By the end of the sermon, John felt the pain in his stomach disappear. The congregation stood to pray and sing again, and then the minister invited them to receive communion.
John doubted the eating and singing Methodists gained any more favor from God than the confessing and atoning Catholics. But being here and seeing—feeling—the simple joy of Christian fellowship made him feel like a new man. Perhaps because it reminded him of how much he had sacrificed when he had abandoned his calling.
Something pushed John away from the back wall of the church to join the long line walking up to the altar railing. He felt better, but he had no illusions: malaria had no cure, and he didn't believe in miracles anymore. But for whatever time he had left, he could shun the war between the Darkyn and the Brethren and find a shelter or a clinic where he could work. He would return to a simpler purpose, the purpose that had originally made him become a priest.
He would accept communion today, and dedicate the rest of his life to performing good works among the faithful.
When it was John's turn, he knelt at the railing beside a little girl in a spotless white eyelet lace dress and a straw hat with clusters of daisies around the brim. Like her, he folded his hands together and looked up at the aluminum cross with its stylized flame.
We must learn to see the world anew.
"The blood of Christ," a patient voice said, holding a tiny plastic cup in front of John. From the smell, it was filled with grape juice. John looked up into the young minister's friendly eyes, and saw the gaunt reflection of his own face. He tasted blood in his mouth, and it didn't taste like grape juice.
He didn't belong here.
John shook his head, rising and turning his back as he walked, faster and faster, until he was running down the aisle. As he went, the lilies lining the aisles began to wilt and turn brown.
At the door to the sanctuary, an older male usher intercepted him. "Sir, is something wrong?"
John swallowed blood and bile. "Bathroom?"
The usher pointed to a door on the left in the front hall outside the sanctuary.
John hurried into the empty restroom and made it as far as the sink before he vomited. Blood splashed the immaculate white porcelain and dripped onto the floor. He groped, turning on the cold water and flushing most of the mess down the drain before he cupped his hands and splashed his hot face.
The inside of his mouth felt sore, and with his tongue he felt two large fever blisters on the roof of his mouth. Touching them brought another wave of nausea that made him double over. He tasted blood and spit another mouthful into the sink: the fever blisters inside his mouth must have burst.
If that was the case, why did they still feel as if they were bulging?
John's arms shook as he braced himself and straightened. In the mirror above the sink, he saw blood running down his chin and dripping onto his shirt. He opened his mouth and tipped his head back, trying to see how badly the blisters were bleeding.
The pupils in his eyes expanded, covering his irises and then the white corneas, until his eyes turned solid black. John couldn't breathe, his lungs as solid as if they had been filled with cement, and then a fresh gush of blood spilled over his lip. He brought his hand up to wipe it away and felt one final, tearing pain.
John parted his lips and watched as two long, white fangs slowly slid from his palate into his mouth.
John doubted the eating and singing Methodists gained any more favor from God than the confessing and atoning Catholics. But being here and seeing—feeling—the simple joy of Christian fellowship made him feel like a new man. Perhaps because it reminded him of how much he had sacrificed when he had abandoned his calling.
Something pushed John away from the back wall of the church to join the long line walking up to the altar railing. He felt better, but he had no illusions: malaria had no cure, and he didn't believe in miracles anymore. But for whatever time he had left, he could shun the war between the Darkyn and the Brethren and find a shelter or a clinic where he could work. He would return to a simpler purpose, the purpose that had originally made him become a priest.
He would accept communion today, and dedicate the rest of his life to performing good works among the faithful.
When it was John's turn, he knelt at the railing beside a little girl in a spotless white eyelet lace dress and a straw hat with clusters of daisies around the brim. Like her, he folded his hands together and looked up at the aluminum cross with its stylized flame.
We must learn to see the world anew.
"The blood of Christ," a patient voice said, holding a tiny plastic cup in front of John. From the smell, it was filled with grape juice. John looked up into the young minister's friendly eyes, and saw the gaunt reflection of his own face. He tasted blood in his mouth, and it didn't taste like grape juice.
He didn't belong here.
John shook his head, rising and turning his back as he walked, faster and faster, until he was running down the aisle. As he went, the lilies lining the aisles began to wilt and turn brown.
At the door to the sanctuary, an older male usher intercepted him. "Sir, is something wrong?"
John swallowed blood and bile. "Bathroom?"
The usher pointed to a door on the left in the front hall outside the sanctuary.
John hurried into the empty restroom and made it as far as the sink before he vomited. Blood splashed the immaculate white porcelain and dripped onto the floor. He groped, turning on the cold water and flushing most of the mess down the drain before he cupped his hands and splashed his hot face.
The inside of his mouth felt sore, and with his tongue he felt two large fever blisters on the roof of his mouth. Touching them brought another wave of nausea that made him double over. He tasted blood and spit another mouthful into the sink: the fever blisters inside his mouth must have burst.
If that was the case, why did they still feel as if they were bulging?
John's arms shook as he braced himself and straightened. In the mirror above the sink, he saw blood running down his chin and dripping onto his shirt. He opened his mouth and tipped his head back, trying to see how badly the blisters were bleeding.
The pupils in his eyes expanded, covering his irises and then the white corneas, until his eyes turned solid black. John couldn't breathe, his lungs as solid as if they had been filled with cement, and then a fresh gush of blood spilled over his lip. He brought his hand up to wipe it away and felt one final, tearing pain.
John parted his lips and watched as two long, white fangs slowly slid from his palate into his mouth.
