and alien. I do not know where they came from, or how they came to be lodged in my mind, but time and energy has welded them to the foundation. I was the sum of the history of all those who have been touched by the Chorus, and as my shadow was intent on poisoning me for a long time, a lot of this history was black and vile. Fear, loathing, hate, sexual release.
If a core sample were taken from this pillar of rock, like a geologist examining strata of stone, the bottom layers would be akin to compressed layers of black shale and the topmost layers would be lighter. More porous, like sandstone. In there were untainted memories: Marielle as a child; an auburn-haired woman who I knew without knowing was Detective John Nicols' wife; and cathedrals, lots and lots of cathedrals. St. Mark's in Venice, the Basilica in Rome, the cathedral at Ulm, Sacre-C?ur, Saint-Sulpice, Mont-Saint Michel, Notre-Dame.
And this tiny church, nearly lost in the shadow of the surrounding tenements. Nearly lost in the relentless progress of modernity.
Was it the solemn serenity of this place that I was supposed to See? The glass Christ. The Chorus kaleidoscoped under my pressure, splintering into a rain of colored glass. Some of the shards formed pictures, panels that turned toward me for an instant before shattering again. I stood, and wandered over to the mounted stained-glass panels. Yes, some of those images were here. The north side detailed the Stations of the Cross. But there were subtle differences: the inclusion of extra figures, not typical of the iconography; alchemical symbols, inscribed on clothing and floating in space above characters; and the expressions of the figures weren't as traditionally sorrowful.
I prowled further, investigating all the tiny niches. The rain in my head had stopped, and the only image left was a Christ figure, floating on the cross, his heart a flaming ball in his chest. Like Dali's hypercube Christ, but without the geometric overtones. The picture was there in my memory, but I couldn't find it in any of the panels.
'Can I help you?' The priest was dressed in gray-pants, jacket, t-shirt-and his white collar seemed more like a nod to couture than a religious vestment. He was a head taller than me, and clearly in shape. The loose cut of the jacket couldn't hide the breadth of his shoulders. His eyes focused on a spot beyond my left shoulder, and his face, though weathered, was calm. His right eye was surprisingly green, a vibrant emerald, in contrast with the empty whiteness in the center of his left. He stood quietly, hands clasped like he was holding a small moth, waiting for me to find my tongue. His hands were harder than his expression. He hadn't always been a priest.
The priest had just offered me a countersign to my mention of 'traveler.'
'I have lost my faith, Father,' I said, as the Chorus swirled in response to his phrase. It wasn't the church itself I was here to see, but the man inside it. 'I wonder if you might have a place where a
'Of course,' he nodded, acknowledging my recognition of his countersign. 'I have a private study. Let us adjourn there. Please, follow me.'
He led me to a narrow panel set in the wall on the left side of the sanctuary. It turned out to be a door with no knob. I felt a brief whisper of magick and the door opened, swinging silently inward, and after we passed through, it clicked shut as quietly as it had opened.
I had thought the priest was leading me into a sacristy, one of those tiny rooms off the main area of the church, where the priests usually stored all of the mundane tools of their profession. But this was a hallway, a narrow, low-ceilinged corridor that inclined downward. Tiny paintings hung along the walls. Watercolors. They were lit by tiny spotlights that ran along a strand of fine wire. I was about to ask who the artist was, when I realized why they seemed so familiar.
In the converted studio at the farmhouse, along the Aude. Where Marielle chased the geese.
The paintings weren't copies; they were studies, preliminary versions of the stained glass in the church, and in them, the differences from canon were even more pronounced. Especially when I examined them with Chorus- sight. The silver symbols filling the open spaces became sea creatures floating on vibrant waters.
The last painting was the truly radical departure: Mary Magdalene, accepting Christ's flaming heart. It was close to the one I had been looking for, but broader in scope, and I wondered if what was in my head was a detail, a small scrap of this picture.
At the end of the hall, there was another door-one with a knob this time-and it opened into a long, narrow room. High windows, narrow slits in the stone, ran along one wall, providing pale and indirect light for the room. Bookcases filled most of the wall space, and along the wall opposite the windows were a rectangular desk and two chairs. A single book lay on the table, open, and its page was covered with tight rows of dots. Past the table, a woolen screen afforded a little privacy for a small niche, complete with a narrow cot, neatly made, and an unremarkable wooden wardrobe.
In the far end, beneath a large oak cross mounted on the wall, was a kitchenette. Hot plate, microwave, refrigerator, sink, free-standing pantry. Another table-this one more square-was pushed into the corner, and two more chairs-matching the pair next to the reading table-were loosely arranged at the table.
The priest waved a hand toward nearby chairs as he walked over to the pantry cabinet. 'Tea?' he asked as he got out a battered metal pot and filled it from the tap.
'Please,' I said. I ran a finger along the spines of the nearest row of books, and selected one at random. It was written in the same patterned script as the book on the table. I ran my fingers lightly across the page and felt the raised bumps.
He didn't watch me put the book back, but I could tell he heard me replace the volume. I went to the table and sat in one of the chairs, waiting quietly for the water to boil. Watching him as he performed the ritual task of measuring loose tea into two tea strainers by touch. He was quite practiced and conscious of putting me at ease. He looked down at the tea as he measured it, though I noticed that his head was cocked a little to the right-much like he had when we had first spoken in the church. He favored one ear.
'There,' he said, as he put the two covered porcelain cups on the table. 'We will let it steep for a few minutes.'
The clock on the microwave was flashing '12:00.' As if it had never been set.
Up close, I could see that it was a piece of glass that gave his right eye its bright color. Faint scars ran along his cheek and neck, and part of his right ear was gone. The right eye watered, a perpetual tear forming in the corner of his distressed socket.
'I was prepping a chandelier,' he said, innately aware of the question on my mind. 'At Versailles. The studio I was working for had been commissioned to provide art for a centennial celebration. We were behind schedule and were overtaxing our hot shop. Too much heat, too much glass, too many of us-tired and exhausted-and there was an accident. Some of it I stopped,' he said, showing me his hand. Knots of scar tissue roped across his palm, and more curled around to the back. 'Some of it grazed me,' he continued, 'taking nothing but skin, but one piece stuck. The doctors thought they got all of it out, but it had broken off in my head. Grazed the inside of my eye socket as it had gone in. It didn't show on the X-rays, and several months later, it was just there, caught in my eye.' He shrugged. 'And there it stays.'
'And the left?' I asked.
He smiled. 'I stared too long at the sun of the forge.'
'Before or after you became a priest?'
He lifted the covers from the teacups and removed the tea strainers. 'Milk or sugar?' he asked. His smile was all the answer I was going to get to my previous question.
'Both,' I said.
Once we had both doctored our tea to our satisfaction, he sat across from me, silently, staring at nothing in
