The Magdalene Ch. 03

The Magdalene by Racy Wilde is a Gothic Erotic novel. Please read The Magdalene Ch. 01 (parts one and two) and Ch. 02 to fully appreciate this installment.

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My hideout is the grand library. In between classes, I prefer to sit amongst the dusty shelves of paper and board rather than on the tree-less lawns of the campus. The pages of old literature might be dead, but on them, they hold living knowledge.

I sit at a desk between two high shelves full of encyclopedias. They haven't been touched in years, nor will they ever again, except for their removal, and disposal. Everything has a used-by date.

But it's the solitude I'm after, and there's none greater than in the back corner of a university library in the middle of New York. Solitude is like an old friend, a space that allows me to be who I am, to enjoy the things that mean something to me, no matter how small or how old.

I have my own set of white cotton gloves--I became sick of the librarian assistants denying me access to the originals. Now finally, a first edition of my past lies wide open in front of me. It's been a long time since.

My fingertips can't touch the precious pages--the acid, dirt and oil transference would destroy the manuscript, and a plastic sneeze guard protects it from my humanness. But, at least my eyes can beset upon the first print one more time. The Monk--portrayed as a gothic romance, of all things--is a story that tells a part of my own life.

Lewis was just a boy when I first met him wandering the streets of Den Haag. An inspiring writer plagued by his own masculinity, he needed a story to admit to him that perfection was not a mortal's business. So, I gave him one of mine as a warning, and out of some affection I had for the boy.

Lewis went wild with the details in his own poetic version, his stark imagination ruled his words with an iron fist, but he delightfully surprised me. Not yet twenty, he knew the heart better than men in their fifties. He sure paid a great price for exposing it.

The tinkling on the glass above me pulls my attention away from the youth's voluptuous words. Translucent dots speckle the window like tears meant to wash the world clean. I sigh in relief.

It rains when I need it to. Always before an assignment. It is a gift for me to prepare. It's the sign that Father John is not mistaken.

We must bear the burdens of our abilities. Love and loss still don't come naturally to me, it's a most ferocious pain, but it is nothing like Father John's burden. Receiving Divine inspiration is his great sacrifice, for they are nasty pieces of work. They come to him at the most inconvenient of times. He senses when they're close--the twitching in his limbs begin about a week before, he becomes faint, breathless. The seizures strike hard.

He tries to stay within the walls of the church when he feels one coming on, but that becomes impractical with all his community work. No matter his strength, he drops wherever he is. He wrenches and writhes, but he always manages to keep his quaking body silent.

To the medics, who are regularly called out by concerned citizens, John is known as Disco J. He dances and dances his little heart out on the sidewalks of the city. Diagnosed with a severe case of clonic seizures, he won't take his meds--if the seizures stop, so does the inspiration. In this day and age it has been easier for him, but there have been a number of times we've had to save him from asylums, and before that, the madman's dungeon--cruel oubliettes of the Dark Ages.

Turning back the pages of the manuscript, I land on the first and study the penned pictorial--Ambrosio's pack with the Devil. The Dragon. The monk's knee on the cross. The contract. The shades of darkness and light. What Romance ends with such an ignominious death?

A body plonks down opposite me. Etta Lake. I've been expecting her.

She wriggles in her chair, looking rather out of place in the stuffy old library. A sterile laboratory, with seething chemicals and filter masks, is more her scene.

She swings a cooler onto the desktop. The big red writing can't be missed: HUMAN ORGAN FOR TRANSPLANT.

"There better not be a heart in there," I half tease, though I wouldn't put it past her.

"Ha, very funny. Don't worry, I stole it out of the supply closet in the med lab." She catches my twitched lips. Rolling her beautiful brown eyes at me, she sighs, "Oh god, it's clean, alright. You have to keep the samples on ice."

Swivelling the cooler around to face Etta, I tap on the words. "Yeah, like that's not going to freak out the Rabbi when I bring it into the room with me."

"That's why I got you these." Etta digs into her satchel and pulls out a fan of stickers.

I take one. "Red Sox? Really? You want me walking around town with Sawx stickers?"

"Yeah, go Cardiac Kids." She pops a whoop-whoop palm into the air.

The pun doesn't miss me, and I'm surprised that Etta knows her some baseball history. But she doesn't get it. Boston colors in Yankee territory is just asking for trouble.

"They were free..." She slides the rest of the stickers across the table.

"I bet they were... I'll get jumped in New York flashing one of these."

"Oh, stop complaining." Her big brown eyes glaring at me ends the issue.

I have to smile. I can never win with Etta. I see problems everywhere, she only sees possibilities, and she's never scared to remind me of my poor attitude. I've needed her all my life, but we only found her this last century.

Etta is our fledgling. She's just a baby, not yet a century old. We're not sure how she came about, her lineage isn't clear, but she is one of the Elect, and her mad sciencey skills have certainly come in handy.

A Divine episode hit Father John hard and fast one night when he was right in the middle of a sermon. He got to Etta just in time, finding her in a Baltimore hospital, an African American ward designated for the dying. It wasn't the knot in her stomach that was making her sick--a tumor from working long days in the tobacco fields--but the radium tubes the doctors had inserted into her cervix to treat her cancer.

After pulling off her faux death--an intricate cloak and dagger affair on our part--John took her to The Gardener to source the poison killing her, and the rods were removed. She recovery the next day.

Henrietta is just like Father John and me--she has the immortal gene. Of course, we didn't know that immortal genes existed until she came along...

It happened that knowledge of Etta's miraculous power got out. From studying a sample of her tissue, doctors stumbled upon her immortal qualities. Her cells didn't die after a couple of days like normal cells do, but they replicated outside of her body. The doctors managed to culture her cells, and now every lab in the world stores them--tons and tons of her immortal element.

Henrietta has dedicated all her time to studying genetics, obtaining degree after degree. The study of her own immortal being has been her life's work. Over the years she has quietly influenced the scientific community, gently guiding them to her own discoveries--mapping the genome, and such. Her immortal ability has changed the world. Scientists have used her cells to help cure Parkinson's and AIDS. Everyone who has ever had a polio shot has a piece of Henrietta inside of them. She is the sole reason the human race now lives longer.

From the cold box, Etta takes out a packet. Ripping open the plastic, she slides out a biopsy stick into her hand, and matter-of-factly explains, "Okay, so push this end up against a big fleshy bit, like his leg. Click here..." Her thumb pushes down on the button at the top and a skinny rod shoots out, scaring the panties off me. "Click again to take the sample and then clip the plastic seal on. See, easy."

"That's a mighty thick needle."

She huffs at me. "You sure you can do this?"

Biting my lip is a dead giveaway I'm tossing it up, but I can't help it. It's a hard question. Cutting off a finger or severing an earlobe I'm well practiced at, and it would have sufficed in the old days. Now Etta requires me to jab people with needles, which ironically makes me a little queasy. At the risk of sounding cliché, I hate needles. But I don't want to let her down. She needs this--we need this. "Yeah, I can do this," I mutter to convince myself.

Etta gives me a raised eyebrow, and a tone, "Just make sure you do it when he's... you know, right in the middle of it."

"His orgasm?"

"No," she frowns, "his vision."

"I know, I was just confirming." Not. Nerves don't do me well, especially when I know I have to stab someone I hold dear. I've had to do some unthinkable things in my time to the people I've loved, but love never stops the Greater Good. Never...

Taking the biopsy stick out of her hand, I inspect it up close.

"Are you going to warn him beforehand?" Etta pulls my gaze back on to her.

Now that's the question. "No, definitely no. It would be too hard to convince the Rabbi a needle--that puts all needles to shame--intruding his body is truly done in the Name. Not to mention, the anticipation would be a mood-killer. Who on earth could come under those conditions? I think not." I push a tight smirk.

Etta snickers in amusement. "There's two sticks in the box. And if he's a bleeder, I've put some pads and gauze in there too."

Bleeder? I'm sure she's just messing with me.

"Whatever you do don't hit a major artery." She's not joking, her serious face is on.

I know exactly where I'm going next after this little pep talk--straight to the medical section to study up on human anatomy.

"Ree?" Etta nabs my attention again while she stands, hitching her satchel over her shoulder. "So I'll meet you at Paulie's Café, yeah? At nine?"

"There abouts."

"Re-e..?" Shifting her weight, Etta pushes her hip out and lands her hand on it.

"I can't tell how long he's going to take," I complain, as if it's the Rabbi's fault he's like a bubble--you never know when he's going to pop. But lateness is an old habit that I can't shake off, a two thousand year old habit. I've made peace with it, but still, Henrietta expects me to change to fit her schedule. I love her anyway. "Nine o'clock," I confirm to make her feel better.

She glares at me again with her warm chocolatey eyes before leaving me alone with the organ box.

I close The Monk and trade it in for an hour with Vesaliu's pictorial anatomy book, Epitome. It's filled with intricate sketches of his personal dissections. I marvel and cringe at his agonizing depictions of human flesh. There is beauty in death, even the decay the comes after. Horrific and terrifying beauty.

Oh boy--I think I've got it.

I leave for the student café to get a bagel and milk, and then start for home before dusk, all the while my knapsack hugs my back, and the organ-chiller swings in my hand.

On the southbound train, the looks given me are full of suspicion. Better that than aggression. The Sawx stickers are still intact, tucked away in the cold box--I thought it safer to look like an organ harvester than a Boston supporter on public transport.

I make it to the street entrance of my apartment. The building is right out of a Broadway musical with its fire escape stairs above an Indian market store and budget pharmacy. But it's home, in New York, at least.

Gaius is slumped on the sidewalk next to a dump of white plastic bags filled with trash. He is always there, body weary, weather-worn, and clothes gray and sullen from the foulness of the city air. He's looking more tragic than usual with his salt-and-pepper hair curling up onto his beanie.

Dismounting my knapsack, I pull out the bagel and milk. I wait for a couple ploughing down the path before crossing over to the gutter side.

Crouching down to him, the old man doesn't acknowledge me. The dampness in his woven jacket sharpens his destitute smell. His eyes are closed, breath scraping against the back of his throat as if he is snoozing, but I know he isn't.

"Gaius?" I gently call him out of his meditation.

His marbling eyes lift to the nothing over my shoulder.

"Here, food." I open his wrinkling hands resting in his lap and place the items into his palms. He nods and grunts with cautious gratitude. He will not speak to me--I know this. We have played this game many times throughout the centuries. It's all meant to be part of the charade--the street filth and state of confusion--but it still doesn't take away the pain of seeing him like this.

I'm not supposed to reach out to him. He doesn't like it.

Gaius is a solider at heart, and touched--he offered his house openly to the Followers as a hideaway right under the noses of his fellow Romans.

Now he sits here all day and all night just watching over me--a sentinel called by the Divine. If only he would allow me to provide a refuge from the world, just for one night... He won't accept, of course. To be the protector he is called to be, he must have a clear view. So, I never tempt him by extending the offer to enter my haven hovering above the street, made safe by him for these past ten years. I respect him too much to do that.

Another wave of putrid living hits my nose. Gaius has become unusually decrepit of late, as if his strength is faltering, and I don't feel as safe as I used to. If I didn't know him any better, I'd say I was losing his protection powers. But Gaius will never let anything happen to me, not without his death first.

Surely he must know the priest is in our midst?

The milk and bagel sit there in his hands. Seeing him eat something would give me some peace. I reach for the carton, with the intent of opening it for him.

With wrenching speed, Gaius suddenly snatches the food out of my grasp, giving me a cold shoulder.

My heart clenches and I withdraw. "I'm sorry, I wasn't going to take your food."

Hunching away from me, he hoards what little I've given him, and I hope it is all part of his act. I'm not sure.

I sigh and rise. Looking over my dear friend one more time, I wonder how we came to be like this.

Turning my back and walking inside is something I must do.

Finding my keys at the bottom of my bag, I enter the stairwell and make the climb to the top.

When unlocked, I push my door open. My fingers lift--a memory built into my muscles to touch the mezuzah that's not there. Being an Irish woman now, I shouldn't keep outward observances of my family's old religion, including relics posted at my door.

Now, my home has sanctity because I believe it so.

As soon as I step through the door, the dusty world falls away. I set down the organ box in the armchair, and knapsack too. I'm glad to take off my grimy duster.

It's almost time, the last kisses of the sun brightens the kitchen ceiling.

At the sink, I ready the coffeemaker for my return. I shift the takeout boxes off the bench and clamber onto the top. Turning the lock, I then hook my palms under the middle frame and force the window open.

Atticus slinks in around the sill and meows at me.

"Hey, kitty." I pick him up. He's a little skinnier than I like--I haven't seen him in a while. His pelt is still soft being stretched over his ribs, and the vibrations from his purr tickle my hand.

His contentment in my arms unwinds me from the stress I've been feeling about the biopsy. Etta and I are bound to be pushing the limits of the realm--and Father John would definitely disapprove of our experiments--but I must know what makes life worth living.

Letting Atticus go, I take up a half-empty chop suey box. I rip it down the side and around, creating the perfect food tray. As soon as I set it down, the cat hoes in. He lets me stroke along his fur while he licks up the chow.

I try not to get too attached to animals--I prefer strays for all the reasons, but mostly for their independence.

It broke my heart when I saw Hereward's skin pulled back and pinned down. He was just a toad but he relied on me. After seeing his innards taken from their cavity and split open on my baking table, it was too much. The sixteen hundreds was not my favorite century. William Harvey knew I wasn't a witch--there was no evidence--and still he went through his examination. I fetched him ale in good faith, and when I returned, I found that not only did he kill my pet toad, he totally defiled the carcass by obliterating it on my bread board! The rage in me that day, but I couldn't express it, lest I'd be apprehended, dragged into the town center, and burnt at the stake. That's when I left England. It was time though, civil war was looming.

I leave Atticus to it, and creep out the window to the back fire escape. I go up, and on the top bridge I pull on the old TV cable hanging down from the gutter.

The pirate ladder falls, hitting me on the head. Untwisting it, I pull hard to check it is still affixed to the roof. It's the only way to get to the top--I've made sure of it.

I step on the first rung, testing my weight. Heights are not an easy thing for me, and I'm a safety girl. Filling my cheeks with air, I concentrate on my exhale to get focus, and draw out a little bravery.

Hooking onto the rope ladder, I ascend to the top and flop my torso over the roof edge to help my foot catch. Falling and rolling is the only way I can get over the top. It's always wet and slippery when I have to come up here.

Over the city skyline, the first true lights of the evening blink in the heavens. I'm right on time, but I take a moment to admire the last of the golden light.

My grunge rock ring tone calls to me through my apartment window below. Márk has been at the back of my mind the whole day. It's been days, and I haven't returned any of his calls. I need to make amends and face his disappointment for literally running out on him like that. But I know I will likely do something awful to him again. It's inevitable.

Sometimes I think to tell Márk who I am--I've always loved watching the innocent marvel at the wonders of this world. They gaze so brightly upon it all, not seeing the dark forces beneath working against them.

Márk deserves an apology at least.

The ringing stops.

I close my eyes and promise myself I will go see him. He plays Thursdays at the Spanish bar in the West Village--where we first met. It's settled.

Twilight is upon me.

The brick hut in the center of the rooftop is disguised as the building's ventilation box. I slip between the mirage walls, painted to create an illusion of solid brick.

Cloaked from any busybodies in the neighboring buildings, I release my clothes to the cement under my feet. From the makeshift shelf, I take the sea sponge and rub it over my naked body, scraping off any dead skin--daily life--encasing me.

Next, I brush through my fiery mane with a coarse comb, pulling out anything not fully committed to holding onto my scalp. I plait it into a manageable tail.

I rest my alter ego's ring of St Bridget on the shelf. Ree Brennan should like trinkets, but I won't wear any other jewelry, no matter how much Father John bids me to. I have enough in my life to remind me of what was done to Joshua.

Red and raw, I reach into the mikveh. The rainwater is cold--that, I expected. Turning my hand into a scoop, I take up some of the pure water and pour it over my shoulder to begin the ablution. It gives me goose flesh, and my nipples instantly harden. I spread the excess water over my skin to give some sort of warning to my warm body of what is to come.

Stepping closer, I push up on the canvas overhead, a makeshift funnel that collects the rain water and camouflages the tub from everything above. It is hanging a little too low and needs to be re-stretched across the top.

Using the stool, I step up and over the cemented stone wall of the bath. In between is filled with clean soil to embed the jacuzzi. The structure is enough to satisfy the old law.