'd had a chance to clean the road dust off my white tabard, but even browned by my travel the red cross was still easily discernible on my chest. I resisted the urge to cross myself and clenched my jaw as the hand winked at me. I looked at it sharply, but it was unmoving. Bright tangy frankincense still burned, covering the smell of unwashed bodies, including my own.

“Lawrence! You are back so soon.” Father Raymond said. It wasn't a question and he didn't seem surprised to see me. The heavy oak doors boomed shut as the last pilgrim left the Benedictine Church of the Hand of the Son. His dark eyes peered down at me from the pulpit, the good book heavy in front of him, it weighed on me. I keep my shoulders square and my back straight even as his eyes bored into my soul. He'd taken my confession many times over the years. I resisted the urge to look behind me, I would've felt someone approach on the springy wooden floor, but I felt watched. Watched, not seen, as I usually did in the house of the Lord. “It's a three week ride to Turbessel. You were certain the bandits were centralizing there. Ranging out and attacking pilgrims on their way to Edessa, Jerusalem, and here, to see the Hand of the Son” he gestured at the relic behind him.

Father Raymond turned away from the bible on the pulpit and stepped back towards the hand. He removed his stole, the symbol of his priesthood. My mail jangled before I moved. The hair on my neck stood and I could not resist glancing at my shoulder at the empty church behind me.

Light flashed through the procession of stained glass drawing my eye- Mary weeping over her murdered son, his hand flopped lifelessly out towards the congregation, fingers bent partially, perhaps a gesture to come and partake of his flesh, or, I had always wondered, a finger pointing accusingly, uncompleted. The dark slit in the palm was surrounded by deep red. Mary's eyes stared at me.

The incense turned bitter in my nose and the acrid smell pulled my attention to the other side of the room. The stained glass there showing the faithful casting sinners to the yawning pit of hell- dark tendrils surrounded by fire rising to consume their tainted souls. The dark pit drew me in, more intricacies in the glasswork than I expected. “Sir Lawrence, not being tempted by hell are we?” I jerked to look at the Father, his dark eyes twinkled playfully defying the concerned set of his features. I clutched the crucifix around my neck.

“Father Raymond, we need to talk.”

“In good time, my boy” the twinkle touched the corner of his mouth. The wind picked up outside, it groaned through the steeple. It was quieter than the moaning death of a defeated army. “Come pray by the Hand. The Lord will forgive your sins in his name.” Light flashed through the window again, through the slit in the hand, washing me in red light. The Father's shadow was large and twisted on walls behind him.

I dropped one hand to the hilt of my sword, taking comfort in the wire wrap, my other hand remained on my crucifix. “I had thought you were right at first, Father. The evidence suggested the bandits were attacking indeterminately; targeting pilgrims for their worldly wealth and taking anyone in the area.”

Father Raymond mumbled an affirmative and leaned towards the hand, inspecting the base of the reliquary.

I shifted uncomfortably in my armor. I clenched my jaw, steeling myself as if I were charging towards a spear wall. I'd survived such trials many times. Surely the Lord wouldn't leave me now.

“God's grace shined upon me and my company on our way. By His will we encountered the heinous acts in progress, the bandits attacking and harrying the pilgrims.” I straightened my tabard wondering why my spine felt like jelly as I looked up at the small man. I startled as the fingers of the hand twitched. Two inches of steel were exposed before I realized it was a trick of the light, a shadow as Father Raymond passed behind the hand. The withered palm glistened wetly.

Father Raymond stood straighter and peered at me worriedly. His eyes were shiny and dark. “Are you well boy? Your humors look unbalanced. Or, Great Lord, perhaps you're possessed?” The Father turned and offered a silent prayer to the hand. I clenched my teeth. “I'm an old man, boy, step closer so I can hear you.” He swung his arm out, an invitation to join him and the hand on the chancel.

I stepped up. “We had expected wanton carnage and rode to close the distance. We were afraid we wouldn't make.it in time, But the bandits didn't set upon them like we thought. They herded them, the most monstrous of them picking off a few, which we took care of.” The Hand was mounted behind finely made colorless glass, with few bubbles or waves to distort the relic. A golden cup set with rubies was formed around the diminished forearm and at the bottom a spindly stem that mounted into a roughly shaped stone, something dark, unlike the rocks usual to Edessa. There were undecipherable scratches and etching carved into the chaotic facets of the stone base. At first I took them for tool marks, but they were too deliberate for that. I was drawn in, trying to decipher what pattern they might hold. Not pictures like the monuments from Egypt in Constantinople, or the Hebrew letters of the Jews, not the newer Cyrillic alphabet, nor the runic letters of the Varangians and Rus.

The incense was sweet in my nose, as if fresh blossoms of Lily-of-the-Valley bloomed all around me. The light had shifted, washing the alter and chancel in red and golden hues. The hand and Father Raymond were gone. I whirled around at the thud of the crossbar dropping into place at the doors to the church. Raymond waddled back into the light and said, “Wouldn't want bandits getting in, now would we?”

“What happened, I…” I trailed off and then refocused, “Your bandits, you mean? I know you are behind it Father.” I reached into a pouch at my belt and tossed the heavy gold medallion across the room to land at his feet. It depicted St. Benedict holding the decrepit hand like a grotesque bouquet. "Each of the bandits had one of these Father, if you are actually ordained! You are a charlatan, and a blasphemer. Your machinations to direct beleaguered pilgrims here to pay alms to the Son of God. To give prayers before that thing, which is a farce as well, an artifice of theater, I’m certain.”

“We've been here before boy. We'll be here again.” He was mad. The wind whistled through the eaves and I clenched my hand around my sword hilt. “It is no artifice.” I squeezed my eyes shut, momentarily grieving the friend I had lost, and the fool I had been. His eyes looked completely black in the now dim light of the nave and his smile pulled his face too tight. I grasped my crucifix again. Father Raymond laughed, an airy sound, and said, “That thing won't help you here, boy. That God can't be found here, boy. Your god is dead here, boy!” He chuckled and paced around the room usually used for holy things, perverted by his presence. “I've been here far longer than him. It wasn't about gold before, no. I've always dealt in souls, like yours.” He cackled. “Like yours!”

The light flashed around the room highlighting elements in the stained glass I'd never notice before, recesses and depths filled with dark voids that commanded me to look closer. My skin crawled with the feeling of eyes all over me and the sweet smell in the air turned, over ripened fruit bursting with maggots, and the cloying smell made me gag. “Why are you doing this?” I tried to shed all outside input and focus only on the old man before me. This was just another battlefield.

He stopped his pacing. He was unnaturally still for a moment, head cocked and dark eyes peering at me. He pointed at me and took a few slow steps towards me. He smiled. “To take back what's mine. To reclaim the souls stolen from me and to play with them for eternity as is my right. I will do this over and over again. Your God came and so easily convinced everyone to leave me here, so alone. Not anymore, I have taken them back. I will always take them back.”

I said a silent prayer, hoping God would hear me despite what Raymond had said.

Raymond opened his robes and I stumbled backwards into the reliquary podium. What had once been Father Raymond was withered and wrinkled below his clavicle. The Hand of the Son was there, the golden stem that displayed it was skewered into Raymond’s side and the arm was twisted upward where the fingers sunk into the puckered flesh over his heart. My head swam with the grotesque scent in the air and I swallowed the bitter bile that tried to escape my throat. His shadow danced along the walls, moving far more than the stationary man casting it. Tendrils stretched around the room, reaching for me.

I charged the unholy aberration, the ringing of my sword in harsh dissonance to the howling wind and the polished blade stained red by the light as if I'd never cleaned it before. The monster shifted slightly, the dark eyes boring into me, and waited, still. I fell into the black pools of its eyes, feeling my head spinning. The chaotic symbols etched on the stone base began to swim in my vision and the shadow loomed. I wished I had my shield and greathelm, both hanging from my saddle. I’d have to trust in my faith.

I swung my sword, a powerful downward blow, but the aberration was not where I thought. It was closer to me than my eyes perceived and I ran into its mass at the top of my swing, rebounding from the solid thing. Raymond was still out of reach. I cut, pivoted, and jabbed, driving my blade point first into the invisible thing. Into nothing. My head pounded. My sword didn’t move. Then I was dashed to the side as a battering ram shattered into my chest. I propped myself up on my sword. The aberration said what I was wondering, “Where is your god now?” and the shadows wrapped around my feet dragging me back into the center of the room. I could feel all the eyes of the room staring at me, consuming me. My crucifix dangled against my face as it lifted me to hang from the floor. “Well, are we done here, boy?”

I glared at him and tasted blood. “Not as long as I draw breath.” The aberration hung over me, its body shifting in and out of my vision, a maelstrom of shadow and light and real and void. “The Lord is my shepherd. My faith will always protect me.”

Raymond rolled his eyes and slammed something through my chest before tossing me against the wall where I slid down onto the stone bench and everything went dark.

-

I stood from the uncomfortable stone bench of the narrow transept and watched the exhausted peasantry shuffle out, a strangely familiar scene.