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Mary Margaret was sitting on her hands, which were tied low behind her back. She had managed to scoot around a little in the confines of the confessional, but only enough to wedge her fingers under her butt.
The events of the past hours were all a blur. She remembered the man picking her up, their quick exodus to St. Catherine’s Church. She was so relieved to be indoors, away from the fury of the storm.
Father Xavier had greeted them, obviously relieved to see she was okay and thankful that her friend had delivered her safely to his door. He guided them into his office. The man she was with asked for something to drink, and the priest poured them steaming cups of his aromatic tea. She could vaguely recall the taste of the tea: amazingly bitter, despite the three spoonfuls of sugar she had dumped in. Regardless, it was warm, and she was safe within the confines of her mother church.
Almost immediately, her mouth had gone numb and her stomach felt violently upset. She vaguely heard Father Xavier remark that he wasn’t feeling well either, and then all was black.
It seemed like hours later when she came to. She didn’t know immediately where she was. Her stomach felt as if it was filled with knives; her hands were going numb. She thought hard and realized she was still in the church. In fact, she could tell that she was inside the confessor’s side of the confessional.
She had no idea how long she’d been stuck in here. The gag in her mouth was cutting off her breath, and she figured if she breathed slowly through her nose she didn’t feel she would suffocate immediately. Her stomach heaved violently. Her whole body was going numb; she couldn’t feel her limbs anymore.
She heard footsteps and listened intently. They grew closer. She could tell there were two people coming toward her. One was shuffling; one was marching with purpose. She heard muted voices, muttering and moaning. She tried to scream, but the only sound she could manage was a tiny whimper. She felt ashamed. At the moment of her death she should be full of grace, praying to the mother Mary to give her strength and acceptance. She didn’t doubt for a minute she was dying; she felt as if she’d left her body already. Her mind was able to register what was happening, but her body was slipping away and wouldn’t respond. She couldn’t feel them, but the tears began to roll down her face.
The door to the priest’s side of the confessional was thrown open. The box shook with the force of a body hitting the wall inside. Mary Margaret could see a man’s face, dim and veiled through the partition screen. The door to the confessional slammed again. They were left in darkness.
Mary Margaret could barely make out the white collar around the man’s throat. Something told her it must be Father Xavier. She whimpered again, trying to get his attention. His head lolled to the side. She wondered briefly if he was dead. When a moan escaped his lips, she breathed a slow sigh of relief through her nose. Neither of them were dead yet.
She tried to speak through the gag in her mouth, which had loosened.
“Futther,” she whispered. “Futther, ere ou kay?”
She was rewarded with a moan, and barely made out the word “devil.”
“Futther, ere oo okay?”
She watched him carefully through the screen. His breathing was labored; he was not gagged. Mary Margaret could see a trickle of blood flowing from the side of his head. She could tell his lips were moving, though no sound reached her ears.
The footsteps came again, and the door to the confessional was thrown open briefly. A hand snaked in and ripped the gag from her mouth. She heard the voice, disembodied, as if she were hearing the Holy Ghost speak aloud.
“Confess your sins, little one. Confess and be shriven, go to your heaven with an unsoiled soul.”
The door slammed shut again, but before she could cry out, she smelled gasoline. Heard the flick of the match. Felt the heat as the flames exploded around her.
“Father,” she screamed, somehow finding the strength to cry aloud. “Father, forgive me, for I have sinned.” The flames grew around her, scorching her hair, filling the tiny grave with smoke. She began to cough, knew she would speak no more. She prayed silently.
As Mary Margaret lost consciousness, she heard one last word. A strangled whisper. She didn’t know if it was from her God or the priest being immolated with her, but the word filled her with peace, and she stopped struggling against her earthly bonds.
“Forgiven,” the voice said.
And the flames took them.
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He stood watching the flames, a small smile playing on his lips. He raised his eyes to the dark and boiling skies. “And when he had opened the seventh seal, there was silence in heaven...”
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