Devil's Lair (26 page)

A shade sat up from his
resting place. “I am here, William.” A smile masked his suffering. “And so are
you.”

The friar scampered over a
dozen screaming shades to confront his nemesis. “I came to watch you suffer.”

“Then let us entertain each
other. Sit here, old friend,” said the accursed pope, pointing to an empty
coffin beside his own. The lid was unmarked, waiting for a name. “I reserved a
special place in Hell for you. Come, join me.”

“Never.”

“I am still your superior.”

“You were never that.”

“Disobedience is a sin.”

“You made a virtue of my
disobedience.”

“You made a vengeance of
your virtue.”

“Your love of property
earned you property in Hell.”

Pope John laughed. “You
charged me with the wrong heresy, William. I’m not here for making the church
wealthy.”

“You have many sins to
answer for.”

“True enough,” said John. “I
taught that those who die in grace must wait for the last judgment before they
can see God. For that heresy, the vision of God is denied me.”

“You wounded me, John.” He
could not keep the sadness from his voice.

“Happy to hear it.”

“I forgive you.”

“You do not have that
power,” the pope said in a mocking tone. “I stripped you of your priesthood.”

William made the sign of the
cross. “
Ego te absolvo te a peccatis tuis in nomine Patris et Filii et
Spiritus Sacti.
”

“Ha! See? I’m still here.
You are beaten, William. I have beaten you.”

“Congratulations on your
victory.”

William led his friends
through the fields of heresy, past the burning tombs of Arians and Manichaeans
and Bogomils, keeping to the well-marked path until they found the way out.

There were no stairs down to the seventh
level, only broken debris and treacherous stones. The slope was steep. Through
the rubble Marco improvised a path to the left. He tested the surface with each
step before shifting his full weight forward. Loose rocks betrayed his trust,
but Marco managed to stay upright. The pilgrims followed, copying his caution.

Marco spotted a beast on the path ahead.
It had the body of a man and the head of a bull.

Giovanni whispered, “Minotaur.”

The Minotaur watched them approach.
Marco felt the weight of its stare. Wary, the knight gripped the Lance in both
hands and stalked forward. The Minotaur’s chest heaved angrily. Steam puffed
from flared nostrils. The beast tilted back its head and bellowed a warning. It
was a raw animal sound, not human at all.

A bull is no match for a man,
thought Marco, preparing to counter the monster’s
charge.

But it did not charge. Instead, the
Minotaur bent low to the ground and with its human hands picked up a large
stone. It raised the stone high over its head and threw the boulder at the
cliff. Marco ducked instinctively, but the rock sailed high over his head.

Strong,
Marco noted.
Stronger than a man.

The stone rolled past Marco, gravel
tumbling in its wake.

The beast tried again.

“Hurry,” said Giovanni.

“We cannot run,” Marco answered. “The
ground is not —”

He heard the rumble of rocks above, and
turned quickly to the sound. The cliff was collapsing in a surge of stones. The
pilgrims scrambled from the danger. Marco leapt to his right, but the avalanche
caught him at the calves, knocking his legs out from under him. He sheltered
his head with his arms. Stones pelted him, bouncing off his arms and shoulders,
but the danger passed.

Struggling to his feet, he heard Nadja
call out, “Marco!”

He glanced her way. She pointed behind
him. He turned back to see the Minotaur charge. Marco gripped the Lance tight
and met the beast in battle. The uneven footing threatened and thwarted him. He
stabbed the Minotaur in the shoulder, but the monster knocked the knight off
his feet. Marco tumbled down the slope to a steep drop. With one hand he caught
himself, gripping the ledge. His body swung out into emptiness, then back
against the cliff. His legs dangled in the murky air. He kept his grip and did
not fall. One hand held the ledge, the other the Lance.

Glancing up, he saw Giovanni’s head peek
over the ledge. The poet reached out a hand. Marco saw the beast loom over
Giovanni.

"Down!" Marco yelled.

Giovanni ducked his head. Marco threw
the Lance. It pierced the Minotaur between the horns. The beast stumbled, went
limp, and fell into the abyss.

The Holy Lance fell with him.

After descending to the seventh level,
the pilgrims found the fallen Minotaur. Marco pulled the Lance from the
monster's head.
He felt a soft tap on his shoulder,
then on his sleeve and on his head. His clothes were stippled with blood. He
looked up and saw the red drops falling, tentative at first, then a torrent.
Warm blood rained down from a scarlet nimbus that scudded through the gloom.
None fell on William. The pilgrims ran for the cliff and hid beneath a jut of
rock, waiting for the bloodstorm to pass.

Later, they followed the
curve of the cliff and came upon a group of naked men who were shackled hand
and feet to the rock wall, facing it as blood ran down their bare backs and
buttocks. Marco saw no demons.

“Where are your tormenters?”
he asked.

“Go away,” said one of the
sinners.

“Don’t look at us,” said
another.

“Our demons flew,” said a
third man. “Something happened above.”

“The wall was breached,”
Giovanni informed them. “No doubt your jailers will return.”

“Who are you?” Nadja asked
one of them.

“Prince Amnon.”

“Son of King David?” William
said.

The prince affirmed it.

Nadja asked, “Why are you
here?”

“My sister was a temptress.”

“Incest?”

“No,” said William. “These
men are rapists.”

Nadja stepped back and
looked away.

Prince Amnon said, “I
offered our father fifty shekels of silver for my sister, as the law of God
requires. I humbled her. By rights she was mine.”

“Who is humbled now?” asked
William.

For Nadja’s sake they did
not linger, but found a cave in the cliff where they could rest, sheltered from
inclemency.

William had already dozed
off when he felt a tug at his sleeve and heard Nadja whisper, “Father, may I
speak with you?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Alone.”

He nodded and said to the
others, “Excuse us a moment.”

Marco and Giovanni waited
outside the cave. With the lancelight gone, William could scarcely see the
girl.

“Father?”

“Yes?” William said.

“Will you hear my
confession?”

“I cannot absolve you.”

“I know, Father.”

“Only God can do that. But
the desire to confess is a gift of grace. Speak your heart. God will hear you.”

There was a long pause. He
heard Nadja weeping. She leaned against him, and William folded her into his
arms.

“What is it, Nadja?”

“You’ll hate me, Father.”

“No. That will never
happen.”

“Those men back there,” she
said. “What they did. It happened to me.”

“Yes.”

“More than once.”

“In Munich?”

She whimpered. William took
it for an affirmation.

“The sin was theirs,” he
told her.

“One of those boys is here.
His sin is my sin.”

“This is not your place,
Nadja. His was a sin of violence, of violation.”

Silence.

“Confession is never easy,”
William said, “but it is necessary. Did you fight against what happened?”

“I was fallen in the road.
When I woke, he was inside me.”

“Did you submit?”

“I fought at first. I don’t
know. There were lots of boys. Lots of times.”

“Are you worried you might
have fornicated?”

She hesitated.

“What?” he said.

“I’m sorry, Father.”

“Say it.”

“I can’t.”

“Say the thing you will not
say.”

“Don’t hate me.”

“I won’t.”

“I killed someone.”

William’s heart fluttered.
“In self defense?”

He put a hand on her head.
She shook her head no.

“Who did you kill?” he
asked.

“A child.”

William’s throat tightened.
“Yours?”

She nodded.

The friar had seen many
women die in the attempt. It chilled him to think of Nadja poisoned by a
midwife or bled to death by a surgeon. “This was the child you saw in Limbo?”

“No. God took my second
because I took the first.”

“Do not presume to know
God’s reasons.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“Why did you abort your
first child?”

She said nothing.

“Was it to hide your sins?”
he asked.

“My sins were well known.”

“Why, then?”

Outside the cave, another
bloodstorm began. William worried that Marco and Giovanni might return, but
they did not. There were other shelters in the cliff.

“Nadja, tell me. Why did you
do this thing?”

More tears. “How can I care
for a baby when I can’t even care for myself?”

“You could be a good
mother.”

“I lose time, Father. So
much time. I thought, what if I fall when he’s in my arms? What if he dies
before I wake?”

“You were afraid?”

She nodded.

“So you took an
abortifacient?”

She nodded again.

“When was this?”

“Three years ago,” she said.

“What I mean is: after you
became pregnant, how long did you wait?”

“A week, maybe. I don’t
know. Is it important?”

William sighed. It was a
difficult subject to explain to a weeping woman. “The early church fathers
taught that in all cases abortion is murder, but Saint Augustine took a
different view. His teachings are now canon law. He wrote that the human soul
develops in stages: a vegetative soul, an animal soul, and a rational soul.
This means that an early abortion is like killing a plant. A later abortion is
like killing an animal.”

“When is it murder?”

“At forty days for a boy, or
eighty days for a girl. That’s when the child becomes
fetus animatus.
Fully human.”

“But I committed a sin.”

“Yes.”

“A deadly sin?” Nadja asked.
“One of the seven?”

“There is only one sin,
Nadja. Turning away from God.”

“I thought sin was
disobedience.”

“It is.”

“Then isn’t there a sin for
each commandment?”

“There is only one
commandment. Love God. All else is commentary.”

“I don’t understand.”

“If we love God with all our
heart, and with all our soul, and with all our might, there is no question of
obedience. There is only love.”

“What about the different
punishments?”

“There is only one
punishment.”

“Not down here,” Nadja said.
“They’re all different.”

“Yes. But think of water. It
may appear to be many things—a river, or snow, or ice, or steam—yet
it is all one essence. These punishments, too, are really one.”

“What is the punishment?”

“Exile.”

“From life?”

“From love,” said William.
“God is love. Hell is the absence of God. The torments you see are born of
fear. But love drives out fear. We must carry love with us, like water to a
desert, for we go to a place where there is no love.”

“To the Devil.”

“Yes. Lucifer, who was once
the closest to God, is now the farthest. Whenever we turn away from love, we
are doing the Devil’s work.”

“I don’t want to do the
Devil’s work,” Nadja said, “but I’m not smart like you, Father. I can’t read
the books you read. Saint Augustine or the scriptures. I get confused. I don’t
know what’s right.”

“If you give your heart to
God,” said William, “your heart will tell you what to do.”

“You make it sound so easy,
but it’s not.”