The path changed in Edinburgh. The ancient city with its castle spurting
forth from the volcanic mountaintop surged with inexplicable energies.
Father Keel stood in the battlements of the castle, looking out over the
city and down below to the gray green, leaf-blanketed cemetery in the
churchyard. The voices of the dead drifted up to him as a congregation in
song, cadenced though tremulous. He gritted his teeth. The collar he had
coveted, the scrap of starched white cloth he had seen as a symbol of his
dedication to the quest for righteousness and knowledge chafed at his
throat. His fingers trembled with rage.
The previous twenty-four hours played over and again in his mind. Mostly there were flashes of color- orange, red, purple, yellow, splayed like the paint bursts and dribbles on a Pollock canvas. The violence of those hours was beyond what even he, with all of his travels and inquisitions, had experienced. Standing in the close quarters where the victim's friends had incarcerated him, the mood thick and menacing, Keel could not help but feel that the caged brutality from the interloper had somehow entered him as well.
Father Keel turned from the cityscape back into the confines of the castle grounds. He mounted the cobblestone path to the stronghold's chapel easily avoiding the eager, milling pockets of tourists. A ray of sunshine filtered down from the quickly clouding sky, sparkling in the majestic stained-glass window of the chapel. The light made him flinch.
He had never expected the Church would make him an assassin. In the past he had sometimes railed against their ordinations, even disputed their all too frequent concealment of facts, but never had he felt so betrayed. Despite his misgivings he had been an obedient son; and now that the task was over guilt and revulsion coursed through his being. Disillusionment was, he felt, too limited a word for the despair and ambiguity that had overcome him.
The victim had been so startled by him, his sallow sunken face rapidly exhibiting fear, then a sort of calm recognition and then terrible, fierce hatred as Father Keel forced the liquid from the simple plastic cup down his gurgling throat. Any other choice would have been preferable to him, but he had been able to conceive of none; thus he had done the deed as ordered.
In a few short hours, he had come to believe that the man was beyond saving. The exorcism had failed utterly and he himself witnessed the turn, wherein the being crossed the threshold of possession. Keel had not seen such an advanced case before, though he had read accounts from documents long thought lost. The simile of the caterpillar in the chrysalis was the simplest he could divine. Once the demon had complete control of the body in which it was housed, the time was short before it would suck all the life force from that body, and emerge stronger- a more pure evil. That could not be allowed.
Sadly, noiselessly he had watched as the man became a profane, crude fiend that God-fearing society would never give credence to and while his fellows mourned and pushed themselves into the farthest corners of the room he alone crossed to the shackled, huddled form. For an instant he too wavered. How could he, a man of God take a life, any life?
The vision of his mother, suffering, silently pleading for peace in the semi-darkness cured him of both doubt and inaction. Her face was his nightmare, his regret and his catalyst. She too had been in need of his help and he had done nothing. He would not repeat that mistake. He had not.
On top of the volcano, on the firm stones set down centuries before by strong-willed, good-hearted men, Keel made another decision. Before the chapel, in the sight of God, he ripped the collar from his neck and tossed it onto the yellowed grass. "My way now," he muttered as he walked away.
The previous twenty-four hours played over and again in his mind. Mostly there were flashes of color- orange, red, purple, yellow, splayed like the paint bursts and dribbles on a Pollock canvas. The violence of those hours was beyond what even he, with all of his travels and inquisitions, had experienced. Standing in the close quarters where the victim's friends had incarcerated him, the mood thick and menacing, Keel could not help but feel that the caged brutality from the interloper had somehow entered him as well.
Father Keel turned from the cityscape back into the confines of the castle grounds. He mounted the cobblestone path to the stronghold's chapel easily avoiding the eager, milling pockets of tourists. A ray of sunshine filtered down from the quickly clouding sky, sparkling in the majestic stained-glass window of the chapel. The light made him flinch.
He had never expected the Church would make him an assassin. In the past he had sometimes railed against their ordinations, even disputed their all too frequent concealment of facts, but never had he felt so betrayed. Despite his misgivings he had been an obedient son; and now that the task was over guilt and revulsion coursed through his being. Disillusionment was, he felt, too limited a word for the despair and ambiguity that had overcome him.
The victim had been so startled by him, his sallow sunken face rapidly exhibiting fear, then a sort of calm recognition and then terrible, fierce hatred as Father Keel forced the liquid from the simple plastic cup down his gurgling throat. Any other choice would have been preferable to him, but he had been able to conceive of none; thus he had done the deed as ordered.
In a few short hours, he had come to believe that the man was beyond saving. The exorcism had failed utterly and he himself witnessed the turn, wherein the being crossed the threshold of possession. Keel had not seen such an advanced case before, though he had read accounts from documents long thought lost. The simile of the caterpillar in the chrysalis was the simplest he could divine. Once the demon had complete control of the body in which it was housed, the time was short before it would suck all the life force from that body, and emerge stronger- a more pure evil. That could not be allowed.
Sadly, noiselessly he had watched as the man became a profane, crude fiend that God-fearing society would never give credence to and while his fellows mourned and pushed themselves into the farthest corners of the room he alone crossed to the shackled, huddled form. For an instant he too wavered. How could he, a man of God take a life, any life?
The vision of his mother, suffering, silently pleading for peace in the semi-darkness cured him of both doubt and inaction. Her face was his nightmare, his regret and his catalyst. She too had been in need of his help and he had done nothing. He would not repeat that mistake. He had not.
On top of the volcano, on the firm stones set down centuries before by strong-willed, good-hearted men, Keel made another decision. Before the chapel, in the sight of God, he ripped the collar from his neck and tossed it onto the yellowed grass. "My way now," he muttered as he walked away.