Death of the Body (Crossing Death) (12 page)

It didn’t take long for the gentle swaying of the trees to have me hypnotized and I watched their methodic dance as I slipped in and out of the moments before sleep. I could still hear Sister Mary Elizabeth droning on in my subconscious, but was only half aware as the words she said made connections to past events in my head. She discussed the concept of Christ before and after the Council of Trent, as well as the church’s teachings on prophets of the Old Testament, the idea of the sacrament and transubstantiation, of celibacy, and sainthood, and the challenges the church faced regarding Saint Mary (which helped me understand why all of the nuns took the name Mary).

But it wasn’t until the talk of purgatory, and the pre- and post-council beliefs in limbo, that she said something that caught my attention.

“… and so,” she was saying, “it could be said that in Medieval times, most theologians described Hell as divided into four distinct levels; the hell of the damned, purgatory, limbo of the fathers, and limbo of the infants.”

This last sentence was said in summation, and I was disappointed I had missed the discussion of what these four levels represented. I wondered if they had any representation in the “seven levels” I had seen in my father’s letter.

I must have flinched at the thought, because Sister Mary Elizabeth, who noticed the movement, glared at me. “Nice of you to join us again, Alexander. Did you have a question?”

Actually, yes, but I didn’t know how to ask it without revealing my underlying purpose. I searched my mind quickly for something, and was surprised to find all of my new connections. Heaven and Hell were succinctly related somehow, so I chose this connection in hopes of forming a coherent question. “If there are four hells, how many heavens are there?”

“There are not four hells,” Sister Mary Elizabeth said harshly. “Limbo is simply an idea, a
possibility
, not doctrine. Remember, a lot of time has passed since the Council of Trent.”

Having thought she made me feel stupid, she turned back to the chalkboard and had her mouth half open to start on another topic when I interrupted, “How many heavens are there,
possibly
?”

The chalk fell from her hand, her face twisted in annoyance. After letting out a sigh, she turned to her desk and picked up a book. She leaned against the desk and flipped through the pages—the entire class silent. I wasn’t sure if she was going to answer my question or not, but finally she found what she was looking for, stood, walked quickly over to where I was sitting, and dropped the book on my lap.

“Second Corinthians, chapter twelve, verse two. Would you kindly read that passage for the class?”

I found the resulting scripture and read aloud, “I knew a man in Christ above fourteen years ago, (whether in the body, I cannot tell; or whether out of the body, I cannot tell: God knoweth;) such as one caught up to the third heaven.”

I closed the book and put it into her waiting hand. “Now that you have wasted our time, we can add that time to the end of the class.”

A groan echoed throughout the room, but I wasn’t about to let the subject go. Three plus four equaled seven. My heart thudded.

“If the four hells are the hell of the damned, purgatory, limbo of the fathers, and limbo of the infants, what are the three heavens?”

The entire class was staring, dumbfounded, in my direction now.

Sister Mary Elizabeth grinned at me. “More time after class, then. There are some theologians that believe the three heavens are literal, but our doctrine states they are the atmosphere, space, and the kingdom where our Holy Father resides.”

“What do the other theologians call them? The ones who believe the three heavens are literal?”

“You’ll have to ask the Mormons that question,” she sniped. “They are the only ones who believe that verse literally. But doing so will put in jeopardy your salvation!”

“Who wrote that passage?” I asked.

Sister Mary Elizabeth rolled her eyes, “If I had known your amnesia would have proved so difficult, I would have told Father Michaels that you were not welcome in my class.”

Nicholas suddenly interrupted, trying to get me to shut up. “Alexander, you have a chess game with Ruth after this class. You don’t want to miss it and make her angry, do you?”

I ignored him, and continued to address Sister Mary Elizabeth. “Can I speak to the person who wrote this passage?”

Now the class erupted into laughter. Sister Mary Elizabeth responded, “Paul is the author of that verse, and he has been dead now for about two thousand years.”

“Did Paul write that entire book? May I borrow it?”

“The book is the Bible,” Sister Mary Elizabeth responded in unbelief, “and many prophets wrote it.”

The Bible. The infirmary had one of those I was sure I could borrow. Now the stories I read while recovering became much more interesting and real.

Sister Mary Elizabeth continued, anticipating my next question, “Prophets like Moses and Noah and apostles like Peter, James, and John. They wrote it so we would have a record of Jesus Christ, the Son of God. You’ve been taught this, Alexander, since you could understand plain English.”

Her face was turning red, but I couldn’t let the chance pass to understand where I was, who I was, and what the seven levels were. I recognized one of the names: Moses. I had read about him. “Did all of these men perform supernatural acts like Moses?”

“Yes. They all had the power of God.” The poor nun was getting exasperated now, but I was grateful she continued to answer my questions. “And the greatest of them all was Jesus Christ, who performed many miracles, such as changing water into wine, healing the sick, and raising the dead. It’s thanks to Him that you can be resolved from your sins and go to paradise when you die.”

Paradise? When I die? That couldn’t be true. I had already died once, and this place was definitely wasn’t paradise.

“Am I a Jesus?” I asked subdued, half wondering aloud to myself.

Sister Mary Elizabeth heard the question, and her body started to shake with anger as her face burned a bright crimson. Her words came out in a spitting accusation, “You… are… not… like… the… perfect… Holy… Son… of… God!”

The children in the class were now all pressed against their seats, straining to be as far away from Sister Mary Elizabeth as possible. I was so involved in my own thought processes that I was oblivious to her anger.

“Then Jesus, Peter, Paul, and Moses. They were all like me?”

Sister Mary Elizabeth lashed out, striking my face with the open palm of her hand. She hit me so hard that I flew out of my chair. I caught myself only momentarily before my hands instinctively covered my stinging cheek.

My blood boiled. Why didn’t anyone understand that the people who had written the Bible were
my
family? I was one of them. How could I make them see? Should I make them see? I couldn’t just coddle my cheek doing nothing. If these people worshiped those like me, perhaps I could get them to help me find the survivors of my people. I stood slowly. Sister Mary Elizabeth glared at me venomously, still huffing in rage.

“I’ll prove it,” I whispered.

I knew she didn’t answer because she didn’t know what to say.

Her desk was made of wood, just like everything in this place, and had a thick stone slab as its desktop. The stone called out to me as the words of Moses echoed in my head. It told me how Moses did it—how Moses simply had to ask. I walked to the desk cautiously, and once I was standing over it, punched down with all the strength the anger within me allowed. I hit the desktop hard, but I felt it give way to my request. At first, nothing happened. Then slowly, the entire surface of the desk began to sweat as the whole room sat in stunned silence.

It started as slow drops forming like dew over the surface, but quickly turned into a puddle, like someone spilling a cup of water on the desk. Then, the water began to run, and soon, to flow. The water dripped over the edges, faster and faster until it poured.

I heard a thud somewhere in the classroom and looked up to see Sister Mary Elizabeth unconscious on the floor. The children looked at her, then at me, and started to scream.

Nine

I found myself in Father Michaels’ office. Sister Mary Elizabeth had just finished telling him what had happened in her class and now sat in the corner of the room, breathing heavily, almost hyperventilating. She clutched her chest with one hand while clutching an ornately carved rosary with the other.

Father Michaels stared at me with vacant eyes. I could tell he was thinking about something, but he sat staring at me so long that I started to think he was being rude. He could have been mistaken for a statue with how still he was sitting, and, unlike the hyperventilating Sister, I couldn’t tell when he drew a breath.

There were three sounds in the room. Two came from Sister Mary Elizabeth: the whoosh of her frantic inhalations, and the soft, puppy-like whimper of her exhalations. The third sound came from a large wooden clock hanging behind Father Michaels’ head: the ticking broke the silence with a regular and constant beat.

The only word to describe how I was feeling was ‘smug.’ I had a hard time keeping my lips from curling at the edges, so I pressed them into a thin line while I waited.

Oh, good,
I thought.
He blinked. At least he isn’t dead.

Any minute now he would stare at me with envy, anticipating my next prophetic move. Then he would lead me to the prophets living today and I would have found my family. I had to press my lips harder together in order to stifle a grin.

Finally he rubbed his temples. With his eyes still closed, he said, “I want you to stay in the infirmary again tonight.”

My excitement fell.

“I don’t even want to hear whatever your side of this ridiculous story is. For God’s sake, Alexander, you are a baptized, confirmed, God-fearing member of the Catholic community now. Whatever is affecting you needs to stop. I’ll have Sister Mary
Chantale come visit you later to remind you of your part in the choir tomorrow. Tell Sister Mary Rafaela to keep an eye on you until Sister Mary Chantale arrives.

“But I’m warning you,” he continued, “I am in no mood for this kind of behavior this week, do you understand?”

I didn’t answer; I just stared at his still-closed eyes. He couldn’t even look at me.

“But he is a child of the devil!” Sister Mary Elizabeth screeched.

Father Michaels sighed. “He was baptized, confirmed, and his communion was less than a week ago. Tell me, how could it be possible that what you say is true?”

“What about the boy, the name, the other you discussed with us. This Edmund?”

The venom with which she said my name caught my attention. I clenched my fists.

“The children are your responsibility,” Father Michaels said. “Why don’t you tell me?”

“It is the name of the spirit in possession of his body. That is the only explanation.”

“I’m not possessed!” I yelled frantically. Possession required an energumen, and I had already ruled out that option. Besides, I had yet to see a yellow tint to my eyes. Were these people oblivious? They spouted off about possession like it was something they expected to happen to everyone in their little
religion
.

Now everyone was standing and speaking in elevated voices and Father Michaels’ eyes were finally trained on me. Sister Mary Elizabeth’s robe flew wildly as she repeatedly pointed in my direction.

“It is a possibility,” Father Michaels admitted. The confession was followed by a brief silence before he added, “But not one I’m willing to accept at this point.”

I was appalled. Did they really have no concept of what possession entailed?

“To the infirmary, Edmund.”

I was surprised he didn’t realize his slip, but the fact that he used my real name calmed me down a bit.

“And you,” he addressed Sister Mary Elizabeth, “gather the Sisters. I would like to discuss this further, without the boy.”

The look he gave me told me I had overstayed my welcome, so I turned out of his office and headed toward the infirmary. I had been there enough now that I knew where it was without thinking.

I was so livid that I didn’t notice most of the glares the other children gave me as I passed them in the hallways. Although a few were curious, most were fearful.

Sister Mary Rafaela met me at the door with a concerned look on her face. “You’re back?” she asked politely. “But why?”

“I’m sure Sister Mary Elizabeth and Father Michaels will explain it to you soon enough.”

I could tell from her expression that my answer was not what she had hoped, but I didn’t elaborate.

“Where would you like me?” I asked.

She motioned to an empty bed.

“I was
instructed
to have you watch me until one of the other nuns can take your place while you are informed of the situation.” My voice was filled with venom.

“What situation?” she asked, concerned.

I, again, didn’t answer the question. Instead I huffed myself onto the medical bed, propped myself up against the pillows, folded my arms, and turned my head away from Sister Mary Rafaela’s questioning eyes.