SUBSIDE
The
only one of his kind, Deacon recalls thousands of years existing yet he has no
memory of why. He can’t profess to living in seclusion because he greedily pursues
pleasure in arms of so many men, he never lacks companionship. All those arms,
lips, and asses, none feed his true desire. Deacon yearns for someone to make in
his own image by introducing them to a hunger so vile, they will detest him
forever.
Father
Merck Hallowell stands at a crossroad of conscience and
faith. His convictions, no longer satisfying, leave him searching for reasons
to persevere. Befriending a handsome but strange parishioner opens a doorway Merck
longs to enter and explore. Discovering Deacon’s secret, he realizes not only his
life hangs in balance—so does his soul!
Excerpt:
Shadows caused by clouds scuttling across the
moon played over stained glass presenting faces of heavenly creatures which
magically came to life as silhouettes waxed and waned.
Deacon wasn’t there to observe this—he came
for Merck Hallowell.
Having watched the holy man circumvent
alleyways and side streets nightly in an effort to recapture something he’d
lost and would never find again, Deacon decided, by sharing his affliction,
Merck was the only person capable of subsisting with him.
Deacon sustained his life on the blood of
others and, frankly, he didn’t care anymore if they lived or died though, that
decision was usually made in the process of draining them of their most prized
possession.
Some deserved to die instantly but he made
them suffer more by showing a kaleidoscope of deviousness they’d lived with but
hid deep in scarred psyches. He let them see a thousand-year-old visage of bone
with peeling gray, shriveled skin. Those not so bad, he left to bleed out on
their own or, if they were lucky, some derelict would happen along and save
them.
He’d viewed that scenario often where the
person finding them rolled the individual taking everything of value including
their shoes. Enduring on these mean streets was hard. Before absconding with
everything scavenged, they’d call out loud enough to attract attention to
the dying before scurrying away in the dark to gloat over new prizes.
Many more were nothing but sustenance and
they remained none the wiser as not even a tell-tale mark indicated why they
felt slightly fatigued. Perhaps this group didn’t deserve to know Deacon at all
but they did. Recently, no feeling other than being satiated before they were
drained saved their lives.
These reminded him of a verse he’d
read, reread, and memorized wishing to find something he, himself, lost
millennia ago—Deacons must be dignified, not double-tongued, not addicted to wine nor greedy for dishonest gain. They will hold the mystery of faith with a clear conscience. Let them also be tested first then let them serve as deacons if they prove themselves blameless.
The rest of the verse didn’t mean much as Deacon never appreciated lying with women so he’d surely never be the
husband of one wife nor did he wish to bring children into his world. Neither
did he recollect serving anyone well but himself.
Deacon desired remembering why he was at all, why he’d lost his
graciousness and faith.
Could one as lost as the priest help him find
what went missing?
Still not too late in the evening, Father
Hallowell, whom Deacon had observed for enough months to know his schedule
inside out, would be in residence.
Having enjoyed a leisurely meal of rare
prime rib at a swanky restaurant not far away, Deacon waited outside the
cathedral to see the moon begin its slide into the sky, to watch cloud play on
glass and illuminate the cross stretching skyward.
He entered the church and moved quietly down
the aisle to take a seat in the row second from the front. Big mistake. The woman in the first pew, who still believed in
covering her head in God’s presence, left her neck bare where a frantic pulse
beaconed him as if a bright light flashed off and on beneath her skin with each
beat of her heart.
The door beside a thick pillar squeaked open
and voices preceded Father Hallowell and another, much older, priest. Deacon spotted
the elder man arrive two days ago, knew he’d be in residence for at least four
days as he helped out until a new priest could be assigned to the parish.
I
should have taken your blood. Had he ingested a tiny bit, he’d know more
about Merck and what machinations went on in his mind even though the mystery
intrigued him. What he was able to glean came from a slight brush of hands
between both men at a nearby market.
That momentous day sealed Father Merck Hallowell’s
fate.
Had he been a pure holy man, Deacon would not
have given him a moment’s thought.
The men were unaware he could hear every word
they whispered.
“We all have crises of faith, Merck. It is
expected especially in a parish such as yours.”
“You mean one without enough funds to carry
out needed programs?”
“You can’t save them all.”
“Why? They sit in wealth at many surrounding
parishes. Can they not share their abundance?”
The older man stopped to scrutinize Merck. “You
feel the more you save the more it will appease your own soul.” Twisting away,
he continued. “Faith should be something we carry daily and not be measured by
how many we rescue from their quagmire of…”
“Of hunger? Of too little housing and not
nearly enough public services to assist them? Rescuing them from knowledge
they’ll be poor and destitute until the day they die?”
“We pray for their souls. You also have
sisters helping with your shelter which provides housing and meals for the more
unfortunate.”
Merck no longer attempted to modify his
voice. “Jesus Christ, you speak of no more than twenty when there are hundreds
who go hungry with no roof over their head daily!”
“Father Hallowell!”
“Rest well, I must see to confession.”
“Are you not going to change?”
“No, I’m not.” A labored sigh rattled from
his throat. “See yourself out in the morning as I’ll be tired from scouring
streets tonight in hopes of bringing in those who suffer most.” Hands jammed in
his pockets, Merck watched the man walk away.
Turning, he touched his throat, made sure his
stiff collar remained straight in his black dress shirt. When he faced pews,
Deacon noticed something about the man he’d not paid attention to before. Sans
vestments he wore every Sunday and for midweek service, not wearing the wool
jacket he donned at night, Merck’s body appeared athletically fit in a pair of
well-worn black jeans. All those nights
walking.
Dark lashes fluttered up and down over light
brown eyes which didn’t seem to take note of three parishioners, including the
woman in front of Deacon, walk out. Merck ran a hand through waves of chocolate
brown hair before he stroked it over a day’s growth covering cheeks and chin
giving accent to a thin mustache he always wore.
Shit! Broodingly
beautiful.
Left alone with Father Hallowell, Deacon
stood, brushed down the front of his black pinstriped jacket, he straightened
his fashionable tie, and pinched razor-sharp creases in perfectly fitting trousers.
He left the pew and headed to the confessional.
Tonight, Deacon planned to open Father
Hallowell’s eyes.
Life is
complicated, it’s loud, death arrives silently. – J.
Hali Steele (from Twice the Burn)
