Tuesday 17 November 2015

Stillborn XXII (Paige)

XXII

Paige was terrified.  Of all the things they had seen and experienced this night, nothing compared to the ritual she was witnessing now.  All the monsters of night and mist, of memory and recrimination, had nothing, nothing at all, on this congregation of pale, dark humans.  There were so many of them, all dressed the same, all with the same solemn expressions, all praying the same ancient words in the same dull tones.  It had been decades since she had last been in a church, but that church, she knew instinctively, had been alive and thriving.  This, however, was a church of death and it seemed easier to understand, in the light of all she had witnessed, that the monsters were real, that the town was empty, that her life had become a nightmare of unimaginable proportions, than that these people were ready to worship the cause of it all, that they had willed it and prayed for it for generations, that, in the depths of their souls, this seemed to them like paradise.

And then she began to wonder.  She looked around at the faces as they muttered their prayers, listened to the buzz of their liturgy, and wondered, did they all really want this?  Did they all really believe?  Where there perhaps many here who, in the throws of their day job and the business of family life, never gave a thought to St. Margaret and the second coming she was supposed to birth?  Could it be that this was just like any other religion, its adherents part fervent, part nominal.  And what then?  What of those who never really prayed for this moment?  What must they make of it now?  Some, no doubt had been shocked into faith once more, but the others, were they hoping for a way out?

She kept scanning the faces until she found the one that told the story she expected.  A young woman, sitting dutifully beside her husband and children, eyes wide open with terror, staring back at her, for just a second, like a timid beast trapped in the headlights of a car.  For that one second, it seemed, volumes passed between them, of all the obligations and regret, the rituals that had become nothing suddenly meaning everything, the fear, the fear, the fear.  And then the young woman looked away, staring down at her hands like all the rest, her lips moving all but silent.

Remember that I have commanded you… She couldn’t fear, not like that woman, not like the others she knew there must be in that terrible congregation.  She must not fear because she was not one of them, because she had a choice and it was very possible that she could choose to hope.  ...be strong and courageous…  She could choose a different path, not to merely give in to the end, but to fight it and to remember that she was not alone, as that woman had seemed, though she was surrounded by others like her, but that ...the Lord your God is with you…

Can I choose that?  God?  Can I really?  She just didn’t feel ready, didn’t feel like she could take that leap and yet… and yet what else is there?  This ritual?  This death?  She had never wanted to believe so much in her whole life, but something was still stopping her.  What was it Henry had said?  He couldn’t believe in a God who would let this all happen.  Can I?

Her thoughts were cut short as the prayers around her ended with a sung, disharmonious, amen.  The priestess raised her hands and gestured to the square made by the candles at her feet.  Paige looked down to where she was pointing and was horrified to see that the bloody wax, which had been melting since they were first lit, had now formed a pool, exactly the size and shape of that square.  It was impossibly dark and red, its surface a sickly shine reflecting the candles all around.

“The time has come,” the Priestess said, “bring in the Surrogate.”

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