Once an altar boy, always an altar boy...


Not that Donnell ever believed in the Holy Ghost or any of that shit. His nephew, Norman, was cut from the same gimmie-a-break cloth. The kid was also cut from the same rob-from-the-rich-and-keep-for-yourself material. He had told his uncle about a chalice, used only during Easter morning services, that was solid, not plated, gold, with a blood-red ruby embedded in its side. It was locked in a cabinet inside a tabernacle on the right-hand side of the sanctuary.

Donnell knew just the spot.

*     *     *
Outside, the darkness was thick as sheets of stinging rain thrashed the church. Next door was the Catholic elementary school, with a walkway in between. The walkway was never lit, and, in this deep part of the night, neither was the light that hung over the small service door. Donnell clutched his collar tight and cast his eyes about. The street was empty. He slipped to the door, a shadow blending in among the others.

The bulb within the outdoor light had been unscrewed just enough to kill the electrical connection. Good boy, Norman. Donnell grabbed the wet handle and pressed the latch with his thumb. The door swung open to dry darkness. Very good boy.

Donnell slipped in and closed the door behind him. It snickered shut. He pulled a small flashlight out of his pocket. The beam was strong, but he wasn’t worried about discovery; the windows were a dark, dingy stained glass, set high upon the walls. No one would see him inside the church.

On his left was a recently installed elevator. The church, finally, had acceded to the demands of its elderly and handicapped parishioners who could not handle the three tiers of concrete steps that led up to the triple set of double doors that made up the main entrance. Donnell ignored it and turned to the stairs on the right. One set ran down to the ancient furnace that heated this humongous building. The other set climbed up into the church proper.

Donnell filtered the light through a cupped hand, letting just enough seep through to illuminate the steps. Even though it was three in the morning, he didn’t want to chance running into a sexton doing late-night maintenance. He was pretty sure there was nobody here, but it always paid to be careful.

At the top of the stairs, the access door opened to the church interior. Donnell clicked off the flashlight and cracked it open. Ambient light from outside filtered through the stained-glass windows, giving a dull, reddish hue to the empty pews and plaster statues of saints in their gilded cages.

Emboldened, Donnell clicked the flashlight back on and strode past the front row of pews to the steps leading up to the sanctuary, the slap of his sneakers on the stone floor echoing in the vast empty space. The scent of incense, that cloying mixture of frankincense, cedar, and who knew what else, lingered in this section of the church. Donnell had always hated that burning little container, swung on its chain by the priest, usually over the casket of some dead old fart. He grimaced and suppressed a sneeze, then looked up at the apse, a massive half-dome rising above him. Centered by a stained-glass commemoration of the Stations of the Cross were frescos of Christ interacting with the apostles and that good-time gal, Mary Magdalene. Donnell smirked. Yeah, in between giving sermons and kicking loan sharks out of temples, Jesus was getting his knob polished by a woman who knew her business. Between that, and having twelve suckers do his every bidding, he lived a pretty sweet life... at least until they hammered the nails home.

And speaking of nails, right there, at the back, behind an altar covered with a white cloth adorned with doves and flames, was a large cross, with a life-sized Jesus hanging from it. Donnell tried and failed to repress a shudder. The face of the Christ was twisted in agony as black thorns dug into his scalp. His hands, spread to either side on the cross brace, clenched nail heads as dark blood gushed from the palms. The feet, one placed on top of the other, were nailed into a support. But the worst part was the hideous gash on Christ’s right side, supposedly made by a Roman spear to make sure he was dead. In the life-like figure, the flesh was parted to realistic effect, and watery blood oozed down to the loincloth. At the top of the cross was a carved representation of parchment, with four letters: INRI. According to Father Heaney, the priest of this church during Donnell’s years as an altar boy, the letters stood for “Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews”. Father Heaney had explained, in his high, Irish brogue, that, in Latin, the letter “I” stood for the letter “J,” and that the “R” stood for “Rex,” Latin for “king.” Neither Donnell nor the other altar boys gave much of a shit. They would joke that “INRI” stood for “I’m Nailed Right In.” Not within Father Heaney’s hearing, of course.

Donnell turned his back on the tragic figure. Low-voltage unease danced over his nerves. He cursed his baseless fear and turned to the locked tabernacle. The lock was simple; hardware store variety, easily picked. Donnell freed his tools from their small, well-used leather case and had the lock open within thirty seconds. He pushed the rickety gate aside and stepped into the small space. The cabinet within was mid-sized, made of dark, polished wood carved with intricate crosses and scripture in flowing, calligraphic whorls. The knob to the sole door was brass and molded in the shape of a lamb’s head. He went to grasp it.

Creeeeeeak...

Donnell spun and slashed the flashlight beam throughout the church. The sound had been loud, like someone stepping on a loose floorboard in an empty house. His other hand fumbled in his pocket and came up with a switchblade, which flicked into place. Someone was here and sneaking up on him.

Only there wasn’t. The flashlight gamely tried to illuminate the cavernous nave, and what could be seen had a sense of quietude and stillness. No one was hiding behind any of the pews as far as Donnell could see. Besides, the floor of the nave and aisle, as well as that of the sanctuary and the rest of the church interior, was stone, not wood. Stone didn’t creak like that.

He tried to control his breathing as the light, as if searching for the cause of the noise on its own, shone on the hanging figure of Christ. The face of Jesus hung to the right and, even with closed eyes, looked directly at Donnell. His heart hollowed out and his hands began to shake. Those eyes were going to open. He knew it. The eyes would open, and the agonized face would split with a grin of sheer madness. And Donnell would have no defense. He was defiling Christ’s house with larcenous intent. He was guilty. The Law of God did not rely on technicalities, like the laws of men; intent, as well as actions, was judged here. Donnell was guilty, and he would be sentenced.

He squeezed shut his eyes and shook his head. Get ahold of yourself, you idiot! What would Norman think if he were to see his tough, no-nonsense uncle standing there, ready to piss his pants, just because he was having a flashback to all the brainwashing Father Heaney tried to instill in him inside this church, in front of this stupid fucking cross. His nephew would laugh and mock him, and rightfully so. Now, drop this superstitious idiocy, stop wasting time, and get on with the job!

Donnell put the blade away and grabbed the lamb’s head knob. The cabinet door swung open silently. His breath quickened.

The golden chalice seemed to glow with an inner light. Embedded in its side was a large ruby, red like the blood of Christ. Last week, Norman had snapped a picture of the chalice, and Donnell had shown it to Russell, a fence who specialized in gemstones. Russell estimated that the ruby was top quality (as the Church would insist on nothing less), about five to eight carats, with each carat estimated at five thousand dollars per, possibly more. Of course, taken together with the gold chalice, the whole thing was worth a lot. Apparently, there was a collector who was interested, and if the chalice and ruby met expectations, then Donnell stood to make ten thousand on the deal. He didn’t care that Russell would make much more with the private collector. Donnell knew his limitations. He was a thief, not a high-end mobster. Ten thousand dollars, minus one thousand he would give to his nephew, was worth an easy night’s work.

He reached in, took the surprisingly heavy chalice from its velvet bed and closed the cabinet door.

CreeeeeeakCreeeeeeak...thump.

Donnell couldn’t breathe. His heart hitched and stuttered in his chest like a panicked bird caught in a cage. His mouth felt full of cotton. Ohfuckohfuckohfuck...

He was frozen; turning around was not an option, for he now realized what those sounds were: they weren’t steps on a loose floorboard, they were iron nails being yanked out of old wood.

There’s no fucking way. It can’t be. Just turn around and get the fuck out of here.

Something hit the floor behind him, a noise that echoed throughout the empty, cavernous church. A heavy metal object clattered and thumped against the back of his right foot.

It was much bigger than modern nails. It was more like a spike. But a nail it was, black iron that glistened with blood that never dried or congealed. Holy blood.

Donnell closed his eyes. His lungs labored to inhale air thick with incense. He had to be imagining this. How could any of this be real?

He turned, knowing it was inescapable. His mind screamed at him to run, just get out. The ruby on the chalice glowed like a burning coal. His eyes swept the sanctuary (not the name I would give it now, his brain giggled insanely), carefully trained on the floor and nowhere else. But his peripheral vision noticed the anomaly that wasn’t there before, and he looked.

The big wooden cross was empty. Two blood-streaked holes adorned either side of the cross brace, and another splintered out from the foot pedestal.

Blinding white panic exploded in Donnell’s psyche. His head shook in denial of what he was seeing.

Wooden feet gently clacked on the stone floor behind him. Donnell began to shake; he thought his bladder would let go. A pale foot settled on his left side, and through its middle was a jagged, bloody hole.

RUN!...RUN!...RUN!

His muscles were weak and flaccid. He couldn’t budge. Donnell closed his eyes and tried to convince himself that he was hallucinating, that this was just some subconscious manifestation of long-embedded Catholic guilt.

The soft Irish brogue shocked him; even after all this time, he recognized it: Father Heaney. The only thing was, Father Heaney had been dead for over twenty years.

“Be you Dismas, or be you Gestas, boyo?”

Donnell dared not turn. If he did, and saw the Christ figure, eyes open and bleeding, talking in that long-lost voice, his sanity would take a hit from which it would never recover.

“I’ll ask but once more: be you penitent, or be you not penitent?”

A trickle of understanding dripped into his consciousness. He was being given a chance to return the jeweled chalice to its proper place. If he did, the wooden creature would let him go.

Rodney, though, was expecting the chalice, and he was not someone you made a promise to only to break it. Plus, there was Norman. What would his nephew think of him if he copped out now? All the respect, the adoration, he had for his uncle... gone. And all because of some wooden thing that was just a figment of his hyperactive imagination.

Donnell looked down. The foot hadn’t moved. His throat constricted. Fuck it...

“So, it be Gestas, then.” There was actual disappointment in Heaney’s voice.

Donnell ran for the door that led to the stairs. His mind was blank except for the animal instinct for flight. He whipped it open and charged down the pitch-black stairs. He had no idea what had happened to his flashlight, but he wasn’t about to go back and look for it. He desperately sought the door that led outside. There--a rectangular window that allowed in a dim illumination from the street. He gasped in relief and reached for the handle.

Something hard and unyielding gripped his shoulder. Splinters punctured his skin.

“Most of my flock are fruitful, and compassionate, and help their fellows,” Heaney’s long-dead voice hissed in Donnell’s ear. “But sadly, there are those who bear no fruit. Surely you remember the parable of the fig tree?”

Donnell struggled and screamed for help, no longer caring if he got arrested for burglary. The thick walls of the church bounced his ineffective words back at him, mocking his helplessness. The wooden fingers dug into the meat of his shoulder, cutting off the blood flow to his arm and causing pain to ripple down his chest. He tried to pry them away with his left hand, but his flesh and bone did nothing against the solid, aged wood. His right hand, now numb, dropped the chalice, and it clanged with a heavy finality to the floor.

“Jesus was hungry. Seeing in the distance a fig tree in leaf, he went to find out if it had any fruit. When he reached it, he found nothing but leaves. Then he said to the tree, ‘May no one ever eat fruit from you again?’ Do you remember what happened next?”

Yes, he did. The story rose in his mind like a predator from a swamp. “Please, no! It wasn’t fair to the fig tree. It was out of season!”

“Yes, it was,” rejoined that horrible, impossible voice. “But remember, this is a parable. The fig tree, with pretty leaves but no fruit, represents those who have the outward appearance of respectability, but inwardly are corrupt and barren. Like you. And your nephew.”

Donnell could not stop his tears. “Please, spare Norman. He’s just a child.”

“Yes, he is, but he has long since walked the path you have made for him. His ability to bear fruit wanes by the day.”

“But it’s still there! Give him a chance!”

The voice behind him fell silent. The pressure on his right shoulder had not decreased; his entire arm, denied blood, was now a useless lump of meat. The golden chalice, with the beautiful ruby, lay forgotten at his feet. Donnell sobbed as hope drained away.

“Aye, it’s still there for him, and he’ll be given a chance to turn from sin. You must help. Do you understand?”

Donnell’s soul hollowed out. It was over for him. But he had one last, tiny fruit to bear, for his nephew.

“Yes,” he said.

Donnell screamed and fell to his knees as his body atrophied. Muscles and tendons degenerated within seconds into dry rot. Oxygen was sucked from the cells of his organs, which deteriorated into a damp, mummified state as his bones gelatinized and collapsed. Viscous fluids filled his decomposing lungs, and Donnell could no longer scream. His nerves and brain were kept intact to register pain and despair, until his consciousness exploded into colors that consumed his psyche. His body dissolved into dust, and he no longer knew who he was or what he was or why he was...

*     *     *
It was late in the morning, and Norman had heard nothing, which made him very nervous. Had his uncle been caught? Would he rat out his nephew? What was worse, Donnell had left muddy tracks everywhere. The slim eleven-year-old swished his broom about the sanctuary, not to clean up the dried dirt but to conceal the obvious boot prints they made. Stupid fucking idiot, did he want to get caught? And what about Russell? He would not be pleased if this simple job had turned balls-up. Norman worried and swept and nearly knocked over a tall silver candle holder.

“Norman, please, pay attention to what you’re doing.” Father Evans straightened the pale white candle that had been jostled loose in its holder.

“Sorry, Father,” Norman mumbled, hurriedly sweeping the floor again.

Father Evans looked around and frowned. “How did this area get so dirty? I know it was clean at the end of the day yesterday.”

“I don’t know, Father.” Norman looked up. Behind Father Evans, the big cross, with the life-sized figure of Christ, hung from the apse. The face, as always, was turned to the right, its eyes pinched shut. Norman turned back to the floor. He couldn’t stand looking at the thing. All the other altar boys agreed it was creepy as hell.

Father Evans paused in what he was doing and stared at the muddy tracks on the floor. Norman saw the priest’s eyes follow the marks straight to the tabernacle. He took out a set of keys and approached the gate.

Oh, shit! He’s going to find the chalice missing, and the first one he’ll question is me.

The priest unlocked the gate and grabbed the lamb’s head knob. The cabinet door swung open. His shoulders slumped in relief, and he removed the golden chalice.

“For a minute there... well, thankfully it’s safe.” He returned the chalice and closed the cabinet.

Norman stared in disbelief. He didn’t take it. After everything I did, making sure the side door was unlocked and everything else, fucking Donnell didn’t take it. So much for my cut... and what was Russell going to do?

“Stop daydreaming, Norman. Back to work.”

Norman resumed sweeping, his mind spinning in unpleasant directions. What had gone wrong? The boot prints had to be Donnell’s, indicating he had gotten into the church.

So why was the fucking chalice still here? And where was Donnell?

He swept the dried mud out of the tabernacle and got it in a mound. Now he needed a dustpan. Norman leaned the broom against a statue of the Virgin Mary and, without meaning to, looked up to the cross.

The thin body, wearing only a loincloth, shivered. The fingers clenched against nails driven through soft palms (no it should be behind the bones of the wrist, the thought insanely flashed through Norman’s mind. The weight of the body would tear the nails through the flesh and out between the fingers), and the knees shook like they wanted to, but couldn’t, buckle.

Donnell looked down at him. Blood streaked his face as thorns stabbed into him, and his lips were drawn up in a rictus of pain. But worst of all were the eyes. They shone with an awareness of eternal damnation and the knowledge that penance, once within grasp, was now and forever beyond reach.

Somewhere in an insignificant distance, Father Evans was speaking to him. It meant nothing. All that mattered was his uncle, hanging from the cross.

Donnell’s eyes locked on his with desperation. Then he began to speak in Norman’s head.

Be penitent. Confess your sin. Do it now, or you will be taken as I have.

Norman’s mind blanked out, except for one overriding thought: There is a cross waiting for me, and I will writhe on it, forever in pain, like Donnell...

Donnell’s mouth split open and stretched, impossibly wide. Up from its hollow depths rose something with no mercy, only cold judgment. It came closer to Norman, surrounding him and reaching for him with an unyielding hand.

He had a distant impression of himself screaming. A sharp hand slapped his face. Norman looked at Father Evans. The priest’s eyes were wide with alarm.

“What is it, Norman? What’s the matter?”

Norman couldn’t speak. He looked to the cross. The image of Donnell cried out in silent desolation and faded into oblivion. Only the old, wooden figure of Christ hung from it. Tears sprang from his eyes. Still held by Father Evans, he fell to his knees.

“I’m sorry, Father! My uncle, Donnell, came in here last night to steal the chalice, and I helped him. I was going to get some money, but I don’t want it anymore. Whatever penance you give, Father, I’ll do. Please, just keep me from being lost!”

Father Evans’s comforting hand patted him. “It is a good thing you have done here today, my child. You are penitent and atone you shall. Once you are older, you will enter the seminary. You will train for the priesthood, and take over this parish, as I, another penitent thief, took over for Father Heaney.”

Norman began to shake. “No,” he said, not wanting to believe it while knowing he had no choice.

Father Evans smiled. It looked like the same, kindly priest smile, but behind his eyes was something sharp and unequivocal. “Yes. Your life now belongs to this church. Would you rather be as your Uncle Donnell?”

“No! Please, no.”

“Good. Now, let’s make this formal.”

Father Evans walked Norman to the cross.

“On your knees.”

Norman lowered himself, and then looked up at the wooden figure. The eyes were wide open and pinned him to the floor, demanding total obedience. Norman could not look away.

Father Evans’s voice came from far away. “Pledge yourself, body and soul. Obey, and you will be saved.”

His head bent forward, the words that came from Norman’s mouth didn’t seem to come from him, yet they were, and they were binding. “I pledge all that I am. I obey always and without hesitation.”

A cold current passed through him and into his mind, seizing his psyche and molding it to its needs. The old Norman wailed and fell away. The Norman of now stood and faced the priest.

“When can I expect my release?”

Evans shrugged. “It depends on the needs of the church. Twenty, fifty, a hundred years... within these walls, time loses meaning.”