Tagged: Serial Saturday

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

  1. Serial Saturday: The Sacrament by T. H. Sterling, Chapter One
  2. Serial Saturday: The Sacrament by T. H. Sterling, Chapter Two
  3. Serial Saturday: The Sacrament by T. H. Sterling, Chapter Three
  4. Serial Saturday: The Sacrament by T. H. Sterling, Chapter Four

Chapter Four

                                                          

Three days later, Peter sat in the raised seat to the right of the Rector, his back straight, his hands folded in his lap. The quiet murmur of the congregation faded as the first notes of the hymn echoed through the church, their voices rising in unison. The thick scent of incense filled the air, the smoke curling upwards in slow, deliberate spirals.

Disappointment weighed on him with his inability to return to the catacombs and provide the Rector a holy passage, albeit not from the forbidden scrolls. He had hoped the effort would get him back in favor with the Rector, instead of the scowls he’d been receiving.

The Rector, standing tall at the altar, raised his arms, and a hush fell over the assembly. The golden chalice gleamed in the dim light, filled with dark wine. His steady and authoritative voice rang out in Latin, words Peter had heard a thousand times, yet never failed to stir something deep within him.

Around him, the priests in their vestments stood at attention, their faces impassive but their eyes fixed on the service unfolding before them. Peter’s gaze shifted to the large congregation, kneeling in reverence, their heads bowed, eyes closed in prayer. He shared their unspoken belief that this moment connected them all to something divine.

As the Rector consecrated the bread and wine, the words of transformation hung in the air. Peter felt a quiet thrill of awe. The elder moved with solemn grace, his presence commanding yet serene, appearing ageless as he offered the sacrament to each member of the flock. 

The faithful expressions intensified as the liquid touched their lips. Many trembled, reaching for the cup, their fingers clutching the metal with an almost desperate reverence. The moment the drink passed their mouth, their eyes grew bright with the ecstasy of faith, and their bodies swayed as if the offering filled them with a new strength. 

An elderly man wept, raising his arms to the heavens.

“I feel alive again,” a woman shouted, clutching her rosary.

Two women started to sing the hymn We Praise Thee, O God. As the notes rose, voices joined in from across the nave. The Rector smiled, letting the congregation’s emotions carry them away. 

The first time Peter observed a Communion here, the spontaneity surprised him as the Rector demanded quiet obedience in all other services. He loved this celebration of God much better than the solemn Holy Sacrament of his youth. 

He wished just once to be kneeling amongst the flock as they partook, since the priests always received theirs from a more austere cup prior to the public ceremony. He never felt as moved as those kneeling before him now.

Members exited the church with a renewed energy—some walked with purpose as though filled with divine inspiration, while others lingered, hesitant to leave the sacred space. The change in so many inspired Peter to do more to work on his own connection to God.

“Brother Peter,” an altar boy tugged at his arm. “We have a … situation. The Rector and the other senior priests are still busy with the parishioners.”

Peter glanced toward the Rector who chatted with several individuals. He followed the young boy out of the sanctuary and into a hall.

“What’s going on?”

“James stole a bottle of wine. He’s drunk, but acting strange.”

Fifteen-year-old James was mourning the recent death of his father. Mischief and reckless choices had become a constant. The Rector would punish him severely for this indiscretion. 

Maybe I can talk with the young man and keep this our little secret, Peter thought.

They wound through the corridors.

“Heathen!” Brother Christian shouted up ahead.

Peter sprinted around a corner and skidded to a halt. 

Brother Christian stood rigid, his sharp features etched with a rare hint of strain. His left hand clutched his chest, pale knuckles slick with blood seeping between his fingers. A dark stain spread across his robes. In his right hand, he gripped a chair, fending off an angry teenager. 

James stood a few paces away, his thin frame trembling with rage. His dark hair stuck to his forehead in damp strands, and his sunken eyes, bloodshot and wild, darted between Peter and Christian. His skin flushed an unnatural red, as though his fury burned beneath the surface.

Christian glanced up, his face pale and strained. “Peter, he bit me! I knew better, but I tried to take away the wine. He’s gone mad! Get the Rector!” 

With a ferocious roar, the youth hurled the bottle against the wall, glass shattering in a violent spray. Shards clattered to the floor, mixing with the thick, pooling wine, staining the stone like spilled ink.

“James, settle down,” Peter commanded. 

The teen whipped his head around and zeroed in on Peter. James’s feral eyes narrowed like a hungry predator, sending a chill up Peter’s spine. James’s lips pulled back to reveal red-stained teeth. Crimson-froth dripped from the corners of his mouth. 

A knot tightened inside Peter as the urge to run clawed inside him. James released an inhuman moan. 

Christian lifted the chair, swinging it down on James’s head with a loud thwack. The dreadful sound of wood meeting flesh reverberated through the corridor. James staggered, blood trickling from a gash above his temple. 

Christian struck again, the force snapping one of the chair’s legs. A guttural groan escaped the teenager as his knees buckled. He swayed. The chair crashed down again and again. 

“Stop it!” Peter shouted, lunging forward to grab Christian’s arm as he raised the chair for another blow. “You’ll kill him!”

Christian’s face twisted in frustration. He wrenched his arm free, swinging a final blow. James crumpled to the ground, his body twitching before going still.

“What have you done?” Peter’s voice shook with horror as Christian’s chair dropped to the ground, his lungs heaving.

“What’s going on?” the Rector asked, stepping around the corner, his sharp gaze falling on the chaotic scene.

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

  1. Serial Saturday: The Sacrament by T. H. Sterling, Chapter One
  2. Serial Saturday: The Sacrament by T. H. Sterling, Chapter Two
  3. Serial Saturday: The Sacrament by T. H. Sterling, Chapter Three
  4. Serial Saturday: The Sacrament by T. H. Sterling, Chapter Four

Chapter Three

                                                          

The chill of dawn still lingered in the rectory’s dining room, its austere stone walls unyielding to the warmth of the sun creeping over the horizon. A simple wooden table, scarred from years of use, stretched across the room, its benches empty save for Peter and a few others quietly finishing their breakfast. The scent of porridge and fresh bread mingled with the remnants of incense from morning prayers.

Peter sat hunched over his bowl, spooning the bland porridge absentmindedly as his thoughts lingered on the holy writings he had stumbled upon yesterday. Testament of the Resurrection John … The script made no sense. God wouldn’t have wasted his time, and Peter felt certain he had been guided to the steel chest. He needed more time to decipher the words and their meaning. 

“You’ve been keeping strange hours,” came a voice rich with disapproval. Brother Anthony, a senior scribe, approached with his own bowl in hand. His short, broad-shouldered frame cast a sturdy shadow as his robes swished softly against the stone floor. His movements, efficient and deliberate, reflected a lifetime of habit, though the slight stiffness in his gait hinted at his years.

 “We were beginning to think the archives had swallowed you whole,” Anthony added, his mouth curling into a subtle smirk. “In the event that it has slipped your mind, we scribes are in need of your approval on our recent translations.”

Peter glanced up, his expression neutral, though his lips twitched at the jab. He knew he’d been lost among the treasures of the library, but with Communion approaching, he needed that special passage for the Rector. 

A chorus of children’s laughter floated in through the open window, a rare burst of life against the rectory’s austere stillness. Peter’s gaze darted toward the sound, a flicker of warmth breaking through his otherwise somber mood. He cherished these monthly visits with the innocent joy they brought to the church grounds. 

“When did the orphans arrive?” he asked, wishing he had the time to share a story with the youth. 

“Three days ago—makes meditation quite impossible.” Anthony sighed, setting his bowl down with a soft thud. His weathered face, framed by salt-and-pepper hair, creased into a frown. “Can you request that these miscreants be housed elsewhere?”

“A good practice in patience, Brother. It’s only for a few days while God’s chosen ones prepare for their holy mission.”

“Indeed.” 

“The Lord requires sacrifice from all of us.” Peter bit back a stronger snide remark, keeping his tone measured. 

Anthony pursed his lips and gave a curt nod. He turned on his heels and strode away, leaving the scent of parchment and candle wax in his wake.

Peter watched him go. Brother Anthony’s complaints were nothing more than idle grumbling. Everyone knew the preparations had to take place on consecrated ground, where only those untouched by the world’s sins could receive the rituals from the Brethren of the Sacred Rite. Once the divine ceremonies were completed, the Rector sent the children out to the far corners of the earth as vessels of God’s will.

He sighed, knowing he had other duties, but he could put off the draw of the secrets in the catacombs no longer. At the bottom of the stairs, oddly, only one sword hung. He held the blade over the small opening as instructed. The quiet wasn’t quite still with low mumbled chants in the distance. The Sacred Rite Brethren—he wasn’t prepared to share the space. 

He inserted the key, but it wouldn’t turn. He grabbed the handle and pulled. Locked—the deadbolt.

The Rector had told Peter to find him immediately if he heard anything. This would give him the perfect excuse to ask about the Testament’s passages. Perhaps the head priest would be familiar with the text or the author, giving him a clue to why a firsthand account of the resurrection would be hidden away. 

He hesitated outside the Rector’s office. The door, heavy and worn, loomed in front of him, as though it could sense his guilt. Peter’s grip tightened around the iron keyring at his side, the cool metal biting into his skin. With a deep breath, he knocked.

“Come in.” 

As he entered, the Rector remained focused on the heavy tome open on his desk. 

“Father,” Peter began, his voice measured. He paused, choosing his words. “May I ask for your guidance on a matter of translation?”

The Rector hummed in acknowledgment, but his gaze didn’t leave the book. Peter fidgeted, shifting from one foot to the other.

“I found some ancient texts in the Archive,” Peter continued, his tone casual. “They’re … unusual. I thought they might be relevant to our work for Communion.”

The Rector’s hand froze mid-turn of the page. He looked up, his dark eyes narrowing. “What texts?” he asked, his voice low and even.

Peter’s stomach knotted under the intensity of the Rector’s gaze. “Uhm, just old scrolls, an account of … well … a witness of the resurrection … I’d never heard of such an account.”

The priest stiffened. His olive-toned brow furrowed, and his fingers tightened around the edge of his desk. “And how,” the Rector asked, his voice dangerously calm, “did you come upon this? In the Brethren’s chamber?”

Peter bit his lip. He glanced at the floor as he struggled to find an answer that wouldn’t reveal too much.

The Rector’s hand slammed against the desk, the sound reverberating through the room. “You should not have violated that holy space!” His voice, now a thunderous roar, filled the space. “Anything there is not for your eyes, reserved for the Master of the Sacred Rite.”

Peter flinched, his throat dry. “I only wanted to give you something special for—”

“Enough!” The Rector’s voice cracked through the air, his face darkening. “Return those to where you found them and do not speak of them again.”

Peter gave a somber nod.

“Don’t make me regret choosing you as Custodian. And pray for your transgressions, Brother. The Lord’s mercy is not guaranteed for those who meddle in things beyond their station.”

Peter bowed his head, retreating toward the door. The Rector’s anger lingered in the air, heavy and suffocating. 

As Peter slipped out of the office, the scripture of the Testament clung to him like a shadow. He wanted to know more, but that desire reeked of pride—an indulgence of his ego. Obedience and discipline were values he was called to exemplify as Custodian. Was his hunger for knowledge another sin, masquerading as piety?

He wandered along the hallway, replaying the moment, his footsteps echoing louder than he intended, each step a reminder of his trespass. He shouldn’t have gone to the Rector—not when he’d already trespassed into forbidden ground. It didn’t matter what he’d uncovered; to the head priest, the Brethren’s chambers were holy, inviolate. 

Peter clenched his fists, the guilt sharp as a blade against his conscience. It cut deep, sharper than he expected. He had been wrong, and he knew it. He had failed his vows, his calling.

As he turned a corner, he nearly collided with a young girl, possibly around twelve years old, who stood at the end of a line of orphans. He scolded himself for being so distracted. The girl didn’t react, seeming not to notice.

He opened his mouth to apologize, but Brother Christian, a member of the Brethren of the Sacred Rite, stepped in his way. Tall and lean, his straight posture and pressed robes gave him an air of quiet authority.

“Brother Peter.” He placed his hand on Peter’s arm, guiding him away with a grip of steel. His olive-toned brow contorted into a frown. “They are practicing their vow of silence in readiness for their mission. You know better than to interrupt.”

Peter walked down the corridor, passing their rigid line, their stillness so different from normal. Dull-eyed, expressionless faces gazed straight ahead. 

They must have had to sit through one of Christian’s sermons, Peter thought. There’s many a time I’ve almost fallen asleep from the long drone.

He wanted to thank them for their commitment, and wish them well, but Brother Christian’s scowl kept him going forward.

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

  1. Serial Saturday: The Sacrament by T. H. Sterling, Chapter One
  2. Serial Saturday: The Sacrament by T. H. Sterling, Chapter Two
  3. Serial Saturday: The Sacrament by T. H. Sterling, Chapter Three
  4. Serial Saturday: The Sacrament by T. H. Sterling, Chapter Four

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.

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

  1. Serial Saturday: The Sacrament by T. H. Sterling, Chapter One
  2. Serial Saturday: The Sacrament by T. H. Sterling, Chapter Two
  3. Serial Saturday: The Sacrament by T. H. Sterling, Chapter Three
  4. Serial Saturday: The Sacrament by T. H. Sterling, Chapter Four

Chapter One

                                                          

Brother Peter paused, the iron keyring pressing into his damp palm. The ancient wooden door hidden in the alcove blended into the rectory’s stone wall. No carvings adorned the surface, offering little hint of what lay behind. The scent of old dust lingered in the air as if it had absorbed the weight of centuries, untouched by the modern world of 1901.

“Few men pass this point, Brother Peter. It falls to me to ensure you comprehend this duty.” The Rector’s baritone voice dropped, carrying a seriousness that drew Peter’s full attention. 

The Rector’s slender frame stepped into the torchlight, shadows dancing along his olive-toned skin and smooth scalp, which bore a hint of stubble.

“As the new Custodian of the Scriptorium, the secrets below are your burden—speak of them to no one.”

Peter’s pulse quickened as the key clicked into place. The door creaked open to a narrow staircase spiraling into darkness. A chill rose to meet them, laced with incense and something sour. Peter hesitated, nerves stirring beneath his growing anticipation of the secrets hidden below. He stepped forward, the cool air wrapping around him like a shroud.

The Rector’s footsteps echoed ahead, his flame casting murky shapes on the ancient stone. The elder descended with ease, his spry steps light and deliberate. He moved with the assurance of someone who had served the parish for many decades, yet his energy and composure seemed almost untouched by the burden of his years.

Peter followed down the three flights, pride for his promotion from Scribe to Custodian prickling at the edges of his thoughts—another sin for confession. That and his irritation at his fellow scribes, who hinted that his wealthy family’s donations earned him the reward, despite his education and many years of service.

At the bottom, the Rector lit torches near a heavy iron door with thick rivets and a nearly invisible small panel integrated in its base.

The words Custodia Veritas were carved in the weathered granite above the entry. 

Guarding the Truth, Peter thought, his nerves humming with the thrill of discovery as he prepared to enter the old library. He sent a silent prayer of thanks to God for the opportunity.

“Watch closely,” said the Rector. “Follow each step of the entry ritual exactly as I do.” 

 Brother Peter nodded he understood.

Light flickered off two polished, intricately etched swords hanging on the wall. Holding one upright with a strong grip, he traced the sign of the cross over the larger door. He crouched down and unlatched the panel embedded at the bottom, just big enough for a small animal to pass through. The opening revealed an inky void beyond.

“Shhh,” the Rector whispered, hovering the sharp tip near the opening.

Stillness pressed against Peter’s ears until even the drip of water from the slimy stones overhead felt deafening. He shifted his weight, the scrape of his sole against the granite floor unnaturally loud in the oppressive stillness.

“Proceed only if there is silence. Should the quiet break, abandon the entry and seek me at once. Your soul depends on it.” The Rector shut and refastened the latch of the small opening.

Peter recognized the Rector’s grave tone as theatrical, always warning of the sins that would send him to hell. He pressed his lips together, resisting the urge to test the rule by humming a hymn. 

The Rector slid a second key carved with a chalice into the lock. 

“Twist right, then left, and press forward,” he instructed. 

The lock chimed—a soft, melodic sequence unlike any Peter had heard before. With a quiet hiss, the key disappeared into the mechanism, and the door groaned open.

The Rector snatched the key as it glided out the opposite side, his attention fixed on the gloomy passage beyond.

He shut the door behind them and pointed to a sturdy deadbolt.

“On your way out, if you find this lock engaged, return to the Archive until the Brethren of the Sacred Rite have finished their rituals. They are the only others you will find in these tunnels.”

Peter bit back a smirk—the self-important Brethren and their special treatment by the Rector. Their ranks had remained unchanged for as long as Peter could recall, keeping their exclusivity preserved like some divine rite in itself.

“The Sword of God represents our search for truth. Keep it raised and ready until you reach the archive,” the Rector whispered.

With the tip of sharpened steel leading their way, they began slow steps, only stopping to light an occasional torch on the wall.

The twisting path passed ancient wooden doors, each marked with Latin phrases hinting at hidden relics, confirming Peter’s suspicion that the church housed many secrets.

Eventually, the claustrophobic tunnels led to a T. The Rector stepped with caution, swinging the blade in a cross pattern towards the midnight darkness to the left. From deep within the murkiness came a soft, uneven thump, followed by an almost imperceptible murmur. The Rector gave no sign of noticing. 

Perhaps only the ancient masonry settling into itself, Peter thought.

“Always to the right,” the Rector said, motioning for Peter to head in that direction.

“What’s the other way?” 

“Only communion artifacts.” The Rector gestured again for Peter to move. “A restricted area for all except the Brethren of the Sacred Rite.”

Peter loved the ancient chalices and intricately etched serving trays, accompanying the monthly event. Jealousy, a sin for many of his confessions, always filled him as he watched the Sacred Rite priests lead the special rituals as the congregation purified themselves with the wafers and wine. 

With a sigh, the Rector stepped around Peter and led him to the right, the sword now hanging limply by his side.

After a few twists and turns along roughly hewn stone with no recessed doorways, they arrived at a single door. A sense of awe descended as Peter read the carved words: Verbum Dei—The Word of God.

“The Scriptorium—as Custodian, these are your charges, and yours alone. There are secrets never to be shared beyond its walls..”

The Rector opened the lockless entry. The lantern’s glow flickered over endless shelves, their wood blackened with age and sagging under the heft of ancient scrolls and bound volumes. Shadows danced along the high, vaulted ceiling, where cobwebs hung like veils of forgotten time. The thick air, filled with the scent of parchment and ink, mingled with the musk of decay.

Peter’s breath caught. The vast, cavernous space seemed alive with whispers, the gravity of history pressing in from every corner. His new role as guardian of the archive and chief scribe pressed against his chest, a mix of exhilaration and dread. He now understood why the former Custodian would disappear here for days.

“It’s time,” the Rector said, snapping Peter from his thoughts. He wanted to protest, but soon enough, he’d be back without the old man’s scrutiny.

They retraced their steps, the Rector pausing at each torch to extinguish its flame, his movements brisk. His eyes darted back into the darkness, the remaining flickers of light catching the deep lines of worry furrowing his brow.

“Don’t linger. Return with haste through these hallways.” His voice, taut and low, disappeared into the gloom.

Peter followed, suppressing a smirk at the old man’s drama and overblown sense of ceremony. His attention drifted back to the treasures of the archive, the holy texts and words of the saints that he would soon have the privilege to study. 

At the stairwell, the Rector turned abruptly, his grip on Peter’s shoulder firm enough to startle. His intense gaze sent a shiver crawling up Peter’s spine.

“Never enter the week before Communion,” he hissed. “The Brethren of the Sacred Rite tolerate no interruption.”

Peter nodded, keeping his expression neutral, though a thread of annoyance curled in his gut. He doubted the Brethren would even notice, cloaked in their sense of grandeur. But the Rector’s wrath was another matter entirely, and not one he intended to test so soon after being appointed to his new position.

Serial Saturday: Wotan Watches by J. R. Santos, Chapter Seven

  1. Serial Saturday: Wotan Watches by J. R. Santos, Chapter One
  2. Serial Saturday: Wotan Watches by J. R. Santos, Chapter Two
  3. Serial Saturday: Wotan Watches by J. R. Santos, Chapter Three
  4. Serial Saturday: Wotan Watches by J. R. Santos, Chapter Four
  5. Serial Saturday: Wotan Watches by J. R. Santos, Chapter Five
  6. Serial Saturday: Wotan Watches by J. R. Santos, Chapter Six
  7. Serial Saturday: Wotan Watches by J. R. Santos, Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

                                                          

Angelo lost his boots and jacket, threw away his trousers too, and ran, almost flew, screaming himself raw. The storm had grown in strength again, and the horrible shadow had drawn nearer. It had made a horrible sound, distorted by echo, muted by thunder. A black figure that reminded Angelo of a great spider, eight legs twitching to push the thing forward as it threw itself in the direction of its prey.

It was with tremendous relief that, as he tried to understand where he had ended up, he recognized the neighborhood where Bard lived. He ran past the little café Bard had loved and Angelo had detested, now rendered a sad little ruin of shattered glass and broken masonry. It had once been full of old people who lined up for fresh bread.

Angelo recognized the broken tower of what had once been a newsstand, the same he had bought his smokes from more than once and received dirty looks from the vendor whenever he noticed the fresh bruises on Bard.

It was with relief that he ran inside the familiar apartment building, closing the door behind him. Unable to lock it, battered as the thing had become, Angelo pushed the heavy table used by the old receptionist back when the building had one. The thing was damned heavy, and Angelo strained himself mightily to push the thing against the door and bar himself from the outside world. He curled under the desk and shivered on the cold hard ground, which at least had been dry, listening for the thing that had chased him.

It had waited outside, making a sound Angelo was sure to have misheard as clopping. It snorted impatiently but did not make to break in, content with padding about, away and then back, away and back, again driving Angelo mad with terror.

He pathetically crawled from under the heavy desk and up the flights of stairs to Bard’s apartment.

“Please,” he begged at the door, “please let me in.” And on his knees, he slammed at the door with both fists. This slowly creaked open to the darkened apartment within.

“Where the fuck are you?” Angelo demanded. Shaken as he was, he quickly took to old habits; projecting the horror into violence and visiting that on another was easy. Angelo dived into the darkness, bumping into a chair and throwing it off. Angelo blindly reached for the switch while cursing but the light wouldn’t go on. He searched for his lighter and flicked it uselessly; it had become so soaking wet it was useless. Angelo flung it away. “Say something! I know you’re hiding, you fucking pussy! Come out!”

Lightning filled the silent apartment, and Angelo saw a figure standing by the window. Again, in the dark, blinded by the flare followed the thunder. Angelo rushed to where he had seen the figure, his hands hitching to find purchase on Bard’s neck. It was with a gasp and wide eyes he was surprised by the sharp stab into his gut. Another flash. “You crazy fuck.”

Bard had ducttaped a glass shard to the end of a headless broom’s wooden pole. The improvised spear had dug deep, and held in both hands, pushing Angelo and pinning him to the ground without uttering a word. Another flash.

Bard’s left eye was missing. His hair was long, and for the first time Angelo could remember, Bard’s facial hair was fully grown. Beard and mustachios that looked grey in the half-lit night. Thunder followed.

Freezing gales dragged shards across every surface and kissed Angelo’s limbs. Prostrated, the curtains billowing from the windows, a naked, blood-stained, one-eyed Bard stood erect against the distant lights of the thunderous night. Angelo shrieked as he bled on the floor, his cries muted by the thunderstorm.

 “Cur!” Bard shouted, pointing at the bleeding Angelo. “Traitor! Villain! You judge yourself above God and men? I need not both eyes to see you for what you are!”

“What are you doing?” cried Angelo, choking in blood, dragging himself away from Bard, who stepped forward, naked, his mutilated eye socket almost aglow.

“Silence!” Thunder and lightning overlapped. Hail pelted both men and washed away glass shards and broken furniture. Such strength the ice and wind had that Angelo was pushed across the floor; when this ceased Bard had a stage set for himself with the storm as his background. Naked but for the quilt over his shoulders, Bard pointed again at Angelo.

“Bitter is the wyrm’s poison, and wyrm you be!” Bard yelled even louder. “Wyrm! I punish thee! Shed thy liar’s pelt and return to the dirt that birthed you! Woe!” Bard uttered the word with a voice deeper than he had ever known, a command echoed from ancient caverns in his lungs, an echo chamber revived in his blood by an anger he refused to keep buried in the soil of his body, no longer an artifact but a living thing. “WOE!”

Angelo bled profusely, and nearly fainted. To his surprise, he felt himself numb to the pain, feared this was his end, only to have this followed by a terrible itch. Unable to control himself, screaming wordlessly, he tore at his clothes and his own skin; undressing himself, scratching until the skin was raw, torn, and bleeding.

“Crawl on your belly for all of eternity! Return ye to the dank pits of mud and shit in which you were spawned! Return! Return!”

Bone shattered; flesh peeled back as a fat undulating shape burst from Angelo’s gut. A great serpent heaved and hissed out of him, falling to the floor, shedding Angelo, leaving behind a withered mess as life escaped from him into this new form.

“Until the hammer lands on your skull, until men and gods must again walk the twilight roads! Remember you the form of man, doomed as you are to be a beast! Now and forever!”

Amber eyes cut with black slits, a thick rope of a body, covered in toxic green scales and a belly as white as a fish’s, Angelo hissed and slithered away into the darkness. He exited the scene through the apartment door he had left open, sliding down the flights of stairs and leaving behind him a trail of gore. His own screams receded to the back of his mind. If he had still a human body, if he dared even imagine himself within the new brain that housed him, Angelo would be wrapped in the serpent’s coil, those sharp fangs buried deep in his throat to pump dreadful poison into his blood.

Within the serpent he had become, he prayed for release, for forgetfulness, or at least for death—but none came. He wormed away, into the night, full of hunger. Angelo’s lizard brain and human mind only synched when they heard thunder. There! A heavy step, a gallop, drew near. Fearing to be trampled by a horse, the wyrm escaped to the bushes, and wormed into the ground. It would know the darkness of the tunnels well, and return to them to grow fat until the twilight dawned again upon the race of men.

Bard did not laugh, and this triumph brought him no warmth. It was with grim resignation he drew sigil upon sigil, and tore at the human remains for supplies with which to weave his next spell.

“I stand under the tree

Mighty branches

Parched roots

Take me winds

On raven wings

Carry me home!”

And a tree grew from the center of the sigil circle, hosted in the made-up spear and consuming the remains. The walls shook, both the ground and ceiling gave way to a great wooden hulk; with blackened branches, it pierced every body of those unfortunates who had been sleeping in their beds. Flesh was pierced by the branches and torn apart. Skin rendered apart and fused to the bark, blood absorbed into the tree to grow into its sap.

Soon it stood, massive, as the apartment building shuddered and all occupants were consumed and all they owned was scattered. Read leaves budded from dark branches, roots grew fat and coiled through the ground. Whooping, naked, danced Wotan reborn. All-father, old one-eye, alive within the hearts of men.

And he watches.

And waits.

Serial Saturday: Wotan Watches by J. R. Santos, Chapter Six

  1. Serial Saturday: Wotan Watches by J. R. Santos, Chapter One
  2. Serial Saturday: Wotan Watches by J. R. Santos, Chapter Two
  3. Serial Saturday: Wotan Watches by J. R. Santos, Chapter Three
  4. Serial Saturday: Wotan Watches by J. R. Santos, Chapter Four
  5. Serial Saturday: Wotan Watches by J. R. Santos, Chapter Five
  6. Serial Saturday: Wotan Watches by J. R. Santos, Chapter Six
  7. Serial Saturday: Wotan Watches by J. R. Santos, Chapter Seven

Chapter Six

                                                          

Wotan raised his arms, T-posing, and his skin became coarse. It had become bark, and Wotan grew and grew, his swollen head projecting forward, his body growing tumorous, expanding along with the wooden nods that split the bark-skin, along with the branches which sprouted leaves of red and green.

Change upon change, cycle upon cycle, Wotan was Yggdrasill, a nexus of myths, and kneeling at the roots was Bard as the next all-father. He opened his shirt, still drenched with rain, which had since ceased to reveal a starry mantle for which Yggdrasill reached out, meaning to touch those echoes of long-gone, distant bodies.

Bard exposed his chest and his old surgical scars. Thought and Memory, Wotan’s ravens, did not wait. Both dove in and clawed their way inside a screaming Bard. They nested within him and lived within him.

He had drunk the nectar, he had sacrificed his eye, he housed within him the elements of the human soul: the building blocks of knowledge, the fountain of art and science. Yggdrasill vanished, and despite his pain, Bard followed.

A confused and hurt receptionist found a broken statue, torn to rubble, glass shards everywhere, ragged clothes and blood. She was nearly sick at the sight of it but could not find the stranger’s body. She returned to her post to call the police, who did not answer, and an ambulance.

The storm had raised the town as if Indra himself had driven his chariot from the heavens to punish the wicked. No bad karma went unpunished that day; buildings had been toppled, cars dragged down the streets like barges.

Women wept for their lost sons, firefighters worked overtime pulling the living and the dead from the sodden ruins. Sirens played without stopping as miserable hosts took to pilgrimage towards high ground.

Angelo, like all good rats, always knew when a ship was sinking. He had been trapped with a host of drug-addled party-goers in a high-rise. The power had run out in the last hour, the toilets had threatened to flood, and the party people were thoroughly bummed out. Angelo skipped ship after draining the dregs of a bottle of expensive booze. He made the long descent down those seemingly endless staircases with anger in his heart, curses on his lips, and a bladder he had to stop and empty halfway down.

Not the first time he had relieved himself in a corner he ought not to.

“Stupid elevator,” Angelo muttered, as if the metal cage had a mind of its own. “Stupid shit. Fucking idiots.” Blaming others for his own excesses was intuitive and easy. His stench, his alcoholism and substance abuse, how he had become unable to get an erection, and his own piss splashing and soiling his boots. All these things and more were the fault of others; he was above them, and the world.

He was Angelo and he could do no wrong. Mistakes and consequences were the domains of fools and weaklings. Angelo was smarter than the smartest people he had met and had the insides of a man of steel. His withered muscles were not the product of a sedentary life and poor nutrition, his teeth which had become loose in his gums as of late were just so in his imagination; when his cock went limp it was the whore’s fault for not knowing how to do their job right.

There was something semi-sobering to the cold, moist air drafts and the reverse-Sisyphean exercise of descending those endless stairs. They shook under his feet from the strength of the thunder outside. Angelo stopped when a sound caught his ear, something behind him.

He turned to find a boy. He held a horse plush under one arm and a toy hammer in the other; rhythmically, the boy bounced the hammer on his leg to the thunder and the lightning. His toy horse looked strange, and to Angelo’s blurry vision, it seemed this plush had too many legs for a horse.

“What?” asked Angelo. He had always hated children.

“My father gave me his horse,” the boy said in a strange foreign accent, “and told me I could play with my hammer.”

Angelo spat in disgust. “I’m sure he did. My old man liked watching me play with my hammer too. Have fun with that, little freak.” Angelo resumed his descent, one unsteady step at a time, but the boy’s voice followed him.

“I used to have two goats, but they’re gone now. Mother kept father’s wolves.”

“Shut up!”

“I killed a snake once,” was the last thing Angelo heard the boy say. Rather than risk humiliating himself by stumbling up the stairs to slap the child into silence, he descended, his only light the flashes of lightning.

It seemed the worst of the winds and rain had come and gone, or perhaps he was in the eye of the storm. He was still hit by the cold and rain, but just enough to sober up. Flooded streets and broken buildings, river crossing with rain water up to his calves, Angelo began to realize he needed to find refuge close by.

The cold was eating at him already, his clothes soaking up and becoming heavier. Without the adrenaline, drugs and booze to burn in his gut, the pleasant numbing was turned into a chilling death growing in his bones.

It was when Angelo looked behind him and seemed to see some looming shadow following him that he began to panic. His steps splashed hurriedly across the haunted streets of a town that looked like it had submerged from the river. More than once, Angelo swore he saw massive catfishes break the surface of the rivers, greedy and hungry enough to try and eat a man. Angelo picked his directions at random, pushed back from a path by rubble or sudden thunder making windows shatter and rain glass shards that threatened to gouge the soles of his feet.

Serial Saturday: Wotan Watches by J. R. Santos, Chapter Five

  1. Serial Saturday: Wotan Watches by J. R. Santos, Chapter One
  2. Serial Saturday: Wotan Watches by J. R. Santos, Chapter Two
  3. Serial Saturday: Wotan Watches by J. R. Santos, Chapter Three
  4. Serial Saturday: Wotan Watches by J. R. Santos, Chapter Four
  5. Serial Saturday: Wotan Watches by J. R. Santos, Chapter Five
  6. Serial Saturday: Wotan Watches by J. R. Santos, Chapter Six
  7. Serial Saturday: Wotan Watches by J. R. Santos, Chapter Seven

Chapter Five

                                                          

He found what he had expected in such a museum. Uniforms, sabers, guns. Plaques decorated these objects to instruct visitors on the history and meanings of devices and colors, what years they belonged to, and the materials these things were made of.

Despite the black and white pictures and oil paintings, they presented war cleaned, sterile. Numbers of the dead and dying created the effect opposite to what one would expect: a sleepiness, a boredom rather than sadness and outrage at the loss of life. The shameful displays referencing the book burnings, camps and the common valleys appeared to have been temporarily moved, leaving behind only these tame passing mentions. It was left to other museums to fully display these horrors; here more conservative interests had been served.

To some other places were confined the image of the people who sought only to live, to become themselves, to love and grow. At the time, it seemed that the war museum was no place for mourning, or anything that could curb the fever of the next batch of human fodder.  

Bard worked his way through recent centuries into distant eras. An open semi-circular area displayed the Teutonic relics of brass swords and wooden shields, crude spears and mantles of fur, and at the center of it all stood like a monolith, the statue to Wotan.

Runic symbols were carved on the brims of his starry mantle. In one hand he held a spear and in the other a horn from which water spouted into a fountain. Upon each horn of his heavy helmet sat a raven; his long hair and beard were as clouds in a storm. Bard touched his face to feel his five o’clock shadow. He had failed to grow anything more substantial but this much had been enough, until Angelo mocked him for it.

“You look like a teenager.”

Angelo played it off as a joke, but his eyes were ice shards that betrayed the warmth of his body. Bard wasn’t allowed to feel comfortable or relaxed, to lower his guard. There was something of the magician to the act, almost a hypnosis, the power of making Bard believe every sharp cut and piercing thorn was always his own fault, or his imagination.

 Bard rubbed his wrists, haunted by the memory of Angelo’s hands holding them too tight, leaving marks he could feel even after they were gone.

“I know you like it; how about making me feel good for once?

“You’re always so greedy. Why is everything about you?”

There weren’t enough pages in the world to contain the poison poured on Bard’s ear, day and night, driving him mad.

“What good are you,” Bard wondered out loud, “your one good eye turned away from us? All we do is suffer and drag ourselves through the glass shards and the mud.

“I tried to push him away before and always let him back. I’m all alone now, dependent on the kindness of others more than ever before.” Bard held back from spitting at the foot of the statue. “Now you’re coming after me too? Didn’t I bleed enough? Didn’t I shed enough flesh?

Poured my soul into those pages until my veins were dry. What else do you want from me? Spewing your shit on my books isn’t enough? I gave it all.” Tears stung Bard’s eyes. “Now you’re trying to kill me. Why? Because I was weak? Because I wasn’t enough?”

Bard’s voice echoed in the empty hall. Lights flickered and muted thunder sounded outside, lightning flashing its blue hue through the glass. It was like a great hand crushing the poet’s lungs. Bard gagged and released the words from within, shouting:

“Talk to me!”

Thunder exploded with such force it was as if an earthquake had threatened to shake down the museum. Bard’s back arched and he gasped in pain and ecstasy, his mind carried away from his body. On another continent, and across six countries, twelve-year-old boys were armed and made to kill or die. Bard choked on dust and smoke, deafened by screams and blinded by flames. They lived and died, the young soldiers killing and raping like their adult counterparts. Tyrants touched bloody hands to sweat-drenched foreheads and entombed with fake pride:

“You are now a man. My son and pride.”

The tyrant repeated this litany, and behind him came another tyrant, and another in endless succession, rewarding with blood those who survived, and throwing the rotting corpses of the fallen into a ditch, limbs spewing from within the crevice like drowning men desperate not to sink under the waves.

Standing above them, Wotan watched. The one-eyed bastard looked different, his skin darker, his hair longer, his beard beaded. The smoke of his cigar blended with the ashen cloud of war. In his right hand he held a rifle like a long club, or a spear, leaning on it as he grimly monitored the endless slaughter.

“Why are you smiling, you bastard?”

Wotan pointed, and Bard followed the direction of the accusing finger of God to meet a march of unarmed people. They waved white flags, and above them glowed a symbol of two hands holding each other in a sign of brotherhood. One-eye smiled as the flags became red with blood. Without warning, the peace marchers were torn apart under hails of bullets, like gazelles in the mouths of crocodiles, body parts picked mid-air by birds of prey.

And as Bard looked the old man in the eye, the old man simply pointed away again. The world rushed by, red dust, rust, and blood taking to the air as they formed an oceanic tide that smelled of copper. Canon fire made for thunderstorms, war engines like beating hearts illuminated by explosions. From the war marched mechanical hounds, bright burning eyes, scouts for a thousand-thousand armies.

War had no end.

Each time the skies cleared, Bard was allowed sight of the broken world and piled up dead. Trapped amongst them were the dying, their parched throats wheezing cries for help that went ignored. Bard could not look away, his eyes protected only by the unsettled dust; curtains that would part now and again to reveal greater horrors. Atop a hill stood Wotan transformed anew, like a shadow with the burning light of his cigar reflected off his one eye, parting the seas of bloodshed, holding a staff—no, a harpoon— with which he stabbed the ground and shouted:

“From the heart of Hel, I stab at thee!”

Mortally wounded, Gaia screamed and wept blood, that vital substance surging like a geyser, forming a tidal wave that rose so high it threatened to drown all of humanity. Bard wiped the blood from his eyes and saw Wotan changed yet again, a pale corpse-like man, naked but for his mantel decorated with runes and stars, wearing a conic magician’s hat, holding the caduceus in one hand and a small metal globe in the other.

“Bodies are but corn,

One must harvest, scythe in hand.

Within me is the season of reaping.”

“Shut up,” Bard demanded, recognizing the words. He had many more such poems in his anti-war book. A book co-opted by those who exalted war and understood not the mockery, saluting the work, stealing it from its context, denying its author his identity.

“I am a maestro,

And this, my symphony of blood.”

“I was mocking you,” Bard shouted at the apparition. “Everything you represent; I never meant for any of this.”

Splashing in the blood, descending to Bard until they were at eye level, Wotan pushed the sphere through the air. This held itself suspended facing Bard. Not a globe, the world, but a demon core.

The following blast devoured sight and sound in a white flash. By the time Bard had recovered and he stood again, his sight and hearing recovered, he found himself back at the museum. The statue had been crushed to rubble, the glass ceiling had caved in, and the rain and wind threatened to drag him asunder. Wotan himself stood unarmed, wearing only his cloak, two dark figures circling the air.

“Enough, enough!” Bard spewed bile and spit. “I’m going to fucking kill you!”

Wotan keened madly and ran to Bard, in a room so briefly ago filled with weapons from wall to wall, Bard found himself lacking for weapons. He slipped and fell to the ground as the mad god threw himself on top of Bard, hands clawing at Bard’s neck and face.

Bard pushed Wotan from him but could not dislodge the god from atop him. They scrambled across the rain-sodden floor, and cutting himself on something sharp, Bard screamed and hit Wotan across the face with a bloodied hand. Wotan recoiled, more surprised than hurt, and in a flash of a moment, Bard realized what he had cut himself on. He drew it quickly to himself, unthinkingly. A great shard of glass, jagged, the point as sharp as a spear’s.

Bard stabbed upwards just as Wotan redoubled his attack, descending on him. That piece of glass as long as a grown man’s hand slid right under a rib, piercing a lung.

With the glass stuck in him, Wotan gasped—breathless—then clasped Bard’s hand in his. Bard hissed as the glass cut into his palm. Wotan on his knees, Bard half lying down, the god had the shard pulled out just enough that he could make Bard drag the impromptu blade to cut an upturned halfmoon-shaped wound under his breast. Before Bard could understand what was happening, Wotan guided Bard’s hand further. He plucked the glass out from his left breast to draw another such cut under his right. To Bard’s horror, with nothing but a small grunt, Wotan finished the grim task, releasing Bard’s hand to stand over him, his cloak gone. The old wretch swayed on his feet, blood pouring down his sides.

Wotan waited patiently like a statue and Bard, shaking and sweating, could only utter, “Why?” The old god worked his lips and his jaw, chewing for a long half minute. It was as if Wotan would speak for the first time in centuries, crunching pebbles long lodged between his teeth.

“In his body,” he recited, “holy, hides the knowledge. Heavenly alchemy, transmutation.

“Spirit made man. God in flesh.”

Bard was stunned and continued where Wotan had stopped: “Woman, man. Within my body, I’m simply becoming.

“I wrote that,” Bard said in disbelief. Of all the things God could have said to him, never had Bard dreamt of having his own words recited. He continued, “They think I was born another. One nearly wished it so. All-father, inhabit your son.”

Bard fitted the pieces. Terrible parallels were drawn, reflections that could never be dispelled once scried in the dark glass of the world’s suffering.

“Hold not your secrets,” Bard recalled out loud, “I bleed at the foot of the tree.”  Bard turned the bloody shard on himself. “Half-blind.”

The pain was horrible beyond what he had imagined. The glass felt so cold it burned against the mush of Bard’s left eye, pale liquid and blood flowing out of his socket. Bard screamed as he dug with the glass and pulled out the mangled piece of himself. Before it hit the ground, a raven plucked the eye in its beak, mid-flight, and separated the thing from Bard completely.

Kindly, careful, Wotan took the glass from Bard’s hands, and caressed his wounded face. The bleed eased and the pain was numbed a bit. Man and God looked upon each other. Only time separated them as one became the other, one twilight closing its final chapter so the next could begin.

“I should have called her while I had the chance,” Bard said, tired and sad.

Wotan nodded, and held the back of Bard’s neck, and drew him nearer until their foreheads touched. The raven returned with a friend, and the pair flew in circles around the scene.

Once upon a time, Bard could have written a scene like this. He preferred poetry to prose, but his one dive into a novel had not been a complete failure. He had called it Your Body in Mine, and it had been full of dreams that blended with reality. 

He wondered if he was dreaming then.

Serial Saturday: Wotan Watches by J. R. Santos, Chapter Four

  1. Serial Saturday: Wotan Watches by J. R. Santos, Chapter One
  2. Serial Saturday: Wotan Watches by J. R. Santos, Chapter Two
  3. Serial Saturday: Wotan Watches by J. R. Santos, Chapter Three
  4. Serial Saturday: Wotan Watches by J. R. Santos, Chapter Four
  5. Serial Saturday: Wotan Watches by J. R. Santos, Chapter Five
  6. Serial Saturday: Wotan Watches by J. R. Santos, Chapter Six
  7. Serial Saturday: Wotan Watches by J. R. Santos, Chapter Seven

Chapter Four

                                                          

The wind carried the smell of rain, and far away he could hear a familiar rumbling. Bard picked a direction at random, walking until he recognized the part of town he had been left at. It was the old downtown; familiar homes, many of which falling to ruin, announced it long before Bard found a market square he hadn’t visited in years. There was a water fountain at the center, the source spraying from the bodies of pagan deities. Semi-naked figures held each other in a deep embrace, legs and arms wrapped in angles hard to follow.

Bard admired the one figure he recognized, Hermes, standing atop it, holding aloft his iconic staff. The symbol of alchemy and medicine, of knowledge brought from the gods. Fat water droplets began to fall the mark of rain, and in a flash of lightning, Bard blinked, and found the head of Hermes had moved to stare him down.

“No,” he laughed, uncaring of a couple passersby who rushed out of the coming rain. “It’s just my imagination.” Hermes lowered his arm and with his Caduceus pointed right at Bard; stone lips moved, unable to expel air or sound, to silently form words Bard could not hear.

“You’re not real. This isn’t real.” Bard walked backwards, nearly falling on his back. “Leave me alone!”

Another rumble, as the skies ran crisscross with lightning, and from the fountain rose all its water as a waterspout, circling higher and higher until it reached the very heavens, then added to the rain which hit with the might of fists. Bard tried to shield himself with his jacket but the wind stole what little protection he had until the winds nearly swept him away.

For a moment, Bard was a black-winged bird midflight.

Around him the clouds and rain billowed like a cloak, and above him was the great black shape of a hammer. From the massive open mouth blew a gale, and throwing Bard backways, flailing to the ground, it seemed the storm-head announced to the world the coming of the old gods.

But rather than a name, came the scream of a horse. A whining and neighing that drove 

Bard to run for his life, as the skies exploded with lightning and the buildings shook with the strength of the thunder. Projected upon and ahead of Bard was a misshapen shadow, far-reaching, with the hammering of an anvil the size of the world came sparks the size of harpoons, raining on the world of men.

Each scorching blast seemed to draw nearer, despite the next bolt always being a near miss. One piercing bolt of light hit close enough to scorch Bard’s hair, sparks flying in every direction as Bard turned a corner, nearly sliding to the ground, his shoulder thumping against the glass display of a shoe store.

Large as a titan, fully formed, came horrid Donar, a younger man astride his father’s horse, naked, slowly turning the corner with hammer in hand. His eyes and mouth expelled black clouds emitting thunder, and repeatedly he hit the ground and surrounding buildings with his hammer. More lightning came as he rode on a black cloud-horse with too many legs. On his shoulders hung a storm mantle weaved of the sky-symbols that morphed from one shape to another, crafted by the hand of Wotan and unreadable in the eyes of mortals, casting the enchantments with which Donar chased Bard.

Frigid winds blew, slowing Bard down. Nearly blind, he peeked between shadows and lights, and saw long lost forests. Bard was, for a moment, trapped between present and past. One moment he ran down alleyways, the next he was dodging massive trees, running away from Roman soldiers.

Bard would have gladly crossed to those other woods and dealt with a human menace rather than the godly one, if he had the chance, but the mirages were gone the moment he reached them, leaving behind only the frigid cold. Bard continued being pelted by rain and hail, freezing him to his bones as he reached the foothold of some edifice, too darkened by the storm for him to see clearly. Bard fell, managing to sit with his back to the gates of the building, staring into the eye of the god thing who gazed down at him as if he was both cathedral and lighthouse.

“Leave me alone! Leave me alone!” Bard screamed, driven mad with fright. “I don’t know you; I have nothing!” Donar raised his hammer to the skies, while the horse lunged forward towards Bard, who screamed and pushed himself against the gates.

He tried to escape in blind panic, wishing with his whole body he could squeeze through the metal bars of the gate that were digging into his back, until the gate swung inward, giving in to his weight. Bard fell past the threshold and into the building; without looking back, he turned and raced inside, past the double doors.

He was crouching with his hands on his knees once he made it to some sort of reception area. Warm artificially conditioned air, and artificial light that hurt his eyes, welcomed him from the chaos outside as the doors closed behind him. One last bolt cracked like a whip, shattering stone and filling the air with static. This lashing out and the roar of the cacophony were muffled by the thick walls.

“Hi,” greeted a jovial voice, blind or pretending to be blind to Bard’s distress. “Welcome to the War Museum. Would you like an audio guide?”

Drenched, swallowing dry, Bard stared the young woman in the eyes. He had been tempted to say something quite rude but held back his piece, stunned by her resemblance to his sister. The receptionist was much younger, but the resemblance to that memory Bard still held was baffling.

“No.” He swallowed again, regaining his breath, forcing the parts of his brain that helped him act and sound normal even when stressed out of his mind. “To be honest I hadn’t even noticed where I was going. The storm got so awful I just wanted out of it.”

The young receptionist seemed genuinely worried. “I hadn’t realized it got that bad; helps explain why things are slower than usual around here.” She stood behind a counter and pulled something for him. “Here, it’s not much but you can take this towel.” She winked. “No need to pay. No one’s been buying the things. Not sure why they thought people would buy these from the souvenir shop. No one’s picking the umbrellas either.”

Bard accepted the towel and thanked her. It was the second time in a short period he had received the kindness of strangers, and as counter to his nature it was to accept kindness from others, it would have done him no good to refuse.

“Since you’re here, spend some time looking around. You’ll dry up faster and be a little less bored while you wait for the storm to pass.” Bard was about to mention he had no money on him, when the receptionist anticipated the argument. “You don’t have to pay to enter. We’ll happily sell you stuff or accept a donation to help run the place. Just come back some other day to make up for today, if you feel like it.” She smiled. “We joke about it, given the museum’s theme. ‘War is for everyone’, we say.”

Bard laughed awkwardly at the joke, thanked the young woman again for her kindness, and headed further in while drying himself up.