Father Prescott.
The priest’s arms were raised in an expression of adulation. His voice had risen steadily in volume until it rang through the clearing, running counterpoint to the patter of the rain of blood that spattered his face, his arms, the cross and the clearing.
The gathered natives, trapped in the moment, dropped their heads to the ground, arms outstretched as they continued to chant. At the entrance to the clearing, Father Gonzalez dropped to his knees. He lowered his head and joined his gruff, cracked voice to Father Prescott’s.
Brian Morrigan stood like a statue, one arm outstretched and running with blood. His mouth worked, but no sound emerged; for the second time that day, the world whirled about him. He turned away from Father Prescott’s blood soaked form and swept his gaze in a long, slow motion arc across the prone figures of the natives, their hair spattered with the blood that drenched him, their voices sonorous and powerful.
He turned back the way he’d come and saw Father Gonzalez kneeling by the path. The old priest did not look up; none of them looked up. To them, he might as well not have existed.
Brian latched onto the image of Father Gonzalez, who prayed alone and separate from the madness, far enough back from the clearing to be free of the blood. Brian swept one arm around to beseech the old priest. Father Gonzalez didn’t see him; he saw only the ground between his knees and he was lost in the prayer and the patter of spilling blood. Brian couldn’t call out or beg for his help, because his voice wouldn’t function, and if it had, it would not have been loud enough.
The chant echoed through Father Morrigan’s mind. The sound reverberated off the inside of his skull and crashed like discordant symbols. He heard the native’s voices. He heard Father Prescott and Father Gonzalez, but he couldn’t lock his mind onto their words. What he heard was garbled and too slow, like a tape player with one wheel binding and stretching the tape, or a 78rpm record played at 33 1/3.
He spun in a slow circle, seeing first the cross, and Father Prescott, and then the pathway leading back the way he’d come. He intended to take that path and leave the clearing behind, but his body was stuck in the same odd time-slip as the voices surrounding him. As he turned, his legs tangled. The world gave a sickening lurch, and as he kicked wildly to free himself, he spun face up into the sun, and the blood. He closed his eyes. The words of the prayer pounded to the rhythm of the blood pulsing too hot and too fast through his temples, and he fell back into a well of darkness.
~ Eight ~
Father Morrigan’s eyes fluttered open, but he didn’t move. Not at first. The light was dim; the flicker of an oil lamp winked at him from across the room. That was the first thing his brain processed. He was in a room. He had no idea where. As his senses returned, slowly, he realized he was lying on a cot with a pillow beneath his head.
From the corner he heard the soft whirr of an oscillating fan. The cool air blew across his skin, then moved on, then came back, and for a few minutes he was content to concentrate on that sensation. His head ached, and he feared the first motion. It was going to hurt like hell.
He took a deep breath and turned his head slowly to the side. Not as bad as he’d expected, and when he moved, he heard the brush of fabric. He saw that someone was seated beside the bed, and seconds later he realized that it was Father Prescott.
The older priest leaned back in a straight-backed wooden chair and regarded Father Morrigan quietly. When Brian stirred, Father Prescott rose from his
The priest’s arms were raised in an expression of adulation. His voice had risen steadily in volume until it rang through the clearing, running counterpoint to the patter of the rain of blood that spattered his face, his arms, the cross and the clearing.
The gathered natives, trapped in the moment, dropped their heads to the ground, arms outstretched as they continued to chant. At the entrance to the clearing, Father Gonzalez dropped to his knees. He lowered his head and joined his gruff, cracked voice to Father Prescott’s.
Brian Morrigan stood like a statue, one arm outstretched and running with blood. His mouth worked, but no sound emerged; for the second time that day, the world whirled about him. He turned away from Father Prescott’s blood soaked form and swept his gaze in a long, slow motion arc across the prone figures of the natives, their hair spattered with the blood that drenched him, their voices sonorous and powerful.
He turned back the way he’d come and saw Father Gonzalez kneeling by the path. The old priest did not look up; none of them looked up. To them, he might as well not have existed.
Brian latched onto the image of Father Gonzalez, who prayed alone and separate from the madness, far enough back from the clearing to be free of the blood. Brian swept one arm around to beseech the old priest. Father Gonzalez didn’t see him; he saw only the ground between his knees and he was lost in the prayer and the patter of spilling blood. Brian couldn’t call out or beg for his help, because his voice wouldn’t function, and if it had, it would not have been loud enough.
The chant echoed through Father Morrigan’s mind. The sound reverberated off the inside of his skull and crashed like discordant symbols. He heard the native’s voices. He heard Father Prescott and Father Gonzalez, but he couldn’t lock his mind onto their words. What he heard was garbled and too slow, like a tape player with one wheel binding and stretching the tape, or a 78rpm record played at 33 1/3.
He spun in a slow circle, seeing first the cross, and Father Prescott, and then the pathway leading back the way he’d come. He intended to take that path and leave the clearing behind, but his body was stuck in the same odd time-slip as the voices surrounding him. As he turned, his legs tangled. The world gave a sickening lurch, and as he kicked wildly to free himself, he spun face up into the sun, and the blood. He closed his eyes. The words of the prayer pounded to the rhythm of the blood pulsing too hot and too fast through his temples, and he fell back into a well of darkness.
~ Eight ~
Father Morrigan’s eyes fluttered open, but he didn’t move. Not at first. The light was dim; the flicker of an oil lamp winked at him from across the room. That was the first thing his brain processed. He was in a room. He had no idea where. As his senses returned, slowly, he realized he was lying on a cot with a pillow beneath his head.
From the corner he heard the soft whirr of an oscillating fan. The cool air blew across his skin, then moved on, then came back, and for a few minutes he was content to concentrate on that sensation. His head ached, and he feared the first motion. It was going to hurt like hell.
He took a deep breath and turned his head slowly to the side. Not as bad as he’d expected, and when he moved, he heard the brush of fabric. He saw that someone was seated beside the bed, and seconds later he realized that it was Father Prescott.
The older priest leaned back in a straight-backed wooden chair and regarded Father Morrigan quietly. When Brian stirred, Father Prescott rose from his
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