Legion

Legion - Chapter 2

Roma was loathe to part company with her new confidant, delaying her departure until the last possible moment. Prearranged appointments eventually beckoned the handsome coachman back to his carriage but he remained protectively in possession of her hand until he had escorted her back to the rectory. Roma sensed he was pleased when she asked him to meet her at the Seaspray the following morning but could not have imagined the heights to which his delight soared, for he conducted himself with appropriate restraint and gentlemanly courtesy. She was unaware that the recollection of her kiss and the simple intimacy of her hand in his rendered him all but incapable of remembering where and when his engagements were to take him that day.
         She found Roland buried deep beneath a mountain of rejected parchments. As was his wont for perfection, many a crumpled leaf of broadsheet had been tossed on the sacrificial fire of his pursuit of the perfect Sunday sermon. Knocking politely but entering without invitation, Roma sat opposite her oldest and dearest friend. Her purposeful stride and penetrating gaze prompted him to relax into his magnificently upholstered leather chair and take a deep breath.
         "You told me when I arrived that Michael's history was a tragic one," she attested, "Tell me about him."
         Roland sighed.
         "You kissed him?" the priest shook his head, his declaration taking her momentarily by surprise, "In the last hour alone I've had Obediah Josephson and Harriet Deckart in here with tales of your..." he struggled to articulate his argument, "...‘encounter' with him. Seems you just walked on up and kissed him in the middle of the day in the middle of a crowd. Care to explain?" he raised a curious brow to her, seemingly exasperated but unsurprised by her anomalous behavior.
         Roma quickly elaborated on the circumstances of their meeting and noted that the ordinarily phlegmatic young priest quailed at the mention of her tormentor, his unease turning to alarm when she mentioned Michael's ability to see the Smiling Man. She divulged every element of their subsequent dialogue save the gallant driver's reluctance to release her hand as they paced the docks. This she kept to herself, the memory of his touch a small private pleasure to warm the heart the next time darkness and fear threatened to engulf her.
         Roland collected his thoughts before he began.
         "Michael's father, Ephron Rhys-Huntington, was by all accounts a fine seaman. A wealthy landowner, he possessed three four-mast merchant trading vessels and even captained one himself. He was, however, an insatiable womanizer and dreadful financier. He died suddenly of a heart attack twenty years ago when Michael was only thirteen and it was soon discovered that several consecutive bad trade decisions and an appallingly high unpaid tab at the bordello you just visited had all but left the family impoverished. Camilla, Michael's mother, was forced to sell their estate, the fleet, their land holdings and just about everything they owned to settle her husband's debts. It was also the first she had heard of his ‘extracurricular' activities and it left her devastated. This all happened long before I was assigned to the parish so my information comes from several sources. However, the main points from each recounting have remained consistent so I shan't digress into speculation. By the time Camilla had covered Ephron's debts, all that remained of their once staggering wealth was a small servant's cottage outside of the village proper and two splendid carriages, one open, the other enclosed. These she would not part with for they were a wedding gift from her parents, both of whom had died the year prior to her husband. Camilla retreated from the world. Naturally, her high born friends disappeared like so much smoke in the wind. She refused to attend church where she would have to face the scrutiny and idle gossip of the town. At the time of Ephron's death, Michael was betrothed to a then three year old Eugenie Hannan. Naturally Christabel Hannan broke pledge with Camilla since Michael was no longer in possession of the wealth necessary to provide the lofty dowry required of such a union between two powerful families. Dispossessed and virtually penniless, Michael soon began to ply his trade as a local coachman to earn a living for himself and his mother. Not long after, he began to pursue a line of inquiry regarding admission to the seminary but one of the prerequisites of admission was literacy and Michael has never learned to read," he professed.
         "But he was reading to the children in the church on the day I arrived," Roma interrupted.
         "A treasured picture book from his boyhood, brought back by his father from abroad," Roland continued, "He'd learned the tale by heart as a child and now uses the pictures as prompts when retelling it. It would seem that some of Ephron's last business decisions involved the exportation of the materials of literacy - parchment, scrolls, inks, writing implements and the like. He was a staunch supporter of education for its own sake. It had little backing elsewhere, though, and stocks that he had purchased at an obscenely high price could not be sold for a pittance much less a profit and Ephron Rhys-Huntington's dream of widespread literacy vanished, taking his fortunes with it. Camilla harbored an unrequited resentment that ‘the demon byblos', as she called it, had robbed her of her birthright and she refused to permit her son to learn to read or write. His small earnings as a coachman put food on the table and cover Camilla's medical expenses, of which there are many since she herself is burdened with an erratic and inconstant heart. His mother is unwell and Michael is her only living relative so it has fallen upon him to look after her. Michael has spent his youth and adulthood caring and providing for his mother. The spitting image of his father, he is often the target of her bitter enmity, for he is a constant reminder of her husband's infidelities," Roland took a moment to consider his subject and absently shook his head in wonderment, "He really is a most remarkable man," he avowed, "He lost his father, virtually lost his mother's love, his home, his every belonging, his position in society and his future in one day. And in spite of all this I think he is perhaps the most self-aware, contented person I have ever met. He seems almost glad to have lost everything. Others of his class have hanged themselves in despair for less and yet he is completely at ease with the blows life has dealt him. Not only that, he is perhaps the most knowledgeable individual in this village. As a coachman, he is invisible, of little consequence to those he transports hither and yon. They speak freely and without restraint as though the blessed carriage drove itself. Hence he is privy to the social, financial, medical, professional and personal affairs of the well-to-do of Lymington. He most likely knows the intimate details of every illicit affair, every questionable transaction, every bribe, every political maneuver - every scandal! - this quiet port town harbors. And yet he is a vault of silence. He has never once breathed a word of what he has heard. Perhaps this accounts for his success at his trade - his clients know their business never passes his lips."
         "There is something about him, something outside of my ability to even describe it, that is so magnetic, so alluring, I am compelled to want to know more," she added, "He's like a secret unspoken, a riddle unsolved. I almost feel that if I were to unravel him, I would discover something so incredible I would be utterly unprepared to address it. It is not anything he has said or done. It is something he exudes, something from within him."
         Roland greeted her comments with a mixture of surprise and perplexity. He had never known her to be so curious about another man. He could only surmise that since she had led a cloistered, chaste existence, natural curiosities relating to men were starting to emerge. Michael was perhaps the first man, excluding clergymen and Vatican emissaries, with whom Roma had ever actually conversed. He wrongly assumed that her belief the carriage driver was much more than he appeared was the naïve assumption of wide-eyed infatuation. Years later he would reflect on that supposition with embarrassed discomfiture, for he had no way of knowing how Michael's destiny was to alter all that he knew and thought to be unchangeable.









Ichabod Hannan was a rarity among men - a wealthy landowner and accomplished doctor, he failed to discriminate on the basis of class or wealth. He treated both destitute and affluent patients with equal diligence and due care. He had no need of a professional income, his land holdings would generate wealth for his family six generations beyond his death. However, he possessed a thirst for scientific knowledge and recognized that with its acquisition came the responsibility to share his gift with the populace of his birthplace.
         For a time, early in his career, he had administered medical treatment to the local courtesans but this came to an abrupt halt following his marriage to the much younger Christabel D'Arbyshire and oppressive pressure from his wealthy peers. Ever stoic and undeterred, he had found a way around this disappointing demonstration of societal prejudice in the form of a thirteen year old recently dispossessed Michael Rhys-Huntington who was once to have become his son-in-law.
         When Ichabod Hannan traveled to check on his patients he would often think his treatments and procedures aloud as he languished in his comfortable seat in the open air carriage. ‘I trust you're taking this all in, Michael," he would say periodically, his eyes never veering from the pages of the great medical tomes he consulted as they traversed distances great and small. It was a small rebellion against the arrogant, insufferable attitudes of his contemporaries and Michael had proven a quick study and deft hand at the practice of minor medical procedures and treatments. Oft times it had proven enough to tide a seriously wounded or ill patient over until the conscientious young driver could fetch the aging doctor. If a call took Ichabod Hannan into the business district of Lymington and was not of life threatening urgency, he habitually called by the Seaspray to see if his young protégé was available in the interests of having him accompany him on his business to further his ‘education'. Remarkably, Ichabod Hannan not only paid Michael for his time, to ensure that his absence from his trade might not cost him a single potential coin of income, but he visited the coachman's mother every Friday to monitor her fragile condition. Camilla Rhys-Huntington had been his childhood friend and of all that he had relinquished quietly and silently sacrificed for his vain, shallow bride, he had refused to surrender his friendship with the insolvent woman. It had been a thorn in the social conscience of his pretty, vapid young wife and they had come to the unspoken agreement over subsequent decades that he would not speak of it to her and she would pretend it did not exist.
         A soft moan escaped his lips, a malady born of an emerging rheumatoid arthritis seeping into his joints, the only sound other than the muted crackling of a dying fire in his retreat to disturb the heavy blanket of silence he so enjoyed in the late evening. It was a stark contrast to the shrill prattling of his wife and her small-minded friends that had stabbed fitfully at his senses during afternoon tea earlier. Oddly, he had trained himself to contend with their drivel by imagining they were a gaggle of incessantly babbling geese and the irritation would lift and disappear like smoke as he drifted into the solitude of his own thoughts.
         He leafed absently through a section titled ‘Hysteria and Other Ailments of the Female Denomination' but his mind was drifting back to Molly Abernathy. Her condition had worsened since Tobin's disappearance some months earlier and he was at a loss to stem further decline. She had become frail, frequently coughed up a foul smelling phlegm and her mind had begun to episodically wander. She often spoke to persons either long dead or not present. He had even begun to consult on an ever increasing basis with the surprisingly competent Hattie Milsop, whose herbal remedies and natural treatments appeared at least to be lending assistance in his fight to stabilize the woman's condition.
         He shivered involuntarily as the temperature dipped unexpectedly.
         "Your tea, m'Lord," the butler quietly announced, placing an ornately carved cherry wood tray upon his employer's immense desk laden with a fine bone china pot and cup, a single shortbread wedge and plain scone. He enjoyed this each and every night before his evening constitutional.
         "Thank you, Bradford," the preoccupied doctor replied, lost in thought, his fingers inattentively tracing over lines of script he was not reading. The butler retreated quietly as the vexed doctor poured himself a cup of aromatic tea and bit into the succulent, buttery biscuit.
         Reclining against the studded leather back of his chair, Ichabod Hannan enjoyed only a single sip of his tea before realization struck him with the force of a landslide. He sat bolt upright, scalding tea spilling into his lap and causing him to jump up. Grabbing his napkin, he quickly blotted his trousers, his wide eyes averted to the door through which his manservant had exited.
         "Bradford?" he called out, both confused and insistent.
         "Goodnight, m'Lord," a distant, hollow voice replied. Strangely, it seemed to have come from outside, from the estate grounds far below. With a swiftness that enraged his swollen joints, the elderly doctor fled his marvelously adorned study and hurriedly descended the many flights of stairs that took him to the ground level grand foyer of his palatial manor. Without coat or cane, he hobbled out into the night, stopping only briefly to snatch a lantern from the entrance.
         "Bradford," Ichabod Hannan shouted with the authority of one used to receiving a prompt, obedient response. Darkness greeted him in every direction and he could only vaguely discern the outline of the trees, sculptures and landscaping of his renowned estate gardens. Diffuse clouds masked the dim glow of a full moon. A flicker of movement beyond a giant flowering maple caught his eye. It glowed briefly and was gone.
         "Beggin' y'pardon for m'lateness t'night, Sir," the empty, expressionless apology was faint almost beyond distinction. His heart hammering against brittle ribs, Ichabod Hannan barreled recklessly through his grounds, heedless of the perils the unseen short walls, dips in the lawn and the many tiled fountain pools posed to his well being.
         Thin, flexible branches whipped his face like angry wasps striking spitefully at his skin and he grazed his shin when he dropped to one knee upon stumbling over a retaining wall. His eyes remained locked upon the indistinguishable shimmer of movement ahead of him. It did not occur to him that no chore or errand whatsoever could possibly have taken his manservant to the very perimeter of the estate grounds. It was an oversight that almost cost him his life.
         The solid earth beneath his feet disappeared; were it not for the surprisingly quick reflexes of his skilled, surgical hands, Ichabod Hannan would have plummeted to his death, dashed against the ravine rocks below. His lantern plunged to the craggy rocks, shattering the silence and briefly illuminating the night as the oil ignited, flaring to life on the ravine floor. Blindly he had grabbed the exposed root of a leaning birch tree whose bent trunk and configuration of branches gave it the peculiar appearance of a shaggy giant peering over the ravine edge. His free hand groped wildly for purchase and his flailing legs eventually found a foothold. Panic swelled within him but he was not a man of uncontrolled temperament and soon suppressed his rising fear when he was once again able to feel the grass beneath his palms.
         With limbs trembling beneath the crushing exertion of hauling his frail body over the lip of the precipice, Ichabod Hannan collapsed on the ground, his chest heaving as burning lungs pulled gulp upon gulp of magma hot, ragged breath down his stinging throat. Rolling onto his back, he welcomed the invasive, cold night air that washed over his exhausted frame.

A short time later the disheveled doctor reached the manor entrance. His butler of three years, a fellow by the name of Jones to whom he had never warmed, handed him his cane. His eyes grew wide with astonishment as they fell upon his employer's bloodied state and the ripped, soiled clothing that hung from his tall, stooped frame like the rags of a scarecrow.
         ‘My Lord?" he inquired hesitantly, "What happened, my Lord?" he stammered, "Who did this to you? Did you encounter someone on the grounds, Sir?". The elderly doctor seemed momentarily dazed and distant.
         "Bradford," he murmured, taking his cane and leaning gratefully against it to alleviate both his arthritis and minor injuries.
         "Bradford?" the butler queried, baffled, "Begging your pardon, my Lord, but Bradford passed on three years ago," he replied, his tone suffused both with hesitation and bewilderment.
         "Precisely," the once more composed, limping doctor replied, his granite hard gaze fixed rigidly ahead.









Roland smiled as he passed the coachman on the altar steps. For almost fifteen years Michael ‘read' once a week to a small group of awed, attentive children. His expressions and wild hand motions alone held them spellbound but it was his gift for animating a story that the priest admired. Michael identified with the inescapable plight of the children, grubby and mussed as they were. Twenty years earlier he had been one of those children, with no concept of restriction, an innocent vessel brimming with fantastical dreams, envisaging a magnificent future, fantasizing about adventures in which nothing was impossible.
         The more Roland considered the inauspicious carriage driver, especially in light of Roma's accounts of his demonstrated nobility of character, the more the young priest suspected he had grossly underestimated the mettle of this man. He had long ago come to identify his own worst trait as that of spending so much of his time contemplating matters of a spiritual caliber and meditating on the mysteries of the Gospels he often failed to dwell in reality and immerse himself in things of the corporeal world. Roma had once poignantly coined, with the sensitivity of a flying mallet, what she referred to as his ‘most irritating trait' - preoccupation. He was perpetually preoccupied and rarely present in the moment. It caused him to wonder what subtleties and nuances he glossed over in his relationships with the people in his life that might otherwise enable him to relate to them on a more deeply personal level. Michael was obviously one such example. Over time Roland was was becoming ever more disinclined to dismiss Roma's assessment of the man as mere infatuation. Certainly, she had little experience with men but she was no fool. She possessed an insight, an intuition, into the substance of the human condition he sadly lacked.
         He was still contemplating his poor perception of human affairs, as he sorted briefly through Roma's research in the rectory den, when the coachman appeared at the door.
         Without waiting for an invitation, Michael, clearly ill at ease, placed a slightly crumpled parchment on the table before him. Roland instinctively recoiled at the grisly representation that met his wide gaze.
         "She said you'd never seen it," Michael attested, nodding towards the depiction that was so lifelike he too withdrew from it. Roland peered up at him, bewildered, "She told you I saw it. That's what it looks like," he added hesitantly, "That is what has been tormenting her all this time."
         Overcome with morbid curiosity, the amiable young priest ventured to pick up the illustration. He did not know what awed him more - the magnitude of skill that so realistically rendered the gruesome portrait or the sheer inhumanity of the abomination depicted.
         "Sweet Jesus," Roland muttered, examining the portrait closely. Michael had spared no detail and the intricacy of the sketch left Roland in no doubt that perhaps the only thing more frightening than gazing at the creature on parchment was to look upon it in the flesh with his own eyes.
         He looked up, a dry tongue and parched throat preventing him from swallowing without difficulty. He blinked several times in a failed attempt to articulate the depth of his horror.
         "I had no idea," he murmured, his gaze once again drawn back to the depiction of the creature, "For so long she has called it the Smiling Man, such a benign title for so ghastly a beast, that it never occurred to me it could look like this."
         An uneasy silence lapsed before Roland collected himself.
         "Thank you," he asserted with genuine familial gratitude. Michael shifted uncomfortably.
         "I just thought you should know," he replied before turning to leave.
         "Did she tell you it almost killed her?" Roland stated abruptly, stalling the coachman's departure, "When it bit her, she very nearly died. It is a thing not of this world and its very touch brings corruption and decay. It comes from a place of foulness and perversion. Its bite is a thing so infectious it is virtually impossible to endure. She is one of only a handful of human beings in recorded history ever to have been bitten and survived."
         Michael's brow furrowed in disbelief.
         "There have been others?" he asked, "Others who have been tormented by this...thing?".
         "More than you could possibly know," Roland replied, his sobriety of tone betraying the enormity of that which remained unsaid, "We still don't know how she survived save by the grace of God," he paused, leveling his grave gaze at the silent driver, "It cannot be permitted to harm her again. Do you understand what I am saying? It must never again be allowed to breach her physically. No one has ever survived a second attack."
         Michael considered the intent behind the priest's disclosure and understood fully the implications of what he was being asked. He did not need a moment to consider. His response was a foregone conclusion.
         He nodded once and left.









In the quiet port town of Lymington, church it seemed was the great unifier and the ultimate leveler. Or so Roma thought before entering the great stone structure. The social barriers and prejudices that divided the populace in their everyday life applied even at Sunday Mass, the only difference being that the stage on which these divisions were played out were more closely confined within the high walls of the narrow church.
         At the fore of the church the wealthy sat comfortably with enough elbow room to avoid brushing the person next to them. As her eyes roamed to the aft of the church, parishioners' Sunday attire became notably less affluent and in the final pew they rubbed shoulders. Behind the last pew more than three dozen parishioners of lesser fortune, many of whom were elderly and infirm, stood in reverent silence. Roma sighed. It was thus everywhere she went. Her next course of action caused a stir the likes of which she had experienced before and would no doubt experience again.
         Striding to the very front pew to the right of the isle, she placed her white stole and sash on her reserved seat. The nature of her work for the Holy See earned her this undisputed position wherever she attended Mass in the world. It was a vile and loathsome thing to her, for it upheld the very hypocrisy she fought so hard to abolish - privilege bestowed by virtue of wealth. In her estimation it demeaned and devalued personal and, more importantly, spiritual wealth. Jesus himself, she had argued time and again, had declared all persons of be of equal value to God and yet the very vessel of His ministry - His Church - so often worked in direct opposition to this. The reason underlying this was even more contemptible than the practice of it - the Church required wealthy patronage when the collection plate was handed around. The poor could do little to keep a parish afloat and were thus relegated to a status of virtual invisibility.
Roma was a vision of loveliness in a simple white cotton dress that boasted no bead or embroidery. Where her wealthy contemporaries veiled their heads in the finest Parisian lace, she simply concealed hers beneath an unembellished white linen wrap. Though Lymington's finest conspicuously flaunted their material worth, Roma sported no gold or precious stone - indeed no jewelry at all. And yet she outshone each an every primped, preened and polished parishioner of means in the same way the light of the sun obliterated the dim glow of a candle.
         Immediately she began escorting older parishioners standing at the far end of the church to the pews before the altar.
         "Excuse me," she stated with courtesy," Would you be so kind as to move a little closer together. This dear lady is afflicted with a limp and I'm quite sure you would be horrified at the thought of her standing throughout the ceremony," she squarely bore down the gaze of a speechless, indignant Christabel Hannan as she assisted the older woman into a comfortable position.
         Ichabod Hannan rose swiftly to take her arm and ensure the older matron's comfort. He shot Roma a glance of contained mirth and obvious admiration. He had seen this game played out before. None would make a scene and not because they were in the house of God, but rather it was better to suffer the social mortification of coexisting in altogether too close a proximity with ‘commoners' than to appear unseemly and uncouth by causing a commotion. The slight smile Roma detected on the elderly doctor's lips told her in an instant that she had an ally in Ichabod Hannan. Eugenie Hannan muttered in humiliation under her breath but a sharp glare from her father and a short jab from her mother saw her cast her gaze to her feet and lapse into silence.
         One by one Roma led each of the poorer parishioners shuffling in the cold at the far end of the church to available seating amidst their wealthier fellows. Finally Roma led the last parishioner standing - Michael - by the hand to take a seat beside her in the front pew. The low hum of scandalized mutterings began slowly to rise when a ceremonially robed Father Roland entered the church. All rose and sang the entrance hymn as two altar boys led the priest up the isle to the altar. Roland shot his protégé a weary glance before alighting the podium steps to address his congregation.
         "I see you have met my former student and very dear personal friend, Miss Roma Ruffallo," he nodded towards her. Eyes glowering with barbs of ire shot resentment at her, a veritable hail of silent outrage emanating from the affluent seated closest to her. Softer gazes of gratitude from those she had assisted from the aft of the church enveloped her in appreciation and admiration. She kept a tight hold of Michael's hand and he returned her grasp with a squeeze of reassurance. Not since his youth had he occupied the hallowed front pews during Mass, "Roma is on loan to us from the Holy See," he continued when mutterings once again began to disturb his service and they were quickly replaced with hushed whisperings of awe, "As you can see from the appalling state of the Good Book here, we have been desperately in need of a scribe and it will be Roma's task to transcribe this dog-eared volume into a tome more befitting of the inspirational message of the Holy Gospels. As Roma was once my charge and has so long been in service to the Church, His Holiness has granted us a dispensation for her services and no additional duty tax nor collection tithe during Mass will be imposed."
         Once again hushed whisperings filled the church as each and every soul gathered began to speculate as to who this mysterious young woman could be that she held such sway in the highest echelons of Church authority. Michael cast Roma a warm, intimate smile, as one who shared a deep and impenetrable bond with her, and for a moment the church and all within it melted away, leaving only his face in existence to her.
         "Roma is here also to assist me in my inquiries into the disquieting events that have afflicted our town," Father Roland disclosed, carefully selecting his words; his parishioners would think nothing of her conscription to aid him in service of the Church but more than one would be outraged to learn that she herself was conducting the investigation with his assistance. She was, after all, a woman and one of seemingly no standing beyond the passing mention of her employment by the Church. And she was primarily a scribe - she plied a trade. No one of importance possessed an income-earning trade or skill. And yet none in the church could shake the sense that something about the young woman - something inestimably monumental - remained unspoken. She carried herself with the grace and confidence of royalty and it vexed those of wealth and means that she seemed almost to look down upon them. Yet their resentment did not stem merely from their presumption that she condescended to them; she bore herself with the kind of incontestable deportment and poise that clearly communicated they were beneath her in every way - not merely by virtue of wealth, position and authority but on higher grounds of integrity, grace and countenance. Only one whose place in the world was far loftier than their own could ¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬so boldly speak, act and acquit themselves with the kind of legitimacy and authenticity as did she. It only fuelled their already intense curiosity. And yet it baffled and aggravated their sensibilities further that she appeared to prefer the company and favor of individuals of obviously little worth and less means. All but Ichabod Hannan - he already held Roma in high regard and respected her brash courage all the more for it. That which eluded all others of his class did not escape the shrewd scrutiny of Ichabod Hannan. It was plain to him that she was so incalculably affluent that wealth, social standing and the ability to wield indubitable authority were of little consequence to her.
         He resolved to invite her to tea one afternoon. He had the feeling this outspoken young woman of mysterious origins would prove quite the most interesting of companions for which he had so sorely longed since his father had passed on more than fifty years earlier.
         Father Roland spoke no more of Roma's involvement in the Vatican's investigation of the supernatural phenomena afflicting the bustling port town. The less known, the less upon which there was to speculate. Inwardly, the affable young priest sighed. Following the morning's upheaval, any who did not know of his former student's arrival soon would. She had never been one to retreat into the backdrop. Her physical beauty alone ensured that she stood out far too much to melt into a crowd, but he feared that one day her actions would betray her identity and she would have much, much more than the Smiling Man to worry about. Kidnap and extortion headed a very long list of possible threats to her person should any discover who she really was and how much power she truly held. It reassured him somewhat to observe her connection with Michael fortifying with every passing day. Somehow he sensed that the coachman existed in a place where social, religious and financial standing held little sway and this assuaged some of his more acute fears for his former student. Michael clearly adored and revered her and he had only her words and actions upon which to base his assessment of her - he knew nothing of her incredible past and astonishing lineage. He suspected that even if he were to discover who she truly was, it would change nothing. Something about the way he looked at her and presently enveloped her hand in his spoke of an untold recognition that he would place himself in harms way for her and more.
         The bond between Roma and Michael did not evade Ichabod Hannan and he smiled a private smile, for he had always regarded the young coachman with a deep affection, though he was remiss to demonstrate it openly. For the first time in his life he was actually relieved to see that the handsome driver appeared to have found himself deeply enamoured of a young woman - one of a far higher moral calibre than his silly, fatuous daughter.









It found the smell insufferable - humanity, mortality, imperfection. It was almost unbearable. Only its hatred for that which it had slain surpassed its revulsion of the thing itself. It had taken a curious pleasure in excavating the vessel, digging out bone, muscle, sinew, and organs, depositing them upon the fetid ground with the same efficiency as one gutting poultry. Removing every internal structure without damaging the integrity of the skin was a skill and it had reveled in its own ingenuity.
         In the past it had manipulated its victims from afar, controlling them like pathetic marionettes, always ready at a moment's notice to cut the strings should either a winged agent of the One Who Is To Come or mortal emissary discover it and drive it out. Now it had found a way to enter the solid plane in body, and no rite or ritual could expel it, for it existed within and yet outside the time-bound plane recorded in the great history of eternity as Earth. All things of the natural world were anathema to it - atmosphere, solidity of shape, all living things - which necessitated a shield. Ironically, the crux of this issue lay in the one thing it reviled above all others.
         Man.
         God's favored Creation, over whom the War had begun and raged since time immemorial, was the singular entity that facilitated its physical emergence into the world of Man. For more than two thousand years it had sought passage into the world where it might exist and not merely project itself. No longer did it alter events from afar. Now it had found a way to not only enter but remain upon this hallowed plane forbidden to it. Passing from plane to plane was not difficult - existing in a world not its own, however, proved problematic. To remain long was to be rejected by the natural world and destroyed by it. That was when revelation had come. Controlling man brought no pain, no sting of abolition. Existing within man granted the same protection from the mortal plane. To literally wear a human being - or rather the skin of one - provided armor against the elements of the natural order that would bring about its demise. After all, human skin was a thing uncontested by the natural world. The demon bore the sting of the skin and the skin prevailed again the crush of the natural order that would otherwise have destroyed the demon.
         It had taken several attempts to perfect the art of hollowing out a human being. Skin, though elastic, often broke under the insistence of the demon's superior physical prowess, like a lobster attempting to scrape out the internal cavity of a jellyfish with its claws without piercing the delicate membrane enveloping its internal matter. It seemed almost a pity it had not required more bloodshed to refine its technique.
         The savant was an easy target - large and slow. In the physical plane the demon was colossal, almost nine feet in height and the immensity of the savant's mass and the resultant elasticity of his young skin had been stretched taut to accommodate the monstrosity of bulk the demon assumed in material form. Its new ‘skin' burned but it was little more than a vague warmth in comparison to the furnace of its own plane. It inhabited a world in which a bottomless pit with no beginning and no end, only soaring heights of treacherously craggy walls to which the damned teemed and clung. They screamed and floundered, attacked from above and below by beasts whose primal wrath and capacity for creating terror and mortal pain dwarfed even those of the demon. They were a manifestation of malevolence beyond ancient and composed of a darkness so black as to be the sole bringers of a potency of fear only one other in Gehenna could overwhelm - one so steeped in evil as to remain unnamed even by its own myrmidons.
         The savant no longer resembled his physical self now that the parasite had taken residence for it was his former bone and muscle structure had granted him his earthly appearance. The demon was at once concealed and exposed within the dead boy's skin for the matter that constituted its physical form was hidden beneath the thin casing. However, its own physical structure was evident beneath this protective film and it was truly an horrific embodiment by look upon, atrocious in its perversity of nature, demoralising in its evident strength and power.
         The skin felt tight and constrictive and yet it knew it must act with caution and care to avoid splitting or even piercing this protective coating and allowing the hostile, noxious elements of the earthly realm to invade and assault its true form. The demon turned its mammoth head from side to side in an attempt to further stretch the dead boy's skin and grant it a small measure of relief from the constraint but the membrane had been flexed to capacity and it could not risk causing it to tear.  It could feel the skin subtly shifting and settling over its face when its own capacity for movement slightly exceeded the skin's ability to extend.
         It was grateful of its inability to feel the soft breeze of twilight that the skin barrier provided. Since claiming the cadaver in which to clothe itself, it had been able to leave the crypt for longer periods of time to slowly adjust to the repulsive new world in which it existed. Inside the crypt it was surrounded by death and this afforded a marginally tolerable protection against the earthly plane since death itself was a thing anathema to the living world. Hunting the savant without protection in the open world had exposed it to the aggression of the natural order. Following excavation of the body, whereupon it robed itself in the alien skin, it had collapsed across an enormous sarcophagus while its physical form healed and regenerated.
         Soon it would make itself known to those it had come to annihilate, but for the present it could send itself out into the world in other ways, for it was Legion, the most powerful of the demon caste, the only evil ever to have challenged Christ when He had walked the earth as a man. It could feel its selves burgeoning for release, yearning for discharge, their singular consciousness fixed upon a solitary purpose - to find the woman and break her, if not break her then take her, if not take her then slay her.









Tom Borland pounded on the heavy timber door once again, this time certain he could hear soft footfalls beyond.
         "Dammit woman, I can hear you. No sense pretending you aren't home. ‘Sides, your cross bar's giving. I can hear the wood splitting from this side. I can either break the door down and fix it or you can open up and-" he cut himself short when the door swung open and a purse-lipped Camilla regarded him with demoralizing scrutiny.
         "I'd let you in if I thought you took more than one bath a month, Thomas Borland, and didn't have to worry you'd foul up my drapery with that stench," she retorted, bemused. She wore an apron riddled with pockets, pins, shears, threaded spools, ribbons and a small measure of faded lace, "Fix it if it will stem your yammering and be off with you, man."
         She turned back to the rough shod mannequin torso from which hung an obviously antique but supremely beautiful dress. With her gaze averted, Tom Borland gave his armpits a hasty sniff. Nothing. The woman was trying to goad him. He grinned.
         "Now that be a fittingly beautiful frock for an elegant lady such as yourself, my love," he admired it openly, imagining her comely figure contouring to every dart, tuck and seam. She had gone to great pains to maintain its integrity and had even embellished it slightly with some beads and a little ribbon-threaded lace. She shot him a baleful glare.
         "Eyes to the task at hand, if you please," she snarled, adding, "And if you call me your love one more time I'll sew your mouth shut and you'll find out just how deft a seamstress I am!" She returned to her ministrations.
         "I've some beech lengths in the cart," the blacksmith replied amiably, "A tough wood, that. No one and nothing - not even me with a belly full of ale and a hankering to come calling for your sweet kisses - will be able break this door down once I replace your bolt with that beech," he boasted, a mischievous glint shimmering in his eyes, "'Course, that's not to say I wouldn't fancy climbing through the windows instead."
         He narrowly ducked the wooden pattern weight flung at his head. Chuckling, he exited the homely cottage to retrieve the wood and tools required. Michael drew up his open carriage beside the blacksmith's cart and shot him a grin.
         "Tom," he greeted him warmly with a hand shake and pat on the arm, "You're a brave man, turning up here when I am not at home. Let me take a look at you," he took the enormous blacksmith's chin in his hand, tilting his head this way and that as though searching for injuries, "Must have good reflexes is all I can say," he quipped and the older blacksmith swatted his hand away, bellowing with laughter. Slinging his tool sack and wood over one massive shoulder, the blacksmith rested his free hand on his younger companion's shoulder and leaned in as they made their way back to the cottage.
         "Say, whole village is abuzz with the news of your ‘acquaintance' with that fiery lass the Father has enlisted to rewrite the Good Book," he whispered , his tone loaded with intrigue, "Is it true?" he queried, his eyebrows cocked in hopeful anticipation, "Did she really plant one on you outside Maude's inn like I heard?"
         Michael smiled. Tom Borland was a massively muscled man, a man's man - brusque, ribald, heroic, principled and a shameless skirt chaser. But tempted with even the smallest snippet of gossip, he could hold his own with the best of the parlor maids.
         "I'm happy to say she did," he replied, aware that so factual and unembellished a response would hardly wash with the grizzled forge master.
         "Well," he urged, his voice hushed, "Out with it!" he insisted.
         "What do you want me to say? That it was the most incredible moment I've ever experienced? That I'd been dreaming about her ever since I saw her and for the length and breadth of my imagination I had never conceived a woman could affect me so? That her touch immobilized me and at the same time brought me to life? Would you like me to continue?" he asked plaintively. The older blacksmith was all but drooling.
         "Please, by all means, do," he assented, riveted by the coachman's detailed explanation of his encounter with the beautiful scribe.
         "A gentleman doesn't reveal such things," he replied cagily, barely able to suppress his smile. The suspense had just about caused a protruded vein in the leviathan blacksmith's head to burst.
         "Y'can't just leave me in suspense, boy!" he thundered, suddenly aware of his raised voice which he lowered immediately, sighing as he composed himself once more, "Magnificent looking woman, that. Must come from mighty handsome stock. I tell you, Michael, here in Lymington we can boast some of the prettiest girls in all of New Hampshire, but aside from the woman that there abides in that house," he indicated towards the cottage with a stumpy, blackened index finger, "I reckon I've not seen a more beautiful - and I mean stop-you-dead-in-your-tracks-in-the-street type beautiful - woman in all my life. You're a lucky man," he concluded, slapping him on the shoulder in a congratulatory manner.
         "Don't get ahead of yourself, Tom, she may not be anywhere as keen on me as I am on her," he replied, unwilling even to allow himself to yet dare imagine she might reciprocate any of the cacophony of competing emotions that surged through him for the beautiful outsider. Tom Borland scoffed.
         "Are you kidding?" he guffawed, "I saw the way she looked at you in Mass last Sunday when she was through causing that great ruckus she did, seating everyone and all. She's a gutsy little lady, I'll give her that. And she sat close to you, too. Your friend doesn't sit that close but your lover does. And she held onto your hand not like a woman laying claim to her man for all other women to see - she's not the showy type - she held your hand because she wants to touch you," he added and Michael prayed dearly he was right.
         "I think you're seeing what you want to see," Michael replied diplomatically. The blacksmith grunted.
         "Bah! You're forgetting, boy, if there's one thing I know it's women and all their luscious ways," he waggled a podgy finger at his young friend, "She looks at you, lad, like every other man in existence might just as well be a eunuch because she's eyes for no other."
         Michael's gaze dropped to the ground at his feet as he walked and he could not remember ever wanting anything so badly in all his life. Since his father's death he had taken every blow life had dealt him with grace and dignity, ever patient that the future was filled with hope, that doors to opportunity were everywhere, that something better awaited. Never before had he longed so desperately for anything as much as he yearned to be the object of that woman's affections. Never had he fallen so hard.
         As they reached the porch steps, a shrill voice had already broken into a tirade of derision and ignominy. Tom Borland smiled. No other man could get Camilla as hot and bothered as he and he dreamed of the day - and hopefully night - in which that scorn and contempt finally transfigured into passion and ardor. He shook his head dramatically as though turning down an irresistible offer.
         "I know what you're thinking but, no, there isn't another woman alive who can match the wild passion your mother has for me and the superlative charms she employs to woo me. You'll just have to make do with your young, foreign goddess," he apologized theatrically.
         Inside, Camilla planted her fists onto her hips in annoyance.
         "My concession to allow you to fix that bolt wasn't an invitation to loiter in my yard and fill my son's head with your malarky," she rasped at the burly blacksmith.
         "Good to see you're in fine spirits, Mother," Michael noted without humor.
         "Don't you ‘fine spirits' me, Michael, I'm not in the mood," she retaliated indignantly, "Now go eat your supper before it gets cold," she directed, her tone softening almost imperceptibly with suppressed maternal affection.
         Tom Borland took a deep breath.
         "Smells wonderful! What are we having?" he quipped. A simmering glare silenced him and he set about his task, "That you're dress for the Spring Dance? When can I expect to be calling by to escort you there?" She ignored him, her diligent fingers skillfully working threaded beads into an elaborate lily design on the dress, "Looks like the boy's got himself a dance partner this year," he added and inwardly Michael groaned. This could only end badly. Camilla looked up and regarded her son with both disappointment and concern.
         "I certainly hope you're not referring to that eccentric woman Father Roland brought into the village. Everyone seems to be capable of talking about little else," she shook her head in reproachful displeasure.
         "She may well turn me down. Besides, I haven't asked her yet," Michael replied, raising his eyebrows and casting the blacksmith a reproving glance. The older man shrugged and pretended not to catch the gist of the coachman's intent.
         "I should hope not!" Camilla asserted crossly, "She's more widely known for her attire, her lack of respect for social bounds and certain rumored outbursts of public displays of passion," she shot Michael a piercing glance that told him she knew more than she had previously disclosed, "than she is for her work or purported service to God."
         "You'd best get fixing to ask her, son," Tom Borland ignored Camilla's wild disparagement, "A woman like that - available, beautiful, mysterious - isn't going to escape the attentions of the men for long. If indeed there be any red-blooded man left in the village whose attentions haven't already been garnered." Michael knew that now Tom Borland was unashamedly baiting his mother. He shook his head. He could effortlessly conceive they would banter like this into the next life and for all eternity.
         "You keep that grimy snout out of this, Thomas Borland, lest it find itself making the abrupt acquaintance of the prickly end of my broom," Camilla warned. He merely grinned and continued his work, if work it could be called for he labored slowly to draw out the length of time he might spend with his only true love.
         Their repartee faded to nothing as Michael lost himself to thoughts of the alluring scribe whom he feared had won over his turbulent heart until the end of his days even if he proved unsuccessful in capturing hers.

         As he was about to leave, Tom Borland noted that the pulley axle on the well just beyond Camilla's picketed yard had buckled. Without awaiting a request he sifted through the melee of parts and supplies he took with him everywhere in his cart and found a suitable if not ideal replacement. For another hour, as twilight heralded the soft chirrup of crickets and gentle song of frogs, he toiled until he was satisfied, after testing the new rig several times, that it would do until he could make a duplicate axle to replace the one that had rusted.
         When he returned to the house to bade Camilla a good night he almost fell over his own feet to discover that a steaming plate of duck and turnip stew with herb dumplings and onion gravy had been left for him on the porch setee. The door, however, was closed and bolted and the drapes drawn.
         He smiled. Michael had left earlier to keep an evening appointment with Ichabod Hannan who was to introduce him to the physician, a Dr Tiberius Rothschild, who would be taking ownership of his practice. The wealthy landowner was advanced in years and had finally admitted to the reality of his own mortality following several curiously unexplained injuries he had recently sustained. He was already in the process of handing over a large portion of his patients to the energetic young doctor. Michael was to transport them both to several homes throughout the district to introduce the new physician as Ichabod Hannan made his rounds.
         It could only have been Camilla who had left the meal out for him.
         He grinned broadly. By God, the woman was relenting! He chuckled. At this rate, he surmised that in only another seventy years he might actually receive an invitation to dine inside.









Roland was experiencing the dream with disturbingly greater frequency of late. It was ever the same, however one element appeared to be changing. Or rather, evolving.
         Again he dreamed of the lost souls in the fields beseeching Jesus for a sign to prove His existence.
         Again he dreamed of the girl visited by the true Virgin Mary whilst charlatan priests beguiled a desperate crowd with an illusion.
         Again he walked the streets of the long dead city awash with grey before ascending the mountain. He chose each hand- and foothold exactly as he had in every dream before it. The angel assisted him to the ledge and Roland despaired at his inability to marvel at a wonder so magnificent and pure of spirit. The angel made as if to speak but disappeared as did everything surrounding it.
         Once again he perceived the museum in a far removed future. His preserved hand beneath the glass display no longer appeared clenched in a fist but had relaxed somewhat. He strained to locate the crumpled parchment in his dismembered hand. The fingers loosed a little more, the parchment unfurled almost indistinguishably. The index finger twitched slightly and expanded barely a millimeter more. As did the next. And the next.
         With all of his effort, Roland struggled to see beyond the obscuring fingers for now there were signs of script upon the parchment though he could not ascertain the words. He strove to glimpse even a single word, veritably willing the fingers to open with every ounce of his determination and desperation.
         The hand slackened a little more-
         He awoke with a start, sitting upright in bed, his breathing labored, his clothing damp with sweat. It had eluded him again. Each time he dreamed this last element of his triptych dream he was compelled beyond reason and logic to discover what was written upon the parchment in his clenched hand. He knew not from whence his inclination came, but he was certain there was something written there he was meant to see. A message. Something to put an end to his anxiety. Something that would grant him peace. He had to see it. He feared he would never rest until he did, even if he dreamed the dream until the end of his days.









Michael approached the rectory with mixed emotions - apprehension and delight. When Roma had asked him to meet her there between appointments, he had been thrilled by the invitation, though he had contained his elation and assented with a smile. When she would not reveal the intent of her request he had begun to worry. A torrent of doubts at once beset him. Had he been presumptuous about her interest in him? Was it her intention to clarify her desire for nothing more than friendship? Had her concerns about his ability to see the hideous Smiling Man prompted her to revisit her initial decision to remain far from him to keep the creature at bay? Had the gossip careening throughout the village about them worn her down, driving her to seek distance from him? The night before he had slept little and all but drove himself mad for his wonderings.
         His fears could not have been further from the mark. He could not have known that something utterly wonderful awaited him at their meeting.
         He took a little used cobbled path around to the back of the church as instructed and located the plain birch doors.
         Taking a moment to compose himself and quell the butterflies in his stomach, he slowly raised his hand and knocked upon the sturdy dark wooden door. Moments later Roma opened the door and greeted him with so bright and open a smile that his relief threatened to overwhelm him. Leaning forward she took his hand and drew him inside. He could not take his eyes from her face. Her smile hid nothing and declared without uttering a word that simply seeing him brought her immeasurable happiness. His hand closed around hers and he would have gladly followed had she been leading him to a certain death.
         She led him past the study, which looked to have been the unhappy birthplace of a dispute between a set of shears and several stands of parchment, and on to the rectory lounge. It was a very small room, large enough only to house two exceedingly comfortable arm chairs, a small sideboard, a bookshelf and a small statue of the resurrected Christ. The retreat had once been used to entertain visiting bishops and Church affiliates of high distinction. A bottle of cognac and two elegant, hand carved pipes sat resplendently upon the sideboard. Roma often withdrew to the comfortable haven to clear her thoughts and tranquillize tired eyes too long assaulted by the miasma of holy script that long occupied her days. She had discovered a stash of tightly rolled, long thin tobacco cigars she was almost certain her dear friend had forgotten and indulged in one here and there when fatigue and an unstoppably active mind threatened to exhaust her. They were quite strong and the headiness she experienced was both relaxing and a relief. She told no one of this for it was quite unseemly for a young lady to partake of this strictly male indulgence.
         Michael took a seat on one large armchair and Roma fell back into the other, unable to hide her enthusiasm. At once she detected his unease and briskly leant forward, taking both his hands in hers. Again his hands closed over hers like two halves meeting their like and reuniting as though never to part again. Touching her felt as natural to him as drawing breath.
         "You look very pleased with yourself," he noted, her infectious grin coaxing a smile from him.
         "Not so much pleased with myself as pleased to have conceived a notion bearing as many benefits for me as for you," she elaborated. After a long silence, he could take the suspense no longer.
         "Is this a test of my ability to read your mind?" he asked jovially, "because I think I should tell you that since the dawn of time the one thing we men have tried to achieve - reading a woman's mind - is sadly the one thing we have never accomplished." Roma's grin broadened. She admired his sense of humor in the face of uncertainty and her heart skipped. He was simultaneously completely at ease and yet nervous in her company, as though something wonderfully innate and eternal existed between them and yet something fledgling and naïve dwelled there also. That something was their unspoken and yet unspeakably powerful connection to one another. It was like a beginning had come to life at the moment of their meeting. But the beginning of what? Roma had already begun to notice that her idle thoughts drifted to the handsome coachman, that her occasional daydreams led her back to him. Her beginning was the notion that she was awakening to an awareness of wanting more than merely friendship with her new friend. She wondered if his beginning might be similar. His surety of touch and unflinching gaze certainly suggested as much and she experienced difficulty containing her rapture.
         "I hope you don't mind but I spoke to Roland about you," she began, "I didn't mean to pry, I just wanted to know more about you. He told me about your father and his death, and the changes his passing brought to your life and of things discovered about him that were revealed to your mother afterward." Michael smiled. She reiterated his past with such sensitivity and compassion that he felt no discomfiture about being exposed to her on such an intimate level.
         "It's alright," he assured her, "My family history is no secret in this town. I've never harbored any sense of disgrace."
         "He told me that you once wished to enter the seminary but your candidacy was overlooked due to certain restrictions your mother imposed upon you in your youth," she attempted to handle the issue with as much delicacy and subtlety as possible before taking a deep breath and meeting his gaze squarely, "I want to teach you," she asserted with what she hoped translated as kindness and hopefulness, "I want to teach you to read and to write. The world is a remarkable place when the symbols become letters, the letters form words and the words create sentences. There are great libraries throughout the world. Remarkable men have documented the rise and fall of civilizations, the advent of momentous wars, inconceivable wonders both physical and spiritual, and advances in knowledge and discovery that would leave you speechless. Your world would be changed forever," she concluded breathlessly, rapt in the excitement of sharing such a gift with him.
         Michael took several long, measured breaths. This he had not expected. It was something about which he had always been curious and was singularly the one great regret of his life other than his father's passing - that he would forever be denied the liberating skill of literacy. He could conceive of no greater gift that she could bestow upon him save one, and for that he would give all he had.
         "What's in it for you?" he asked, his head tilting subtly.
         "What?" Roma countered, confused.
         "You said the benefits to you were as great as to me," he reminded her, "What benefits?" She smiled openly.
         "I'll get to spend more time with you," she replied candidly, unabashed in her disclosure. Her obvious joy rendered him mute a moment longer. He had never dreamed she might reciprocate fully his attraction to her much less express it so openly. He had to remind himself they had known one another for only a brief time, though his initial encounter with her had left the indelible impression on him of someone incomparably beloved returning to him rather than of meeting a stranger.
         "I would very much like that," he replied, ever vigilant to exercise a gentlemanly deportment. Roma had apparently thought her plan through carefully, for his agreement hastened her very enthusiastic response.
         "From what I have observed, your longest lapse between appointments seems to fall around noon. We could collect lunch from the Seaspray, go into the woodlands or out into the hills, find some place private and quiet, and start from there," she suggested. A thought came to him that brought a smile to his face.
         "I know just the place," he replied.
         A few minutes later they had ironed out the incidental details of Roma's proposal and she agreed to meet him on the docks just after midday. She arrived earlier than he, entered the clean, welcoming dockside tavern and immediately opened an account, making a fore-payment to ensure she was always in credit and bought bread, cheese, meat and honeyed figs. She found the proprietress to be a genial woman of even temper whose character closely resembled that of her priestly brother. She liked the woman immediately. It was not hard to discern why her clientele was loyal. Good food was one thing but good service drew people back to an establishment time and again. Maude had a way with people, from the high born to the lowly, possessing a rare ability to address and acknowledge one and all with respect in spite of occupation, circumstance or material wealth.
         Roma absconded Michael's offer of comfortable accommodation within the open carriage to assume a seat next to him on the hard driver's seat. She took his hand, smiled and enjoyed a companionable silence as he directed his steed away from the bustling port town and beyond, into the lightly wooded hills of the shire. They passed small homes here and there along with several farms. There dwelt folk of modest means who either tilled the woods and forests for natural harvests or who owned small pockets of farmland. They were not nearly as poor as those forced into the congested housing complexes of the town proper but were certainly not wealthy enough to own titles in the estate district.
         As they left the sparsely populated landscape and entered more a more densely vegetated woodland, Roma looked to Michael, drawn from her thoughts by the comforting reminder of his warm hand.
         "I'm glad you were not accepted into the seminary," she stated plainly, "If you had, we might never have met," she added, "Or worse, we might perhaps have met but would forever have been lost to one another."
         One of Michael's greatest ever disappointments vanished in her simple confession. Never had he been so grateful to have been denied his desire to enter the priesthood. Never had he been so thankful for his illiteracy.
         In a move both bold and reserved, he gently kissed the top of her hand before releasing it to tenderly place his arm around her, drawing her closer. Instinctively she leant into him. They enjoyed the remainder of their trip in silence.
         Roma was exhilarated by the countryside through which they traversed. The sun warmed her to her core, bird song romanced her ears, a light breeze carried faint whispers of jasmine and hyacinth and each tree and shrub they passed seemed effused with life and vitality. For one day, the world felt harmonious and at peace and she felt a part of it.
         Some time later they entered a densely wooded thicket in which many of the trees and shrubs were lashed to one another with vines and brambles. It was a place not quite forbidding and yet not entirely welcoming. The vines and brambles strangled all they encountered. The brambles brandished thorns the length and breadth of a grown man's finger and terminated in wicked pinnacles. The very trees seemed to be engaged in a desperate battle, railing against an indomitable foe, straining to release a silent scream. And yet it was a place of wonder. The dim light, the toadstool stands, the lichen covered rocks and moss smothered roots, the gentle bubbling of an unseen brook and the chirrup of crickets and frogs all lent themselves to an atmosphere of enchantment. It was not hard to imagine that the fairies and pixies in tales of yore made their mischief here, that the water sprites and goblins of folklore frolicked amongst the dew-studded cobwebs and long shadows.
         Michael dismounted from the driver's seat and offered his hand.
         "Come with me," he directed softly and she took his hand, climbing down to land noiselessly on the soft, spongy ground underfoot. He led her to what appeared to be little more than a menacingly thorny wall of brambles. Pushing back the branches of several small trees and clearing a mat of cobwebs with the sweep of his arm, he heard Roma gasp at what lay beyond.
         It was a door. Reaching into his pocket he took an enormous skeleton key, inserted it into the rust and dirt encrusted lock which groaned and relented with a clunk before the door fell ajar, the dim light outside unable to illuminate the darkness beyond.
         Minutes later Roma stood in the centre of a disused cottage. Several oil lamps banished both darkness and mustiness therein. The dwelling had been entirely concealed beneath an asphyxiating dome of brambles with only the door remaining visible and accessible from the outside. A lattice of shelves housed a most eclectic and enthralling assemblage of decorative ornaments. Some she recognized from far flung cultures on the wild continent whilst others appeared to be local treasures. Some were religious in nature, while others appeared to be instruments of astronomy. And more than a few erotic sculptures adorned the abode.
         "So this is where you bring your secret lovers," Roma murmured and for a moment Michael's expression was stricken.
         "No," he insisted, fearing she might believe that he had brought her to the cottage as the latest in a long line of carnal conquests. When the sides of her mouth rose in a grin he realized she had been teasing him and his face reddened, "But you're not far off," he continued, "This is where my father used to bring his mistresses. He left it to me when he died."
         Roma turned to consider by far the largest and most ostentatious feature of the cozy cabin - the immense bed. It boasted fat, goose down stuffed pillows, fine cashmere blankets and a rich velvet coverlet. It embodied comfort and luxury and obviously no expense had been spared to ensure it was quite the most restful article of furniture in the lodge.
         "It's quiet here and out of the way. We should be able to make some considerable progress here," Michael explained. A roguish glint twinkled in Roma's eye.
         "Let's hope so," she replied, her play on words not escaping him this time. He shot her a glance of mock reproach and she shrugged, feigning innocence before setting to the task at hand, "I'll clean up the table over there, you light the hearth. We'll eat and then get started," she instructed.
         In spite of its torrid past and several thousand layers of dust, the cottage was not merely habitable but modestly large and welcoming. An old, empty iron tea pot still sat atop the kettle stove, the pantry was stocked with crockery, cutlery, and other culinary tools. The bookshelves were filled with books whose titles were as diverse as the array of souvenirs lining the walls. Michael explained that his father had collected both the books and the artifacts throughout his maritime career from across the globe.
The entire cabin was at once pragmatically engineered to comfortably meet the immediate needs of warmth, hunger and respite, but was also very evidently a love nest designed to address desire and passion.
         An hour later they had virtually transformed the neglected abode into a livable dwelling, and a pot of water supplied by the brook nearby bubbled contentedly upon the stove. The hearth blazed, stemming the assault of the chill air.
         Their meal consumed, Roma placed a single sheet of paper adorned with symbols before Michael.
         "I'd like you to meet a very dear friend of mine - the alphabet," she began, as eager to begin his tuition as was he to be instructed.
         Over the following hour they focused upon this basic foundation of literacy. Roma taught Michael to identify each letter, to articulate their hard and soft pronunciations along with lower and upper case forms, to distinguish consonants from vowels and recognize the importance of this distinction. She was, however, astonished to discover that he held a nibbed quill with the natural ease of a scribe, though he had never so much as written a word in his life. She put it down to a natural disposition for writing and thought about it no more.
         The hour dissolved in what seemed minutes and they each were manifestly disappointed that their secluded rendezvous must necessarily end. Roma removed the pot from the stove and Michael placed the meshed ember guard in front of the hearth to prevent sparks and coals from escaping and setting the lodge ablaze. They snuffed the oil lamps and locked the door behind them, concealing the hideaway once again with small leafy branches.
         The return trip to the port town was oppressed somewhat by melancholy but they relished their companionship in silence.
         When Michael had escorted Roma safely back to the rectory he lingered a moment, appearing unable to express himself with the clarity and poignancy he sought.
         "I don't know what to say to you. I have so much I need you to know about how your generosity affects me, how you affect me," he struggled to convey the myriad emotions and reactions he was experiencing. Roma simply placed her finger over his mouth to silence him as he stumbled over his explanation.
         "Sometimes we find someone so specifically created to complete us that nothing unspoken exists in between, even if we were to become deaf, blind, and mute," she replied and the simple truth of her words left him speechless. He smiled as he held her gaze a long moment, for it struck him that never again would he have to strive to find words to give voice to his thoughts. She was right. He could see it in her eyes. He could see into her and she into him.
         In that moment Michael ascended into an awareness that their meeting was no random, happy coincidence. It had set in motion something beyond comprehension, something only time would unveil. An era of unimaginable, inconceivable wonders at once awesome and terrifying. And it was the reason they felt so strongly bonded to one another. Their bond was not merely a powerful attraction but necessarily immutable in its strength for he sensed that future tribulations were to test and erode the very mettle of all they loved, believed and held dear to the point at which all they had left was one another and their impervious bond. He felt immediately unsettled by the inimitable feeling a terrible blow in a far off future awaited them and yet this insight amplified his desire to treasure their present euphoric infatuation. It was blossoming swiftly into love as time deepened and fortified their union, and promised to flourish beyond even that into something indescribably preternatural and indestructible.
He knew then that their meeting had been as a single drop from a precipice.

         Even the mightiest waterfall began with a single drop.

Book 2








Over the course of the following several weeks, Roma immersed herself in her investigation into the paranormal activity that had rattled the bustling port village. With his ‘assistant' in tow, Roland revisited every victim and witness of the supernatural phenomena, gently requesting each to recount his or her respective experience for the sake of documentation. All, that is, save the children whom he wished to spare the trauma of retelling their frightening encounters. None suspected Roma of being anything other than what she pertained to be and assumed the notes she took were under the specific direction of the empathetic priest for his later review.
None, that is, bar Ichabod Hannan, who utterly scandalized his wife and her friends by inviting Roma to tea in his study, alone, one afternoon. Not even Christabel had ever been permitted admission to the hallowed sanctuary of her husband's private den. It would be a seething fist of rage she would carry within her until, several months later, the enigmatic young foreigner would silence her - and her sympathetically outraged friends - once and for all. Ichabod Hannan, however, found their meeting of minds utterly thrilling, and in Roma he delighted in the discovery of an intellectual equal. Tea in his study was to become a regular occurrence and one that Ichabod Hannan would come to cherish unto the end of his days.
         Although he never openly probed, for he was far too noble a gentleman of the old ways for such uncouth intrusiveness, Ichabod Hannan gleaned by far subtler means insight into his young companion and her past. Whilst his wiles were not lost upon her, Roma disclosed nothing more consequential than vague innuendo and nebulous allusion. Strangely, she sensed that were he to discover her identity, he would remain a vault of secrecy, partly out of respect for her and partly as a consequence of over seventy years' aristocratic upbringing.
         Of all the incidents of remarkable supernatural interference Roma was to record, none flagged her attention more than Hattie Milsop's cursed painting. No specific aspect of the account was of particular peculiarity. Rather, it was a feeling that engulfed the perceptive scribe upon entering the woman's home. It was inexplicable other than giving the sense of walking in the front door at the very moment an intruder slipped out the back. There was sensation of violation prevalent in the home, a pervasive sense of invasion, as though something silent, immense and intolerably terrible had departed, leaving a residual milieu of lingering menace. Something about Hattie Milsop's description of the demon in the painting spoke to Roma's innate intuition. Of the many reports Roma recorded, this one remained ever present at the back of her mind and pestered her idle moments, like an insistent child pulling at the skirt hems of its mother.
         As Roland had suspected, Roma sensed an undertow of connectivity in each reported case of unnatural activity. It was, however, more a presentiment than a tangible line of commonality, but he knew that the imprecision of this sense would badger the tenacious scribe until she had unearthed the singularity that linked each incident to every other.
         Roma faithfully kept to her pledge to grant the handsome coachman the gift of literacy and he learned the art at so prolific a rate that she suggested in jest more than once that he was receiving help from above. In just weeks the bramble choked lodge began to feel like a second home. Following Mass, they spent every Sunday together as both faithfully observed an abstinence from working on the Lord's day. Michael, a deft woodsman, often took Roma into the wooded hills many miles beyond the beleaguered village. There he introduced her to a world at which she marveled.
He taught her to locate the smaller creatures - skink, finch and rodent - using her peripheral vision. She learned to identify hidden perils before stumbling upon them - wasp nests camouflaged as tree bark that could otherwise be carelessly bumped by a shoulder, hives hidden in the ground that would prove disastrously hazardous to the health of any who might inadvertently step upon a leaf litter concealed dome, nettles whose sting could lead to paralysis and respiratory disfunction. They created a bird hide in the vicinity of a reputedly magnificent lyrebird and confined themselves to motionless silence for more than eight hours only to be rewarded with a few exhilarating minutes of strut and song by the elusive bird. It had been worth every moment of muscle cramping patience. She soon learned to detect insects her untrained eye might never have happened upon and was startled to discover how voraciously carnivorous the seemingly mild mannered ladybeetle in fact was.
Roma was as much awed by the complexity and interactivity of nature as by its ability to conceal and camouflage itself from immediate detection. Her discoveries broadened and enhanced her perspective of the God at whose hand such majesty of nature had been molded in stunning clarity. So too did her reverence and love deepen for the Creator whose inestimable love had thought her worthy of discovering such a miracle.
         Roma and Michael grew closer with each passing day and their burgeoning rapport drew as much envy as attention, for theirs was a love so evidently deep that many who came to compare it to the caliber of their own unions found themselves bitterly wanting. They never breached propriety, either publicly or in the privacy of their discreet escapes, but something sublime continued to grow between them, something that caused them to ache for one another when parted. They bore the scrutiny of the town, along with the acrimony of Michael's mother, with the aplomb of a saint condemned to martyrdom, but enjoyed the support of those closest to them. Astonishingly, one of their most vocal exponents was the incontrovertibly reticent Ichabod Hannan, whose genuine affection for both had become insultingly apparent to his incensed wife.
         During this time, Lymington experienced something of a lull in the unsettling activity that had brought Roma to the charming port town but this, she was to discover, was not to last. Soon after, the frequency and severity of paranormal incidence was to augment exponentially. It began innocently enough one Monday morning with a young boy and an old book.










The rain was enough to dampen Dairmid's otherwise sprightly disposition but the rumble in his stomach was positively unendurable. He knew he should have eaten that last cheese dumpling on his way out the door that morning. And if that was not bad enough, nothing but a morning of practicing his times tables and revising adjectives, adverbs and nouns awaited him following the discharge of his chores. Every morning he and his cousin, along with a dozen other children, attended the small, parish funded school across town. Sophia seemed to revel in the acquisition of knowledge. Girls! Nosy by nature, he deduced, and this apparently extended into the arena of learning for its own sake. Dairmid, on the other hand, found school to be little more than an obstacle perpetuated for the sole purpose of frustrating his every effort to make mischief, collect interesting bugs, play stick ball with his friends and otherwise find a myriad of outlets for his overactive imagination.
         He dreamed of his mother's steamed pork pies floating in gravy as he dusted the pews. He could almost smell her baked apple pastries as he swept the isle and altar. By the time he had collected all of the prayer books from the seats and returned them to their stands in the foyer, he was positively drooling at the thought of her butter cookies.
         Dragging his feet up the altar steps he approached the podium and reached for the open Bible there.
         Oddly it did not budge when he attempted to close it and his grip slipped. Again he tried to close the large tome but it lay rigid and immovable, as though made of stone. He stepped back. His pale brow furrowed in annoyance; surely he was not so weedy he could not close a mere book, even one as formidable as the parish Bible. Besides, he performed this service every Monday morning and had never before experienced such difficulty.
         Steeling himself to meet his obligations, he once again approached the mighty tome. As though believing the inanimate object possessed awareness and could hence be taken by surprise, he suddenly lurched at it, grabbing the open book in an effort to swiftly slam it shut. He achieved little more than to jar his shoulders against the unyielding volume. He knew then that something was not right. Immediately his thoughts shot to the woman he knew to be working in the rectory. He remembered immediately that his uncle had instructed him to seek her out in his absence in the event that anything frightened or disturbed him.
         Endeavouring one last time to accomplish the inexplicably insurmountable task, Dairmid crouched to lodge his shoulder beneath the corner of the tome which jutted from the end of the podium. Shifting and bracing his feet to gain maximum purchase, he heaved with all the strength his ten years could muster. He did not so much as feel the Bible give slightly. Standing and regaining his breath following the strain of exertion, he moved forward and attempted to lift the immense volume. He could not raise the book from its location. He pushed and pulled at the volume, braced his foot against the podium stand and attempted to wrench it free; he even tried wedging it loose with the aid of an ornate altar candelabra but this proved fruitless. The tome could not have been more fixed were it a granite block bolted to the podium. A thought struck him. Perhaps if he flicked through the pages one by one he could close it that way. This too was futile for the pages also would not move, as though gummed together, as hard and inflexible as dried sap.
         When a gentle breeze washed through the church causing one of the pages to ripple, Dairmid leapt back. Steadying his rapid breath, he tentatively stepped forward, gingerly pushing against the page he has seen move. Nothing. Again it was as iron in its indomitableness. He stepped away from the afflicted book with the wariness of a spooked cat. Thoughts of food were a distant hum all but drowned out by the toll of rising panic that clanged within him, causing him to shudder.
         His eyes flickered to the back of the church to the smaller Bible that sat upon a stand by the exit in accordance with his uncle's philosophy that the Word of God should both greet and guard his parishioners. It was his long held belief that by placing a Bible by the entrance to the church, no entity of wicked intent or subversion could enter the hallowed hall of God. He was soon to discover how very wrong this supposition was.
         Racing to the back of the church, Dairmid attempted to close the smaller volume. It snapped shut with a crack, causing him to gasp. He had expected the smaller Bible to suffer the same blight as its superior upon the altar. Relief registered with a racked sigh but it suddenly occurred to him to remove the sacred text and take it to the foreigner before it fell under the same enchantment as its twin. Gathering up the book, he began to move swiftly up the isle.
         That was until the weight of the book began to pull him into a stoop. He held the increasingly heavy Bible to his chest to centralize the weight but with each advancing step the book grew heavier until finally he dragged it along the isle, unable to lift it from the floor. He had progressed no more than ten feet from the stand when the Bible had become so burdensome he could no longer even push it along the floor without creating scrape marks in the wood paneling.
         Heaving and straining, he began to pull the text back towards the stand. With each inch that closed the distance twixt the book and the stand, it moved more freely until eventually he was able to pick it up once more. By the time he had reached the stand at the aft of the church, the weight of the Bible had decreased to that of a simple book. He abruptly returned it to its post. Something felt terribly wrong. The Bible was unable to approach the altar, was not permitted upon the sanctified rostrum of the Holy Ghost.
         Abandoning the smaller Bible at the rear of the church, he moved cautiously up the isle, his unblinking eyes fixed upon the larger tome upon the podium. As he passed it a flicker of movement caught his eye. Turning slowly, he watched in morbid fascination as the pages of the sacred book slowly began to turn with no assistance. Drawn by irresistible curiosity in spite of his growing fear, he approached the podium. The pages began turning faster. Not a breath of wind entered the church now and certainly not of a force to manipulate the pages of the Bible.
         Just as he reached the animated volume, the two covers of the book snapped together of their own volition with a crack that resounded like thunder. To the frightened young boy it was as though God Himself had struck His holy staff upon the vault of heaven in anger. The sacred text teetered momentarily upon its broad spine before toppling with a vigor of force that sent the podium crashing down the altar steps. Splintered wood tumbled down into the isle as the carved pedestal and plinth shattered upon impact.
         Drawn and gaunt, the lad fled through the back door of the church and into the rectory without a backward glance.

         Roma heard a crash and jumped. Without time to react, she found herself struggling to placate a pallid, panicked boy dripping with sweat and gasping for air. She was barely able to discern his disjointed rantings.
         "It is alright," she took his shoulders to gently turn him to face her squarely, "Sshhhhh, it is alright, I promise," she reassured him, "Did you knock something over?" she asked calmly, assuming the loud noise to be something accidentally dropped or bumped in the church.
         The boy shook his head frenetically as he fought to catch his breath.
         "There's something wrong with the Bible," he blurted, finally able to express himself cogently, "With both of them," he clarified.
         "What do you mean ‘something wrong'?" she probed gently.
         "The Bible on the altar - it's too heavy to pick up," he insisted, the edge of panic rising in his voice once again, "And the one at the back, when I tried to bring it up the isle, it got heavier the closer I got to the altar until I couldn't lift it or even drag it," he cried, his prepubescent voice breaking repeatedly in his distress.
         Apprehension seized Roma. The boy was too frightened to be lying but she could not fathom how this could be so, how something contradictory to all natural and spiritual laws could have taken place in the House of God.
         "I will take a look," she replied, hoping her cool demeanor would hearten the wild-eyed boy, "You do not have to come. You may stay here if you like," she offered, but he grasped her hand.
         "Not for a king's ransom," he asserted.
Her unflappable confidence gave him courage, though he winced at the thought of going back into the church. She squeezed his hand comfortingly.
         When they entered the church, the boy's jaw dropped. The ruined podium was whole and erect in its former position, as though it had never been a broken scattering of split wood. The Bible lay open atop the pedestal. He released Roma's hand, unable to enter the sanctuary. His eyes remained wide and fixed upon the massive tome.
         Roma began to approach it.
         "The Bible closed itself and then the podium fell over - it smashed apart on the steps," he stammered, unable to reconcile what lay before his eyes, "I saw...I saw it break apart," he murmured.
         Unease settled over Roma like an oppressive blanket. It was a sensation she knew only too well. It was her intuition warning her of a nearby malice, of something disturbed in the natural world. The fine hairs at the back of her neck rose and a chill prickled her scalp, like icy fingers raking through her hair.
         Nothing appeared out of the ordinary in the quiet church. A titmouse sparrow twittered high up in the rafters as it fussed over a small, neat nest. Several moths danced in a cloud of dust motes through several shafts of light coming from windows high up on the walls above the stained glass masterpieces. Such scenes of gentle serenity could not have contrasted more starkly the overpowering sense of an unseen, belligerent manifestation. She could feel it as though it were an entity standing directly behind her, close enough to disturb her hair with its breath.
         She reached for the Bible. Dread jolted her like one awakening from the warmth of slumber into a sudden awareness of an intruder present. She could not lift it, not so much as even turn a page. It might as well have been a marble sculpture of the Bible, for its weight was impossible to shift.
         She stepped away from the podium and moved slowly down the altar steps.
         "Are you going to be all right there while I check the Bible at the back?" she asked the stunned boy, her voice barely a whisper. He nodded furiously, more terrified of stepping into the church than remaining alone at the rectory entrance.
         Roma approached the smaller volume with trepidation and wariness following her inability to lift or even turn a page of the Bible upon the altar. When she reached out to take the smaller companion text, it felt no heavier than it appeared. When she attempted to bring it up the isle towards the altar, she found it growing heavier with every step she took. She walked with a stagger beneath the crushing weight of the small volume after only putting ten feet between herself and its stand at the aft of the church. She had not reached the midpoint of the isle before it dragged her to her knees. She could push it along the floor only another foot, bracing her feet against the pews for leverage before its ‘weight' superseded her strength. It was as the boy had testified. She returned the afflicted text to its stand, astonished as the weight simply dropped from it as she progressed to the back of the church.
         Just as she placed it upon the stand she felt something brush the back of her neck, like a hand sweeping across her skin. She jumped and the Bible fell to the floor. Gooseflesh pitted her skin and a wash of alarm enveloped her. The temperature of the air plummeted abruptly and her breath turned to vapor. She looked around, remaining forcibly calm even though her every instinct beseeched her to flee. She remained where she stood. She could not leave the boy.
         Something was there. Something was inside the church and it filled her with a cold so numbing, a dread so crushing, that inwardly she shrank from it until resolve and the welfare of a small boy overpowered her fear.
         She became aware of the strange sense that something was circling her, something predatory, though it remained concealed from her sight. She felt its primal urge, its craving for the flesh of her soul, as though the promise of her terror and despair set it to slavering. It felt bestial and utterly pitiless. When a sudden apprehension clamored at her to act swiftly, she stole herself to address her unseen assailant.
         Opening her mouth to speak, she jumped suddenly, her heart lurching within her breast. Something had brushed her arm. She spun but her eyes could perceive nothing. She rubbed at the spot she had felt contact, shivering. She could not shake the sensation that she had just been ‘tasted'. Again, a passing pressure on the small of her back, faint but distinct, caused her to jerk away from her unseen molester. Though she was unable to see the presence that harried her, an intuition far superior and more sensitive than her five senses conveyed that it moved with a swiftness unencumbered by limitations of the physical order. Just when she sensed its approximate immediacy, it seemed to have shifted several times with impossible speed. She wasted no further time in expunging the specter from the hallowed sanctuary.
         "By the blood of the Risen Christ who sends his hosts to protect the elect, I command you - leave this place," Roma called out, her heart pounding, for though she pooled the very essence of her faith into her demand, her heart quaked in the shadow of the mighty foe in whose palpable menace she trembled.
         Only a single fragment in time passed before a sudden gust of wind blasted the unsuspecting scribe at such a velocity that it knocked her onto her back, steeling the breath from her lungs. She found herself briefly deafened by what she could only relate later as a silent scream of rage. The same gust that had toppled her blew the church doors open with so great a force as to blast one from its enormous iron hinges entirely whilst the other hung like a broken wing by a twisted scrap of metal.
         Roma came to moments later to find the young boy shaking her shoulders, his expression stricken.
         "Miss, miss!" he urged, fear threatening to whittle his already frayed nerves. She choked and gagged as she fought to regain her breath. The anxious boy helped her to sit up, gently patting her back until the coughing subsided. She placed her hand upon his shoulder.
         "I am all right," she assured him, clearing her throat.
         "Is it gone?" he ventured cagily, his gaze drifting to the ruined church doors. The distant din of commotion outside indicated that the blast had sent concerned parishioners running from nearby shops to investigate.
         She nodded. She had not been sure until then that the boy had felt the presence of the evil that had stalked her.
         "Tell no one what you saw here," she advised in a gentle but firm voice, "We will talk to Father Roland together," she instructed and he nodded rapidly, immensely relieved by her assumption of control.
         "He is my uncle, he told me to do as you say in his stead when he is not here," he explained.
         "What is your name?" Roma asked, her smile disarming and comforting the startled lad.
         "Dairmid," he replied, "My ma owns the Seaspray. Uncle Rol, I mean, Father Roland, was the only one who believed me when I told him about the Pacematcher," he related, "He told me that if something strange like that ever happened again and he wasn't around, I could tell you and you would believe me."
         "I'm glad you came and found me," she replied, "Now I want you to go into your uncle's study and wait there for me to come back. The blast drew some attention so I need to set some of the townspeople's fears to rest. I'll be back in just a few minutes. I have some of your mothers sweet cinnamon rolls in my pack. Go and help yourself. And you won't be by yourself while you wait for me. The fat, orange lump in the windowsill that looks like a mattress with whiskers is my cat. He loves company. He'll stay with you until I get there. Sit tight. I won't be long," she instructed and her gentle humor set him at ease almost instantly. The resilience of children never ceased to amaze her. In one instant they could lose all control of their faculties due to fear and yet recover from that same fear in the next instant with little more than a kind word and reassuring glance.
         The boy veritably bolted to the rectory study as Roma picked herself up off the floor and gathered her thoughts before exiting the church to greet a growing crowd of stunned onlookers blinking in blank-faced bewilderment. It did not help to dispel their confusion when suddenly confronted with a disheveled woman staggering from the church whose doors lay broken and fractured before them.
         Roma took a deep breath. The town's attitude towards her was divided. The pendulum of opinion swung from one extreme of open suspicion to another of undisguised fascination. This was not going to be easy to explain in terms precluding supernatural interference, but until she could consult with Roland, she needed to divert their fears from the paranormal and assuage them with an explanation couched in factual terms. In her experience, the most believable stories were the simplest, for there was little room for contradiction and ambiguity. She would keep it short and precise.
         Though the entity within the church had fled beyond her ability to sense it, the recollection of that cold hand across the back of her neck dimpled her skin with chill ripples in spite of the ambient warmth of the late winter sun.









"What did you tell them?" Roland asked, rubbing the bridge of his nose as he sank into a reclining chair in the rectory study. Roma brought him a snifter of cognac before slumping into her chair to sip her own.
         "I told them that I had opened all of the louver windows just below the roof line to air the building and that a sudden down draft had created a vacuum effect in the tall structure, causing the air to rush in and down very swiftly. The sudden build-up of pressure in the church caused the doors to burst outwards and break off at the hinges. I explained it was a freak of nature and in no way related to the events that have unsettled folk of late," she replied, evidently more relaxed than her anxious friend.
         "You made a point of dismissing any correlation with the supernatural?" he seemed displeased, "The church doors blow off for no reason and you are the only person inside at the time - as far as they are aware anyway - and you think they are going to take your explanation at face value? There are those in this town who have already started to whisper that your presence here has had the effect of amplifying unnatural activity in the district," he cautioned her somberly.
         "You would be surprised how readily people will believe what they are told, even if it contradicts their gut instinct. Most will happily believe a lie that helps them to sleep better at night, even when they know it to be a lie, than a truth that prevents rest and steals their peace of mind," she reminded him, "How is the boy?" she asked. Roland took a deep breath.
         "He's fine," he replied, "Terribly shaken but he understands the importance of containing knowledge of this incident to the three of us. He's a good boy," he grinned knowingly, "Moreover, he's a smart boy. He knows telling his parents anything of this is only going to frighten them and impact upon his freedoms. Frightened egrets don't permit the fledgling to stray far from the nest. Following the incident with the Pacematcher, Dairmid's liberties regarding where he could play and how late he could stay out with his friends were severely curtailed. He's worried about losing his independence all together. He'll hold his tongue," he replied confidently.
         "He's a nice boy. Scram took to him like fish to burley. I found them sharing my lunch by the time I'd convinced everyone who had gathered at the church to disperse. Speaking of Scram, I don't see a lot of him these days. I have, however, noticed a water and feed bowl outside your back door and you routinely appear before me covered in great wads of ginger fur. Care to explain, o ye who doth profess a great loathing of all things feline?" she goaded, sipping her cognac and savoring every droplet of the strong, fiery liquor.
         Roland scoffed. "Wretched animal!" he muttered with so much emphasis that Roma found his protest utterly unbelievable, "It lives to torment me, with its incessant purring and pawing and yowling to get my attention. I'm certain ‘tis a little devil spat up from the pit to drive me to the brink of insanity. I cannot put quill to parchment without it draping itself across my work. It feels the peculiar need to sample my every cup of tea by repeatedly dipping its filthy paw in. I've awoken to more than one crooked back thanks to that orange mop hijacking my bed. And if its not bad enough that it strictly observes its duty of abolishing the sacrilege of an empty lap, my every attempt to read a book is defeated by a pair of disrespectful paws constantly warring with one another on opposite sides of my reading matter," he bemoaned, his objection so theatrically relayed that Roma had her answer.
         "So what you're telling me is that you are quite besotted with my cat," she concluded succinctly.
         "You have a greater chance of converting Jesus Himself to Hinduism than ever drawing such a confession from these lips," he declared with utmost sobriety.
         A comfortable silence lapsed and they each fell into the miasma of their own thoughts. Roland redirected the conversation back to the topic of the hour.
         "This...thing...you say you felt inside the church," he began tentatively, "You are sure it wasn't the Smiling Man?" he clarified.
         "Not even close," she shook her head, her scalp bristling at the recollection, "This was worse. It was like death itself had become a living, thinking, purposeful entity. I have no basis founded in either logic or evidence for what I felt because it operated outside the boundaries of my senses, but I had the distinct sensation it was circling me, like a hunter assessing the best angle of attack. It felt darker, more primitive than even the Smiling Man, like it came from a place older than Creation itself," she fought for the lucidity to accurately express her experience and adequately explain that which fell outside the explainable.
         "And it physically knocked you from your feet as it fled the church," he prompted her to ensure he fully understood the occurrence. Roma shook her head, her complexion paling slightly.
         "It didn't so much collide with me as went through me," she elucidated, "I felt it pass through me like I was insubstantial and it was of solid form. And for that brief moment that we existed in the same space, I felt its presence wither my soul, and my body became so cold that I became certain, just in that moment, that no warmth would ever thaw it again. Roland, it was like the very embodiment of Plague, Famine and Infestation moved through me and for that moment in time slew me in mind and body, wilting my soul to its core. When it left me, the breath of life came back to me," she shuddered, "What could be so powerful and so foul that it could enter the House of God and move through me like I was smoke?"
         "You've had but one foe throughout your life who has hunted you with an almost personal loathing," he replied, his tone muted and grave, "Granted, he seeks to destroy us all but you he esteems with a particularly extreme antipathy because of your ability to detect him in his every form, to contest his every lie, to expose his every deception. He despises you in particular because he cannot hide himself from you and therefore cannot ambush you or mislead you by slight of hand. His vulnerability is his inability to delude you. You're special. From the moment of your birth, others possessing the same extraordinary spiritual insight immediately recognized in you a strength and puissance exceeding the normal bounds of human capability. Even those not gifted with this sensitivity knew you to be different, set apart, like one reserved for a higher purpose by a higher power."
         Roma sipped her cognac.
         "The villagers are starting to fear me," Roma sighed, "I saw it in their eyes when I addressed them before. They are starting to believe that I am the cause of their afflictions. Those whose eyes do not cast direct blame still reflect a degree of concern that even if I am not the root cause, my presence here is worsening the situation."
         "And they're right," Roland concurred, his blunt statement causing her to lift her eyes from her glass, "You know it to be true," he asserted, though his tone harbored no impunity, "In the war against evil, especially the Evil One, his only defense is to discredit you. If he cannot corrupt you himself, his best alternate strategy is to call your integrity, the very mettle of your spiritual sovereignty, into question, to turn the fear of others against you. Isolating you, preventing you from rallying those of flagging spirit to fight against him, is the only way he can disarm you. So he plants suspicion, doubt and ignorance in the hearts of the unwatchful, the arrogant, the impressionable - and he waits for them to do his work for him. Name one investigation you have conducted that wasn't directly impeded by the mob-hysteria mentality of those who accused you of proliferating the very thing you sought to dismantle. Every gift has its curse - your gift is your ability to detect him where ever he may hide in whatever guise he may assume. Your curse is his ability to turn others against you," he shrugged, "We just have to persevere."
         Again a silence fell between them but this time it was a loaded lull, as though something hung in the air, threatening to destabilize the harmony of their concord.
         "I'm going to tell Michael," Roma revealed quietly. Roland's eyes flared wide.
         "What do you mean?" he gauged warily.
         "I mean I'm going to tell him everything," she reiterated, "Who I am, why I am here, who it was that sent me, and what it was that we had in common that I was given authority carte blanche to do what I do," she disclosed. For several seconds Roland could not comprehend what she had divulged and when he did, it took him even longer to consider the repercussions.
         "I cannot tell you how strongly I advise against this," he urged, aware even as he spoke the words that her revelation was a foregone conclusion. Roma had never in her life uttered aloud anything she did not follow through with. She had never gone back on her own word or changed her mind.
         She was unrepentant and certain in her conviction.
         "He knows why I am really here," she expounded, "but not the rest. Things between us have...developed," she chose her words carefully. Apprehension gripped the alarmed priest.
         "Meaning," he prompted.
         "Meaning that I'm not prepared to lose him or even jeopardize what we have by committing the sin of omission," she replied.
         "A necessary omission, if you will recall," he cautioned.
         "But a sin nonetheless," she refuted, "Roland, in my whole life two men have known the whole truth of who and what I am. One of you is sitting opposite me now. The other holds the highest office of authority in this world and is the only other human being alive at this point in time ever to have been hunted by my tormentor. Others know part truths and only God knows every truth, even the ones in my heart. Michael means everything to me. I want him to know the whole truth," she insisted. Fear slowly rose within the amiable young priest's heart.
         "What do you think his reaction will be?" he queried.
         "I don't think it will change his view of me, if that is what you are asking," she replied confidently, "He's different to other men. Where some seek fortune, he seeks harmony. Where some seek deliverance from their lot in life, he seeks reconciliation with his fate. Where some seek the promise of a better future, he seeks out the opportunities of the present. His values lie above material things, his goals have naught to do with gain or glory," she explained, meeting his haunted gaze squarely.
         "You're sure about this," he stated more than asked.
         "I'm in love with him," she confessed, "I trust him with my life." Roland merely nodded. With the initial shock of her declaration wearing off, he considered the very real ramifications of her decision and reached the conclusion that if there was a person in whom she could confide with the assurance of complete discretion, it was the reticent coachman. He had known for some time that theirs was a lifelong love for it was a bond so palpable, so powerful, that he felt apart from it. She had shared everything dear to her heart with him throughout her life and they had grown to adulthood as close as any two blood related siblings, but this she could not share with him. It belonged to the two of them alone. This was a love of a very different kind and one from which he was necessarily precluded. It was not an exclusion that stung him, but rather it felt odd not to be a part of all things beholden to her. He knew that one day this might come about but now that it had, it was going to take some time and adjustment before he found his peace with it.
         "So be it," he replied, a slight smile conveying his blessing upon her decision. "Now we must see to another matter," he arose and Roma nodded.

         Roland assumed his official spiritual mantle to conduct a blessing ceremony. In the empty church, Roma knelt before him, not as friend before friend or student before teacher, but as parishioner before priest, and lowered her eyes respectfully.
         Placing one hand upon her head and raising the other to heaven, Roland conducted a blessing of spiritual cleansing. Roma had been touched by an entity whose existence was a subversion of all natural and spiritual laws and the rite purged her in body and soul of any residual harm or weakness this contact might potentially inflict. Humbly she supplicated the Blessed Virgin to pray for her. Father Roland entreated the Risen Christ to grant her longevity of endurance in her fight to bring down his singular foe and replace the corruption of the Fallen One with His living kingdom. He completed the blessing by asking the Holy Spirit to fill her with a light so radiant that it might become a beacon visible even from Heaven.
         As she left the church to return to her work, Roland stopped her briefly.
         "Try to keep a low profile," he implored, "What you deal with is dangerous enough. You don't need an angry mob hunting you out of town. Once that happens, we have lost and this town will be at the mercy of whatever it is that is causing this unrest." He said no more. Roma had never been one requiring a verbose diatribe in order to get the point.
         As she left, he felt as though a large cog in the great wheel of destiny had turned once again and that they had reached a fork in the road. One path led to disaster, the other to salvation. And it all hinged on her pending disclosure to the man that had won her heart. It would be some days before he knew the outcome and until then he could not shake the feeling that he was holding his breath, waiting to exhale.









"Lady Huxley, who is by no means a prattler of gossip, swears she has seen the woman in her native Italy," Josephine Allsop commented as she gingerly dropped two sugar cubes into her tea, "I've heard some say she is from Florence. Bohemians, the lot of them. Artists flock in their droves to the city to apprentice themselves to the likes of those madmen da Vinci, Botticelli and Raphael who ply their debauched trades beneath the thin guise of classical or religious veneration. Theirs is purely a carnal obsession with the flesh and every perversion of it. Their ‘art' is thinly ascribed to religious commemoration and merely a vehicle for depraved immersion in dissolute practices."
         "I heard that she has an association with that wild drunk, Michelangelo. He is commissioned by the mighty Medici themselves," Alexandria Oberg interjected, her eyes sparkling with glee as she divulged the scandalous news. Her friends gasped.
         "He is reported to be an impenitent womanizer!" Thomasina Wiltshire exclaimed, "You don't think..." she left her speculation open-ended, that the imaginations of each one present might run wild with supposition.
         "I have it on good authority he prefers the company of young men," Christabel Hannan related with feigned prudishness, her eyes lowered demurely to her tea. When she looked up, a wicked glint of relish glimmered there. The sport of character assassination had always been high on the social agenda when the Estate District Ladies Ecumenical Society met for tea and a cursory sweeping glance of the Bible.
         "Is there any truth to the rumor that she abounds in wealth?" Willhemina Drixon ventured, the first among them bold enough to vocalize the intense curiosity harbored by all.
         "No one lacking in means deports themselves with the gall and arrogance that woman has demonstrated on every occasion I have had the misfortune to have crossed paths with her," Christabel Hannan sneered, her loathing for the beautiful scribe unashamedly evident.
         "Some have suggested that her affluence exceeds that of the entire estate district - even that of the Huxleys," Alexandria Oberg put forth.
         "It certainly would go a long way towards explaining that look of condescension with which she regards us each Sunday at Mass," Josephina Allsop contemplated as she delicately brushed shortbread crumbs from her silk skirt with a lace-gloved hand.
         "The audacity of the woman!" Christabel Hannan objected indignantly, "Who does she think she is to look down upon us!"
         "Lady Huxley has tea with the shire bishop each Thursday and when last we supped she had done a little surreptitious probing into the matter. Apparently the bishop paled at the mention of her name. Paled! He would not speak of her or her affiliation with the Church. His reaction was so extreme that Lady Huxley got the distinct feeling he feared the foreigner, as though her authority superseded his own," Thomasina Wiltshire recounted, straightening her posture and remaining statue still to avoid creasing her shimmering copper gown.
         "Well, that leaves but two possibilities," Christabel Hannan interposed, her tone punctuated with spite, "Either she is in possession of knowledge that gives her leverage against the Church, perhaps even the Vatican, or else she is of an extremely powerful lineage, one of sufficient influence as to exercise sway over even the Holy See. Certain politics high in elite Florentine circles have tendrils that entangle even the Throne of Saint Peter," she proposed.
         "I put forth that it is the latter," Alexandria Oberg attested intrepidly, "No one bereft of wealth and position would have the wherewithal or the effrontery to look down upon us with such distaste. Only highborn breeding and a privileged upbringing impart so great a degree of haughty affectation upon one's person. Oh, she is wealthy. Obscenely so, I suspect. I speak of old money, generationally accumulated wealth, the kind that reaches back into the recesses of the first millennium. Only a handful of families in all of Europe possess that kind of wealth. One of them rules all of Florence and has become the most prolific banking institution in the known world. Only incalculable wealth of that ilk bestows that depth of contempt."
         "It is all something of a conundrum, really," Willhemina Drixon mused thoughtfully," Let us review the facts - Father Roland has testified that she is on loan from the Holy See - not merely the Church but the Vatican itself. She dresses in the attire of a wandering troubadour. She brings her conduct into question by traveling about the town unescorted. She has been seen consorting with harlots," she paused to lend momentum to her following observation, "And then there is the matter of her patently auspicious relationship with one Michael Rhys-Huntington. I cannot begin to even recount the rumors of their ‘heated' encounters."
         All eyes flickered to Christabel Hannan, for the Rhys-Huntington scandal was as big a thorn in her side twenty years on as when news of it broke afresh.
         Ichabod Hannan could hold his tongue no longer. When their baseless conjecture took the steep plunge from idle pondering into slander, he would stand for it no longer, especially in light of his immense fondness for their targets. Slowly lowering his medical journal and removing his glasses he regarded each member of the preposterous ‘gaggle' before him.
         "Yes, let us examine the facts," he deliberated, his tone a cocktail of restrained derision and disgust, "Those ‘bohemian' artists to whom you so glibly refer with what is evidently ill-informed and ill-educated bias, are one and all commissioned by the Vatican. Am I to assume that you believe yourselves to be more prudent and discriminating in your choice of appropriate official church artist than the Pontiff himself? As to the question of Miss Ruffalo's wealth, it has been my immeasurable pleasure to have made the acquaintance of the young lady in question, and I find her to be affluent in both grace and intelligence, humility and altruism, mirth and wit - attributes that, ironically, I have only ever found sorely wanting in those who campaign to disparage her. As regards her affiliation with the Holy See, she is far too modest and unpretentious to exalt herself above her humble station as a servant of God, although I will attest that in her acts of decency, charity and benevolence she is loftier in spirit than us all. And in conclusion, Michael and Roma are two of the finest young people I have ever had the pleasure of befriending in all my seventy two years," he arose slowly, his rheumatic joints protesting against the enforced mobility, "May God bless them with all the happiness, joy and generosity of spirit so sorely lacking in your own lives. Good day, ladies."
         Taking up his cane, he left their company with dignity and decorum. He had been reticent too long, he later concluded, about fifty years too long. He would be silent no longer. When he exited the parlor, he left ashen complexions and lips shamed into silence. The collective conscience of the Estate District Ladies Ecumenical Society quaked beneath the yoke of their exposed disgrace. Agog and astonished, they no longer saw in Ichabod Hannan a frail old man of withering mortality but a titan of demoralizing formidability with whom they would not soon dare to reckon again.









It had not expected flesh to be sweet. In fact, it had stolen itself against retching the tissue, organ and bone of its young victim, assuming that something it reviled so incontrovertibly must necessarily constitute a bitter morsel. Following this revelation, it had gorged itself flagrantly. The flow of blood down its throat was as cool spring water to a parched man in the desert. The crack of bone was as the first sweet melody of birdsong to a once-deaf man.
         The domination, death and consumption of a human being intoxicated and invigorated the demon. Desecration was its resurrection and despair its salvation. Only in the affliction of terror, in the victory of enslaving dissolute souls, in the success of sowing deceit and temptation was it wholly galvanized, fully flush with malevolent purpose.
         Completely adjusted to the freedoms and limitations of the skin it occupied, the demon had grown bold. It had ventured from the seclusion of its nest deep within the forest and snatched its victim on open ground. Rooted to the spot by disbelief and horror, its startled prey had been effortlessly dispatched. It brashly devoured its kill where it had been slain, in the shade of a large tree atop of shallow rise, carelessly tossing the stripped carcass high into the branches when it had sated its gullet.
         It had once thought that meeting the physical needs of its corporeal manifestation would prove an encumbrance, interfering with the greater task of bringing havoc and fear to the mortal plain. It knew now that this necessary fleshly maintenance would be a gratifying indulgence whose depths of degeneracy it longed to explore at length.









"I have something special to show you," Michael whispered, leaning towards Roma. Mass was about to begin and a hushed silence was settling over the congregation. She smiled up at him with expectant delight. Something in the glimmer of his eyes promised enchantment. He took her hand in his.
         Every seat was filled and not a soul stood at the aft of the church. Parishioner numbers had dropped dramatically in recent weeks due to Roma's persistence in seating all of the faithful for the service, rich and poor side by side. She had been forced to inauspiciously remind those who considered themselves socially superior that all were equal in the eyes of the Lord. Subsequently, those of greater societal self-importance were more noticeably absent during Mass recently. Most chose to request Roland perform a home-based ceremony and resultantly his Sundays had ceased to be a day of rest spent in spiritual solitude. Instead he found himself spending the day traveling from one estate to the next to perform a private Mass for many of the most powerful families in the district. He would gladly have declined the added strain upon his already overblown workload. The parish coffers, however, could not be filled unless the collection plate made its way into the company of those whose coin was plentifully bestowed in the hope of buying salvation without having to surrender lifestyle luxuries and excesses.
         The stoic, and of late more convivial, Ichabod Hannan stalwartly attended Mass and had even begun assisting the elderly and infirm to their seats, ensuring that all who had previously only ever occupied the standing room at the back were comfortably accommodated. He then took his seat beside Roma and Michael.
         "As always, you look lovely, my dear," he complimented Roma on her modest Sunday attire. She flashed him a dazzling smile.
         "You are quite the dapper yourself, Ichabod," she replied roguishly. He had insisted on the familiarity of addressing him by his Christian name rather than his title for in his affections for her, he had begun to regard her with paternal fondness.
         "You do an old man too kind a justice," he chuckled, gently patting her hand.
         "And you do yourself an injustice," she chided, "Why, were I a lass fifty years ago, your first wife would have found herself contending with some stiff competition for your attention," she winked at him and he chortled once more.
         "A-hem," Michael cleared his throat softly, "I'm sorry, Dr Hannan, but I'm afraid we're going to have to take this outside and settle it like men," he attested genially, "I'm not about to let any man, not even you, Sir, attempt to lure her away from me."
         "Were I a younger man, you might find yourself in some serious trouble should I come a-courting your lady," he jested with mock reproach, his tone suffused with amusement.
         Dairmid and another altar boy who attended his school appeared at the far end of the isle bearing the Cross and Eucharist for the altar tabernacle. Roland, in ceremonial surplice, appeared behind them. They waited until the congregation rose to sing the entrance hymn before proceeding down the isle. Roma frowned with concern. The usually indefatigable priest looked tired, his countenance bearing the weariness of a man twice his age. She noted this for later discussion with her old friend.
         Michael squeezed her hand and all other thoughts slipped away as water through splayed fingers.