Doors and Demons by Corralero
Chapter One: The Doors
The door to any building is essential, most of all to a church. It provides access, true, but the doors to a church should always be more, offering an avenue, an escape, into the peace, the quietness and the healing. They should be something of a shelter, the curve of the arches and lintel hinting at strength and protection. Sanctuary. The ancient name for a church. No blood should be spilt, no violence take place within a church, one of the few places where God and the care of individual souls came first…
Maxwell Church: Perhaps 80 years old. A quiet, rundown church, ready with gentle welcoming comfort to the scum of L2, poorest of the poorest colony. Attendance was pitiful, irregular and erratic with few regulars. The priest didn't mind. He simply smiled, blessing and welcoming all who came through the doors, and even if they didn't return they remained in his prayers, each unnamed face blessed each day.
One day those who came through the doors held guns. Filthy bandanas held back long hair from wild harsh faces, from mouths that shouted crude curses in the holy place, that made rough demands. Father Maxwell was held at gunpoint in the vestry of his own church. The rebels had come.
"But, my son…"
Father Maxwell's gentle reasoning fell on deaf ears. The church was to become a secret base for rebel activities, an ideal place for bomb and armament manufacturing. Appalled at the prospect of such violence in God's church, Father Maxwell shook his head firmly despite the gun at his temple.
"I am afraid that it an impossible request."
His erect posture, stern face and strident posture almost made a martyr of him. Then the door was flung back and Sister Helen was dragged in, surrounded by hoots and catcalls. Her hair was tumbling down her back, habit ripped and pretty eyes bright with fear as a brute of a man twisted her delicate wrists in his grip, swinging her around to face Father Maxwell with a knife laid across her throat. She was trembling. Sharp eyes saw his fear, and sneering voices repeated the request, and defeated Father Maxwell bowed his head in submission. They were a people of peace and love, not made for war or defiance.
But the brute holding Sister Helen was not yet finished. The men hadn't had a bit of skirt in ages. Rough lips caressed the delicate white of an exposed neck as Sister Helen cried out in distress and fear.
A small slender figure shot out from the shadows, smashing into the brute, winding him to the tall man's surprise. This was not a child of peace and love, but one raised by war and living by defiance. The boy was small but as hard as nails, years of rough living honing instincts to one of deadly survival. But it was no match for brute strength and latent cruelty. Large hands grasped slender arms, twisting viciously up even as the boy fought like a wild cat. The leader roughly yanked the small chin up until violet eyes met cold yellow. Then the hand was swiftly yanked away with a curse as sharp white teeth drew blood. A snarl of rage replaced the curse and the bitten hand returned in a violent blow that sent the boy skidding across the floor to rest at Father Maxwell's feet.
The slam of the oak door and the harsh grate of the lock sliding home informed a shaken Father Maxwell that he was now a prisoner in his own church.
Sighing, Father Maxwell knelt by the dazed ten year-old's side. Groggily the boy shook his head, wincing as he pressed a hand to a cut along his cheekbone left by the leader's heavy signet ring. The priest hadn't even know Duo was in the building, he had hoped it was not so. When the orphan had failed to be adopted, Sister Helen and himself had decided to take the wild street boy in. They had seen beyond the apparent and had, had they admitted it, been captured by Duo's warm, lively personality and positive approach to life. But they had allowed him a certain degree of freedom, realising that the streetlife had been ingrained in his being almost from birth. One could not change what one was instantaneously. Change was gradually occurring but they still let him roam, knowing he would always come back.
Gently Father Maxwell pulled the small frame into his lap and Duo leant his chestnut head into the comforting shoulder.
"That hurt." He muttered
"Thank you, Duo."
Sister Helen had crawled across to the pair and raised a shaky hand to brush aside the unruly fringe, only half tamed by the long braid.
"Sister! You ok?" Duo detached himself from the priest, looking at the nun, his violet eyes fierce, "I wont let them hurt ya."
"No," she smiled, masking her fears for his bravery "I know you wont."
The two adults leant back against the wall, exchanging silent glances over the top of the small boy as Duo rested his sore head on Sister Helen's shoulder. It was a dangerous situation, they both knew. Thankfully the few orphans they had under their control were out visiting potential foster homes this weekend, which left only the two of them and Duo in the church. Father Maxwell tilted his head back, slid his eyes shut and silently began to pray. It was going to be a hard few days.
To be continued...
Author's Note: Just a thank you note, really, to those who have reviewed my stories so far. Thanks for all the great comments - to be honest, I've been staggered that people liked them so much! Anyway, hope you all enjoy this story. I know it's a bit short, but I wanted to make it into a chaptered story and I'm still working on being able to write alot - I have no idea how some people churn it all out! Thanks again, Corralero