The Descent

The  monks  were  hard   at   work   in  the   church.  Their   deep   chant  reverberated through  the  stone.  Lord  have  mercy.  Christ  have  mercy.  Lord  have  mercy.  Domine Deus.

'Are you crying for Thomas?' Santos suddenly asked.

De  l'Orme  made  no  move  to  wipe  away  the  tears  flowing  down  his  cheeks.  'No,'  he said. 'For you.'

'Me? But why?  I'm here with you now.'

'Yes.'

Santos grew  quieter. 'You're not happy with me.'

'It's not that.'

'Then what?  Tell me.'

'You are dying,' said de l'Orme.

'But you're mistaken.' Santos laughed with relief. 'I'm perfectly  well.'

'No,' said de l'Orme. 'I poisoned your  wine.'

'What a terrible  joke.'

'No joke.'

Just  then  Santos  clutched  his  stomach.  He  stood,  and  his  wooden  stool  cracked  on the slabs. 'What have  you done?' he gasped.

There  was  no  drama  to  it.  He  did  not  fall  to  the  floor.  Gently  he  knelt  on  the  stone and laid himself down. 'Is it true?'  he asked.

'Yes,' said de l'Orme. 'Ever  since Bordubur I've  suspected you of mischief.'

'What?'

'It was you who defaced the carving. And who killed that poor guard.'

'No.' Santos's protest  was little more than a respiration.

'No? Who, then? Me?  Thomas? There  was no one else. But you.'

Santos  groaned.  His  beloved  white  shirt  would  be  soiled  from  the  floor,  de  l'Orme imagined.

'It is you who have  set  about dismantling your  image among man,' he continued. The  respiration threaded  up from the floor.

'I  can't  explain  how  you  were  able  to  choose  me  so  long  ago,'  said  de  l'Orme.  'All  I

know is that I was your  pathway  to Thomas. I led you to him.'

Santos rallied, for the space of one breath. '...all wrong,' he whispered.

'What's your  name?' asked de l'Orme. But it was too late.

Santos, or Satan, was no more.

He  had  meant  to  keep  his  vigil  over  the  body  all  night.  Santos  weighed  too  much  for him to lift onto the cot, and so when the air grew  cold and he could not stay  awake  any longer, de l'Orme wrapped the  blanket  around  himself  and  lay  on  the  floor  beside  the corpse.  In  the  morning  he  would  explain  his  murder  to  the  monks.  Beyond  that,  he didn't care.

And so he fell asleep, shoulder to shoulder with his victim. The  incision across his abdomen woke him.

The  pain  was  so  sudden  and  extreme,  he  registered  it  as  a  bad  dream,  nothing  to panic about.

Then he felt the animal climb inside his chest wall,  and  realized  it  was  no  animal  but a  hand.  It  navigated  upward  with  a  surgeon's  dexterity.  He  tried  to  flatten  himself, palms  against  the  stone,  but  his  head  arched  back  and  his  body  could  not  retreat, could not, from that awful trespass.

'Santos!' he gasped with his one and only sac of air.

'No, not him,' murmured a voice he knew. De l'Orme's eyes  stared  into the night.

They  did  it  this  way  in  Mongolia.  The  nomad  makes  a  slit  in  the  belly  of  his  sheep and darts  his hand  inside  and  reaches  high  through  all  the  slippery  organs  and  drives straight  to  the  beating  heart.  Done  properly,  it  was  considered  an  all  but  painless death.

It  took a strong hand to squeeze  the organ to stillness. This hand was strong.

De  l'Orme  did  not  fight.  That  was  one  other  advantage  to  the  method.  By  the  time the  hand  was  inside,  there  was  nothing  more  to  fight.  The  body  itself  cooperated, shocked  by  the  unthinkable  violation.  No  instinct  could  rehearse  a  man  for  such  a moment. To feel the fingers wrap around your  heart... He waited while his  slaughterer held the chalice of life.

It  took less than a minute.

He  rolled  his  head  to  the  left  and  Santos  was  there  beside  him,  as  cold  as  wax,  de l'Orme's own creation. His horror was complete. He had  sinned  against  himself.  In  the name  of  goodness  he  had  killed  goodness.  Year  upon  year  he  had  received  the  young man's  goodness,  and  he  had  rebuked  and  tested  it  and  never  believed  such  a  thing could be real. And he had been wrong.

His mouth formed the name of love, but there  was no air left to make the word.

To a stranger,  it might have  seemed  de l'Orme now  gave  himself  to  the  sacrifice.  He gave  a  small  heave,  and  it  drove  the  arm  deeper.  Like  a  puppet,  he  reached  for  the hand  that  manipulated  him,  and  it  was  a  phantom  within  the  bones  of  his  chest. Gently  he laid his own hands above  his heart. His defenseless heart.

Lord have  mercy. The  fist closed.