There follows a small scene from CHILL OF THE SHADOW. An exorcism.
***
The church clock
chimed eleven, each tolling of the hour resonating in the room.
“Oh, God, it’s time?” Father Joseph
said.
“Yes, Father. Your hour is here.”
Father Joseph nodded, his holy stole
draped round his neck. The Bible in one hand, he recited the Credo aloud three
times. He carried around the room a censer containing a small amount of the
burning Frankincense.
Maria’s eyes suddenly opened wide,
staring, alarmed. But Michael didn’t recognize Maria in them.
The priest whispered, “Poor soul–”
“Now, Father, the water,” Michael
said, his tone firm and commanding.
Putting down the censer, the priest
picked up a large glass jug of holy water which he had consecrated in his
church next door. He dipped a hyssop in the purifying liquid and sprinkled it
over Maria, intoning, “I exorcise thee, O unclean spirit, in the name of the
Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost.”
The response was immediate and
startling. Maria’s body arched up from the bedsprings, and her flesh started to
bead with a sickly green sweat.
“Stand firm, Father,” Michael
commanded as an eldritch shriek erupted from Maria’s mouth. Then she slumped
down, the bedsprings rattling, and was still again.
Father Joseph was trembling. “Dear
God, will she survive this ordeal?”
Michael whispered, “The strain has
been known to be so great that limbs have been dislocated. But I believe she
isn’t fully possessed yet. The demons are not comfortable in her shell.” He
waved a hand. “Again, Father.”
Father Joseph nodded and swallowed.
Steeling himself, he stepped forward again. This time he was too quick,
accidentally splashing Michael’s outstretched hand in the process. Three
globules of water settled for a moment on the back of his hand, and then
sizzled. Unconcerned, Michael shook the liquid off his hand; blisters, as if
from an acid burn, appeared.
“My God, what manner of man are
you?” Father Joseph said, almost dropping the jug of holy water.
“Just one of the good guys, Father.”
He took a pair of black leather gloves from his jacket on the back of a chair
and put them on. “Please continue. Maria’s life and soul are at stake.”
Father Joseph made the sign of the
cross, and then sprinkled more holy water on Maria. “I exorcise thee, unclean
spirit, in the name of Jesus Christ. Tremble, O Satan, enemy of the faith, thou
foe of mankind who hast brought death to the world, and hast rebelled against
justice, thou seducer of mankind, thou root of evil, source of avarice, discord
and envy.”
“Stand back, it’s my turn,” Michael
ordered, lighting the Paschal candle.
Very carefully, he lowered the flame
to Maria’s naked flesh that still glistened with an unwholesome green sheen. “Get
ready!”
There was a disconcerting flash of
yellow and suddenly Maria was surrounded by a blazing transparent flame. It
lasted for mere seconds and her body levitated this time, prevented from rising
more than twelve inches by the ropes.
“May God break your teeth, vile
spirit, and cut the veins of your neck and the sinews thereof. I bind you in
the name of Gabriel and Michael, I bind you by these Angels!” wailed the
priest. “May you vanish as smoke from before the wind for ever and ever, Amen!”
Maria shrieked horribly, and out of
her mouth leapt a gout of thick bile, speckled with green and yellow and red.
In its gross suddenness it resembled projectile vomit, but it was unlike it in colour,
consistency and smell.
As the vile streamer left Maria’s mouth,
Father Joseph leapt forward and thrust the crucifix he was holding over her
mouth and held it there, while his eyes followed the terrifying manifestation
across the room.
Defying gravity, the sliver of bile
appeared sentient, moving toward the balcony door; it baulked inches from the
array of crosses; it tried the window and door, and retreated. Wherever it travelled,
it left a putrefying stench in its wake.
“Unbind the curse!” Father Joseph
cried out and prayed again, louder, bellowing, commanding the evil spirit to
leave in the name of the Blessed Virgin and the Holy Trinity.
The horrible thing made a beeline
for Michael, as if divining that he carried no protective cross. In one swift
motion Zondadari’s fingers hooked up the censer and swung it, catching the
thing as if he were playing pelota. As the evil spirit sizzled and emitted a
stomach-churning smell, Father Joseph left Maria’s side and poured the
remainder of the holy water onto the mixture of cooking bile and Frankincense.
The steam quickly dissipated, to leave a burned, brittle husk.
“And what the hell do you think
you’re doing?” shrieked Maria from the bed, trying to tug her arms and legs
free.
Michael crossed the room, picked up
the sheet and draped it over her. He gazed into her eyes and after a long
moment of study he smiled thinly, satisfied. “As it happens,” he said, “Hell
has a lot to do with it.” He pulled out the Knife of Astarte and cut the rope
securing her right wrist. “You’ve had quite an ordeal, Maria – but now you’re
free.”
***
CHILL OF THE SHADOW
Available as an e-book and paperback here
