Serial Saturday: The Sacrament by T. H. Sterling, Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Peter rubbed his eyes, the heavy silence of the Scriptorium pressing down on him. The scent of old parchment filled his nostrils as he glanced over the pile of bound books laid out before him on the long wooden table. 

For three days, he had worked here, pouring over the treasures of the Archive. He marveled at the opportunity to touch these ancient writings, feeling closer to God among the words of the saints. The Lord had blessed him often—from his privileged youth and his acceptance into this prestigious parish to his new role as Custodian. And yet, often he felt he didn’t deserve such gifts, burdened by his flawed humanity and his irreverent sarcasm, which always seemed to slip out at the worst times.

He sighed, his father’s voice echoing in his mind: You are destined for great things, Peter—a vessel for the greater good. The thought brought little comfort as the Scribes’s sharp words still rang in his ears—words of doubt cloaked in politeness, yet sharp as a blade. 

“Your father’s generosity didn’t hurt,” one had joked over supper, and though Peter had laughed with them, the words burned in the pit of his stomach now.

I’ll prove to them that the Rector made the right decision putting his trust in me, he thought. They’ll quiet their musings once I bring them hallowed passages to translate.

He pushed the thoughts aside. The Eucharist was coming, and there was no time to dwell before the offering of the bread and wine. He needed something special that could bring enlightenment to the faithful.

He stood, scanning the murky expanse of the Archive, the flickering glow casting movement throughout. The Scriptorium stretched in every direction, a maze of towering shelves whose tops disappeared into the vaulted gloom above. 

Lord, guide me. Let me be your vessel to bring your message to the flock.

He moved toward the depths, gliding past dusty rows, each filled with the greatness of God, but none drew him. A pressure in his chest pulled him forward, almost as if an unseen hand led him. 

A low, muffled thud broke through the stillness. Peter froze, a chill creeping up his spine. The sound faded, leaving behind only the oppressive quiet. 

Just the old chamber settling, he thought, forcing a chuckle to ease the tightness in his throat. Shadows don’t bite.

He tightened his grip on the lantern’s handle, holding the light further in front of him. The quiet pressed down on him, so heavy it seemed to swallow even the faintest breath. Each step felt louder than it should, the tap of his boots echoing like a hammer striking rock. 

The sound came again—another muted thud, soft but deliberate. He paused mid-step, his pulse quickening as the noise seemed to follow his movements. Peter swallowed hard, forcing himself to keep walking with gentle, soundless strides.

Rows of narrow aisles seemed to close in around Peter, the air thick with the strain of centuries. To his right, a black void drew his eye. It wasn’t just that he longed to move away from the noises; the hint of the alcove almost whispered to him to come find its secrets.

The opening yawned like a mouth, its edges veiled in thick spiderwebs, the darkness within defying the feeble glow. Dust hung in the air, disturbed only by his cautious steps. The dim outline of a plaque caught his eye, mounted in the granite archway at eye level.

He held the light closer, brushing away a veil of spider silk with the back of his hand. The Latin inscription came into focus: Pro Fratribus Sacrae Ritus—“For the Brethren of the Sacred Rite.”

Peter hesitated, the Rector’s warnings gnawing at him. The Brethren didn’t appreciate intrusions into their space—pompous guardians of rituals that they were in their cloistered order. He smirked despite himself, imagining the scandalized looks on their faces if they found him here. He rubbed the back of his neck, glancing over his shoulder, half-expecting a reprimand to materialize out of the shadows.

But the dust and decay suggested no one had been here in ages, probably forgotten eons ago. 

What harm could a quick glance do? Besides, as the new Custodian, I should know the full extent of what I protect?

“None shall ever suspect,” he muttered, as if speaking aloud might absolve him. 

Steeling himself, he stepped across the threshold. The prickle of guilt lingered, but he dismissed it with a shrug.

The air within felt heavier, laced with a musty scent mingled with the subtle tang of iron. He coughed, the sound swallowed by the oppressive heaviness. The narrow passage widened into a small room lined with shelves that sagged under the ancient artifacts.

Peter’s lantern revealed rows of chalices, each more elaborate than the last, their gold and silver surfaces carved with intricate designs. Cobwebs draped across them like shrouds, the dust layered so thickly it dulled their once-glorious sheen. Other relics stood among the goblets—wooden fragments carefully displayed in glass cases, labeled with faded Latin script.

Pieces of the cross, Peter realized. At least, that’s what they claimed. He suppressed a snort. Perhaps they chopped up some old beams for the theatrics.

On a far shelf, a twisted crown of thorns rested atop a blackened velvet cushion. The dried, dark flecks clinging to its tips made his stomach churn. Blood? Or just rust? Peter shook his head. 

“A needless indulgence in ceremony,” he whispered, dismissing the grim objects as one of their theatrical excesses.

At the farthest edge of the alcove, a thick cloth covered a rectangular shape. Peeking beneath it revealed a plain metal chest. He slid the material off, dust dancing in the flickering light. A ruby chalice inlaid into its lid glinted, the gems too fancy for the austere box.

Peter hesitated. This wasn’t his to open—only to guard. But would God have let him take this path if he wasn’t meant to see?

His fingers hovered over the container, his pulse quickening with the intoxicating lure of discovery. Holding his breath, Peter tugged upward on the lid. It didn’t move. 

He scanned the exterior. No visible locking mechanism marred the surface.

He frowned, studying it closer. His eyes followed the subtle grooves of the design on top. He traced the shape, feeling a slight give when he brushed across the ruby representing the wine filling the cup. 

Pressing it gently, he heard a soft click. The lid creaked open an inch, as though reluctant to reveal its secrets.

“Ah,” Peter murmured with a triumphant grin. He lifted the lid fully, only to be met with a gaping void.

Empty. Whatever treasures this had held must be now contained on the nearby shelves.

He began to turn, but something about the interior didn’t seem right. He leaned closer to peer inside. The depth seemed … off. He tapped the red velvet bottom, his ears straining for the sound it made. The knock was hollow.

Peter’s pulse quickened as he explored the edges, pressing against the smooth surface until he felt the faint give of a seam. With careful determination, he pried at the hidden latch. The false bottom slid aside, revealing a bundle of white linen cloth stained with crimson splotches that stood stark against the faded fabric.

Rust-colored flecks fell onto the floor as he unwrapped the cloth. The fabric, coarse and tattered, seemed ancient. Symbols he didn’t recognize were scrawled across its edges in faded ink. Beneath it, three scrolls nestled with reverent care.

Peter’s breath caught as he stared at the shroud, unease flickering in the edge of his consciousness. 

I shouldn’t, but this could be perfect for the communion sermon, Peter thought. The Rector won’t mind—he’ll see the value.

He set the shroud aside and turned his attention to the sacred texts. A faded red ribbon wound around the set, their surfaces cracked with age, the scrawl of Greek visible on their exposed crumbling edges. His excitement surged, overtaking the dread that lingered.

He hurried back to his reading table at the front, not worrying about the sound of his steps any longer. 

Peter’s hands hovered over the parchments, his pulse thrumming. 

He read the barely legible title, Διαθήκη τῆς Ἀναστάσεως—Testament of the Resurrection, scrawled in Greek across the dark ribbon holding them together. 

Peter exhaled sharply as the name reverberated in his head. Could this be a firsthand account? Impossible—such an important telling would be on display for the world, not hidden in a box.

He untied it, releasing the three scrolls. He lifted the first with care, marveling at its texture. The parchment, yellowed and fragile, crackled beneath his fingertips. Intricate ink markings wove across its surface, their elegance undiminished by the centuries.

A shimmer of a broken wax seal at the edge caught his eye. The fragmented imprint revealed the shape of a cross. As he pressed into it, the seal crumbled further, leaving behind flecks of red dust. The other two seals—a chalice and a ring—remained intact, making this one feel like the natural place to begin.

He swallowed hard, unrolling the parchment. His eyes darted across the opening lines, smeared beyond recognition. He scanned further until about halfway down where the symbols cleared. 

The words carried a rhythm, a solemn cadence that sent chills coursing through him. At a slow pace, he translated the ancient, hard to decipher letters, his voice barely above a whisper.

The hour grew heavy with the weight of His suffering. We trembled before the sight; the heavens veiled in darkness, the earth quaking beneath the cross. His cries rose to the Father, piercing through our souls. And yet, we could not let Him go to glory in anguish.

Peter paused. The vivid imagery gnawed at him, painting the crucifixion in a stark, visceral light. He steadied himself and read on.

Under cover of the night, when the world lay silent, and the bribed guards heavy with sleep, we crept to His side. The potion we bore was bitter but merciful, crafted to numb the flesh and ease the spirit. We poured it between His cracked lips, praying it would dull His pain. For who among us could bear the sight of our Lord in torment?

Peter blinked, the words swimming before his eyes. A potion? Under cover of night? This detail wasn’t in any scripture he had ever read. History told of only six hours of suffering. His pulse quickened, unease creeping into his veins. 

He scanned the lines that followed, but their meaning eluded him. The Greek turned archaic, the phrases disjointed, and the symbols scattered among the text felt like barriers he couldn’t yet overcome. Maybe his translation was wrong. 

Peter sat up, his thoughts whirling. He traced the ink with his finger, the gravity of the words anchoring him as he continued.

The dark bitterness lingered upon His lips, yet He drank deeply, and the earth sighed in relief. His eyes, heavy with sorrow, bore into us with a gratitude too holy to bear. We knew we had sinned, yet we could not repent. For in this act, we too bore the cross.

Peter shook his head. He leaned back, staring into the lantern’s glow, the words echoing inside: For in this act, we too bore the cross. His skin prickled as though unseen eyes were watching, judging.

He glanced at the remaining scrolls, their faded edges taunting him with secrets he wasn’t sure he wanted to uncover. Yet a fire burned within him, a hunger to read more, to understand what lay within these forbidden texts. He could not stop now.

Lifting the first one again, he squinted at the intricate script scrawled at the bottom. 

By my hand, John, servant of the Messiah, these words are written for the faithful.

“John, the beloved, one of Jesus’s disciples. This … this can’t be right,” he murmured to himself. None of the text made sense.

Peter stiffened. He tore his gaze away from the script. The hour was late, and he had other duties to attend to.

He pressed his palms against the table, grounding himself in the cold wood beneath them. A sense of dread crept along his spine, but he shook it off. He rolled the parchment carefully and returned it to its bundle. He would come back to it, but for now, he needed time. Time to think, to pray, to steady himself.

But as he stepped out of the Scriptorium and into the stillness of the Parish halls, the scrawled text clung to him, heavy and insistent, like a shadow he could not escape.