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I
Raphael squints at the narrow facade of St. Anthony's Church in the harsh afternoon sunlight. The red sandstone structure blends into the arid landscape surrounding it. The freshly painted crucifix, sitting on the spire that shoots up from the facade, blazes whitely, glaring at him and the townsfolk, as if in silent judgment.
His eyes drift along the flat relief of the sparse town all around him. Even for a village, Pecos is surprisingly small. It's people move about their tasks, as if in a trance, like tumbleweed strewn in the dry air. Raphael's gaze returns to the building under whose shade he stands. He cranes his neck to look into the hallway, at the end of which a portrait of St. Anthony hangs. Raphael allows himself a wry smile, quietly wondering at the aptness of the patron saint of lost things presiding over a town like this.
The desert has been his home all his life, and its peculiar bleakness, intimately familiar. Behind this mirage of brightness, Raphael has seen a greater, impregnable darkness lurk. The treachery of its geography, as sure as the night that follows day.
Raphael pulls at the stiff collar of his black robes in an attempt to get rid of the moisture that collects around his throat from waiting in the unrelenting heat.
He has to wait a while more before the pastor lets him in.
Raphael stares absentmindedly through the large window behind his desk. Now, left alone after being shown around, Raphael takes his time to settle into his office and quarters. The little latticed window above his bed overlooks the lawn. It's an orchard really—rows of apricot and guava trees—a welcome reprieve for eyes tired of the blues and reds and goldens of the desert landscape.
His eye catches a young guava tree that spreads upwards like an outstretched palm. Eventually, he finds himself exiting his office to wander through the stone path that leads to the courtyard.
II
I'm thinking of ending things.
Raphael stares at the words on his page. The ink appears darker in the dim, yellow light from his desk lamp. Everything is darker with a storm outside. There's a slight tremor to his hand which grips the pen. Blue ink drips from it, rolling down his fingertips and staining them and the page with dark spots.
Once the thought arrives, it stays. It sticks, it lingers, it dominates. It winds around my throat. It suffocates me.
And it refuses to leave.
His hand begins shaking, and he drops the pen.
Polaroids are strewn all over the small surface of his desk. Gingerly, he picks up the only one he has of Simon.
I feel like I'm walking a single plank bridge into the endlessly stretching darkness. And the thought—it doesn't go away. It's there whether I like it or not. It's there when I eat; it's there when I go to bed. It's there when I sleep and when I wake.
It's always there. Always.
The guava tree is in full bloom, and its branches hang over his dark-haired head, laden heavily. Raphael tries desperately to remember the exact shade of green, the fruit that Simon holds out to him was. Rendered in black and white, Simon is a moment, a memory, frozen in time. Frozen for eternity. Like Raphael.
I
Simon stumbles into his life when another war breaks out.
Raphael barely remembers the end of the first one. He only remembers the poverty of his people and the dust and the noise. He remembers his papi not returning, and he remembers his mama crying. He remembers how mama didn't cry when Rosa died. He remembers wondering if that was because there were no more tears left.
The newspapers tell him that his country is at war again, but in Pecos, the world stands blissfully still.
The only sound and the fury of the world outside that reaches this corner is when soldiers begin passing through. Sometime later, there is news of an airfield being built nearby and, that is when, for the first time in a long time, Pecos has Northern visitors.
Simon follows him out to the orchard. Raphael wants to be annoyed. He's always liked being alone under his favorite tree. But Simon walks with him anyway, and he talks and talks. Of New York, cheerfully. Of a home left behind in Germany, darkly.
He doesn't stop taking photos even when he's talking. He catches Raphael by surprise when he takes one of him, and Raphael frowns at him, more in mild annoyance than in anger.
Simon apologizes vigorously, surrendering the polaroid to Raphael. Raphael scoffs at him but keeps the photo close to him, safe in his pocket. Simon trips over his words and gestures theatrically with his hands. He reminds Raphael of the large swan that had kept coming back to pick on their autumn harvest. He remembers how he and Rosa had helped mama chase it away.
The thought of Simon makes Raphael smile in private.
II
The nights are dark, so dark.
Raphael wakes up in a cold sweat.
Images of the savage creature still haunt him. It comes back quietly, sneaking up on him just as he thinks he's beginning to forget. It's a memory that burns colder than the sharp bite of snow on his skin. The coldness of one night so incomprehensibly dark that it stays lodged in his heart like a pointed stone that just won't weather away. He remembers its flashing red eyes, furious with bloodlust, glinting with sick enjoyment of the pain it inflicted so carelessly—almost disinterestedly—on Simon's prone figure.
The thought of Simon causes Raphael's stomach to lurch violently.
On shaky feet, he scrambles over to his basin. His damp hands slip on the white porcelain, and he grasps its edge tighter. Raphael turns on the tap and watches the swirl of water drain into the sinkhole. He heaves into the gurgle of water and watches blood make red spinning patterns in the water.
Raphael falls back into his bedding. His room is pitch dark, but his heightened vision allows him to see the moon through the clouds. And outside his window, the Truchas peaks are white, and the earth glimmers under the moonlight.
The Lord has given me shelter, but I have no purpose.
He doesn't know why he tries to sleep at night.
I
Simon wears a Kodak around his neck, one of those he has seen news journalists use in Santa Fe. He shows Raphael a side of New York he has never imagined. It's the expressions on their faces that strikes him. Raphael recognizes the hunger and the pain and the deep anguish that age young faces in Simon's polaroids. Their anger speaks to him too. And, finally, he begins to understand how mama must have felt.
Simon puts away his camera and stares impassively at the bright blue sky. There's a stoicism across his features that Raphael has never seen. He doesn't know what to do with it. He speaks to Raphael about his family crossing el Atlántico—tells him how his mother took him and his sister and ran away from home in the middle of the night.
When Simon turns to look at Raphael, there's a glimmer in his eyes. He asks Raphael—so innocently. "Would you ever come to Brooklyn with me?"
Raphael rolls his eyes and smiles without answering. He looks at Simon and secretly wonders how it would've gone if they had met when the world was gentler, and he was kinder.
II
I'm thinking of ending things.
Raphael limps through the three-foot snow, still a mile away from his destination. It's a windy night, but the elements don't hold the same harshness for him as they once did. He forgets, his body forgets faster than he has control. Faster than he wants to. The spiked cilice belt that he wears around his thigh cuts into his flesh, yet it is not unwelcome. He wants to remember. He wants his body to remember. It's a pain that grounds him. It assures him that this is in service to God.
His pastor's voice rings through his mind. Pain is good. And it is.
I'm thinking of ending things.
Raphael trudges up the stone stairs and across the sprawling front lawn littered with topiary. He walks around the stone building and glances up, seeing the lamplight he had left on in his quarters. Then he pushes open the wrought-iron gates and shuts the cold outside the wooden front door. Pain is good.
I should end this. Just end it. I just make a clean break.
In quiet, measured movements, Raphael sets about his nightly ritual. Every day he must purge his soul of sins. He knows that the sins committed are holy in purpose. It is the very act of feeding himself, keeping himself strong so that he may continue his service to the Lord. Forgiveness is assured.
Even so, Raphael knows, absolution required sacrifice. Surely, his eternal life means he has been given a second chance—a lifetime to serve.
No lingering. No waiting for things to get better.
Pulling his blinds down, Raphael strips naked and kneels in the center of his wooden floor. He looks down to examine the spiked cilice belt clamped around his thigh.
His pastor had adorned him with it. Called him a faithful follower of The Way and gifted it to him.
Raphael unstraps the leather, and the sharp metal barbs that cut into his flesh are released. He inhales sharply, looking at the blood sluice down his skin, a perpetual reminder of Christ's suffering.
Although Raphael wears his cilice longer than the requisite hours, he knows today it is no ordinary day. It never is for him. Grasping the buckle, he cinches it a notch tighter, wincing as the barbs dig deeper into his flesh. Exhaling slowly, he savors the cleansing ritual of his pain.
"Pain is good," Raphael whispers into the cold night air.
He turns his attention to the heavy, knotted hemp rope that lays neatly coiled under his bed and reaches for it. The knots are caked with dried blood, and Raphael chides himself for forgetting to clean it.
Saying a quick prayer, Raphael loops the rope in his dominant hand. Then, gripping the base of the long loop, he closes his eyes and swings it hard over his shoulder, feeling the knots slap against his back.
"Castigo corpus meum." As St. Paul says in Corinthians, he repeats with each lash the descends on him.
Raphael whips it over his shoulder again, slashing away at his flesh. Again and again, he strikes. Finally, he feels the blood begin to flow.
You can only wait so long.
Outside his window, a brilliant dawn breaks. Crimson over golden peaks.
I
I haven't been thinking about ending things for long.
Raphael stares at the swiss knife that sits on Simon's Beetle's dashboard. Unthinkingly, he slips inside the car and locks himself inside. He glances at Simon, sitting on his red blanket by the lake, a few feet away from him. Raphael knows he's only supposed to fetch the knife. To get ahold of it and take it to where Simon is waiting for him to come back, fresh guavas and rock-salt in hand.
The idea is new. But it feels old at the same time.
Suddenly, the short distance between them feels like an immeasurably large sea.
Trembling hands reach for the knife, and Raphael unfolds it. He runs the sharp edge of it along his index finger, inhaling deeply. The sunlight streaming through the windshield reflects a harsh glare, and Raphael finds himself squinting.
"Everything okay?" Simon rests his folded arms on the window and peers at him, grinning.
Raphael flushes with shame. He nods hurriedly.
"You were gone forever," Simon's voice trails back to him as he makes his way around and slips into the driver's seat beside him. "I can help," he reaches out, guavas in hand.
"I don't want them."
Simon looks a little sad at the harshness of his tone. Raphael regrets it instantly. But then he smiles. "How about some knish? Would you like to try any?"
"What?"
Simon's already leaning over the backseat, enthusiastically rifling through his backpack and babbling. "They're probably not as good as my mother's, but I know they're better than Rebecca's." Soon, he's turning toward Raphael, breaking a stuffed pastry in his hands and holding it to his lips, "It's a traditional dish."
It's like nothing Raphael has seen before, but it smells beautiful, and he cranes his neck and bites into it. A soft gasp of surprise escapes him before he can help it, and Simon's face lights up. "So?"
How odd. This is probably the last time I'll ever be in a car with Simon. Soon this will all be a distant memory. We'll both be in different places. Maybe he'll remember this moment.
"It's okay," Raphael stifles a smile. Simon scoffs, eyes alight.
Maybe he'll remember this shared laugh.
"Just okay?" Simon pouts. "I made it for you, you know."
"It's good." Raphael acceded.
"Okay… That's… Okay, I'll take that." Simon's hand reaches out to brush the corner of his mouth. Raphael frowns. He's sure there weren't any crumbs. Then he registers Simon leaning toward him.
Rapidly, Raphael grabs his wrist and pulls away, "I'm sorry." He blurts out, "I can't… I don't—"
"Oh," Simon stops, his eyebrows knitting together. "I thought…"
Raphael's free hand drops the knife and ghosts over Simon's mouth. "I do care about you," he says abruptly. "I just—"
"I understand." Simon tugs at Raphael's grasp on his hand. "Is it okay if I still hold you?" Simon's lips touch his knuckles softly; his breath is warm and gentle.
And possibly there'll be regret. Perhaps time will soften the harder edges, and… we will both think that this was sort of nice.
Raphael nods smilingly, and his heart gives a little flutter.
II
The thought comes back to him with the coming of Spring. When the snow recedes to the Truchas peaks. And the white on the ground gets buried and forgotten beneath vibrant, fluttering leaves and patches of yellow and red earth. The trees bloom in an immense variety of greens, it's more colors than Raphael has ever seen. While all other spirits exult, he stares out of the window, for as far as he can see, and he thinks to himself, quietly.
Wouldn't it be nice if Spring never came at all?
Raphael sighs, suddenly weary from the thought that his life has taken too many wrong turns.
How much longer till there's light? How long till I can once again listen to the innocent chirping of the birds and not feel the burn of shame?
His thoughts don't hold much sense for him anymore. They don't have an order. But the birds tether him to this world. Their songs are a part of everyday life, just as ingrained as the good town folk who come to Church every day, hanging onto his words as if it will be their deliverance.
Raphael simply looks to the cacophony of the birds that sit on the trees outside, in hopes that they will drown out the Devil in his thoughts.
—
Sometimes a thought is closer to Truth, to reality, than action. You can say anything. You may do anything. But you can't lie to yourself about a thought. The swiss knife has gathered rust around its tip, but Raphael holds onto it anyway.
"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been eight weeks since my last confession."
Or have I always known this was how it was going to end?
"I have broken my vow to our Lord. My God, I am sorry for my sins with all my heart."
Raphael absently scratches at the phantom memory of sharp teeth sinking into his pulse. Bleeding him, on and on, till he could bleed no more.
"In choosing to do wrong and failing to do good, I have sinned against you whom I should love above all things."
The musty smell of old hardwood that he kneels on reminds Raphael of the scent of rain-washed earth on that starless night. "I firmly intend, with your help, to do penance, to sin no more, and to avoid whatever leads me to sin."
He remembers the mischief in Simon's smile in the firelight. He remembers the smell of toasting food and the crackle of wood. It feels like another lifetime. Perhaps it is.
"Our Savior, Jesus Christ, suffered and died for us. In his name, my God, have mercy."
Why did it have to end? Raphael felt a sudden wave of despair clutch his heart. Isn't God supposed to be all-merciful? Why, then, is there only cruelty?
Raphael is yanked out of his fevered thoughts by the priest clearing his throat. "God, the Father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of his Son has reconciled the world to himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins; through the ministry of the Church may God give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and the Holy Spirit."
Something twists in Raphael's throat, "Amen." There's a sharp burn behind his eyes.
"Give thanks to the Lord, for he is good."
Raphael recalls the sound of branches snapping. He remembers violent, bloodthirsty, red eyes hovering in front of them. Most of all, he remembers the deathly silence around them.
"His mercy endures forever."
The same silence surrounds him now. It is a silence he will carry forever within himself.
And there's no way back from that point. There's never a way back.
I
Raphael feels ice-cold dread pulsing through his veins when he finally sees the creature. It's taller than him, taller than anything human. As white as bone. Long, black hair covers its face in thick, wet, disarrayed strands. From behind them, two red eyes glow sinisterly.
It has Simon's limp body held with a grasp around his neck.
—
All night Raphael hears the noise of sobbing. All night the darkness grows in him.
Someone has lit the lamp in his quarters. It must have been lit a long time ago because the light is low and casting long shadows. Raphael regards these flickering shadows with fear gripping his heart in an iron fist.
All night he hears the gentle voice of someone seeking him out. All night he glimpses dark brown hair and wide eyes. Gentler smiles that have morphed to slack, dead, unspeaking mouths, agape, cut off mid-sentence.
—
Raphael feels his stomach sink looking at the horribly bent shape of Simon dangling mid-air. He wants to scream, but only blood gushes out of his own mouth.
Raphael feels like he's drowning. The world spins in and out of focus.
There's a terrible weight on his chest that doesn't let. Something sharp, very sharp, is slicing his skin open, and he can feel the warmth of his own blood spilling out of his throbbing wound.
—
Absence blows grayly, and the night goes dense.
The night is the shade of the dead's eyelids. A viscous night that condenses like black oil on his being and rolls down his skin. It exhales humidly, a blackness that urges Raphael to grasp for an empty space without warmth, without cold.
All night he flees from something. All night he sings a song of mourning.
The swiss knife is a cold, reassuring weight in his bloodied hands.
All night he prays to God, and all night he feels God abandon him slowly like the day that falls like water through the night. All night Raphael drowns in Simon's eyes, which become crimson eyes, which become his eyes.
He prods himself toward the middle of the floor, curls himself into a circle of silence. All night he stays on the edge of life. He sees something lurch toward him. It is something dank, something contrived of an inhuman silence, and the scent of death.
All night he holds himself back, the knife, an unforgiving weight in his hand. Then Raphael crosses at the sight of a circle of bitter light.
—
All night Raphael asks God why. He stares at the crucifix he carves on his wrist and wonders how there is still blood to lose. All night he only hears silence and the sound of sobbing.
Life drains out of him like his faith abandons him. The only sobbing voice is his. His heart slows, and unseeing eyes gaze at the vermillion dawn rising over golden sands.
Raphael's hand unclenches around the knife. He shakes like the leaves outside in the demented wind that rattles the glass on his window. No more does he know anything. No more does he want to know anything other than this silence and this perpetual waiting. The clatter of Simon's knife from his hand is a small delay before his final pursuit of inexistence.
III
Perhaps it is because he's visited in daylight, or maybe it's the doing of time. But, Raphael doesn't startle when he senses the demonic presence behind him.
His swiss knife weighs down his breast pocket reassuringly. He knows he's fast. He's ready.
Raphael stands up slowly from where he's kneeling at the altar, turning deliberately on the heels of his feet. Then he bolts towards the figure lurking in the darkened end of the aisle.
Raphael feels the surge of energy before it hits him.
Red and orange threads halt him a few feet away from the presence. They bind around him like ropes, rendering him immobile. "Who are you?" Raphael exclaims into the darkness. "Why do you corrupt a House of God with your presence?"
A tall, lean figure emerges from the shadows. It's feet click against the stone floor, and it follows the swish of a red cloak. A sound bubbles gently from them, a low chuckle that catches Raphael by surprise. He mutters a prayer under his breath when the figure emerges fully into the light. Golden eyes that glitter and are kind and look upon Raphael with a softness he has long forgotten. So beautiful.
"Are you—are you the Devil?" Raphael gasps, scrambling back toward the altar.
"I don't know, my child." The creature says. Voice as warm as sunlight. It makes Raphael yearn for home. For a life that is not this hell. "I'm Magnus," he sighs, "And I hope you will forgive me for my rude introduction," his eyes point meaningfully to the ropes that hold Raphael. "I'm afraid your strength could do me much damage otherwise."
Raphael is still trembling, but Magnus reaches out. He stares at the surprisingly human-looking skin, golden brown tones, warm and inviting. Raphael shakes his head, but Magnus reaches out anyway and offers his hand.
It will be a tremendous leap of faith. But Raphael doesn't have any more to lose.
"I'm here to help you," he says quietly. "I have friends who are like you."
"There's no one like me," Raphael says darkly, but finds that he believes Magnus. And he takes his hand against his better judgment.
—
Brooklyn is the strangest place Raphael's ever been to. Magnus' apartment, even more peculiar. But Magnus is the most unusual of them all. Magnus asks him things like how long he's been alone, how has he fed himself, and Raphael can't help but wonder, can't help but ask, why?
Magnus only smiles in return and tends to his wounds. His magic is blue and as gentle as his touch when they knit Raphael's broken skin back together.
—
"I have been thinking of ending things." The words sound strange now that they're out in the open. They gather weight and float down and settle heavily on Raphael's shoulders. "I don't remember when it started."
When did it start? What if it wasn't my thought?
"That's alright," she says softly. "It's a journey."
Raphael startles at the response. He's aware that he wasn't alone, but he isn't used to his errant thoughts having answers. In his hand, he clutches the coolness of his brass pendant.
"St. Christopher?" She cocks her head at him when everyone has left, she's smiling. They're left picking up used coffee cups and soup bowls together, again.
Raphael tucks the chain around his neck back inside his shirt. "Yes." He doesn't mean to converse any further. He's tired, and he wants to go back to bed, to lie in it until his bones feel strong enough.
"I'm Maia, by the way."
"Magnus told me."
"Right," she popped the last syllable. She doesn't say any more, apparently having received Raphael's signal loud and clear, her hands make quick work of the dishes.
Raphael suddenly feels uneasy about the silence. He rarely does, but something about Maia makes him want to fill the gaps in his soul; he doesn't even realize he has. "Patron saint of travelers," he says under his breath, his tone is apologetic. "Are you religious?"
"Of course." Her dark eyes brighten at the question as if she's been waiting to be asked that one. "I pray at the altar of Freddie Mercury every waking moment."
Raphael snorts with laughter, his shoulders shaking delightedly. He nods his head when he's collected himself. "That's certainly something."
"Are you?" Maia asks, glancing where his pendant hangs. "...a traveler?"
Raphael thinks of Pecos and of Truchas. He thinks of the long, long road to Brooklyn before Magnus found him. "I suppose I am."
"I suppose we all are."
—
Raphael finds that there are more people like him. He lives in a building that could hold all of Pecos folded like a handkerchief. He takes his time, looking at the frenzy of light even at night. It's a city that never sleeps. There isn't a corner that's invisible or silent.
Maia takes him to the bridge he had seen in Simon's polaroids. It isn't Simon's Brooklyn from decades ago, anymore. The lights are brighter, and more colors are reflected in the river than Raphael has ever seen in his life. However, when his eyes glide over the sharp angles and swoops of the bridge, Raphael imagines there must have been this same sense of awe that Simon must have felt, peering through his Kodak.
—
Maia's watching him while he thumbs through the yellowed pages of the leather-bound in his hand. Maia always watches him. He thinks maybe Magnus has put her up to it, he feels a little irked at the thought, but ultimately, he doesn't mind. He knows Maia will stop if he asks, but he's afraid she would.
"What are you reading?"
Raphael is glad for the conversation. Maia draws him away from his thoughts. She guides him away from the pits and falls of his memories, even though she never speaks to him about herself, even though he notices her hiding the scars on her neck around other people.
Raphael opens the book randomly and reads aloud the first lines that catch his eyes, "Wherever I am, I am what is missing. When I walk, I part the air, and always the air moves in to fill the spaces where my body's been. We all have reasons for moving. I move to keep things whole."
Maia raises her eyebrows, and a smile sits widely across her lips. "That's not morbid at all. Mark Strand?" She chuckles, and something gentle grips his heart.
Raphael doesn't know, so he looks and finds the same name printed at the top. "Why are you here?" He asks instead.
"Magnus asked me to look," she shrugs. Raphael is stunned by her honesty. "But I'm here to tell you it's time for our thing."
—
There is a late midnight breeze when they walk back Downtown. It's as quiet as New York ever gets, the low hum of distant traffic and the rise and fall of conversation on the sidewalk and from the shops that lined at the road across from them.
"Don't get me wrong," Maia started as they crossed an intersection to walk on the pavement by the river. "But I do think naming a soup kitchen St. Jude's is a bit on the nose."
"It's not inaccurate," Raphael teased.
"That's hardly the point," she continued. "Would you like being called hopeless or lost?"
Raphael has an argument ready on the tip of his tongue. Except, they're all scripted and rehearsed, and he isn't sure if that's what Maia means anyway. She always gives him more to think about.
—
Sometimes putting yourself back together is a long, arduous task.
"Magnus said you liked knishes ?" Maia beams, warm like late summer sunlight through a glass window. "We should do them tonight. I cook them really well if I say so myself." She bursts with energy, striding around behind the counter, getting the pots and pans ready before Raphael even begins to tie his apron on.
When Raphael steps beside her, she stops to quickly adjust his shirt's collar, upended from his movement. Maia murmurs a quiet "That's better" and goes back to the heap of vegetables on her station.
Raphael just stands there for a moment; warmth coursing through him. He feels wanted. It's overwhelming, to be so desired, and Raphael basks in it, absorbing and reflecting every gesture of Maia's acknowledgment. He didn't think this version of himself could ever be wanted. Sometimes, being offered kindness feels like the exact proof of why he's been ruined.
But now, there's help along the way.
"I'd like that," Raphael smiles back. "Thank you." He knows he can't savor them himself, but he also knows the value of joy that it will bring to the hungry.
You can only wait so long.
I
It's a bright August afternoon when Simon tells him he has to leave.
Raphael drags his feet through the mud that has formed from a sudden, heavy overnight rain. His feet direct him to where he has found Simon waiting for him in all these months since he first came to Pecos—toothy grin and a rapidly snapping camera.
Raphael takes long drags from his cigarette and follows along the narrow stone path to the courtyard. The guava trees are still in the heat, not a leaf moves. Under his feet, the earth holds its breath.
Simon leans against the small bark of his favorite tree, his lips move to form words he can't quite hear from this distance. Raphael walks to him, heart in his throat.
His hair shimmers, falling in a dark brown cascade over his forehead. Raphael wants to push it off his face, wants to feel its texture against his fingers. The mid-afternoon light, streaming through the humid gaps of the leaves, bounce off it, casting a spectrum across his face.
Raphael strains to hear what he's saying. He drops his cigarette from his fingers and stubs it out with his foot, taking a step towards him. Simon squints up at him in the bright sunlight when he's close enough and, instinctively, Raphael's hand lifts between them to shield his face from the sun. It's not a very useful gesture. Simon stays quiet, and his light brown eyes bore into Raphael's.
Only silence. The sunlight, sparkling in his hair.