Requiem IV: Death's Door the Final Hour

by Bonnie Eagan & Alisa Joaquin

Part 6: Rage and Realization

Despite everything, the Village wasn't as large as Peter thought, nor was there as many people as he feared. Granted the number was high, but at least they didn't number in the thousands. It was obvious that whoever killed these people did not do it alone. They were systemically sought out and cut down, especially the children. It was as if they knew that if they did not kill them, the Shaolin would survive, but who was responsible? Peter would soon find the answer and in a way that he wished he hadn't.

With each passing hour and day, Peter worked to bury the dead, giving them their due and hopefully sending their restless spirits back to the source of all things. He finally understood how his father must have felt, especially when he found a young boy no more than 13 years old, dressed in the robes of a novice monk. It was almost more than he could bare. He held that child for some time, weeping, and remembering. This child could have been him . . . was him, he realized. His childhood had been killed just as lethally as this child's life had been cut down.

It was at that moment as he held that child, he sensed someone in a fit of rage and he was nearly struck from behind.

"MURDERER!"

Peter was quickly on his feet, facing a young Chinese woman dressed in rags.

"I WILL KILL YOU! ARRRRRR!"

Peter dodged the woman as she rushed him, still holding the dead boy in his arms.

"Stop! I didn't kill anyone. I'm trying to help."

The woman didn't listen to him. She was so filled with rage. Peter could almost feel the heat coming off her. Then he had an idea. He quickly looked around trying to find a place to lay the boy down. He rushed to where there was a bench and placed the body there. As the woman rushed him, again, he tore at his sleeves and lifted his arms so she could see what he exposed. The woman raised the club to try to strike Peter one more time, but suddenly halted her movement.

Peter saw her eyes focus on his forearms then dropped the club.

"See, I'm . . . I'm a priest."

The woman collapsed at his feet and continued to weep bitter tears of helplessness.

Peter reached down to gather her in his arms, but she backed away.

"Don't touch me!" she screamed. "How could you. How could you," she continued to say over and over.

"Who are you?" Peter asked. "I thought everyone was dead. I was only trying to bury the bodies. I arrived here three days ago and found . . ." The woman would not answer, so deep in her grief it was as if she had gone deaf to his words.

Peter stopped his rambling as he sensed the woman's anguish.

"He was my brother," she suddenly said with bitterness and pain, pointing to the boy that lay on the bench.

"I'm sorry," Peter said. "I was only . . . How is it that you're still alive? I thought everyone . . ."

The woman still did not seem to hear him. She continued to kneel at his feet with her head bowed, in the old style. It was as if she became resigned of her fate. "Kill me, you've killed everyone else why stop now. Finish it. You've betrayed everyone, even your brothers. One more death doesn't matter."

Betrayed? What was the woman talking about? Did another priest do this?

"I told you, I didn't kill anyone," Peter said, kneeling to face the woman. He gently lifted her head, so their eyes met. Hazel eyes pierced the darken vale shrouding the woman's onyx-colored ones.

It was then she seemed to notice him for the first time. "You are not the one. Who are you?"

Continues with Part 7