Chapter 10: the Stigmata
The rain poured, as the started playing; it all seemed very monotonous, without much feeling. His first time on stage and he was faltering. Badly. So badly that Michael actually stopped what he was doing to apologize for technical problems. Anger bubbled beneath my skin: anger that my own soul seemed so wary today, refusing to come out on ply. On this rainy day…That rhyme repeated over in his head…he would always be that little boy if he didn't do something now…
He kicked his amp angrily and it fell with a loud bang…and in this act of aggression inspiration sprung. He had seen some people do it dozens of times with guitars, but no one had actually done it this far. He kicked his amp upright: the resulting feedback screeched and howled, and with some coaxing form his whammy bar created the unmistakable sound of an airplane overhead. Heads perked up in the audience: some looking at the sky, searching for the low flying muggle airplane: than the shrieks and whistles of bombs began to pierce the cloudy sky directly overhead. Michael turned to look at Sid, but He…that is to say I, was in a world of my own. Finally, the explosion, eyes leapt back to me: some pick scraping brought the sound of machine guns…firing at the bomber which continued to drone in the air: the dogfight continued: I as dimly aware of other music, but this was primarily my show: the other guitarist didn't even seem to be trying to intervene. The swooping runs, some people were still searching the skies, other seemed transfixed upon me in some kind of awed shock and horror: I could sense it in them. Soon music took the place of the dogfight, but I could still tell it was twisted, angry, tortured and dissonant: 18 years worth of oppression, degradation, bitterness, all coming out through these six strings: the bass and drums cut out, as the last low and mournful notes came tumbling out of his fingers: the monster always within him satisfied for now, sliding back into his cavernous mind, its lair, its one safety. There was silence and Sid slowly unplugged his guitar, and walked offstage: he could almost feel their eyes upon him. Applause. Cheers. Screams. There was an out roar of the crowd. 'More' they shouted. 'More'. This is what he had wanted, they had felt him among them: reached out and grabbed them by the throat, not let go: touched them. But it was time to sheath my guitar for the night…
Something awoke Harry that night: perhaps it was only a bad dream, perhaps it was Ron's unnecessarily loud snoring (or the fact he could have just hear the door creak shut and who he though was Hermione sneaking out…bad dreams he told himself). Something about Sid's playing had crept into his dreams…that dissonant whining piercing beauty…the colors, the 'kaleidoscope of music' as Sid had referred to it briefly to the excited group of students who had accosted him before he had retreated to his coffin.
But now the coffin lid was open. Harry could not see Sid in it, he had vanished. Something drew him out of that room, out of the common room, into the halls. Towards the dungeons, past the Great Hall, and than, in a hall he had never been, two massive arched doors, marked with crucifixes: obviously the castles old chapel, its doors coated with dust, but they were ajar.
Now Harry was wide awake, not fully understanding or comprehending where he was and how he could get there. But there was a sound inside: faintly like bacon sizzling… and muttering, in a low voice, he pushed the door open: the cathedral was dark, full of shadows and dust, long gone unused; its high domed ceiling covered with relief's of, what Harry could only think, were Biblical references, high windows, boarded up, but some with broken or semi broken pains of glass, allowing faint moonlight to stream through. There was a podium in the middle where the priest would have stood, a large crucifix, tarnished with ages, but it was the figure prostrate in front of the alter that drew his attention.
"…in the name of the father….and of the son…and of the holy ghost…" Sid kept muttering: in the faint light cast by a candle Harry could see Sid was shirtless, and covered with sweat, and in a moment of horror, he realized that the sizzling sound was emanating from Sid: his skin rough, and red as if being burned…or scorched more like. Sid let out a low moan, "Father…forgive me please…" his voice was choked with tears as he gazed upon the crucifix: Christ's eyes looking sorrowfully, pitifully at him. "Forgive this sinner…please…forgive your damned…allow me to attain salvation…end my suffering…" he muttered, his voice choked with tears. Harry moved. Sid stiffened and spun around, his red eyed burned through the darkness, focusing on Harry. He hissed, baring his fangs, and leapt into the rafters, it must have been 50 feet overhead and landed on the sill and disappeared onto the roof…
"I swear, I wasn't dreaming!" Harry muttered heatedly to Ron and Hermione the next morning. Ron took a bite of his eggs, "Come off it Harry! Maybe that music freaked you out more than us. I mean a vampire in a church? That's…insane Harry." Hermione looked skeptical as well but remained silent, and picked at her food.
Sid was not in any of his morning classes, nor was he there for lunch: no one had seen him since the concert. None of the teachers seemed to care particularly, and it was even muttered by a few that maybe that "No good Vimp." Had come a cropper of something in the forest and they were rid of his "Menace" for good. Harry knew something was wrong when his guitar remained in the dormitory, and hadn't 'mysteriously dissappeared'. However he would turn up sometime… or so some hoped: he had never been anything but a real gentleman, compassionate, quiet, reserved, intellectual, though he had always seemed to stand out…like a wolf will stand out in the middle of some sheep.
The night air was cool…clean…pure as Sid slipped back into the giant cathedral. Instantly he felt as if a thousand fires had been lit on his skin, felt the stinging pain…to tread on Holy Ground. But he had to redeem himself: he could not accept that God would damn his wolves for an eternity: after all, were the wolves not children of god as much as the sheep were? But the stinging sensation…a constant reminder of what he was…who he was. He would attend whatever he could in efforts to redeem his soul: cathedrals, Buddhist or Hindu shrines, Synagogue, Mosques…all the same thing: he was cast out.
He, or rather I (but I must attempt some kind of objectivity, the reason of which you will understand presently) , knelt at the alter and bowed my head again, and began to utter a prayer. Something was different about the night…there was a presence when I entered. For a moment there was a flash of white light: I felt myself uplifted from him, who lay beneath my prostrate on the ground: knees still bent, and arms slightly spread eagled as if I were to fly away: another flash.
I found myself on a great plain: flat. Grey clouds concealed the sun, and the wind swept swiftly by: dust in my eyes, a faint drizzle of rain. Than on the horizon, the edge of a great canyon or crevasse, even from where I stood I could recognize the Roman plumes and a single man, dragging log. The column stopped at the crevasse, and the man was thrust forward, the log turned to the side, and I could see in a moment of horror it was no log: it was a cross. The man was lain on the cross (he offered no resistance) and I could see a legionnaire kneel, saw his arms rise and fall with hammer strokes. I cried out and started to run, this was surely my chance for redemption. But as I moved, I could not: I was running, but going no where. I ran more frantically, pushing hard, but the wind seemed a shield.
The wind whispered in me 'The Blood of Christ…the Blood of Christ…' in one continuous rhythm, driving me mad, and the hunger rising: I knew that he must be bleeding in the physical world for me to hunger so. The cross was erect now, the legionnaires turned around and left, leaving the man to the elements. The greatest despair I have ever known possessed me at that moment, and I fell to my knees and began to weep… tears of mourning: I wanted to yell and scream, but no words came.
'the blood of Christ…the blood of Christ…shed for you… ' this time it was a taunt, the wind laughing at me, but still that ever pounding line…
I found myself at the foot of the cross suddenly, the wind whipping my clothes around me, my hair in my eyes. Jesus turned his head to look at me, his eyes so full of sorrow, that I felt myself fall to my knees again, and I wept into his feet, "My child why do you cry…?" he said with a smile.
The garden was beautiful, plant and vegetation everywhere. Jesus now sat upon a rock, weaving a cloak. I had the strongest urge to stand with him…to feel his glory for one moment: a moment that I was not damned. But I hesitated. Christ looked up and smiled, "Why do you hesitate my child?" he asked with a smile, his olive skin shone with a faint trickle of sweat, his dark eyes seemed to glow with goodness.
I replied quietly, "Because…I am the wolf who prays on the sheep…I do not deserve your love or the love of god…I am of the damned that stalk this earth…"
He smiled again and beckoned me closer, this time I rushed forward and knelt before him, and said tears welling in my eyes, "Forgive me father…I…" he motioned me to be silent before saying:
"Sidnay, son of Ignatious Dracule, Count of Drakulya: I know your plight. God loves you and your kind and all humankind, albeit some justify their acts of evil in my name. Your barriers are mental: those of your kind are mental: accept love, accept compassion, and salvation Is yours."
I openly began to cry into his robes again: this was the only time a human (well in this case 'Human', he is the son of god after all) had ever forgiven me. I felt uplifted, but He was not finished.
"Allow me to demonstrate." He turned and as I followed his gaze I saw, form the sky an angel descend, clad in shimmering white robes, its black eyes shone with goodness, and from the ground a blackened demon sprung from the soil, its white eyes stared back at the angel: they met in mid air and began a furious battle: in circles, each chasing the other feet: faster and faster they both spun, they blurred and suddenly, I was struck by what they created: a Yin Yang in the sky shimmering, glorious. Christ evidently felt my grasp of this instantly. "Good," he said, "You can pass on, to your next level…"
((it is at this point that I will state this: Sidnay is…well…based loosely upon myself: there are elements of me in him, as there are elements of any writer in their characters. I am not going to be strictly discussing Christian spirituality, but it's a good place to start, and In my mind its gonna make for one hell of a story! I ask everyone to simply hang in with my spiritual jabber. I can only say right now that some interesting…entities will be appearing soon. It's all planned out. Please stick with me here!))