A simple sound awoke him, not lingering long enough to be registered fully
in the waking priest's mind. It was a noise like a small child knocking on
a door two rooms away, a sound clearly intended for the listener's ears,
but not quite distinct enough to not have been imagined. Looking toward
the door as he rose from his bed, Father Mulcahy discerned that it was
still the dark of night. He stood up and reached to turn on the light, and
the world around him turned from black to blurry brown-grey. The walls
were being wandered over by black sigils of varied sorts, many more than
he'd seen since they first started appearing to him, which all seemed to
look at him for a brief instant before conferring among themselves in low
tones. In that same brief instant of stillness, a figure made of black
substance sat hunched in a corner of the tent. It looked up at him with a
pleading blank space in the middle of its forehead, and disappeared.
The Father did not panic. He seemed incapable of panic. Instead he moved, slowly, too slowly, he thought, and turned out the lights again. The tent returned to its normal silence and he walked toward the door.
When he emerged into the compound, Father Mulcahy found the darkness banished by the rising sun, a sight that warmed his heart and caused a smile to position itself meekly on his face as he looked down, as if by instinct, to a set of confused and mingled tracks that were imprinted in loosely packed dirt.
Following the tracks into the small garden by the side of the tent, he found that a few plants had been stripped of leaves, and he reached down to take the ailing-looking stems in his hands, and they flourished again, becoming even more verdant than they were previously. The plant in the Hunter's hand glistened under the light of the rising sun, then shuddered in a foul breeze as the blonde light went white-blue in intensity.
The priest found himself falling to his knees, pulling his white cap down over his eyes as he craned his neck up to see what had happened.
The morning star had grown larger in the sky, and was laughing as it did its impersonation of the sun's route. The sun's light was drowned out in the brighter glare of this impostor. The breeze grew into a wind and then a torrent of cold winter air, down from the mountains, and it whistled and filled the priest's ears with the sounds of angels laughing. A trickle of viscous liquid spilled from his ear and traveled down the line of his jaw. He huddled down and shut his eyes against the bright light and the wind, and tried to lift his hand to feel what was dripping there.
"Blood..." he thought. But as his fingertip caught the edge of the liquid, he found it too sticky and thick to be any such thing. Looking up, he clearly heard the quiet twitter of a bird in a tree, and he brought his hand forward to inspect in the now-midday, warm, yellow sun. The goo on his fingers was likewise warm and yellow, liquid sunlight. He felt a sharp tug on a bit of his hair at the temple, and then a trembling warm tongue lick across the flat bit of skin under his ear, then dig inside it to lick at the honey that was issuing from therein.
He turned in terror, only to find himself face-to-face with a dappled grey he-goat with long curved horns. The goat, angry at the sudden disappearance of its treat, lowered its head and butted angrily, shoving the priest back into the garden of now incredibly-grown vegetation.
He sprawled with no clear direction, having trouble disentangling himself from the thick growth, and finally stopped, looking out into the compound as he saw a triumphal procession coming unimpeded through the minefield into the camp.
And no sooner were they spotted than they were there, all singing joyous refrains to the glory of God and his divine wrath, all turning and hailing the supine chaplain as they passed, smiling at him and staring at the top of his head, where a curling ivy tendril out of nowhere removed the stunned hunter's cap and a wreath of laurel seemed to sprout of its own volition, perfectly fitted to him as he stood up, being held aloft now on a rostrum of growing foliage, and received the cheers the procession sent up to him.
And then, as they appeared, the revelers dissipated into the camp's atmoshphere. All was quiet. Mulcahy didn't breathe, feeling an anticipation he didn't quite know how to read. Something was about to happen.
A light, piteous bleat sounded in the distance.
It was the bleating of the lamb.
The Lamb.
The bleat came and went, leaving the air cold and silent and feeling violated by the slight scuffle of the priest's shoes as he leapt down into the loose dirt of the compound. His mouth open, he bent nearly double, stumbling forward. From a distance, the gleaming white wool betrayed the divinity. The lamb came unswervingly closer, the coat becoming more dull and dusty grey and yellow, the lamb itself less full of life, stumbling as it walked.
It could hardly reach the Father's feet. Three yards away, the tiny hoofprints in the dirt became slightly tinged with red. A yard, and a gash opened itself along the emaciated creature's visible ribs. As it came within a foot of the crouching priest, it gave a pitiful bleat, caught his eye, and expired, its neck open and gushing blood.
Father Mulcahy stood back up, trembling, and, in a habitual manner, lifted his hand to grip his white cap, but when he brought it to his chest to crumple it in his usual manner, he felt his fingernails digging into foliage, and looked startled to see the Caesar's crown clutched in his hands.
He let out a yell and dropped the plantlife onto the dead lamb.
His yell echoed in the morning light that suffused his tent as he sat up and reached for his glasses, shaken to the very marrow by the dream.
~
The Father did not panic. He seemed incapable of panic. Instead he moved, slowly, too slowly, he thought, and turned out the lights again. The tent returned to its normal silence and he walked toward the door.
When he emerged into the compound, Father Mulcahy found the darkness banished by the rising sun, a sight that warmed his heart and caused a smile to position itself meekly on his face as he looked down, as if by instinct, to a set of confused and mingled tracks that were imprinted in loosely packed dirt.
Following the tracks into the small garden by the side of the tent, he found that a few plants had been stripped of leaves, and he reached down to take the ailing-looking stems in his hands, and they flourished again, becoming even more verdant than they were previously. The plant in the Hunter's hand glistened under the light of the rising sun, then shuddered in a foul breeze as the blonde light went white-blue in intensity.
The priest found himself falling to his knees, pulling his white cap down over his eyes as he craned his neck up to see what had happened.
The morning star had grown larger in the sky, and was laughing as it did its impersonation of the sun's route. The sun's light was drowned out in the brighter glare of this impostor. The breeze grew into a wind and then a torrent of cold winter air, down from the mountains, and it whistled and filled the priest's ears with the sounds of angels laughing. A trickle of viscous liquid spilled from his ear and traveled down the line of his jaw. He huddled down and shut his eyes against the bright light and the wind, and tried to lift his hand to feel what was dripping there.
"Blood..." he thought. But as his fingertip caught the edge of the liquid, he found it too sticky and thick to be any such thing. Looking up, he clearly heard the quiet twitter of a bird in a tree, and he brought his hand forward to inspect in the now-midday, warm, yellow sun. The goo on his fingers was likewise warm and yellow, liquid sunlight. He felt a sharp tug on a bit of his hair at the temple, and then a trembling warm tongue lick across the flat bit of skin under his ear, then dig inside it to lick at the honey that was issuing from therein.
He turned in terror, only to find himself face-to-face with a dappled grey he-goat with long curved horns. The goat, angry at the sudden disappearance of its treat, lowered its head and butted angrily, shoving the priest back into the garden of now incredibly-grown vegetation.
He sprawled with no clear direction, having trouble disentangling himself from the thick growth, and finally stopped, looking out into the compound as he saw a triumphal procession coming unimpeded through the minefield into the camp.
And no sooner were they spotted than they were there, all singing joyous refrains to the glory of God and his divine wrath, all turning and hailing the supine chaplain as they passed, smiling at him and staring at the top of his head, where a curling ivy tendril out of nowhere removed the stunned hunter's cap and a wreath of laurel seemed to sprout of its own volition, perfectly fitted to him as he stood up, being held aloft now on a rostrum of growing foliage, and received the cheers the procession sent up to him.
And then, as they appeared, the revelers dissipated into the camp's atmoshphere. All was quiet. Mulcahy didn't breathe, feeling an anticipation he didn't quite know how to read. Something was about to happen.
A light, piteous bleat sounded in the distance.
It was the bleating of the lamb.
The Lamb.
The bleat came and went, leaving the air cold and silent and feeling violated by the slight scuffle of the priest's shoes as he leapt down into the loose dirt of the compound. His mouth open, he bent nearly double, stumbling forward. From a distance, the gleaming white wool betrayed the divinity. The lamb came unswervingly closer, the coat becoming more dull and dusty grey and yellow, the lamb itself less full of life, stumbling as it walked.
It could hardly reach the Father's feet. Three yards away, the tiny hoofprints in the dirt became slightly tinged with red. A yard, and a gash opened itself along the emaciated creature's visible ribs. As it came within a foot of the crouching priest, it gave a pitiful bleat, caught his eye, and expired, its neck open and gushing blood.
Father Mulcahy stood back up, trembling, and, in a habitual manner, lifted his hand to grip his white cap, but when he brought it to his chest to crumple it in his usual manner, he felt his fingernails digging into foliage, and looked startled to see the Caesar's crown clutched in his hands.
He let out a yell and dropped the plantlife onto the dead lamb.
His yell echoed in the morning light that suffused his tent as he sat up and reached for his glasses, shaken to the very marrow by the dream.
~