The Conqueror Worm Page 7

  With smugness, the monsignor replied, "Oh, you're a part of the old church? How quaint. Yes, I can imagine your confusion. We do things differently here. I appreciate your earnestness, but talk of heresy is misplaced. We aren't living in the Middle Ages, Father McGregor."

  "Be that as it may," Ossian replied, "I'm concerned over the practices I witnessed in your church." He took a step closer, prompting the monsignor to fall back. "No matter one's denomination, it is widely and uncontroversially understood that Christ and His saints are the only worthy subjects of worship. Who was that person in black, seated above the cross? The one you insisted the hungry congregants worship?"

  Monsignor Weber crossed his arms. "I'll have you know that was our new bishop, recently sent here from the capital. Bishop Carnivale. He joined us for Mass yesterday evening and we welcomed him with open arms. He has been very generous with the people of Bologna and has close ties to the upper leadership in Avignon. He was selected by Pope Urban personally to head the churches of Bologna."

  Ossian nodded. "And this bishop of yours, where is he? I'd like to speak with him."

  The monsignor shot him down at once, clicking his tongue. "Oh, no, no. I'm sorry, but the bishop is a very busy man. He has no time to give an audience, and I fear that his evolving ideas on the Catholic faith might rankle you, what with your being a dog of Rome. Sincere apologies, but I must ask--"

  "I wasn't asking," replied Ossian, setting a hand gingerly upon the hilt of his weapon. "I'm telling you to bring him out right now. I want to see him."

  Staring at the sword, the monsignor gulped. "That would be most unwise of you. Despite your ungodly threats of violence, the answer remains the same." He motioned to the door. "Please, leave. And do not return. An enemy of Avignon is not welcome here."

  Ossian was prepared to argue the point further when he noticed a rustling in the back of the church. From two recessed doorways there emerged a number of pale men. They were tall, well-fed, and from the looks of it they wore weapons of their own on their belts.

  Firearms.

  For the duration of the exchange, Cesare had been silently rocking in the pew, looking up at the high ceiling of the nave and waiting to leave. At glancing the armed men however, he suddenly shot up out of his seat and backed away towards the exit. "Whoa, hold on a minute. Are those guns? Real guns?"

  Incensed though he was, Ossian knew better than to stay and fight. He could cut down men and demons alike with his sword, but he couldn't outrun a bullet. Offering a phlegmatic grin, he saluted the monsignor with but one of his fingers and uttered, "Peace be with you." Ushering the youth out with him, Ossian stepped back into the sunlight and started immediately from the church. Stealing a glance behind him as he walked, he spied more than once the massive door of the basilica sitting ajar, and a pale face watching the two of them closely as they departed.

  10

  "So, what now? They kicked us out. Where do we go from here?" asked Cesare.

  Ossian spit on the ground. "First time in my life I've ever been tossed out of a church."

  "There's a first time for everything, I guess."

  "We're not leaving this city," said the priest. "Not until I've gotten to the bottom of this debauchery. There's something going on in that church under the oversight of this Bishop Carnivale, and I want to know what it is. If in fact the authority in Avignon is condoning heresy, then the situation may be worse than initially feared. There will be no healing of the schism, if that's the case. Only war. A new crusade." He stopped, leaning against the base of a fountain. It had run dry long ago, and the statue of Neptune that'd once sat atop it had been toppled, breaking into several large pieces. "We're not going anywhere. And I can't just drop you off here. It's become an unwholesome place. Moreover, food is running low." He jostled his satchel. "If we're going to stay here for any period of time, we need to seek out some food and water. Come on. Maybe there will be someone in this city, or its outskirts, that will let us know where we can find both."

  Speaking little, the pair walked deeper into town, keeping their eyes peeled for any locals. As before, the streets were largely barren, and when people did appear, they were of the same pale and hateful cast as the others had been. It wasn't until they'd gone a considerable distance from the basilica, nearly an hour's walk, that they encountered a friendly face.

  Coming up on a small house on the right side of a lengthy street that was flanked on two sides by lush greenery and a number of large trees, they met a tall man atop a ladder. He was in the process of repairing his gutters and had rigged them up in such a way as to allow them to drain into one of two large, plastic barrels with hefty lids. He stood awkwardly on the ladder, unsteadily, and as he dismounted to say hello to the approaching pair, it was easy to see why.

  His right foot was turned inward to an unnatural degree, and he walked with a strained, limping gait. To the priest's eye the man appeared to be afflicted by a serious and untreated case of club foot. Standing well over six feet, the man waved at Ossian and wiped a layer of sweat off of his stony face. His hair was a mass of dense, black waves. "Good morning," he said. His voice was deep, commanding, but possessed too of a gentleness. His thick, black brows arched in an agreeable smile. "How are you folks doing today?"

  "What a welcome sight it is to see a smiling face," said the priest, extending a hand. "Good day. I'm Father Ossian McGregor. My young friend here and I have been traveling for several days and have just arrived here in Bologna. I don't suppose you're well-acquainted with the city, are you?"

  "You're in luck," replied the man, wiping his brow with an old, stained handkerchief. "I was born and raised just outside Bologna. The name's Elio Bianchi. Very pleased to make your acquaintance." He paused, looking the priest up and down. "So, out of towners, eh? Where are you from? You don't look like you're affiliated with the basilica."

  Ossian bristled at the mention of the church. "N-no, I've come all the way from Rome. Incidentally, we've just paid a visit to the Basilica of San Petronio, and we found less than a warm welcome. Are you one of its parishioners?"

  Elio's cheeks flushed red. "Sorry, no. Truth be told, since the world went to pieces, my family and I have been very lazy Catholics. Really, the church has been different for a long time. It's not like I remember as a kid. The sermons, the night Masses..." He shrugged. "So, what brings you here all the way from Rome?"

  The boy, silent up to this point, chimed in to answer. "He's on a mission to bring the church back together. Or to punish heretics."

  Elio laughed heartily, but then set his sights on the Grand Inquisitor and tensed noticeably. "I-I see. Well, how can I be of assistance to you two? My family and I haven't got much, but if you'd like to come inside to rest your tired feet you're more than welcome. We don't often get travelers coming through this part of town. I'd love to hear about your travels."

  "That sounds wonderful, thank you," replied the priest. He looked briefly at the ladder, pointed up at it. "What was it you were doing up there?"

  "Oh, that? Just fixing the gutters. It's a real bitch, trying to get up there with this bum leg of mine." He slapped his right knee and gave his crooked foot a wiggle. "I've been trying to get the gutters cleaned out and straightened off and on for a few days, but only have the stamina to do a bit at a time. I like to save the rain water, you see. We've got a great spring nearby, but I can use this accumulated water on plants and such. Plus, you never know when that spring will run dry. Better to be prepared."

  Ossian tested the ladder and then climbed up a few rungs. "Allow me to help you. I reckon I could get these gutters working again rather quickly."

  "Oh, father, don't trouble yourself," said Elio. "Come in, relax."

  Mounting the roof, Ossian peered into the gutters and found them stuffed full of refuse. Certain connective pieces had partially rusted and would require replacing. "Have you got the materials to replace these rusted bits?"

  Elio nodded. "Y-yeah, I managed to find some good bits on abandoned hom
es in town."

  "Have Cesare there help you bring them out. I'll have this squared before you know it," said the priest, scooping handfuls of leaves from the gutters.

  With Cesare's aid, Ossian worked on the gutters until the early afternoon when their host invited them down for lunch. Elio's wife, Mattea, brought them each a cup of fresh, cool water. Afterward, Elio led the two of them from the house to a secluded field near the local spring where wild edibles proved abundant. This field, he theorized, was rich with edible foliage because of the nearby spring, which fed the land mineral-infused water.

  Ossian and the boy picked a few handfuls of wild mushrooms, berries and other foods, making a quick lunch of them before filling a basket and carrying them back to the house, where they were met by Mattea and Elio's only son, a boy of ten years named Aristide.

  "It's a long way to Avignon," said Elio, munching on a berry. "Makes my legs hurt just thinking about making that hike. What are they sending you, a lone priest, out for?"

  Ossian smiled, but didn't give an honest reply. Unbeknownst to the man, Cesare's earlier claim that he'd been sent from Rome to dispatch heretics wasn't so far off the mark. "I'm something of a specialist and was selected by the pope to make this journey. It is a great privilege, but you're right to say that the trip is an arduous one. You and your wife have been very kind to host us. We hope to stay in Bologna a while longer, until I can speak to the officials in charge of the basilica. I understand there's a new bishop staying nearby, come from Avignon?"

  Both Elio and Mattea knew nothing of this. "I haven't heard anything like that," replied Elio, "though we're somewhat out of touch. It's like I was telling you earlier; the church has gone strange in recent years. Even before everything went to hell, it didn't feel the same to me. Now, the real die-hard church-goers act so strange. They don't come out much during the day, and they act like they're in a cult―ridiculously dedicated, you know? Of course, before all of this disaster went down, they were the very types to skip church on Sundays, to look down their noses at organized religion. Guess they had a change of heart, the hypocrites." He waved his hands dismissively. "It's just not for us. We live a little out of the way, so we don't see much of our neighbors. Not that there are too many of them left."

  The boy, Aristide, was husky like his father and looked up at the priest with evident curiosity, perched up against the rude kitchen table on his elbows. "That's a big sword," he said of the Grand Inquisitor, reaching out and touching the scabbard gingerly. His dark eyes opened wide, and he asked, "Have you ever killed anyone with it?"

  Mattea silenced her son with a nudge in the ribs and apologized profusely to the priest. "My son is still young and doesn't have much experience talking with strangers. Please forgive him." For her part, Mattea cut a thin, matronly figure with angular facial features and sun-kissed skin for her hours spent foraging in the fields.

  The Bianchi trio were dressed in loose-fitting garb. Aristide wore a pair of oversized overalls atop a grungy white T-shirt, and his sandals appeared a size too small. Elio's broad shoulders filled out a thin sweatshirt whose neckline was fraught with holes, and a pair of jeans whose lower legs were painted black with dirt and grime. In a frayed calf-length dress that'd seen better days and a pair of Elio's ratty Chuck Taylors, Mattea had taken to braiding her long brown hair, and she wore it over one shoulder with a silver clip; a symbolic gesture of beauty in an age defined by ugliness.

  When they'd finished their meal and had done a good deal of conversing, Ossian reluctantly accepted an offer from Mattea to have his cassock washed. Changing into an old outfit of Elio's, which left his lean frame buried in material, the wife took to scrubbing the mud from his clothing and set it out to dry along the edge of a rickety fence outside the property.

  Meanwhile, the two boys, starved for company their own age, decided to play outside together. Cesare, though not completely well by any stretch, had regained enough strength to keep up with the younger boy, and they took off across the yard with sharpened sticks in pursuit of a large rabbit they hoped to catch.

  Watching the youths outside the kitchen window, Ossian couldn't help but smile. The situation in Bologna was questionable, however this little abode and the family in it seemed to him a bright spot, free of heretical taint. Perhaps, if Elio and his wife were amenable to it, he'd ask them to look after Cesare so that he could continue on to Avignon by himself.

  Tending to a small fire, Elio regaled the priest with tales of the old life. "You wouldn't believe me, but once upon a time we were pretty well off. We owned this house and had a lot of good stuff in it. A flatscreen TV, appliances." Meandering into the kitchen, he kicked at the range with his club foot. "Now the piece of shit won't cook worth a damn! Wish I'd just thrown down for an old-fashioned wood burner like my mother had done back in the day." When Mattea was out of earshot, tending to laundry, Elio sidled up to the priest and asked, in a hushed tone, "So, just between you and me, because the missus isn't so fond of this sort of talk, are you really on a mission from the Vatican?"

  Not wishing to divulge too much, Ossian nodded and kept things brief. "Yes, though it's not as exciting as the boy made it sound."

  "Sure," replied the host, "though you seem mighty interested in the basilica. What's going on there? They doing something weird? Human sacrifices or something?"

  The priest laughed. "Nothing so overt as that, no. Let's just say that Rome may have some disagreements with the leaders in Avignon about how best to run things."

  "Huh. You know, I always wondered what it would be like to be a priest. I never bothered looking into it real close because, well... you know." He gave his hips a little thrust. "There are some things in life I'm just not willing to give up! But, uh, how do you like it? Is the pay any good?" He laughed suddenly. "Well, not that money means a whole lot anymore, I guess."

  "The priesthood was the only option I had available to me, truth be told. My parents died young and I was taken in at an orphanage run by nuns. I met many members of the clergy and they inspired me to take the vows." He hesitated. "From a very young age I knew I was going to be a priest."

  "No kidding. I mean, that's good that you knew what you wanted to do right from the start. Not a lot of people can say that. Me? I was a farmer." He grinned widely. "Yeah, I know what you're probably thinking. 'This guy, with the messed up foot, was a farmer?' But it's true, and I was a damn fine farmer for a while there. Had a farm outside the city limits, grew all kinds of things. Could have kept my family fed for years off of those yields. Unfortunately, the family farm, which had been passed down a couple of generations, was taken over by a bunch of roughs. They came in, fought over the crops and then kicked me and my family to the curb. Could've been worse; they could've killed us, I suppose. But those dumb fuckers didn't know what they were doing and probably let the land go to the dogs. Last I heard there was a fire and most of those crops were lost. Puts a smile on my face to know that the land of my fathers won't feed those pricks." Changing the subject, Elio pulled up a chair and sat down beside the priest. "Say, have you ever met one of those priests that does that, uh... that thing, like in the movies?"

  Ossian shook his head. "I don't follow..."

  "What was that old movie―The Exorcist! That's the one. You ever get called in to ward off demons and that? I tell you, even when we were church-goers, I never really put much stock into that. What about you?"

  The priest lowered his gaze, studying the wood grain in the table. "Demons?" He nodded pensively. "Yes, I do believe in them, as a matter of fact.”

  Ossian McGregor had believed in demons for the bulk of his life. During the earliest stages of his clerical career he had no run-ins with such things, and could point to no traumatic scenarios in his youth that'd served as a basis for his belief in evil. From the day he truly embraced the idea of God's existence, he came to sense, too, the presence of a certain darkness in the world that stood in stark opposition to God's light.

  In his educated view, a genuine
demonic possession was like a black cloud which hung perpetually around the afflicted. It was a dangerous condition, but could be dispelled by an expert without much risk of long-lasting spiritual damage. In those early years, he'd performed dozens of exorcisms, casting demons out and giving his parishioners peace of mind.

  But when the lights went out around the world and the new age began, something changed.

  Cases of possession increased ten-fold, and the possessed began to take on new strengths. The dark spirits latched onto their human hosts like a proper cancer, rendering the old rites inert. Before being sent on his crusade, Ossian had been recalled to Vatican City, where he and other experts had been utilized in the dispensation of exorcisms. The severity of those cases however, in conjunction with the emergence of a new and more sinister strain of demonic possession, made it so that the church could barely keep up.

  The new, virulent possessions were typified by a total takeover of the host; physically and spiritually. In the new world, the spawn of Hell proliferated and gained access to the souls of men with unheard of ease. Once seated in the heart of a sinful subject, the demon proved almost impossible to oust through traditional means. The rites of exorcism as outlined by the Catholic Church and utilized for centuries, though they caused such individuals great pain, proved insufficient to cast out the devils as they'd once done.

  And so the only way to free the souls of tortured men and rid the world of evil was to execute the afflicted.

  On his travels, Ossian had met a few specimens of such advanced possession; some of them very recently indeed, with Cesare in tow. He hoped that the tide would turn, that God would use His influence to lash out at those elements of darkness that seemed so numerous and which threatened to topple the church in full, however the reality was that the closer he got to Avignon, the more possessed he would encounter.