A soft ringing in my ears grew infinitesimally louder, sounding more like panicked whispers. I looked around the room, but we were alone. Just us and the hundreds of people in the paintings on the walls and ceilings.
I looked up. In a scene in which God had cast out the rebellious angels, the artist had drawn them in such a way that the angels seemed to be falling out of the painting—out of the ceiling. I looked at another mural at the back of the church, featuring Navy sailors drifting helplessly in a stormy sea, reaching out to St. Mary. In a moment of what had to be confusion, I could hear their panicked cries. I could hear them all, shrieking and wailing at the sight of the book that brought their home down around them.
I squeezed my eyes tight, and gripped my ears. Their cries became so loud I couldn’t hear individual voices, only their frenzied, collective panic.
Jared’s fingers touched my arm. “Nina?”
At once, it all stopped. I opened my eyes and looked around. Insanity was the first thing that popped into my mind.
Father Francis nodded in understanding, however. “It gets too loud for me sometimes, too.”
I peered around to the different faces in the paintings, unsettled.
The priest looked to the book, and then to Jared. “You can’t have that, here.”
“I still need your help, Father.”
“I’ve given all I can give.”
Jared shook his head. “I can’t accept that, I’m sorry.”
Father Francis left for the back of the church. Jared pulled me to follow. We kept a quick pace all the way to his quarters, where he immediately made himself a drink. He threw it back, and then made himself another. His hands were shaking, causing the mouth of the decanter to clink against the rim of his glass.
The priest closed his eyes and lifted his chin, taking in another gulp of the amber liquid with one movement. The glass dropped from his hands, crashing into the floor. Some of the bigger shards made their way to my feet, and I stared at them for a moment.
“Father,” I said, looking up at him. “It’s almost over. I know you’re scared, but we’re taking the book back soon.”
His eyebrows furrowed. “To the Sepulchre?”
“Yes,” I said, reaching out to him. I touched his arm, and he placed a hand on mine.
“You won’t make it,” he said sadly.
Jared shifted in frustration. “Let’s deal with the issue at hand, shall we? I just ask that you sit down with me one last time to try to find another way. Surely our only option isn’t to just wait until the baby is born and hope Heaven steps in.”
The priest shook his head dismissively. “We’ve searched every line. There’s nothing.”
“Just one more time. Please,” Jared said. “Before I take my wife and unborn child to Jerusalem, I have to know I had no other choice.”
Father Francis glanced at the leather-bound pages and sighed. “Very well.” He adjusted his round spectacles, and glanced above him. “Then you must leave, and never bring that thing to the house of the Lord again.”
Jared nodded. “You have my word.”
The priest brought in an extra chair, and he and Jared opened the book. Immediately the room turned cold, and I wrapped my arms around my middle. The others knew we were here, and that we had the book. The element of surprise long gone, Jared didn’t hesitate discussing different passages. When Father Francis would get an idea, the pages would be flipped to one prophecy, prompting Jared to think about something else. The pages would flip the other way. They argued and agreed; each idea led them only to more frustration.
Minutes turned to hours; still they went over each point of the prophecy until it sounded more like chanting than discussion. A strange glow lit up the edges of the windows, and I realized it was the morning sun. We’d spent all night in Woonsocket, and my eyes didn’t even feel heavy.
For the first time, Jared looked up from the book to see me fidgeting in my chair. “Hungry?” He said it as if he’d just remembered I was there.
“Getting there,” I said, resting my chin on my fist.
He threw the book across the room. It hit the wall with great force and hit the ground with a thud. Despite its age, not a page loosened.
I stood and walked to the small kitchen, found a glass and turned on the tap. My body was just starting to feel the beginnings of fatigue, and the tension in the room made me emotionally tired as well. A copy of the King James Bible sat on the counter. The spine was worn to nearly nothing, and the pages hung at an angle; the book so spent it could no longer hold itself square. I flipped open the cover, and then pushed several pages with my fingertips.
“We should get you something to eat,” Jared said.
I turned to the priest. “What does your Bible say about this?”
Father Francis thought for a moment. “Well, it does have its own version of the end days. It talks about the woman with child.”