Page 7 of Love is Strange
Until I seeyou in my dreams, Ashley…
Absolution
MICHELLE PACE
“O my God,I am heartily sorry,” I huff, my breath visible in the dusk. Lifting the burlap sack out of the back of the wagon, I sling it over my shoulder.
Steadying my load, I reach up with my free hand to adjust my collar. It’s only then that I remember I left it on my dressing table when I set out on tonight’s mission. Just as well. My task is righteous, but I’d prefer to not be recognized.
“…for having offended Thee…” Cool wind whips my hair, and white flakes melt on my beard. I look toward the sky in wonder. I’ve been smelling snow all day, and its arrival is a well-timed blessing. My soul is on fire, and his Heavenly Father has mercifully sent means to ease my fever. He has not forsaken me, though I very much would deserve it if he had.
My weary eyes take in my surroundings, and seeing not a soul to bear witness, I proceed down the cobblestones toward the back entrance of the cathedral. Gargoyles scowl down at me, their menacing visages doubly disturbing in the long shadows of the evening. Under the thin veil of newly fallen snow, all of nature is either hibernating or in its final death throes. Slumbering so that all may be reborn. This notion sends a chill up my spine, or perhaps it’s just the night air against my sweltering skin.
For everything there is a season, just as it is written in Ecclesiastes. A time to be born…
From inside the burlap sack comes a moan, and I shudder, my steps faltering. I breathe in deeply, desperate for a whiff of winter to cool my insides. Instead, I get a nose full of her fragrant hair, perfumed with orange blossoms and bergamot. I feel a rush of blood to my loins, and a familiar heaviness settles in my aching chest.
“…and I detest all my sins.” My throat closes around those familiar words. I must atone, and the price for my sins is high…and messy. God’s work often is, and it is Him I answer to. A sudden swirl of wind surrounds me, and I pause in my slow processional. The recollection of my first encounter with the object of my downfall makes my hair stand on end. My righteous path was forever altered when I first laid eyes on my fallen angel.
One night last summer, I’d been writing a letter to my mother about how chilly Galway was in July. Mum gets testy when she doesn’t receive weekly correspondence from her baby boy, which is what she still calls me even though I’m turning 30 in the spring. I’d just promised to make the journey home for Christmas and was capping my inkwell when a young street urchin appeared on my doorstep. Through the window, I recognized him immediately. His cleft lip made it impossible not to. Around town, it was common knowledge that this boy ran errands for the local house of ill repute. Hat in hand, the miniature man bore a somber expression, appearing haggard beyond his years.
“Father, please. You must come. She’s…dying. And she’s asking for last rights.” His words were emphatic and easy to understand in spite of his facial deformity, and his tired eyes were exceptionally grim.
“Who?” I cast my eyes around the street, which was empty except for the sweeper, scooping horse manure off of the weathered red bricks. The sweeper seemed unimpressed with his career path, but otherwise healthy enough.
“Come with me, quickly,” the boy responded, and as he rushed back down the steps and around the building, I was forced to trot just to keep up with him. Zigging and zagging down countless narrow alleyways, we finally arrived at the notorious spot occupied by his employer. Blazing red lanterns seemed to attract morally weak men like moths. The sound of so many horse hooves and carriage wheels was practically deafening, and I felt my cheeks heat to a similar color of the lanterns at the sight of so many lost sheep.
My guide waved me around to the back side of the building, which I’ll admit was a bit of a relief. Entering through the delivery door, we passed between two stoic-looking fellows who seemed to be operating in tandem as gatekeepers. I was ushered through dimly lit halls, passing scantily clad tarts murmuring their welcome and lascivious invitations and several unsuspecting fellows who abruptly tipped their hats so I wouldn’t recognize them in the pews on Sunday morning. Amidst the sounds of jovial laughter, squeaking bedsprings, and other more torrid outcries, I heard distant screams of agony. The screams grew louder the farther we traveled into the den of debauchery, and as we approached the source, the door slammed open and we were both nearly plowed over by the local midwife as she beat a hasty retreat. Hot on her heels came the Madame, a handsome and statuesque redhead with a temper to match her fiery locks.
“Fine! Run away, Phyllis! See if Ieversend for you again!” the Madame bellowed after the midwife, her painted eyes ablaze. Her gaze shifted to me, and to my astonishment she reached out and grabbed my wrist, pulling me into the room.
Inside, I saw two aged whores tending to a pale, svelte figure writhing on the bed. I drew nearer, and by the light of the nearby oil lamp, I saw that the ailing woman was an undisputable goddess. She could have been chiseled out of marble, she was such perfection. Her flawless ivory flesh was an elegant contrast to her dark mass of shiny ringlets. I stared in breathless silence when her pink lips parted and she unleashed an earsplitting scream. A second later, my eyes dropped lower and I noticed why.
She’d partially delivered a baby.
And the infant appeared to be stuck.
“Padre.”
Had I not been smitten with her at first sight, her accent alone would have captured my heart. I’d been fortunate enough to travel to Rome as a young lad, and my passionate affection for all things Italian had largely influenced my decision to join the priesthood.
Drawn to the sound of her rich and tremulous plea, I looked up from the bloody catastrophe between her legs and into her eyes, the darkest pools of indigo I’d ever seen. Her eyes begged me before she could. “Pray with me, Padre. Please. Give us last rights.”
Gooseflesh rapidly spread over the entirety of my body.
“I don’t think we are ready for all that just yet,” I managed. I’d spent enough time in sick houses as a transitional deacon to know that she and the babe would indeed both die if no one took action, but I’ve always been a doer. His Heavenly Father had placed me in this dingy room tonight for a reason, and that reason was to save them, not usher their souls into the hereafter.
“Take a deep breath and hold it, my child,” I instructed, and she nodded, then did as I asked. Making the sign of the cross, I reached down and forcefully turned the baby. Both the beauty and her child cried out in pain and surprise, and I felt an expected give in the infant’s shoulder. The newborn promptly slipped out onto the sheets, amidst a mess of blood and heaven knows what else, wailing and flailing its tiny fists.
“Bloody hell!” The Madame’s palpable relief relaxed her attractive features. One of the older women produced a sharp knife and made quick work separating the mother and child.
“You saved them!” The boy handed me a blessedly clean blanket which I promptly wrapped around the squalling baby girl.
I shook my head dismissively, but I barely registered his words. I was otherwise occupied, searching the young mother’s face for some flaw I could cling onto. I was unfortunately left wanting. “I had to dislocate her shoulder. It’ll probably give her trouble for the rest of her life.”
“You’re our savior,” the beauty professed tiredly as she came up on her elbows. Her radiant smile illuminated the otherwise gloomy place. As I passed the babe to her, her attention shifted from me to her child. Perhaps I was caught up in the moment, but it seemed as if the glow behind her haloed them much like artist renditions of The Madonna and Christ child.
“I’m no savior…just one of His loyal servants,” I deflected, and she turned those luminous eyes my way once more. Joy, gratitude, and also something much sadder reflected back at me. My heart galloped like a stampede, and I tugged at my collar, thoughtlessly coating it in her blood.
