Brotherhood of the Tomb by Daniel Easterman Page A

hairs ripple on the backs of his hands and the nape of his neck. Why was he afraid?
    The sound came again, a little louder. It was like a moan, scarcely human. An animal, perhaps. A dog or a wounded cat.
    He padded through the darkness towards the transept. Above the host, a red flame shuddered. He strained to see in the gloom.
    There was something on the altar. Something living. He felt his breath catch in his throat, sour and frightened.
    ‘Eamonn,’ he whispered, ‘is that you?’
    The thing on the altar moved. Patrick climbed the steps, the scent of incense heavy in his nostrils. The air felt sickly, raddled with holiness. As he drew near, he saw that the white altar-cloth was stained. Like juice or wine, a long streak of red had soaked into the cloth. Memories rushed in from his childhood to dismay him, the horror of the chalice of blood, the horror of the flesh offered up as bread, the horror of Christ’s bleeding from seven wounds across the altar. The thing on the white table was a man.
    They must have tied him before dragging him here. They could not have done what they had done while he was loose: he would have struggled, in spite
    of his age. He seemed unaware of Patrick’s presence, unaware of anything but the pain surrounding him. But he was conscious, that was the horror.
    Patrick’s fingers fumbled with the ropes. He felt bile rise in his throat, burning him. They must have hacked out the eyes: the sockets had filled with blood, like rock pools after high tide. Like a basin of blood in an abandoned Egyptian temple.
    ‘Eamonn,’ he said, ‘it’s me, Patrick. Can you hear me?’
    The old priest moaned again, but showed no other sign of recognition. The ropes were tight, lashing the frail body like the threads a spider uses to secure its prey. But they were not needed now. The old man had no strength left in him.
    ‘Who did this, Eamonn? Why? Why?’ He was crying. Tears touched the altar cloth. His hands trembled, loosening the knots. He looked up and saw the figure of Christ, suspended in semi-darkness, a wooden figure nailed with wooden nails. The old man groaned and tried to move.
    ‘It’s all right, Eamonn. Don’t try to speak. I’ll get an ambulance. We’ll get you out of here.’
    The last knot came undone and he pulled the ropes loose. There was nothing more he could do here. He had to get an ambulance. Taking off his coat, he rolled it up and placed it under the priest’s head as a pillow. He knew he should wipe away the blood from De Faoite’s face, but he had a horror of the bleeding sockets.
    ‘You’ll be all right, Eamonn. We’re going to get you to hospital. I’ve got to go to ring for the ambulance. But I’ll be back soon.’
    As he looked up, he caught sight of something on the back wall. Above the altar pyx, someone had scrawled a message in large black letters. There were
    two lines. The words meant nothing at first, then, with a shock of recognition, he saw that the letters of the First line were actually Hebrew and that the inscription was in the same language. The second line was in Greek.
    The first line was easy to translate:
    Eye for eye, it read, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot.
    He was less familiar with Greek, but the inscription was not difficult:
    And if thine eye offend thee, pluck it out, and cast it from thee.
    The paint was still wet. It had run in places. The writer had been in a hurry. But not too much of a hurry. Underneath the lines of writing, the same hand had drawn a circle. In the centre of the circle was painted the outline of a candlestick. A candlestick with seven branches. A menorah with a cross.
    ‘Eamonn, if you can hear me, nod. I’d like to know if you’re aware I’m here.’
    Suddenly, De Faoite’s hand reached out and grabbed Patrick by the wrist. He pulled him down towards him. His lips were moving, trying to form words. His breath came in jagged lumps. Saliva ran across his lips and chin.
    ‘Pass ...’ It was scarcely a