Jesu--it's a prayer--I'd better put some feeling into it. All it took was a single glance at the poor creature at his feet to do that.
'You who brought the word of God--to the Blessed Virgin Mary--who guard the waters--and those who dwell therein--we beseech and pray thee--to guard our circle--and guide our work.'
He'd been concentrating on putting his heart into the words and he hadn't really thought about what the prayer might do--and it came as a shock when the area of the opening suddenly filled with a flare of green light so bright it made the torch pale. It certainly made Marco start back with surprise, but Brother Mascoli only grunted with what sounded like satisfaction and turned Marco to the right to face the blank wall of the chapel, and began another prayer. 'Holy Angel Michael--you who guard the world with a flaming sword--and all the creatures born of fire--we beseech and pray thee--'
This time when the flash of red light came, Marco was, more or less, ready for it. He turned on his own this time, beginning to get the idea. The angel was Raphael this time--'who guard the air and those who dwell therein'--and the flash was of blue light along the wall with the crucifix mounted on it. And last of all, they faced the wall behind them and invoked the Angel Uriel, the keeper of the creatures of the earth, and were greeted with a flash of pure golden light practically at their noses.
Brother Mascoli once again turned Marco to face the altar. 'In nomine Patri, et Filius, et Spiritus Sanctus, fiat lux!' he intoned, with Marco only a fraction of a second behind him, and a blinding white light enveloped the entire water-chapel for a moment, to die down to a faint curtain of light between them and the outside world.
And if Marco doubted that--there was the evidence of his own ears. There was no sound coming from out there--nothing of the echoes of voices and the splash of water, of the bumping of boats against the mooring and the slap of feet on the walkways. Nothing.
Brother Mascoli gave another grunt of satisfaction. 'All right, Marco, the rest is simple. Kneel down beside our little sister there--'
Too caught up now to even think of protesting, Marco knelt on the step beside the undine at his feet. She placed her hands in the water, just over the injured one's, once again clasped desperately over her wound.
'Just put your hands over hers--' the priest directed.
Marco shivered at the order--shivered once again at the touch of the cool flesh under his, cooler than a human's could ever be, and--scaled? Yes, those were scales under his fingers.
Brother Mascoli bent over and completed the stack with his own hands. 'Now,' he said in Marco's ear. 'Just pray. Pray to Saint Raphaella and Saint Hypatia, to give you the power to heal this child of God--'
How--he thought, but he obeyed, closing his eyes and putting every bit of concentration he had into a fervent, even desperate, plea. He barely noticed one of the scaled hands slip from beneath his and come to rest just over his heart. Instead he concentrated on an image that came to him from nowhere, of the dreadful wound being un-made, sealing up, closing over, leaving the flesh sweet and unmarked, linking that image to his prayer in a way he felt was right--
And then he felt something else entirely.
An upwelling within himself, first a trickle of warmth and life and energy, then a rivulet, then a stream, then a gush--energy that was somehow green, although he could not have said why, that flowed from somewhere into him, and down through his chest and into his arms and out his hands, which grew warm as it passed through them. Startled, he opened his eyes, and saw, to his open-mouthed astonishment, that it wasn't some trick of his imagination. His hands were glowing with a green light the color of sunlight passing through early leaves, and the light was sinking down and spreading over the wounded undine.
And the wound was closing, exactly as he had imagined it.
There were two--beings--of light, one to his right, and one to his left, hovering weightlessly over the water. They were vaguely human-shaped, but too bright and at the same time too diffuse to really make out anything else. They each held a hand over his head, and he knew, somehow, that this was the source of that energy that was coursing through him. Brother Mascoli and the other undine were caught fast in some sort of trance; their eyes were shut fast.
This is for your eyes only, little brother. He sensed, somehow, that the being to his right was smiling at him, that the words came from--him? Her?
Both. And neither. Meaningless, little brother. God's spirits have no gender.
He didn't know whether to be elated--to have at last that sign he had not dared hope for--or to be ashamed that he had doubted and had waited so long to use this thing he'd been given. He decided he had to be both.
And neither. Could the infant Tintoretto have painted a fresco? Some things must wait upon . . . maturity.
Embarrassment, the too familiar taste of humiliation at his own stupidity, his own failures; then, suddenly, the sweeter taste of something altogether different. Humility.
