Briony
of the altar, breathing in the fresh scent of smoldering incense as I keep my chin held high, ready to make my walk. The deep harmonic echoes from the choir on the balcony resonate through my chest, filling the hollowed church with a haunting vibration.
My palms are sweaty, and I drag them against the long black robe as the bishop finishes reciting the vow of the student before me.
“In his name, you are born again, Michael. God’s will be done,” he recites, making the sign of the cross before him.
He guides Michael to the large baptismal font where the deacon is awaiting him. The deacon steps forward and takes his hand, walking him down the four steps into the waist-deep water. Michael crosses his arms over his chest before the deacon grips his forearms and quickly shoves him back beneath the surface.
Seconds pass as he holds him beneath the water. Michael eventually begins kicking and thrashing in the tub, attempting to come up for air. Lips pull into a haunting grin from the bishop as he lay witness to the devil leaving Michael’s earthly being through violent attempts to bring himself to the surface.
The congregation watches in silent wonderment, as echoes of the struggle reverberate throughout the vaulted ceilings, eyes peeled to the scene as if awaiting Christ himself to appear before us for his second coming.
I hold my breath, anxiously rolling the crucifix of my necklace between my thumb and forefinger as I witness the struggle. Just as Michael’s body goes limp in his grasp, the deacon lifts him back into the air and he gasps, swallowing oxygen into his lungs, his eyes wide and his mouth ajar. His mother sobs from out in the crowd of onlookers in the dark cathedral before getting quieted down by her husband next to her, who looks on proudly.
In our small community, only descendants of prominent members of the church can be inducted as Magnus Princeps, the leaders of the next generation of gospel shepherds in line for the coveted bishop title. Only through hours upon hours of studying the ancient word, and professing Christ as our Lord and Savior, can one truly achieve this sought-after status. In my age group, there are three of us. Michael Donovan, me, and Saint Westwood.
The last of us decided not to attend today. His family didn’t see it fit that he should accept such a highly prestigious award alongside a female, and requested that he receive his own ceremony entirely.
According to the Westwoods, a woman’s place was not to be a leader, but to be the ultimate follower. The best sheep in the herd. The quiet one, bound to please and obey the shepherd according to Christ’s word.
Luckily, my intelligence and determination won me my spot here on the stage. A place well earned, according to my family, proud members of the Covenant Church for centuries. As long as I sought Christ, teaching his word to the masses, I could never lead astray. The honor was mine to hold, and my family was relieved to see some progress in the church to even accept and allow a woman to hold such a status.
I take my first step onto the altar, approaching Bishop Caldwell, awaiting my vows and the ceremonial cleansing with pride in my heart.
Glancing over, I see Baret in a far pew, watching along with some of our peers with a proud grin on his face. Mia is sitting a few rows behind him, joined by her family, looking on excitedly.
I suck in a deep breath, letting it out as I begin my vows. Halfway through reciting them, a shadow sweeps across the back aisle of the church, begging for my attention.
Attempting to remain focused, I continue the vows before the ghost in the shadows flashes by in the corner of my eye again. Curiosity gets the best of me, and my gaze shifts to the exit sign near the back door, my words getting caught in my chest.
Standing there between the stone pillars, the outline of a man hides beneath the shadows of the balcony. My entire body is on alert, hairs rising at my nape, as I wonder if it’s him. His back is to the altar, but I see the lengthy build beneath a black trench coat that reaches below his knees. The caped hood is pulled up over his head as he leans against the pillar, his back to the rest of the congregation. He’s facing the doors to the exit as if the event he’s witnessing isn’t behind him at all. My eyes fall back upon Bishop Caldwell as I continue with the vows.
“In his name, you are born again, Briony Strait. God’s will be done.”
I repeat the final part of the phrase as my eyes fall on Baret. He simply gives me one head nod. A kind gesture for an older brother. My eyes slide to the back of the church again in search of the hooded man, but upon a second glance, the shadow is gone entirely.
I follow the deacon to the baptismal tub, the words of my stalker echoing through my head, leaving me questioning the motives.
I’m your GOD now.
I take his hand as he helps me into the frigid water; the chill seeping into my bones. My robe becomes heavily weighted, dragging behind me as I take a few steps deeper, allowing the water to hit my waist. Crossing my forearms over my chest, the deacon gives a quick glance to Bishop Caldwell at the altar. He nods to him as his eyes find mine again. There is something hard about the glance he gives me, devoid of any emotion, but before I can think twice about it, the deacon pushes me back.
I take one quick breath before falling through the surface beneath his hold, the spine-tingling chill climbing my neck with its icy sting. My ears fill with the hollow hum of nothingness, as I feel my lungs already aching with the need to expand.
Just a little longer.
The weight of his firm grasp leaves no wiggle room for any sort of release. My lungs scream for air as the panic sets in. I need to breathe. I push against his arms, clawing at them for release, but he holds tighter, ensuring I stay beneath the surface to rid my human form of the Devil himself.
It’s been too long. Michael wasn’t submerged this long.
My eyes open beneath the dark water as I visualize the mosaic scene above me. The deacon isn’t facing me. He’s staring towards the altar at the bishop. I scream beneath the surface, the last of the oxygen in my lungs bubbling up from my throat as I thrash.
It’s too long!
My cries for help are ignored, and I lose all self-control. It’s become a fight for my life now as I swallow water with my cries and darkness clouds over my eyes, caving in on the scene before me. I struggle with everything I have, the pressure on my burning lungs crippling. But I’m slipping away as the numbness takes me, my body feeling lighter as I lose the fight against the bitterly cold water of the ceremonial cleansing.
Through the water, an explosive humming fills my head as the deacon’s hands loosen their hold. A large streak of orange grows from the side of my vision, the color distorted, bent, and twisted in all the wrong ways beneath the waves above me. My passage into the next life?
Before I can assess the peculiar sights and sounds surrounding me, darkness consumes me, and the next thing I remember is seeing flashes of faces; Baret, who looks panicked beyond belief, Bishop Caldwell, who looks disturbed as he frantically passes us, directing the congregation, and Mia, who looks petrified above me.
They carry me through the now bright and flashing church. My vision focuses on the vaulted ceiling above me, studying the angelic cherubs painted beneath the peaks as we continue towards the wooden doors. A flicker of orange illuminates them further. Their eyes are all painted black. X’s over their once cherubic faces.
My body remains numb, taking in gleams of orange light as Baret holds me tightly to his chest. The thick smell of smoke fills my nostrils before the dark clouds return.
A storm of darkness, swallowing me whole.
