The Wicked: A Love Story

It is the most beautiful church he’s ever seen, and he’s seen the big brick structure, the concrete arches and solid, high tower of Saint Jerome. Seth loves Saint Jerome. He always believed in God, He certainly believes in Chicago, but Saint Agatha’s is the most lovely church he’s ever been in.

The choir sings.

“I call on the Lord in my distress,
and he answers me.
Save me, Lord,
from lying lips
and from deceitful tongues.

What will he do to you,
and what more besides,
you deceitful tongue?”

And what does that mean? What does it mean when he says, and now he really believes? That he has been a spectator up until now. Maybe up until now he has never truly been a witch. He has watched Owen be the witch. He has watched Lewis, and even Loreal. Owen always said, “You will feel the Gods when you are in your power. You will feel the Gods in the wind, and in the fire, in the earth, in the oak, the ash, and the thorn. You will see the Virgin and Mother and the Dark Lady in her many faces. You will see that She is He, and He They and the Gods God. You will see the truth in everything.”

But these were promises, and in the end, he had to take Owen’s word for them.

This evening, on the Feast of the Baptism of Christ, in Saint Agatha’s, the pink stone church with its white pillars and jewel box stain glass windows, Seth feels touched by God.

He will punish you with a warrior’s sharp arrows,
with burning coals of the broom bush.

Woe to me that I dwell in Meshek,
that I live among the tents of Kedar!
Too long have I lived
among those who hate peace.
I am for peace;
but when I speak, they are for war.

The stain glass windows were cut by Gerard Freneau. He knows that name. He has heard the story of the talented man, mixed like himself, back then called… Seth grimaces, a quadroon, who cut these windows in New Orleans and sailed up rivers and took trains to insert them into these windows. There is Saint Solange in white, holding a blossoming hawthorn tree with white flowers, but even as he observes the serenity of her face which is that color, not of a black person or a white person but the color of a sans colour gen, his own color, he sees her closed eyes. When they open for him, and he is not afraid, she looks upon him and he knows this is the Whtie Goddess. Her names go over him. Belili, Belial, Lilith, Don, Arianrhod, Freya, Branwen, Mary. Her names and faces travel across his mind like a river.

“I lift up my eyes to the mountains—
where does my help come from?
My help comes from the Lord,
the Maker of heaven and earth.

He will not let your foot slip—
he who watches over you will not slumber…”

They are all gathered here. Lewis kneels in the front aisle under the golden light, the giant stones of his old rosary about his fingers, and beside him, looking like an angel—vampires really are angels—fine boned and nearly white haired, is Chris Ashby, and what is this? He has a black beaded heavy rosary around his white hands as well. Where did that come from? Chris never said he was a Catholic? Jim is beside him. He loves Jim. He just does. He loves them all. But what was last night, when he gave himself to Chris and then, after love they came to surround Lewis. What was this morning with Lewis after the previous morning when he was with Jim and the world was new and Seth knew everything? He loves sleeping in Chris’s arms, loves Lewis’s body being linked to his, loves kneeling right next to Jim, before God in this beautiful rose and gold lit church, smelling the frankincense, knowing that before the night is over they will share in another sacrament, just as pure, just as offered up to God, as they give themselves to each other, for he must go to Jim tonight. He must figure things out.

“Indeed, he who watches over Israel
will neither slumber nor sleep.

The Lord watches over you—
the Lord is your shade at your right hand;
the sun will not harm you by day,
nor the moon by night.

And there on the altar, all in white, surrounded by white candles and holding up a golden, round faced child, is the Virgin, crowned and noble, brown eyed, offering her son and his outstretched arms to the world. Seth heard the old prayer, knew he was hearing Lewis, knew Lewis was not saying it out loud, that they were linked again, and always, heard the old prayer and murmured it to the Queen of Heaven.

Remember, O most gracious Virgin Mary,
that never was it known that anyone who fled to your protection,
implored your help, or sought your intercession,
was left unaided.
Inspired by this confidence,
I fly unto you, O Virgin of virgins, my Mother.
To you do I come, before you I stand, sinful and sorrowful.
O Mother of the Word Incarnate,
despise not my petitions,
but in your mercy, hear and answer me.
Amen.

And there is Marabeth, and there is Kris, looking most out of place, almost as out of place as Laurie beside Loreal. But Lewis had said they must all be there. He has not explained, but he has said that tonight, on the Feast of the Baptism of Our Lord, a week after Epiphany and only a few days after the burial of Marabeth’s father, Jim’s uncle, they must be at this evening mass, at Saint Agatha’s, a church which, Loreal has just learned, was built by her grandfather nearly one hundred years ago.

It is such a comfortable church, how could such a thing come from Augustus Dunharrow? He did not build it himself, of course not. The pillars are high, the ribbing leading to a vaulted ceiling hung with brass lanterns. And yet it feels as close as a jewel box, or as a cave, as the cave where Christ was born.

Seth remembers Owen saying, “They got it all wrong. This is why so many of us walked away from the Church. They told you that Christ did it all. That all you had to do was believe in him and he would take aways your sins and your suffering, and make everything happen. And yet, here we were, believing, sinful, and still suffering. You must not stand and watch. You must enter the place of Christ and become him, and then all things will happen. The Craft is really nothing more than this.”

“Things must begin this way,” Lewis had said, “and you must be content with not understanding for some time. And then, in the night, all things will begin.”

More and more he talked like that, though Lewis had always been a mystery. Perhaps Lewis simply didn’t explain everything because he didn’t have the time, but now the hymn changed.

The priest had been droning on and on, which sounded like a horrible thing to say, but this is how Seth thought about it, droning on like bees, like drones, buzzing in the summer and what they were saying didn’t matter, it was the rhythm of it. The beehive, the beehive, there was something in that, and the golden light of the sun. But this was not a sun, it was a Host, it was a cream colored wafer half as large as a human head, made golden by the lights of candles and, suddenly, it was a cracked sun and more light came through it.

“Amen

Amen

Aaaaa aaa men!”

They were rising for Communion and the choir was singing

“You shall cross the barren desert
But you shall not die of thirst
You shall wander far in safety
Though you do not know the way
You shall speak your words in foreign lands
And all will understand
You shall see the face of God and live

Be not afraid
I go before you always
Come follow me
And I will give you rest.”

Seth rose up, was nearly pushed up it seemed, and followed Jim. But as he was approaching the altar the lights were brighter and brighter, the candles like twirling stars, and suddenly, in place of all was a woman in white, and she held out a chalice and it grew brighter, its silver burning. A voice cried, “Take and eat.”

And Seth, suffused in whiteness, passed out on the floor or Saint Agatha’s.