Intolerance

The seminary rector Morales was just about to finish his evening prayer when someone knocked on the door of his chambers.

“Enter,” he said in a somber tone, as if in continuation of the prayer.

The old doorknob turned with a squeak, and into the room stepped a bald man, so short that the tail of his cassock touched the floor as he moved. As he approached the Rector’s desk, his blue irises shimmered in the candlelight.

“Good evening, Very Reverend Father,” he curtsied, absorbing the gospel images on the marble floor before him and ancient books on the shelves all around; it wasn't every day that he got to be in the Rector’s chambers.

“Evening, Martinez. What can I do for you?”

“I am sorry to disturb you at this late hour, but I felt it was an emergency.”

“An emergency?”

“Yes, Very Reverend Father, I’m afraid so.”

Morales waited for Martinez to continue, but the man suddenly fell silent, staring at the mosaic of the Holy Mary at his feet. Concluding that it wasn't an emergency where each second counted, the Rector closed the Holy Bible, pointed at the chair opposite him, and told his subordinate to sit.

Martinez obeyed, but remained silent.

Morales couldn’t help feeling amused. The Confessor who’s afraid of confessing.

But his amusement didn't last long, for when Martinez finally spoke, his words sent shivers down the Rector’s spine.

“It is about the Body of Christ.”

“What do you mean?” asked Morales, barely managing to hide his involuntary gaze toward the wardrobe.

He couldn’t possibly know— No, but how could he?

He dug his nails into his forearm under the desk to stop his arms from shaking.

“There are some rumors of—”, Martinez cleared his throat loudly before continuing, “—gases in the aspirants’ dormitory.”

Morales felt the Devil’s grip lift from his heart, and his hands relaxed once again.

“Lord almighty,” he heaved a devout sigh, “how could such misfortune befall us two Lents in a row? Are you sure it is the Body of Christ?”

“Unless he was smuggling something else for supper,” said Martinez, “But I highly doubt it, for it was he who confessed it to me. Not his Brothers, like last year.”

“Maybe there is still hope then. The Evil One hasn't seized his soul yet,” said Morales, instinctively laying his hand on the Holy scripture at the mention of the Tempter’s name.

Reluctant to touch his superior’s Bible without permission, Martinez crossed himself instead. “My thoughts exactly, Very Reverent Father. The absence of acidic seizures is also promising; he reported only feeling bloated.”

“Let us not waste another moment.” Morales got to his feet. “Wake up the Possessed and bring him to the cellar. I will meet you there.”

Martinez got up quickly and beat the Rector to the door, lest the Very Reverend Father wait for him in such a critical moment — no pastor opened a door for himself when accompanied by his subordinate.

Before they parted, Morales asked, “What is the aspirant’s name?”

“Sanchez.”

“But wasn't last year’s—”

Martinez nodded. “It's his brother by blood; it runs in the family.”

“May God help them”, said Morales somberly. “Peace be with you, Father.”

“Peace be with you.”

As the Confessor’s overlong cassock slithered down the serpentine steps of the Rector’s tower, his heart raced wildly in his chest. Martinez hadn’t yet been the Confessor when the Very Reverend Father had saved the older Sanchez’s soul the previous year, and had only heard stories about it. He’d never witnessed the Exorcism, only knowing about the ritual from the books. His mind leaped between fear and excitement about the upcoming battle of Good and Evil, just as his face flickered between light and shadow under the passing torches.

As the tail of his robes glided above the cloister’s granite blocks, lifted by the night breeze, the Confessor’s eyes drifted to the sky, where the full moon announced the celebration of the Lord’s Resurrection the following Sunday.

His Lord's presence restored comfort to his heart.

No matter what happens to Sanchez’s body tonight, he thought, walking along the olive trees, his soul shall doubtlessly be saved in our Lord.

Both of the dormitory windows were wide open despite the outside cold, and the Confessor suspected that that was connected to the source of his quest. His suspicion was confirmed as soon as he opened the door — The Devil's stench was there indeed; it permeated every corner of the room, resisting the nightly draft’s futile attempts to clear it.

Wooden floorboards creaked under his weight as Martinez moved between the bedposts. He did not doubt that most of the aspirants only feigned sleep, intently listening to his footsteps, yet afraid to reveal their presence.

They’re ashamed, he thought. And he didn't blame them for it. They were so young; it took him years to realize there was no room for shame for those who followed His Path, no matter what came their way.

Even if it was the Devil’s stench.

“Father Martinez—”

The Confessor turned around. A young man was sitting on the edge of his bed.

“Bianco, where is Sanchez?”

The aspirant pointed at the bed next to him, where someone was wrapped in a duvet from head to toes. Martinez approached the bundle and slightly shook it.

A groan came from it.

“Sanchez, wake up.”

Another groan.

“Sanchez, it’s Father Martinez.”

At these words, the bundle erected so violently that it hit the bunk above it and woke its occupant, who swore loudly. (Martinez decided to let that go unpunished, given the circumstances, but remembered the occupant’s name). From the folds of the duvet protruded Sanchez’s face. The moon shone brightly in his dark eyes as he squinted at his waker.

“Father, what are you doing here?”

“You must come with me, boy.”

“Now?” he asked incredulously, unfolding the duvet to reveal his naked torso. The gust of stinky air thus unleashed made the Confessor’s eyes water.

“Now,” he said in a tone that begged no further questions. “And take your rosary with you.”

***

In the meantime, on the other side of the seminary, Rector Morales contemplated his image in the mirror as he was getting dressed for the ritual. The horn-rimmed spectacles rested on the crook of his nose — a nose savoring the smell of the incest omnipresent in the sacristy — and his thin lips were barely visible underneath his thick grey mustache. His alb felt tight across his shoulders, and the loose surplus of cincture dangling before his large belly was shorter than ever before. His arthritic shoulders ached as he pulled the chasuble over his head, wrapped the stole around his neck, and placed the biretta over his ever smaller widow’s peak.

I’ve grown old, he thought, noticing that the surface of the ancient oaken staff was no less tarnished than the skin on the veined hands holding it. Finally, the Very Reverend Father covered his hands with old deerskin gloves — the only item on him not prescribed by the Holy Order, but necessary for tonight’s duties — grabbed the thurible from the floor, and left the sacristy.

***

The seminary’s basement’s primary purpose was the production and storage of wine, and most of its area consisted of small compartments filled with barrels, separated from each other by brick columns. However, the largest room underground, directly below the cloister’s thick granite blocks — which offered it impeccable sound insulation — served its secondary purpose of performing the Ritual.

That’s where the Rector, the Confessor, and the Possessed met just after midnight on the Good Friday of 1327. The boy was trembling violently, partly from the cold — he was still barefoot and bare-chested — but mainly from the shock of having been so quickly transported from a dream of Heaven into a vision of Hell. In the center of the room was a wooden bed with leather straps, surrounded by nothing but rows of pillars, each carrying a framed icon of a saint and a sconce with a torch illuminating their judgmental stare.

“Come, boy,” said Morales, as if inviting him to take the Eucharist after a Mass.

“Please, Very Reverend Father, I haven’t done anything, I’m fine, it’s just—”

“You will be fine,” the Rector corrected him, giving him an encouraging pat on the back.

Martinez took the boy’s rosary and put it into the Rector’s gloved hand. Then he laid Sanchez’s shivering body on the bed and tied his hands and feet.

“Have you brought the Body of our Lord?” asked Morales.

“Yes, Father.”

Martinez opened a pouch and produced a loaf of white bread on a tray.

Sanchez’s eyes widened in terror at the sight of it, and he loudly passed gas as the Confessor placed the tray on the table next to him and started to cut it into slices with a big kitchen knife. The Rector took the thurible and shook it so the incense would disperse the Devil’s stench.

“You know what to do?” he asked Martinez.

When the Confessor nodded, the Rector stepped to the foot of the bed and began to chant.

“Exorcizo te, immundissime spiritus,

per Deum vivum et sanctum,

per Iesum Christum Filium Dei.

Vade retro Satana!

Sancte Michael Archangele,

defende nos in proelio.”

As he prayed, Martinez stood at the headboard and tried to put bread into Sanchez's mouth, but the boy wriggled his head violently from side to side to avoid it. Still chanting, Morales moved around the bed and firmly pressed the boy's face against its hard surface. Martinez then firmly applied pressure below the boy’s cheekbones to force his mouth open, as if he were a dog eating something he shouldn’t. Once the bread was in, the Rector closed the boy’s mouth pressing his jaw upward, while the Confessor shut his nostrils with his thumb and forefinger, so he couldn’t breathe until he swallowed. Tears of pain trickled down the boy's cheeks by the time they force-fed him the whole slice. The sound of his growling intestines could be heard beneath the rector’s constant chanting.

“No, please, Father”, he begged as the Compressor grabbed another bread slice.

After three slices, Sanchez's naked belly started to inflate visibly, like a balloon. Since the prayer in the Holy language didn't produce the desired result, the Rector decided to try to speak to the Devil in the Devil's own language.

“Get back to the shadow!” he shouted in English — a language unknown to Martinez — shoving bread into Sanchez's belly button with his deer-skin gloves. The boy’s body convulsed in pain, and he screamed. Martinez stepped away from the bed, lest he be in his superior's way.

Morales placed the foot of his staff into Sanchez's belly button and pressed down with all his strength, yelling, “You shall not pass.”

Yet pass he did. And it was a sneaky pass — like the one of the Serpent entering the Eden — quiet, yet powerful in its stench all the same.

Everything went silent at once; Morales stopped chanting, and the boy’s head collapsed to the side, as if he were asleep.

He did it, Martinez thought in fanatic ecstasy. Our Lord has expelled the Evil One with the hand of Very Reverend Father.

The Rector took a kitchen knife from the tray, made a sign of the cross with it through the air, and stabbed it into the boy’s chest. Sanchez's eyes flew wide open as he desperately gasped for breath. They darted across the room before resting on the Confessor. Then, his body became perfectly still.

Martinez vomited onto the floor.

“He shall be buried next to his brother,” said Morales calmly, as though oblivious to his surroundings. “Tell Father Rodriguez to do it in the morning.”

He replaced the knife on the tray and started to walk away.

“Father, please.”

Morales turned around. The Confessor was kneeling above the pool of his vomit, with his trembling hands cupped before him. For the second time that evening, the Rector felt his arms tremble uncontrollably.

His subordinate was asking for the Eucharist.

Finding no alternative, Morales removed his blood-stained gloves, grabbed a piece of bread with his right palm, and approached the kneeling man.

“Corpus Christi.”

“Amen.”

Without another word, the Rector strolled away.

***

As soon as he returned to his Chambers, Morales thoroughly washed his hands in the basin once more — he had already done it when undressing in the sacristy — and applied a herbal lotion to his right hand, just in case. Sometimes, even the lightest touch would make his skin erupt in a rash.

He wasn't accustomed to eating after supper, but tonight's events had made him extremely hungry. He poured some wine into a small pot and set it over the candle on his desk, letting the gentle heat warm it.

Then, he opened a wardrobe.

In it, there were two small barrels. Although the larger one was tightly sealed, Morales could detect a subtle, musty smell of moldy bread emanating from it. He knew it would soon need to be emptied in the pigsty, but he didn’t want to worry about it tonight — he did enough for one day — and was now only interested in the content of the smaller barrel. He grabbed a handful of rice from it and poured it into the pot to cook.

Then he sat back in his cushioned chair and waited for the wine to start simmering.