inthewildwood | Fic: Hagiolatry (Prologue)

Title: Hagiolatry
Fandom: Stigmata
Summary: "If God can work through me, he can work through anyone." When the wounds of stigmata appear on an atheist, she's the last person to know why they're there. But no matter what the reason, she's in a race against time to stop them- before they kill her.
Warnings: Violence/gore

"Love is choosing, the snake said.
The kingdom of god is within you
because you ate it."

- Margaret Atwood, "Quattrocento"

Each morning for ten years, Paul Alameida rose at dawn, as the morning light crept into his cell. The vespers bell was rung not long after, but he never needed an alarm to wake him; he rose with the dawn. This morning, his knees creaked as he rose from the bed and shuffled to the far wall where his crucifix hung. Not his only one, of course; another hung from his neck, and another hung before the altar. But the one hanging in his cell was most precious to him, and the one he said his rosary to before leaving the cell each morning. It was the only one that remained from his time in Rome.

He could not have said, precisely, why he treasured it so; he held no love for the Vatican, or fond memories of it, save for the friends he had had there. The papers on his desk were proof enough of that- if Houseman could see them now, he would throw Alameida from his church all over again, and still Alameida did not regret them. But he felt the excommunication each day like a splinter in his soul that throbbed anew whenever he knelt to pray. It whispered in his ear as he slept, as he took confession, as he gave Communion: an insidious voice insisting you are damned, damned, damned.

(The Devil’s voice.)

Now, as he knelt, he shook his hands free from the bell sleeves of his habit. An affectation- his own pride- but he wore it each day, only removing it to bathe or change into a fresh one. It was woven of coarse wool, sweaty and prickly in the Brazilian heat. He preferred it that way. It was a reminder each day of his own true insignificance, of the fact that his suffering paled in the face of Christ’s. He might have admitted, if asked, that it was partly childish rebellion; rebellion against the silken robes and soft beds of Houseman and his ilk. Now he slept on a hard pallet and wore fabric that left bright red, itching patterns on his skin. He preferred it that way. The pain held him down, kept him humble, reminded him of his true purpose. Not to work for his own glory, but the glory of God.

He reached both hands out in front of him, examining the wounds. They had been there steadily for the past ten years, though they had come and gone at intermittent periods before that. There was pain there too, but it never felt like pain. It felt like the love of God shining down onto him. It felt like salvation.

The bandages that covered the wounds were several days old, and crusted with dried blood. With his right hand, he slowly peeled off the one on his left. There was no pain there now, nor joy- just the slight pinch of the bandage separating from his flesh. He frowned. Surely the wound should still ache? It had never failed to before.

As the bandage came free, he let it fall to the floor of his cell, heedless of the mess it would make. He could only stare, transfixed, at his wrist. Where there had been a hole before, striking clear through to the other side, there was only smooth skin. Not even a scar was left to pit the wrist; no reminder of what had been there. Frantically, he scrabbled at the other arm, clumsy in his desperation. He flung the bandage aside and stared in horror at what he saw: once more, the skin was smooth and unblemished. He turned his hands over. There was nothing there; no sign, no message, only blankness.

He clasped his hands together, hard enough that his fingers protested at the strain. He ignored the pain; the pain was good; the pain was a gift. The pain was a sign that he had not been forgotten. He prostrated himself before the cross, wishing for a whip, a hairshirt- something to bring him back into the light of God. His lips moved over the rosary beads, reciting prayers that he had known all his life, but they were empty now. He could find no spirit in them, only words. “From thence he shall come to judge the living and the dead. I believe in the Holy Spirit. I believe in the Catholic-”

He stuttered and came to a halt. Was that it? Had the Lord tired of his vainglorious attachment to the crucifix and left him to his earthly attachments? He struggled to his feet, reaching blindly for the cross on the wall. It was heavy- solid walnut, an affectation, a sign of his greed- and would not come away easily, but with a final wrench, he sent it clattering to the floor. There was a shuddering crack, and a split appeared down the middle of the crucifix where he had dropped it. Alameida staggered backwards, clutching his arm as it began to throb. He raised both arms to examine his wrists again. Surely now God would answer his prayers?

But there was nothing; the skin lay smooth and pale as it had before. With a cry of anguish, he whirled and stumbled from the cell, past the church gardens and the early-morning gardeners. One called out to him- “Pai! Bom dia!-” but he kept going, ignoring the progressive ache in his arm and the burning in his lungs until he reached the altar. The other crucifix- the true one- hung over the apse, the carved face of Jesus staring down upon him as his mother Mary did from the corner. He had thought, once, that he saw the wooden saviour weeping tears of blood; now he knew it could not have been. Jesus would not weep for a sinner like him.

He staggered up the nave and fall to his knees again, before the alter. Nearly losing his balance, he weaved forward, grasping at the altar cloth for support. The Communion chalice overbalanced and crashed down upon his head, drenching him in wine. He raised his hands to it, bringing his fingers to his mouth and licking them clean. Was this his salvation? Was the Lord trying to reach him?

“Soul of Christ, make me holy,” he prayed. His breath was growing shorter. “Body of Christ, be my salvation. Blood of Christ, let me drink your wine. Water flowing from the side of Christ, wash me clean. Passion- passion of Christ, strengthen me-” His vision was growing darker. He raised a hand, and saw the rosary still wrapped around it- the Vatican’s rosary, the one he had brought with him to Brazil. With a final hoarse cry, he flung it down the nave, watching it skid to the end of the aisle and out of his sight. He gasped as the world clouded over, and toppled forward, arms still outstretched towards the church doors. He gave one last shudder, and was still. Above him, though he could not see it, blood ran red from Mary’s eyes.

The church fell silent. Only the faint patter of bloodred tears against the marble floor broke the still morning quiet, but no one was there to hear them. Outstretched on the tiles, Alameida’s wrists bloomed scarlet again. His body stayed face-down on the floor.

The back door opened, and the quiet was broken by the squeak of wheels. The morning custodian came in, pushing his bucket in front of him, humming “Jesus Is Just Alright” under his breath. He paused at the entrance and stooped, gathering the fallen rosary beads in his hands. Who would have dropped their rosary and left without noticing? He snorted. Kids, most likely. If they didn’t want it, he might be able to sell it at the market. He tucked it in his pocket and pushed on. Coming to the nave of the church, he halted. Why did the air smell so sweet? No one had brought flowers.

He looked down the aisle. His eyes widened, and his hands twitched, dropping the handle of the mop. The prone body of the priest lay in the nave, arms outstretched on either side, face-down on the floor. The custodian backed away, holding both hands out before him. “Meu Deus,” he breathed. Spinning on his heel, he dashed for the door, shouting for help. Alameida’s body was left alone on the floor.