Power in the Blood - Pt. 5
Fran looked at the window and then back at the boy sobbing near the foot of her bed. What felt like a cold breeze blew through her. She fingered her rosary and stepped up with the cloth. “Well I had hoped you two would be done after he was… after he left.” She held out the wet towel as one would meat to a rabid dog.
He took it in his right hand. “Thanks sister. I think we’re done now, he and I.”
She watched him wipe the blood away, trying to see where he was bleeding. She suspected that its source lay dying elsewhere. “Why come to me?”
A smile threatened the corners of his mouth. He fought it down, his soul screaming for her to run away. “You always seemed to care so much for us. I thought you could help me. I’m afraid that I’ve done something bad.”
“I love you children.” She squatted so she could look into his eyes. “I’ll be glad to help you. You just tell me what you need.”
His eyes flashed. The nearness of her and that scent buried any idea of waiting. “I need you.”
The hunger there scared her. She knew what the boys whispered about her. It flattered her and even excited her in a way she tried to deny. But she didn’t think this was that sort of hunger. “Just wait now.” She stood and backed away as far as the room would let her. “I don’t know what’s wrong with you Reginald, but whatever you’ve done can be fixed.”
“Fixed.” Anger crept into his voice. “I don’t need anything to be fixed.” He stood in a fluid motion. “I’m just fine.” He pulled her into a lover’s embrace. “More than fine.” He looked into her eyes wanting to see her fear more clearly.
Heat from his body felt like it was practically burning her skin, even through their clothes. Mentally she chanted the twenty-third psalm and felt His presence. “You’re not foine, not a’tall.” Stress brought out her brogue. “Ya need help. He can help you.” Her eyes went to the crucifix.
“Him?” Hatred suffused him, more powerful for the moment than the hunger. He spun the petite woman onto her bed. “He can’t do a thing for me, or for you.” He reached down to rip the front of her smock away and touched the gold there. Skin sizzled and he hissed in pain. Swear words, more ancient than the Latin heard in these halls filled the room.
“Perhaps I was wrong.” She sat up, tears filling the corners of her eyes. “Maybe it is too late.” She began to sing the Kyrie and genuflecting. As she did she felt as though she had become a deep well. That space in her began to fill with something both whitely hot and as cold as she imagined space would be.
Reggie watched as light began to fill the room, washing out the candles’ illumination. A new level of agony coursed through his body. His consciousness swam back to the surface and gained control. Where Sister Fran and the bed had once been there was what he would call an angel. She was both beautiful and terrible in a way that no words he had could describe. The light consumed everything and the pain and the music swelled to a peak and just when he thought he could take no more everything went black.
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Father Tim ran down the stairs in his robe and slipper. The Mother Superior had called him unable to say anything other than, “Come to Fran’s room quickly.” A group of nuns stood outside her door praying fervently but apparently none had dared enter.
“Sister Mary Louise, what’s going on here?” He put on his sternest face. Being awoken at two in the morning did not put him in his best mood.
She genuflected. “Father, we heard the most… unholy noises coming from Fran’s room. I called Herself and she called you.”
He looked around for her and didn’t see her. Sister Katherine was many things but brave wasn’t one. “So no one has called the police yet?” He was satisfied by the shake of her head. He wanted to make sure of what had gone on before involving the authorities. There had been no whiff of scandal in St. Andrews for over a century and he’d see that it would stay that way.
As noisy as the sisters said it had been there was no sound coming from behind the dark wooden door now. He tried it but it wouldn’t budge. He put his shoulder to it and practically fell in. Candlelight made seeing any details difficult, but he was fairly sure they were both dead and that it had been peaceful. Fran was cradling the boy, more beautiful in repose than any of the great masters had accomplished.
He took it in his right hand. “Thanks sister. I think we’re done now, he and I.”
She watched him wipe the blood away, trying to see where he was bleeding. She suspected that its source lay dying elsewhere. “Why come to me?”
A smile threatened the corners of his mouth. He fought it down, his soul screaming for her to run away. “You always seemed to care so much for us. I thought you could help me. I’m afraid that I’ve done something bad.”
“I love you children.” She squatted so she could look into his eyes. “I’ll be glad to help you. You just tell me what you need.”
His eyes flashed. The nearness of her and that scent buried any idea of waiting. “I need you.”
The hunger there scared her. She knew what the boys whispered about her. It flattered her and even excited her in a way she tried to deny. But she didn’t think this was that sort of hunger. “Just wait now.” She stood and backed away as far as the room would let her. “I don’t know what’s wrong with you Reginald, but whatever you’ve done can be fixed.”
“Fixed.” Anger crept into his voice. “I don’t need anything to be fixed.” He stood in a fluid motion. “I’m just fine.” He pulled her into a lover’s embrace. “More than fine.” He looked into her eyes wanting to see her fear more clearly.
Heat from his body felt like it was practically burning her skin, even through their clothes. Mentally she chanted the twenty-third psalm and felt His presence. “You’re not foine, not a’tall.” Stress brought out her brogue. “Ya need help. He can help you.” Her eyes went to the crucifix.
“Him?” Hatred suffused him, more powerful for the moment than the hunger. He spun the petite woman onto her bed. “He can’t do a thing for me, or for you.” He reached down to rip the front of her smock away and touched the gold there. Skin sizzled and he hissed in pain. Swear words, more ancient than the Latin heard in these halls filled the room.
“Perhaps I was wrong.” She sat up, tears filling the corners of her eyes. “Maybe it is too late.” She began to sing the Kyrie and genuflecting. As she did she felt as though she had become a deep well. That space in her began to fill with something both whitely hot and as cold as she imagined space would be.
Reggie watched as light began to fill the room, washing out the candles’ illumination. A new level of agony coursed through his body. His consciousness swam back to the surface and gained control. Where Sister Fran and the bed had once been there was what he would call an angel. She was both beautiful and terrible in a way that no words he had could describe. The light consumed everything and the pain and the music swelled to a peak and just when he thought he could take no more everything went black.
------------------------
Father Tim ran down the stairs in his robe and slipper. The Mother Superior had called him unable to say anything other than, “Come to Fran’s room quickly.” A group of nuns stood outside her door praying fervently but apparently none had dared enter.
“Sister Mary Louise, what’s going on here?” He put on his sternest face. Being awoken at two in the morning did not put him in his best mood.
She genuflected. “Father, we heard the most… unholy noises coming from Fran’s room. I called Herself and she called you.”
He looked around for her and didn’t see her. Sister Katherine was many things but brave wasn’t one. “So no one has called the police yet?” He was satisfied by the shake of her head. He wanted to make sure of what had gone on before involving the authorities. There had been no whiff of scandal in St. Andrews for over a century and he’d see that it would stay that way.
As noisy as the sisters said it had been there was no sound coming from behind the dark wooden door now. He tried it but it wouldn’t budge. He put his shoulder to it and practically fell in. Candlelight made seeing any details difficult, but he was fairly sure they were both dead and that it had been peaceful. Fran was cradling the boy, more beautiful in repose than any of the great masters had accomplished.
© 2004 by Scott Roche
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