A man with his throat cut stares at him, and he looks away, unable to bear the sight of the soldier’s suffering, the desperate plea so plainly visible in his eyes. “I cannot help you,” he whispers. He walks away, his bare feet sticking to the damp ground. It is the only gesture of compassion that he can think of; any other action would give the wounded man hope, and he knows there is no hope in this nightmare.
On his left, he spots a bony ridge of crumbling rock that rises out of the bloodied plain. There are five horses standing there, and four of them—each a different color—are clumped together, standing shoulder to shoulder. Sprawling across their backs is an enormous figure, a man so wide his bulk overflows the quartet of horses. Black shapes crawl across his skin. A man in armor sits on the fifth horse, and his armor is untouched by battle, neither marred by blade nor discolored by blood. His visor is down, hiding his face. There is something in his hands—
A voice draws his attention away from the vision on the hill. Someone is shouting his name. There, on his right. “Rigo!” The figure gestures him over, and after a final glance back, he picks his way, stumbling, through the maze of bodies, to the man who knows his name.
“I do not know you,” he says when he gets close to the other man. He is both familiar and not, like a distant relative of a close friend.
The man smiles. He is young, though there are lines around his eyes and on his cheeks. His beard is neat and groomed, and his robes are unmarked by passage through the field. “Not like this,” he agrees. “No, you do not.”
“And how do you know my name?” Rodrigo asks. “Are you an angel?”
The man shakes his head. “No more than you.”
Rodrigo looks back over his shoulder. On the distant hill, the figure sprawling across the four horses seems larger, and the shadows flow off him now, coursing down the hill and onto the field like the tumultuous spring runoff of mountain streams. Rodrigo covers his face with his hands. “I am damned,” he says. “I cannot be saved.”
“Salus,” the young man says. He gestures for Rodrigo to come closer. “It is the secrets of your heart,” he whispers, ducking his head, when Rodrigo has taken three more steps, “that will save you, my friend. The burden asked of one man may seem impossible to bear, but God believes your heart is strong enough. He hears your pain; He hears all their pain. Is the burden He asks you to carry less than His?”
He looks past Rodrigo’s shoulder for an instant, his eyes losing their focus. “Remember, Rigo, we are all His children, and He welcomes all of us back into His embrace.” He returns his gaze to Rodrigo, and there is a deep sadness in his eyes now. “Regardless of how or when we might return to Him.”
A light flares behind Rodrigo, the sudden glow driving all the sorrow out of the young man’s face. His eyes vanish, and his smile transforms into a shining line. Rodrigo looks over his shoulder, squinting against the glare. A ramshackle hut appears behind him, and amber light floods from the open door and through the cracks and gaps in the walls.
“No,” Rodrigo says, shaking his head. The young man has turned into a phantom, a fading wisp of smoke that curls away from him as he tries to grab it. He doesn’t want to look at the hut again—he knows it too well—but he can’t help himself. Shoulders hunched, he peers around slowly.
There is someone standing in the doorway, blocking the light. The figure is small, a child, and it raises a hand to Rodrigo. Other figures appear behind the child. Taller figures, limned in red, and they drag the child inside. “No,” Rodrigo shouts, and when he tries to run toward the hut, his legs are bound. Hands have seized his feet and calves, hands of the dying. He struggles, loses his balance, and is pulled to his knees.
More of the dying grab him. “Save us,” they whimper and beg. “Save us all.”
“I can’t,” he sobs. He strains against the mob, trying to break free. The hut’s door is still open, but the light inside is flickering. Guttering. Going out. Hands tear his robe, and cold fingers scrabble against his skin.
When the light goes out, he’s fairly certain the scream that fills the void is his own.
*
The last thing Father Rodrigo could recall (other than this half-forgotten, fading dream) was sitting on his horse outside of Rome, looking down at the play of light across the rooftops of the city. Now everything was flush with shadows, lit only by the glitter of dust in the moonbeams. He lay on a ragged straw-filled pallet, though the straw was little more than chaff. The air was dry, choked with dust and the scent of something desiccated and moldering. He did not know where he was or how he’d gotten here...These were dangers, he knew, but he sensed there was some other danger, more sinister, that he could not consciously remember.
The knuckles of his outstretched hand brushed a stone wall, and he was reminded not of the safety that a stone wall can offer but of the dry darkness in the tombs beneath the churches in Paris, where the saints lay buried. A maze of narrow passages, with tiny niches carved out of the walls for the wrapped bodies. This place wasn’t cramped, and the ceiling was much higher than the close confines of the tomb—yet something about it was equally unsettling. Moonlight filtered through cracks and gaps in the ceiling. Rodrigo rolled onto his side to examine the rest of the room and realized he wasn’t alone.
A man sat slumped against the wall on the bench opposite, some ten paces away. At first, Rodrigo thought he was dead. His head was tilted back, and his mouth gaped open, as if he had died of a horrible thirst. A heavy book lay in his lap, open but forgotten. But then a breath hiccupped out of his chest, and his mouth snapped shut. He grimaced, tasting something foul on his tongue, and his eyes opened.
Rodrigo’s breath hissed noisily out of his mouth before he could clamp his lips shut. The figure heard him and leaned forward, peering into the cold gloom of Rodrigo’s corner. The motion moved his face into a streak of illuminating moonlight, and Rodrigo had to bite down on the inside of his cheek to keep from crying out.