Work Text:
On Tuesday, a miracle happens.
Pucci is alone, as he usually is. The doors have been unlocked but not opened, and though townsfolk are welcome to come by, none have chosen to do so this morning. Mass is not until the early evening and no one seems in need of console today, so Pucci fills his time with the small, simple tasks that make up his day. There’s always a need to keep the church tidy, and between the dusting and the scrubbing and the sweeping, he has plenty to do. The work is dull, but at least is isn’t dreary.
All this work is something he could assign to another, perhaps one of the altar servers who come in the afternoons. Or, he supposes he could pass it along to the parishioners as they often take on small tasks when necessary. But Pucci prefers to do this himself, letting the others handle the other multitude of duties too difficult for him to do with his twisted foot. After all, was there not joy to be found in labour? Was cleanliness not next to Godliness?
And there is another reason he’s reluctant to share this duty, even if he tries not to dwell too much on it. If he invited others to clean the church in his stead, then that would mean someone might see the statue in the chancel .
The chancel is Pucci’s favorite place to be. The rood screen is lovely and ornate, a delicate swarm of branches that flow outwards and upwards, drawing your eyes skyward to the statue of the Lord as he hangs from the rood beam and suffers for them. Within the wooden branches are paintings of saints and apostles, carefully placed so each is given the proper reverence they deserve while not being so cluttered as to draw away from the overall piece. It’s truly marvelous, both concealing and yet also revealing just enough that the mysteries of Mass can be seen and yet not seen.
As a boy, he had often craned his head while kneeling, catching a glimpse of the priest at work as he spoke and blessed and performed mysteries that turned wine to blood and bread to flesh - a flash of a hand through one branch, the sight of robes as they swept and moved through another. The acts of transubstantiation had fascinated Pucci and in his younger years, he had sometimes played at it, holding cups of water in one hand and mimicking the words and signs he half-saw through the partitions, trying to recreate the miracle that Jesus had done.
Now each day, he is the one who dresses himself in those fine robes and who steps behind the rood screen, performing divine rituals beneath the watchful eye of God. Above the screen, fully visible to all, Jesus and Mary and John weep and mourn and stand witness to the Crucifixion. And below the screen, concealed in the chancel where only priests could see, there stood the other statue - the beautiful man who was God.
Perhaps it was a little blasphemous to think of him as such. It wasn’t as if Pucci knew for certain that the statue was meant to be a depiction of the Lord. There was no name listed in any of the records and when Pucci had enquired, Father Wren had simply stated that he didn’t know where the statue came from, only that it was required of them to leave it where it stood. To remove it would risk violating some long-since-agreed-upon contract that ensured the church received a rather generous tithe each year from some far off estate. Those terms had been agreed upon long before Father Wren had been a priest there, and even before the time of Father Etchells, who had served long before Enrico Pucci’s family had come to the area. And while there were only a handful of depictions of God that Pucci could name, when He was given a human form and face, it was that of an older man. The statue was young and handsome with a clean shaven face, his body forever leaning slightly forward as if in deep conversation with another.
But the statue could be of no one else. Pucci was sure of this, even if he dared not give a voice to those thoughts. His face was open and welcoming, and yet his stone eyes were piercing and seemed to follow you no matter where you stood. He was nude but for the immaculately carved and tattered remains of what had perhaps been a shift, still barely clinging to his hips. The stone was so thin that Pucci sometimes wondered how any man had managed to carve anything so detailed and so fine. A master craftsman had been at work, and they must have laboured long to make the cloth seem to grow bare and thin in places. No man had ever been depicted so elegantly and powerful, and yet-
And yet, there was something else about the statue, something that raised it beyond just a depiction of a man. Pucci was drawn to it at all times, his eyes always meeting the statue’s when he stepped into the chancel. It was God. Only the Lord had ever drawn Pucci in as this statue had. Only his faith had ever been matched by it.
So, he reasoned with himself, it was only good and right that he took care when cleaning the statue. There was nothing wrong with looking forward to it or feeling joy burning away in his heart when he thought of God in the chancel, hidden from view.
It is a Tuesday and Pucci is alone in the church, and the statue waits to be cleaned. He has clean rags and a bucket of hot water, steam gently pouring over the lip of the bucket as he carries it to the chancel. The statue is just where he always is, coming into view only once inside. The day outside is a warm one and the church is quiet. It seems no one will interrupt and so Pucci sets about performing his favorite chore. He dips the first cloth in the water and wrings it until it’s damp before he runs it over the statue’s bare back.
Some days, he does his chores in silence, and some days he speaks a little with the statue. Today, his heart feels light and so he hums out hymns as he works, letting praises lift him higher as he washes God clean, removing any specks of dust or debris, no matter how small or insignificant.
Pucci’s hand traces along the shape of the statue’s body, over the well-defined plains of that stone back and over the curves of those broad shoulders. He’s careful to clean each crease and fold in the stone flesh, not allowing any dust to build. When he had first begun to clean the statue, it had gone years without a thorough cleaning and it had taken Pucci many hours to remove the build-up dust. Now that the statue gleamed white and glorious again, he was reluctant to repeat that, or to let it happen again. His face grows warm as he cleans and he tries to keep his mind clear of other thoughts, focusing on the words of the song he hums and on the parts of his duty rather than the whole. His fingers dip the rag in the water to clean it and he runs his fingertips over the statue’s stomach, following each line to its inevitable conclusion. He tries not to think of the statue as more than a representation of God (and he could only be God, for no human man had ever been so perfect or flawless).
When the heat in his face builds to an unbearably hot flush, he stops and tries to rid himself of the worst of it, opening the back of his cossack just enough to let the warmth leach out. It’s so quiet in the church today, and through the stained glass windows, the light pours in through the portraits of saints. The colours pour over the pews, dust motes turning lazily in the light. The sounds of the town outside have fallen always and Pucci feels almost as if time has frozen in this one perfect moment.
There’s no one here. Still though, he looks anyway, turning his head to peer out of the chancel. His eyes move across the nave, seeking out any sign of life. He hasn’t heard anyone come in, but he does it anyway, because he knows the one time he’s negligent and assumes he is alone will be the time he’s caught doing this. And God may forgive him but Pucci knows no one else will.
His face is warm as Pucci faces the statue and he feels it flush harder as his hands settle on that vast, stone chest. His palms spread wide and his head bows forward, until their foreheads gently meet. The statue is always cool to the touch and though his face is red, he feels the cold leech away at him, draining some of the growing heat. One hand slides down, across the still wet stone, before it settles at the statue’s waist. His fingers curve across the hip and fitting against the smooth skin and the stone tatters clinging to his form.
Pucci embraces the statue, letting the cold of it pull the heat from his body. He’s never held another living creature like this. This is the only time he allows himself to do this - to indulge in a facsimile of affection and tenderness. To do so with a living person would surely lead to sin. But a statue can’t lead him down the improper path. And to hold God, to touch God and to press his cheek to his-
That can’t be a sin. Loving God is not a sin.
Pucci turns his face to touch his cheek against the stone mouth, feeling those full lips press against his burning flesh. He feels the flames of desire lick at him and he feels them cooled in the same moment, tempered by the stone. Any lust or sinful affection is easily rebuffed by the statue, thank God. Here, whatever he feels is made holy and good and pure, as he feels it only for God. His eyes are closed and Pucci turns his face, meaning to press his other cheek to the stone. For a second, his mouth drags over God’s mouth, his lips pressing against the parted stone. And for a moment, just for a moment, he feels how the stone has warmed beneath his cheek. If he only tried, he could imagine the stone was flesh and blood, and that the lips-
No. No, that was too much. That went too far. He pulls back from the statue, his hands quickly dropping from God’s shoulders and waist and curling in on Pucci’s own body. He takes a deep breath and lets it out, the breath whooshing from his lungs in a deep sigh. Enough. That was enough. Perhaps it was even too much. If he was careless, then one day someone would walk in and see him. They might notice the way Pucci looked when he touched the statue and they might mistake his fondness for the Lord for something far more deviant in nature.
His face still burns. He lets out another sigh and fans himself somewhat, hoping to see the heat fade and the prickling in his body cease. It’s time to finish cleaning the statue and to return to his other duties. There’s mass to prepare for after all, and all the other things lying ahead. Pucci opens his eyes again, picking the rag up from the floor and rinsing it. He reaches for the dry rag to finish cleaning the statue, his mind already moving ahead of him.
Pucci lifts the rag and pauses as he looks at the statue fully. Someone’s wrong. There’s liquid on the face, thick and red. Pucci reaches out to touch it, wiping at it. It’s dark and sticky and it smears over the statue’s face. His hand recoils back and he quickly gets the wet rag, doing his best to wipe it up before it can smear the statue. It has a rank smell to it, copper and rot. It smells like the slaughterhouse on the edge of town-
Blood. It’s blood. He gapes at it and quickly touches his own face, seeking out a wound. Did he smear it there when he touched the statue? His own face feels dry and clean, the only liquid on his forehead is sweat. When he looks up, he sees nothing dripping from the ceiling. There’s no sign of a bird up there or a bat, or some other animal that might have injured itself and would be bleeding down on them.
He wipes at the face, trying to clean it. But it seems that wherever he wipes, there’s more of it, more and more blood, and no matter how frantic or quick his motions get, Pucci can’t manage to be rid of it. The blood is smeared over his hands and it’s stained the sleeves of his cossack, and yet there’s more of it, thick and red and coursing down the statue’s cheeks, dripping over his chin and splattering on the ground.
Pucci yanks his hands back from the statue and he stares, realizing with a mounting horror and wonder that the blood is not dripping from above. The blood is from the statue’s own eyes.
He’s crying blood. The statue is weeping. God has breathed life into the statue, and He has given Pucci a sign…
“It’s a miracle…” Pucci says, his voice so tight and breathless. He steps back and stumbles, and he falls to his knees. His hands clutch together, bloody fingers wrapping around one another as he brings them high in prayer. “God, oh God! It’s a miracle!”
The statue weeps blood and Pucci weeps with him, overcome by the miracle happening before his eyes. The blood gathers on the ground before him and Pucci bows his head and prays, overwhelmed by the revelation he has received.