The Body Departed

I had been so caught up watching the steady approach of the three entities that I had completely missed the woman who had materialized onstage. She was, of course, the beautiful woman from my apartment complex, the beautiful woman whom I had no memory of. From across the cathedral, she smiled at me, then looked up. I followed her gaze. There, the three shadows were now suspended nearly directly above me. Creepy as hell, if you ask me.

“They were monks once,” she said, her melodic voice filling my head. “More significant, they were brothers, and all three were tortured and murdered here in this very church.”

I frowned. “But if they were monks, then why are they not in heaven?”

“They made a pact, James. A pact in life that they now carry into death.”

“A pact?”

“To protect the painting you see on the wall above me.”

Yes, the painting. It was a massive portrait of the Mount of Olives, depicting Christ’s betrayal and arrest prior to his crucifixion. The same painting Eli had lusted after—and run in terror from.

“You see, there had been a fourth brother,” she said.

I nodded with sudden clarity. “The artist who painted it.”

“Indeed,” she said, stepping off the stage. “The painting was commissioned by the Catholic Church and was to be brought to the New World. But the fourth brother, the artist, died of the plague upon its completion, and the remaining three brothers took it upon themselves to transport it safely. The painting eventually found its way here, to this church, where both the painting and brothers took up residence.”

“Until the thieves came,” I said.

She nodded. “Banditos. They were after the painting, among other things. But the brothers, given advance warning of their arrival, had safely hidden it. The banditos were not happy. Each brother was systematically tortured and killed, but the painting remained safely hidden. Centuries later, it was discovered in the bowels of the church’s basement, and now, as you can see, it hangs prominently.”

I looked directly up. “And still they watch over it.”

“Vigilantly,” said the woman. “And forsaking all of heaven to do so.”

She now stood in the aisle before me. I rose to my feet and stared into those heartbreakingly familiar almond-shaped eyes. I knew those eyes. I knew that face. I knew those lips. Intimately. But I had no memory of her. Nothing.

“Who are you?” I asked.

She took my hand, and for the first time in a long, long time, I felt warmth. I also felt love. Deep, fathomless love. As she held my gaze, images appeared in my mind. Beautiful, sweet, loving images of the two of us together, throughout time and space, born and reborn throughout many lifetimes, dozens of lifetimes. Hundreds of lifetimes. The images came fast and crazily, until at last they finally slowed and stopped. Now two words appeared in my thoughts, pulsating, alive with meaning: soul mates.

This was followed by a final image. One of a beautiful college student with long blonde hair, an impish smile, and almond-shaped eyes. A student who had been killed instantly in a car accident that had left me reeling for many, many years, until I eventually met my future wife.

“You’re her!” I said, thunderstruck, as a wave of dizziness and disorientation threatened to overwhelm me. Had I been alive, I would have needed to sit. Had I been alive, I would, of course, not have been holding her hands.

She squeezed mine even tighter. “Yes, James.”

“And we’ve been reincarnated together?” I asked, remembering the images. “Throughout all eternity?”

“Yes, James.”

I sensed the truth behind her words, behind her images, but I was troubled. Deeply, deeply troubled. How could I reincarnate if I was given but one chance at life, one chance to make things right? This was how I was raised to believe. This was what the church taught.

I released her hands. “I don’t believe you.”

“Your belief is everything, James.”

“I think you’re the Devil,” I said, “here to tempt me.”

And even as I spoke those words, I knew them to be untrue. How could anyone love me the way she loved me now and be the Devil? Could the Devil even love?

She continued watching me; I continued feeling her love.

Behind her, the three brothers dropped from the ceiling and, as if they had forgotten the use of their legs, crawled along the center aisle on hands and feet as their knees and elbows stuck out at odd angles. As they approached behind her, they could have easily been demons. Her demons. She ignored them and continued staring at me steadily. I found them to be distracting as hell.

I forced myself to look into her eyes. “I can’t believe you,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

“Someday you will, James.” And with that, she began fading before my eyes. And when she had disappeared altogether, the three red-eyed beings immediately retreated down the center aisle and scuttled up the far wall and disappeared into the darkest shadows of the deepest part of the ceiling.

But I knew they were up there.

Watching.

31

Days passed, maybe even weeks.

I haunted the old church, the school of my youth, location of so much death and destruction. Often, I sat in on classroom lectures, learning much about history and science and social studies. All of which I forgot instantly. Just like back when I was in school.

Some things never change.

My friends now were the parishioners and the teachers and the students and the workers. Except, they didn’t know I was their friend. Mostly, my companions were Jacob and the three red-eyed beings that watched over the massive painting with unsettling single-mindedness. But not always. Sometimes they watched me, too, doing so with a unique oneness. Sometimes the three wraiths would come down from the ceiling and swarm around me like curious red-eyed demon cats. But they weren’t evil, and if they were, I certainly didn’t sense it.

Often, I had to remind myself of who I was and why I was here. And sometimes I couldn’t even do that. Whole days would pass until I finally remembered who I was, and then it would all come flooding back to me—all of it, all over again, reliving everything and everyone. Jacob’s death, my murder, Mrs. Randolph’s murder. And I would weep for my dead body, my fatherless girl, and my own lost soul.

But I would weep hardest for taking the life of the young boy.

Once or twice, when I had lost all sense of who I was, I found myself creeping along the ceiling with the three entities. They accepted me as one of their own, and I found their presence oddly comforting. I found their communal thoughts a blessing, their collective will attractive. They referred to themselves as The One, and I liked that. We were The One.