Wolf Omega: Lykanos Chronicles 2

I tried to move calmly, taking each step as soundly as my trembling legs could manage. Several people noticed me and stopped to look at my ripped clothes. Without my cape, I couldn’t hide my disheveled appearance.

“Please, where is the church from here?” I asked one woman. She frowned at the ugly tear at my collar and the skin it exposed. Then she pointed north for a quick moment, and I turned to see a massive, ornate building rising above the town about three blocks to the south. At its peak, I saw its stone statue of a man holding a golden crucifix and redoubled my effort to get to the unmistakable building in one piece.

I wound my way through the narrow streets until I arrived at the large square outside its entrance. One of the building’s tall, gilded front doors was open, and I passed the threshold to find myself in the most stunning room I’d ever beheld. Stories tall, its polished white marble walls rose to an incredible height above me, met at an arched ceiling that was painted the color of a powder blue sky. Beneath were rows of benches, all facing the end of the startling space where I finally witnessed the altar Cecco had once described to me. The semi-domed nave was painted with figures of Heaven gliding through clouds. Beneath was an altar constructed with a dozen types of perfectly sculpted marble. At its center stood a breathtaking statue of a crowned woman in flowing golden robes holding a baby at her breast. Madonna and Child, I thought to myself. The sight comforted me like the clean smell of incense filling my lungs.

The space was unoccupied but for a few scattered people kneeling in silent prayer.

“What are you doing here?” a man whispered. I realized he was a priest from his dress and couldn’t control my cry of relief.

“Father Pierro, where is he? Please, I must see him.”

The man seemed startled by the volume of my plea, which echoed against the hard surfaces of the colossal chamber. It drew several pairs of eyes to look back from their prayer toward us.

“You must go outside at once,” he whispered with stern insistence.

I saw his eyes shift in deference, and I turned behind me to see Father Pierro entering the church from a side door. He said nothing, his attention held by the encounter before him. He observed the state of my dress with a confused scowl. Looking off to realize we were being watched by the faithful, who I had loudly disturbed, Father Pierro beckoned me in silence to follow him through the door.

“Please, Father—.”

He raised his hand to stop me, then drew his index finger to his lips, motioning that I should be silent. When he seemed satisfied with my response, he again signaled me to follow.

He led me down a hallway to a comfortably furnished room, where a dark oak desk on one end signaled this was his office. When Father Piero closed the door behind us, I lowered my head onto his chest and wept uncontrollably. To my relief, he didn’t stop me and reached his arms around to hold me.

I tried to speak, to tell the priest what happened to me, the horrors that Vervio had done, but I didn’t know how to describe it. I never wanted to speak of it. I didn’t want any of it to exist.

“That’s enough, child,” Father Piero said calmly. “I know what you did, and it’s just that you suffer. I’ve learned of how you and Signore Alfonsi lied to me, to all of us. He has confessed to crimes that perhaps only God Himself could bear to forgive. And he has received absolution. Now, you must do the same. You must expose the dark stains on your soul.”

I stared at his eyes in horror. As I stood there, clutching my ripped dress, stinking of filth from those men, I could hardly fathom the priest’s words. It was as if my nightmare reached a new level of dark clarity, exposed by the man’s declaration: this shameful agony was all of my own making.

“Sit down over here,” he said, and he extended his arm to one of two high-backed velvet armchairs by the lit fireplace.

I did as he told me, moving as steadily as I could to take a seat. I felt the searing pain in my sex again when I sat down, the pressure causing me to gasp involuntarily.

“I want to hear it from your lips,” he began, “without a word of deception. What sins have you to confess?”

Tears fell again as I tried to begin the answer he sought.

“I knew nothing about what I was supposed to do,” I started. “He told me it would be okay.”

“To lie about yourself and your family?” he asked. His eyes adopted an impatient scowl. “To lie about your marriage? He told you that lying to me in confession would be okay? You are not this stupid, and I will not tolerate one more word of such clumsy deception. Begin again.”

I knew the priest was right. I knew it was all a lie and that I was wrong to do it.

“I loved my husband,” I began again. “I wanted to please him. So, I did as he told me.”

“You still say Signore Alfonsi is your husband?”

“He is my husband!” I protested weakly. “My father gave my hand to Cecco. The people of my village came to witness and feast with us. They saw the official declare us married. They all saw Cecco take me to his hotel that night. He married me.”

“You describe a civil declaration, a legal agreement to join houses. That is not a marriage in the eyes of God or his Church. As I understand it, you’ve never stepped foot in a house of God before this day. Do you even know what we call this church? Who is it named after? San Giovanni Battista. St. John the Baptist. And you step foot in here, unbaptized, unclean, to declare lies before God?”

“I’m sorry,” I wept. “I’m a fool! Please have mercy on me. Help me know how to behave.”

“Do you ask for God’s forgiveness?” he asked with a nod.

“I do,” I answered in devastation. “I swear to God, I have nothing more to hide.”

Father Piero paused, appraising me with anger in his eyes, breathing deeply at my offense.

“Good,” he said at last. “Tell me then, what other sins have you to confess?”

The room Father Piero gave me was little more than a storage closet located off the rectory’s private inner courtyard. It was a quarter of the size of my mother’s shed back home. The windowless room contained only a small bed overlooked by the crucified Christ, who hung from the wall as the dim room’s sole ornamentation.

He gave me fresh clothes that were little more than a basic dress—heavily worn and likely donated to the city’s poor. They were the simple garments of a servant girl, which had once seemed ordinary, but for which I was now profoundly grateful. He also gave me a pail of cold water from the well and a clean rag to bathe with. I did this as quickly as the pain of my injuries would allow for.

The privacy he afforded me was a necessity more than a courtesy. I didn’t need to be told that the church grounds were no place for me, for a woman.

After leaving me alone in my room for an hour, Father Piero returned and knocked on the door. When I opened, I found him carrying a small tray with a bowl of vegetable broth. I took it from him gratefully and set it upon the simple bed. On the tray were also three small wax candles and a fire steel with kindling.

“You will remain separated from the residence as much as possible,” Father Piero instructed. “You will not step foot in the church until you have received further counsel, and I am satisfied you are prepared to received holy baptism.”

“I will remain in this room?” I asked hesitantly.

He had already insisted I never see Cecco again, nor associate myself with anyone from my false life. I was not to attempt any of my planned coercion. Cecco owed me nothing, and I should no longer call him my husband. Even if my father might have sought recompense from his broken dowry agreement with Cecco, my father was dead, and so had died his claims. More to the point, my name was not Alfonsi but Paravicini—my birth family’s name.

“You will toil in penance for your sins,” he answered. “Just outside the city is a plot of earth donated by the town to our parish priests. There you will apply your competence for farming during the day when you can. Otherwise, you will remain here, where you will clean the dormitories, help do the linens and clothes, whatever work needs your hands, and all of it in silence.

“When I am satisfied with your penitence, we will discuss your rebirth as a child of God. From there, we will determine what role awaits you in society, if any.”

I nodded my agreement.

“You will begin in the morning,” he added. “I have told our other members to avoid you when at all possible. I will bring your breakfast before daybreak, and then you may visit the field. Luca, our handyman, will accompany you and manage you there.”

“Thank you, Father,” I answered quietly.

I looked into the western sky to see the fired sky of sunset.

“Good night,” he nodded and turned to leave me.

I watched him go for a moment, then returned inside. I could not lock the door from inside. I thought to move the bed to block it, but I couldn’t maneuver it with any success in the tiny space. I took the three small candles, placed them on the floor, and lit one of them. The tiny glow wasn’t brighter in the room than the fading evening light that broke in around the door frame.

Though my injured body was exhausted and hungry, my mind wanted nothing to do with the soup. I forced two sips but couldn’t stomach a third. I placed the tray on the ground and laid down on the hard little bed.

Hollow.

It terrified me that someone might open the door, that those vile men might come for me again. I pictured them again and again, stepping in to seize me and hold me down.

In time, a numb sensation overtook me, and I didn’t have the strength to feel anything more. I looked up to see the crucified figure of Christ above my head. Nothing came from him; no warmth or assurance of the promise in his sacrifice. I couldn’t even see a naked man suffering in the agony of his torture. I saw nothing.

As my last bit of strength left me, I let my eyes close.