Unburdened

UNBURDENED

         Carrying a burden this heavy up the cliff would have taken it out of him before, but now he found it caused him no trouble.  With a spring in his step he scaled the steep rough-hewn stone steps along the rock face, scarcely registering the sea spray that spattered his face. He paid no heed either to the briny air wafting in and out his mouth and nostrils, as he had no need to breathe it - he had no need for any of the wordly sensations anymore. The earth had refused to take him in, but now that he was risen above the paltry mortal dealings that had plagued him so, he was happy to reject it just as much in return. It felt good, and thus when he reached the top and had propped his burden against a tree, he stood at the edge of the cliffside and took it all in - the utter impotence of the rock, the leaves, the gulls, the waves - like a conqueror-king on his palace balcony, invincible against the wind and all that thronged below. But he savoured it only for a moment, for there was work to be done; a burden to get rid of.

         "Stay here, will ya? I'll be out again momentarily. I'm just quickly gonna say hi."

         The church's double doors were not as heavy as he remembered, and opened readily to him. It was bright inside. The leaves outside could be heard softly rustling in the ocean wind, but inside the air was stagnant. Through the stained glass, the high noon sun dyed shafts of dust motes into rainbows, painting colourful mosaics on the tile floor. Ordinarily he would have found it beautiful and a worthy testament to the divinity of he whose house he had entered, but now he felt that it was worth only scorn. He walked over to the nearest window and held his arm to the light - his blotched skin made the colours look pale and lifeless, as he knew it would. That was how it was now in this exalted new age, and it delighted him. He permitted himself a chuckle, then returned to the centre and walked down the aisle of rigidly aligned pews to the altar some five metres down. There, he got down his knees and assumed the prayer position he knew so well.
         "Ahem. Ah... Forgive me, Father, for I... have sinned."
         "I have been led astray in my actions and convictions by a pretender deity. I have used thy name in vain in the face of friend and foe alike and betrayed my own good judgment. All this time I presumed to know your true nature while I did not, and felt blessed by it. But I was nothing but cursed - Indeed, I knew not even my own nature. Forgive me, Father, for I did not believe in what I now know you to truly be."
         He could not suppress a superior smirk as he moved from the palm touch to the more solemn finger clasp to reinforce the next part of his prayer.
         "I know it now, Father. I have been beyond the veil and I have seen that you were not there - that it was merely a veil of lies. Aye, I met Death itself- but when I perished, I found that there remained nowhere to go for me but back! There was no way onwards, Father, no light at the end. So back I came. And now I find that elevated existence is found down here, not up there. It is not as they have been telling me all my life. Man cannot to rise up to the heavens upon death, cast off the burdens of worldly life and take place at your side - for there is no God to side with! No, Father: man is meant to rise back up right where he stood when he was cast down, and therein lies his ascension. Look at me - I have done it, I have conquered death! Look at me and behold the visage of Death, and recognize that you had no hand in it!"
         He lifted his face and spread his arms for the false Father to see. There he was: fingers open to the bone, festering gashes from wrist to elbow, tattered skin hanging loose, oozing boils all over; an emaciated face, lips rotted away, a few patches of matted hair on a haggard scalp scarcely concealing a cranium laid bare; seething eyeballs in lidless sockets glaring at the altar.
         "I have shed my mortality, and I can show others the truth about what lies beyond -show them that it is more glorious even than what you promise. I am the lord of this place, Father, not you! You are nothing but a mirage. It is time for you to make way for the true master of death!"

He rose from his knees. A sudden gust banged the doors shut and continued to rattle them irreverently in the wind. A cloud moved in front of the sun and extinguished the stained-glass projections. He looked up. By moving the pulpit in front of the wall, the big ebon-wood cross that hung there could be reached. A bit of wiggling was all it took to get it loose. He found it light as a feather - it would do perfectly. The cross clanged rhythmically and violently against the tiles as he dragged it outside by the long end, the harsh tones reverberating around the vaulted ceiling like a war drum's.

         Outside sat his burden against the tree - his captive, gagged with cloth and bound with rope. The prisoner priest looked forlorn and still somewhat groggy, but his eyes widened in fear at the sight of his undead captor emerging from the church. He squirmed vainly backwards against the tree and slid past it onto the dirt. The cross-bearer looked upon him with contempt. Having dealt with the high Father upstairs, now there remained this lowly father here on earth. He seized the clergyman's chin and forced his face to meet his. His captive let out an audible sob.

         "Ah, you're awake. Excellent! I've been meaning to talk to you," said the undead.
         "Our big man in there did not deign to reply, but I think you'll be a better help. You see... I need to pick your brain. Well, so to speak, anyway." He grinned wickedly, then assumed a stern look.
         "I want you to look at my face and tell me what you see, father." The priest shook his head and stubbornly averted his eyes. The undead pulled him closer.
          "I said: look. at. me! Yes, good. Now, tell me... you look at the face of death, father. But do you recognize the hand of your god in it? Could this-" - he waved his hand over his face - "-be the work of your beloved almighty? I think not."  The priest looked at him in pleading confusion.
         "Oh, you don't have to answer, father. This is not confession. I already know you've sinned. Yes, that's right - you've lied to your flock and to me, father. You have been dealing out falsehoods to everybody about your God, getting us to engage in pointless ceremony and to repent for errors we did not make. And lying is a sin, father. One I am not sure I am able to forgive."
         The undead let go of the priest in disgust. He lifted the cross with two hands and fingered the blunt edges of its limbs, tested its weight.
         "I am afraid I cannot let you go unpunished, father. We all must atone sometimes. And I do really have need of your brain, you know. But hey - don't fret, for it is not all bad! Just look at me - surely death is not the worst thing in the world?"
         He heaved the cross over his head and cracked the sinner square on the temple. There was a shower of blood and three teeth shot into the tall grass. He withdrew the cross and gleefully regarded the crimson stain on the end with which he had struck the preacher. Then he dropped his weapon, got down on his knees, tore the father's shattered skull clear of its spine and began his feast.

When it was time to go, he chose to keep the cross. Slinging it over one shoulder, he began his journey back down the steps, trailing drops of blood on the pilgrim's steps. Halfway down, he stopped to look back at the sea. The descending sun's dying light bathed the waves in red. He patted his new weapon and licked some residual blood off his lips. The taste of cerebrum was still fresh on his tongue. He felt sated. Yes - it was good to be alive once again.