Page 13 of Heathens
Chaos.
Seduction.
Ungodliness.
In all of the legends, Lilith cast a spell on humankind. A she-daemon.
She’s not mentioned again in the Bible, but she does resurface in the Dead Sea Scrolls. In those, Lilith appears in the Song for a Sage, a hymn possibly used in exorcisms.
And I, the Sage, sound the majesty of His beauty to terrify and confound all the spirits of destroying angels and the bastard spirits, the demons, Lilith..., and those that strike suddenly, to lead astray the spirit of understanding, and to make desolate their heart.
What if Adam stayed with Lilith? What if he was enchanted by a simple—alluring—smile on her beautiful face? What if his sleep was restless because he wished she was lying by his side?Seducing? What if the chaos was irresistible? What if, like myself, hecouldn’t get enough of her?
I Want to Be You
Salem
Four Years Ago
I don’t know how I got here, or how long I’ve been passed out in the pew, but the organs wake me from my drunken daze. The processional of the priest is starting. The church is filled with tourists, and I look down at myself shamefully. Of all the places to pass out... My jeans are ripped and dirty, and my once-white t-shirt has seen better days. People are sitting on either side of me, though I notice the space allotted to me—as if no one wants to sit too close. Standing, I apologize as I edge my way out of the pews just as the gathering song ends and the priest stands up to speak. Trying to be inconspicuous, I walk over to a dark corner and turn around.
“I confess to almighty God, and to you, my brothers and sisters, that I have greatly sinned in my thoughts and in my words, in what I have done, and in what I have failed to do; through my most grievous fault. Therefore, I ask blessed Mary, ever virgin, all the angels and saints, and you, my brothers and sisters, to pray for me to the Lord our God.”
The priest is older, in his fifties, with small, round glasses and short brown hair. He continues after the crowd is done murmuring.
“If we say we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us.” He pauses as the crowd murmurs again, looking torn. His hands are on the ornate stand, and he shakes his head. “You have sinned. All of you. I have sinned. It’s what connects us as humans, what brings us together, here, tonight.” Another pause and I stand up straighter. “I am supposed to do the first reading now. That is, essentially, my job and duty.” His eyes scan the crowd, and they land on me. I swallow twice, trying to disappear into the old, stone wall. “But today, I want to tell you a story first.”
I mean to leave. I know Julia is waiting for me at my apartment. So, I turn and begin the walk out of the church.
“In the materialist story of the world, science has definitively shown that we were not meant to be here. We were a fluke, our existence the result of ‘a fortuitous concourse of atoms.’ Science dethroned man in the cosmos.”
Curious, I stop mid-step. Having been raised in the Roman Catholic Church in a small town just outside of Paris, I know this is not how evening masses go. Where is he going with this? I turn around.
“But...” He pauses for a minute as the sanctuary becomes deathly silent, waiting for his next words. “Faith has never existed as evidence. Faith—the word in and of itself—defiesevidence. It is complete trust in something you cannot see or touch. It is a feeling, pure and simple.” His eyes find mine once again, and I hover by the front door. “When was the last time you believed in something so fiercely that you were willing to look past everything else?”
His words cause my stomach to harden, my fists to ball. He’s speaking to me. Directly to me. I don’t move for over an hour, even as he continues on with the normal liturgies and rituals. I don’t go up to the altar for communion. Perhaps I’d burst into flames if I were to try. Instead, I wait for the crowds of people to leave, and when the church is virtually empty, I walk up to the priest.
“Ah, hello there,” he says, his voice gentle. Friendly.
“Hi,” I reply, unsure. Does my breath reek of alcohol? What must he think of me?
“How can I help you?” He’s bubbly and jolly, everything you want in a priest. There’s no stiffness in his movements—not the formal, austere attitude I’m used to in a priest. I want to be his friend, which is why my next sentence comes out so easily.
Or maybe I just want the priest to befriend me.
Maybe I’mthatdesperate for a friend.
“My mother is sick,” I blurt, not even sure if I spoke the words out loud until his forehead creases in concern.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he murmurs, placing a hand on my shoulder. The physical contact causes me to crumple, and I fall to my knees.
“I don’t know what to do,” I say, barely a whisper, feeling my body tremble with unshed tears. “I haven’t been myself for some time.” My voice is shaky, and I bow my head. “Please forgive me.”
I don’t know why I’m doing it. I didn’t intend to ask for forgiveness. I can’t remember the last time I went to church, the last time I thought of something divine.
“Stand up, please,” he urges kindly, helping me up and into one of the front pews. I sit down next to him, willing myself not to break down. Not here, not now. “You say you haven’t been yourself,” he starts, and I nod. He’s quiet for a few seconds, observing me. Taking in my dirty clothes, my unwashed hair, the day’s old scruff. “Well, who do you want to be?”
The answer is out of my mouth before I can stop it. “You. I want to be you.”
