Salome: Episode 34.
A Memory That is Not Mine
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I held his arm as we walked together toward the emptied altar, my feet heavy, my heart at peace, although sore. Hell waited for me, but I was certain I’d already been there.
The portal was opening, a black hole that widened with every step, but I was not afraid.
My sisters would all live, and they would be safe. For now. I glanced back to the empty pews.
I did not see where he sent them, but I had to trust that he had been good on his word.
“You do your family a great honour,” he whispered. “You have chosen wisely.” I felt the pull of the opening as it summoned us closer, a wind behind us, hurrying us along.
I stared ahead, any love for life withering in the sunless cage within me. “A choice is not a choice if it is made on your behalf.”
Francesco stopped, his mouth agape.
“What did you say?”
“It’s not a choice. Yours was not a choice either.”
“What do you propose, dear Sister? He asked, the bitterness in his voice louder than the organ. “We cancel our commitments and return to our quiet life in Turin?”
“We were happy, weren’t we?”
I opened out my hand, showing him the mountains, the daisies in the fields. I watched him draw a breath and stare at the cottage in the valley, lost for words as he saw a little boy rush down the hill into the house pushing past the old ladies and the midwife to see the baby; the infant red-faced, shaking fists and kicking feet in Mamma’s arms. Francesco smiled, a tear rolling down his cheek. “Silly boy,” he said, watching Mamma scold the child for trying to put a cluster of wildflowers in the baby’s hand, Papa guiding him to the kitchen and giving him an empty glass jar to put them in instead.
“A time before hate,” I said, sensing his hardness fading away.
“Stop this conjuring,” he pleaded. “A foul trick.”
“It is a memory.”
“Stop it.”
“I cannot stop a memory that is not mine.”
“I don’t want to see.”
“If that were true, we would not be sharing it now.”
The clouds parted, and it was some other day, some other time. The little sister cried out for help, the nanny goat chewing the hair of her doll. Her brother leapt over the fence, chasing the goat back into her pen, chucking the animal an apple from his pocket to eat instead. They both looked down at the doll, the child inconsolable as he gently pried it from her hands and promised he’d make her better.
She’d fallen asleep by the time he rested it in her hands, still damp with saliva, but her head was stuffed with new straw, and the strands of new yarn, although not the right colour, would hold.
We stopped together, our arms still interlinked. I could only see the side of his face, but I did not need the full picture to sense the torment.
“You don’t have to listen,” I said. I knew who was speaking in his other ear.
He didn’t move. I drew a sharp intake of breath.
We were distracted by shrieking and hissing from the corridor outside, animalistic cries as startling as they were unnatural. In the frey, I could make out dark shapes, clawed hands outstretched, leathery wings burning to ash.
Then light. Glorious light, turning all who stood in the way of it to dust.
My heart leapt up into my throat as I saw him come into the room, his crossbow held to eye level. Father John. Alive. Muldoon behind him, and more surprisingly, my sisters.
Then I saw what I still cannot fully describe to this day. A vision so unperceivable I was certain that to look directly at it would result in permanent blindness, or the loss of my senses completely. Starlight that did not bend, it pierced.
“Prince of the Holy Hosts!” I said, crashing to the ground.
“The sword, Salome!” called Muldoon, running towards me, reaching to help me up.
I groped for it behind my back. Francesco, standing over me, got to it first, kicking Muldoon away as though he weighed nothing, but he got back up, immediately returning for more. During the distraction, I lunged, trying to take the hilt from him but he was quicker. He lifted it over his head, and I covered my face with my hands as the longsword came down.
It did not strike me. I watched it smash it into tiny shards as he plunged it into the stone floor, the debris striking Muldoon down again. It sent shockwaves through the tiles, parting the surface with a crack. “You will not take her from me!” he cried, his voice thunder, throwing the others back into the wall as he closed in on Muldoon, who could not get back up. Even in the chaos, I could see that his arm was broken.
The others fell like ragdolls: Father John hitting the wall, the nuns shifting slightly, resisting the power that almost toppled them backward.
My sisters continued to pray, their eyes alight with the Holy Spirit, grounding them like stone as the storm howled. I gripped the base of a pew. I was becoming too light, too weak to hold out against the vacuum behind us.
“You have no dominion here!” Father John said, but his voice was too quiet over the maelstrom. He was losing. He was old, and Francesco seemed to be able to summon the very elements on a whim. Francesco lifted Muldoon off the floor, choking him as he moved him directly into the eye of the hellmouth.
I leaned into the back of the pew and grabbed my chest, reaching down my tunic to find what I needed. I pulled the blade out, its inertia unchanged by the forces of Hell behind me. I glanced at it, gasping. It had not been a dream. I’d plucked it from the archangel’s wing as I jumped into oblivion, and it had been hardened and sharpened while I harboured it.
I lifted it up, the heavenly light from the golden feather acting as a shield for the others as they held on to each other, trying to resist the pull of the gyre that summoned them into its depths.
Muldoon winced as he coughed out, “Deus det mihi fortitudinem!” He released himself from the demonic grip and ran to Father John, diving into the shield.
God, give me the strength.
And now I knew what to do.
Demons don’t have an anchor here.
Perhaps it was the same for angels.
As above, so below.
I rose from my hiding place.
“I carry the light of my Lord into the darkness!”
Francesco looked at me pleadingly.
Salome, stop. You would not make me suffer if you truly loved me.
This is love, my dear brother.
I continued: “Hallowed be his name. By the power of God, thrust into Hell Satan, and all the evil spirits, who prowl about the world.”
The rest of my party joined me for the last verse in unison. “Seeking the ruin of souls. Amen.”
Francesco, blinded by the light, fell to the ground, the vortex above the altar shrinking, the ruined souls crying out within. The shadowed hand of Lucifer reached out to grab him, but I brought the blade down on it. It shrank away, and came back for another pass. I brought the blade down again.
“Satan!” I spat. “You have no dominion over him! You have no dominion over me! In the name of the Lord I condemn you to Hell!”
I felt that the earth itself would shatter, the force of his withdrawal made the ceiling start to fall in, plaster and tiles crashing into a cloud of dust around us. I rolled away from the eruption of stone, glass and metal firing in every direction. With one hand I covered my head and crawled to Francesco, covering him with my body as the portal began to close, the howling diminishing with every second. I would not let him go.
We lay on the ground until the winds ceased. His face was turned away from me.
“Francesco?” I asked.
I dropped my blade and cried out. I lifted him and gently rolled him onto his back. Holding him, his lifeless head collapsed on my bosom as I rocked him. I released a deep cry that would not be restrained. The others picked themselves up from the floor, slowly approaching.
He could not be gone. Not now. A hand gently touched my shoulder. It was Father John.
“Save him!” I pleaded, unable to see him clearly through the screen of tears. “Do something. Please.” I choked on the sobs. Father John shook his head gravely, but I would not stop: “You owe him that much!” I cried. “Please!”
“Salome,” he said, his heart heavy. “Salome… he is gone.”
I froze, the distinct feeling stunning me with the realisation. He was dead, but all was not lost. “Father… his soul!” It was still there. I could feel it.
Father John and Muldoon looked at one another, the latter nodding assent. Father John made the sign of the cross and placed his hand on Francesco’s forehead.
“I commend you, my dear Francesco, to Almighty God, and entrust you to your Creator. May you rest in the arms of the Lord who formed you from the dust of the earth. May holy Mary, the angels, and all the saints welcome you now that you have gone forth from this life. May Christ who was crucified for you, bring you freedom and peace. May Christ who died for you admit you into his garden of paradise. May Christ, the true Shepherd, embrace you as one of his flock. May he forgive all your sins, and set you among those he has chosen. May you see your Redeemer face to face, and enjoy the vision of God, forever.”
He stopped, Muldoon and I about to say Amen before we realised there was more to come. Father John looked down at my brother’s face one more time, and bowed his head.
“May you forgive me and those who have sinned against you, Amen.”
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