Peniel

[Patricus I]

The vision washed over Patricus like a wave smothering him of air. While a column rose unnaturally before his beaming blue eyes, he fought its acceptance with a mind splintered from reality. While the others wrestled with meaning of what they saw, Patricus wrestled with its source.

He knew in his soul that the sight was of mystic origin but he doubted the purity of its source. The two women in Armande’s company were not blessed saints touched by the divine. Could something unpure be the conduit of such a significant sight? He knew the answer. He knew man was flawed and that even the worst were potential vessels of truth, but he was wrapped up in this himself. So many layers of truth and doubt intertwined within him. That left the vision itself as the final answer. Were these dreams of his, these stimuli of the women, the column itself in alignment with holy truth? Or were they pulling him astray?

The end of it left him staring into a sculpture of his own face. A relief of gleaming bronze, frozen of all animation, lifeless and eternal, and then the spell released. He gasped for air as if the seconds deprived of oxygen had been eons longer. The vision was gone and he refused to let the shivers taking his spine transform into visible shakes like a feeble, old man. His jaw was tight as the tension streaking every muscle rigid. His will was formidable, and he refused to let the others see him as anything but the robe and ring.

Westward his gaze turned even as his grip upon the key tightened knuckles white. He was dirtied. His robe marred with splatter, but undeterred, he took his first steps as if walking on glass. Every step was agony, but the body endured worse.

He was trapped with these three. His escape dependent on them. It disturbed him to think he was leaving something of himself behind in this arid place. He looked back upon the sight where the pilot fell. There would be no final commendation for him, no internment, no committal. In Baltimore, as a priest, Philip presided over many funerals. The words were writ on his heart to this day, though it had been a long time since he led the final rites. Today, the Pope’s blessing stayed with a man who fell in defense of the holy father. None would know. As it should be. 

He offered the sign of the cross and lifted his gaze skyward. Even as the howls of more beasts rose like the hymns of darkness in the distance, he offered a final prayer.
“You gave him life. Receive him now in peace and give him, through our Lord, a joyful resurrection. Have mercy on us, Lord. At the moment of death and on the last day, save us, merciful and gracious Lord.”

More words followed. Somehow, the song of the beasts fell quieter the longer he spoke, until it was as if a sleep fell upon their evil that let the four companions escape.

He walked easier then, though no less in pain, into the west. Red hat shading his face scarlet, quiet for some time.