Martuk ... the Holy: Proseuche

By Jonathan Winn

And cradled in her kindness, I dove back into the blood soaked memories of this, my life.

With those words, the immortal Maruk's tale continues.

From modern Paris, he speaks of his life in the religious chaos and pagan magic of 3rd century Antioch. Of his friends, a man haunted by grief and regret, and a woman with secrets as thick as the woolen of her constant cloak. Of days marked by the greed of Rome and the ambitions of those driven by dangerous delusion.

He remembers wandering souls who returned with their own stories to tell. Who shared their own memories of blazing deserts and a darkness with teeth. Of being imprisoned in a myth built by the lies of others. And then Martuk recalls a magic so dark it summons demons from a cloudless sky and rips the sleeping dead from their slumber.

The past revisited, Martuk ends his tale with a confession. A modern-day betrayal so cruel, the rest of his life everlasting threatens to be one of searing regret and never-ending shame.

This sequel to Jonathan Winn's Martuk ... the Holy is a tale of stumbling humanity and shocking brutality. Forgiveness and release. Death. Immortality. And the tenuous hope for blessed redemption.

This is Martuk ... the Holy ... Proseuche.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jonathan Winn
• Release date: Jul 7, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310625268

Jonathan Winn

Jonathan Winn is a screenwriter as well as the author of Eidolon Avenue: The First Feast (Crystal Lake Publishing), the full-length novels Martuk ... the Holy (A Highlight of the Year, 2012 Papyrus Independent Fiction Awards), Martuk ... the Holy: Proseuche (Top Twenty Horror Novels of 2014, Preditors & Editors Readers Poll), the upcoming Martuk ... the Holy: Shayateen and The Martuk Series, an ongoing collection of short fiction inspired by Martuk ...His work can also be found in Horror 201: The Silver Scream and Writers on Writing, Vol. 2 as well as his award-winning short story "Forever Dark" in Tales from the Lake, Vol. 2, all from Crystal Lake Publishing.

Book preview

What Others are Saying about Martuk ... The Holy

A Highlight of 2012

-- Papyrus Independent Fiction Awards, 2012

holy mother of sweet Jesus ... the book grabs you from the first sentence and doesn't let go

-- Megan Broutian, meganblogs

... a very dark and fantastical tale where angels and demons blend together; where violence and sexuality are entwined and madness and clarity are confused.

-- Caleb Blake, Papyrus Independent Author Reviews

… a story that leaves the reader in awe of its scope.

-- Karen Doering, Parents Little Black Book

ALSO BY JONATHAN WINN

Martuk ... the Holy

THE MARTUK SERIES

The Wounded King, Book 1

The Elder, Book 2

Red and Gold, Book 3

Martuk ... The Holy:

Proseuche

A novel

Jonathan Winn

Martuk ... The Holy:

Proseuche

Copyright © 2014 Jonathan Winn

All rights reserved.

Smashwords Edition

Edited by Ben Eads

Cover design by Timothy Burch

Interior formatting by Kody Boye

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This novel is dedicated

to

Mark, Cinnamon, and Harry,

constants who keep me safe.

To my editor Ben Eads,

a talented writer, a generous editor, and the dearest of friends,

for graciously giving his talent, his sincerity, and his honesty.

I cherish you more with each passing day, my friend.

To Chris,

for his friendship, for his laughter,

and for plying me with endless rounds of mochas.

To fellow writers Anthony Rapino and Patrick Rutigliano

for their thoughtful support and encouragement,

and for so generously sharing their time.

And to you, the Reader.

Without you, there is no story to tell.

Finally, I dedicate this to my mother,

Janet Winn,

who still lives in my every breath and lingers in my every word.

This is for her.

Always.

Table of Contents

PROLOGUE: AMARANTHINE

One

Two

Three

Four

PART ONE: EPHPHATHA

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

PART TWO: HIS STORY

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Thirty-Six

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Eight

Thirty-Nine

Forty

Forty-One

PART THREE: QADDISH

Forty-Two

Forty-Three

Forty-Four

Forty-Five

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE: AMARANTHINE

Do you believe in ghosts?

were the first words his assassin said.

Weeks ago he had spied the man, a stranger, lingering in the silver light of morning.

Weeks ago, the sun waking behind a canopy of grey, he had wrestled the keys that turned the locks that opened the door to this, his church.

Weeks ago, he had sat in the confessional, the dark-haired Penitent hidden by the lattice-work screen separating them.

Then,

Do you believe in ghosts?

The words had come, halting and thick with exhaustion. The heavily accented English breathed by a soul in torment.

The priest hadn't known what to say.

The Church believed one thing, he another.

For years he’d closed his eyes, all those shadows sitting in the pews rising from memory to haunt him. Echoes of faces, of arms and chests and torsos and slender shoulders. Their necks long as they bowed their heads in prayer. Even still, he was haunted by the gentle warmth of phantom breath against his cheek as he worked in his office, alone. Still, the feeling of all those eyes on him persisted, like a stain or the lingering scent of cherished memory. Eyes watching him, following him. Souls eager for him to see them, to know them and remember them. To love them. Their footsteps echoing his as he walked the nave jingling the keys that would turn the locks to bolt the doors of this, his church.

Yes, he had finally said in English as well, his voice a whisper lest this blatant insurrection be overheard. Yes, I do.

It's amaranthine, had come the response, the voice low, the words mumbled. The vowels and consonants lost in the advent of quiet tears.

It's what?

He had lost the word. Had caught the it in what was said, but wasn't sure about the rest. Knew there was a second word. An odd word. An unfamiliar word. A beautiful word. But he didn't know what it was. It was a word he thought he might know, but hadn't really heard.

I'm sorry? the young priest had said. I didn’t hear you.

He had grown desperate to help this stranger. To give him comfort. To offer something, anything, to ease his pain and bring a glimmer of hope to his heart.

This, this man, this agony, this need. This is why he did what he did. Why he had sacrificed so much. Why he’d given his life to Our Heavenly Father and the Church.

I didn't hear you, he'd repeated, his voice sounding weak.

The stranger's hand had rested on the screen then. The dark shadow of a palm, a thumb, four fingers, all splayed flat against the thin strips of wood. Reaching for him, perhaps. Seeking comfort, maybe even a friend. The flesh of the palm smooth. A hint of an ancestry not solely European in the skin. A discreet, subtle darkness there. Middle Eastern, perhaps.

The priest had wanted to press his palm to the screen. Return the gentle gesture. Had felt the overwhelming urge to lift his hand to that of the one who struggled, whose heart wept. This soul who was so desperate for companionship that he'd offer his touch despite the lattice-work between them.

The thought had been ludicrous, of course. He knew that. Had known that his imagination had gotten the better of him. Could hear the criticisms from years ago, those venerable Fathers and Sisters and Mother Superiors who had warned him that his too tender heart would be anything but a blessing.

It is not your pain, Father Bautista had urged, the old man looming like a great mountain, his voice a deep rumbling from his chest. They come for guidance. For Penance and Reconciliation. For peace, for hope. To cleanse themselves of their sins. Remember, it is not your pain.

And yet ...

Listen well, my boy, had come the voice of the Mother Superior whose name was lost though her doughy face and thick hips and those stubby fingers laced together so tight the knuckles turned white would never leave him.

This is not good, what you create in your head, she’d said, her voice cutting and sometimes cruel. "Listen to their words, and only their words. Do what is needed of you. Trust Our Heavenly Father to do the rest. Do not create a world of loneliness and need for these Penitents that may not exist.

This world, it is not yours.

But if those who’d teased his tear-stained cheeks, those Fathers and Sisters and Mother Superiors, if they could hear this stranger, hear the voice thick with loneliness, see the palm, patient and waiting against the ancient wood, wouldn't these ghosts from his past feel what he felt now?

Ghosts.

He smiled.

Yes, he believed in ghosts.

The priest's hand had left his lap, the fingers flexing as they stretched and slowly, tentatively, rose.

There had been a sigh then from this soul in torment waiting on the other side. A glimpse of a head bowing. Of shoulders slumping. Of the hand still smooth against the slats of woven wood.

But a sigh, yes, deep and heavy.

A sigh of someone who had not known sleep for many moons.

Of someone who waited, alone, his patience ebbing, his fear growing.

The priest's hand had stopped, hovering near the shadow of the stranger's palm, and then retreated. Scurried to the safety of his cassock, the fingers instead choosing to wind 'round the slender cloth of the stole falling from his neck to rest against his chest.

Their voices had been too strong, his ghosts. Their belligerence had clouded his mind. Their admonitions too great. His shame at being too kind, too loving, of weeping too easily, too onerous to bear.

He had cleared his throat, shaking away the past as he blinked once, twice, a finger swiping away a tear and then wiping his nose as he cleared his throat again.

The sudden banging of the door had startled him.

He had left, this man, this stranger. The hand gone as his footsteps echoed through the nave and rushed down the aisle to push past the heavy wooden doors and disappear into the crowds navigating Boulevard Saint-Germaine.

The priest had sat back, the stench of failure, of regret, catching in his throat and stealing his breath.

"Père, pardonne-moi ..." he’d prayed, willing away the image of that bowed head and thick dark hair. Of the hand resting, lonely and alone and friendless, against the screen.

Forgive me.

That night the dreams started.

***

The priest had found the word earlier. Amaranthine. It had haunted him, the fact that he didn't know it driving him to distraction.

So he’d wandered the Boulevard, hanging a right at Boulevard St. Michel and ducking into the massive Gibert Joseph bookstore armed with the fading memory of what he might have heard, the odd interplay of those vowels and consonants resonating. And a prayer on his lips and a dictionary in his hands, had miraculously discovered it.

Amaranthine.

Eternally beautiful, it said.

‘No, that's not right,’ he immediately thought, scanning further. There was nothing of beauty in the halting words, the sighs, the tears of this tormented stranger.

Were there tears?

Everlasting. Undying.

Immortal?

Ah, yes. This made more sense.

Do you believe in ghosts? the man had asked.

Ghosts. They lived forever.

They could be amaranthine.

Undying. Everlasting.

Immortal.

Yes, this is what he had said, as he closed the book and slid it back on the shelf.

And now, putting the thought behind him, he settled his head on the pillow, the corners of his small room lost in shadow, the curtains drawn against the endless artificial light of Paris.

He would let it lie. Let it rest. Let it leave him in a great, deep sigh as he moved forward, the brief obsession with this dark-haired stranger on the other side of the screen dying.

Amaranthine.

Everlasting. Undying. Immortal.

Soon, sleep came.

And there were dreams.

In the dark of a Paris night, he knew this world he now saw was not his. The forest below too green, too vibrant. The air around him too clean. The sky too blue. No, this was not his world and this was not his dream.

His mind, his slumber, yes. But this is not mine, he could hear himself say, the words muffled and sounding way too far away to be his.

Arms were holding him now. The arms of a great man who carried him effortlessly as they soared into the sky, the world which wasn't his waiting below. An ancient land of deep forests and vibrant meadows and a blue, blue sea shimmering in the distance.

It was not his.

He could see his hand in the dream.

It was not his.

The hand was small. A boy's hand. A hint of dark to the flesh. Not only of the sun, but of ancestry. Of dark hair and dark eyes and thick brows and full lips and ...

Yes, the stranger. In the confessional. In his church. The dark hair. The eyes hidden beneath thick brows. Had he seen the eyes? He didn't know. Couldn't remember, the dream now too distracting, too powerful. The rushing tumble of images robbing him of reality.

But the palm, that was true. The smooth flesh waiting as it pressed flat against the strips of polished wood.

As was the stubborn stench of failure as the tortured soul had run from salvation and turned his back on redemption, choosing instead the loneliness of his modern life, his footsteps echoing against the stone.

This was his dream. The dream that was trapping him, the priest, here and now. It was his dream, the stranger's. The stranger’s thoughts, memories, fear, terror.

But how?

This man, the one holding him in the dream as they flew through the sky, his skin was gold. The flesh shining in the light. It was gold. And he thought he was kind, in the dream. Trusted him. Believed this man, the one made of gold, to be gentle and loving. Felt sick with dread when the man's eyes had grown black and his trust had been betrayed.

And he'd been damned.

Why?

The dream was incomplete. A persistent chaos of images and sounds. Unfamiliar sights. Noises that had nothing to do with the life the priest knew. The life of his here and now.

But there were missing pieces of the puzzle. Things he couldn’t yet see. Important things which would answer questions. Important questions.

If only he could see.

But he couldn't see, the priest. The picture was changing. Becoming ominous, evil.

There was chanting now, in the dream. A low rumble of voices. And weeping. The smell of urine and tears. Of fear and dread and sick. The feel of cold, dank earth beneath his bare feet. A metallic tang tickling his nose and making his eyes water.

What was that smell? He knew that smell. It was familiar. Almost constant. No, not constant. That wasn't true. But it was a scent he should know. One that was a part of us. Of all of us.

He was walking now. Stumbling and tripping, the dream continuing. And there were others. Bare backs in front of him. The heat of breath on the nape of his neck behind him. Sniffles, sobs, sighs. A sense of resignation. Of an end, a final end, coming near.

He struggled to wake, the wood of his bed in Paris creaking as the priest turned this way and that. His desperation growing as the light came near. His eyes squinting as his small bare feet started to climb the stairs, the roar of a crowd surrounding him. The smell of something sticking to his skin.

He was awake, his eyes open, the bedside lamp chasing away the shadows, the darkness dispelled with the quick flick of a switch.

Blood.

It was blood he had smelled. That was the something. It was blood.

Blood in the dream.

He was sitting up, his breath calm. The dream was gone. The dream that wasn't his, that couldn't be his. That was, most definitely, the stranger's. The stranger he couldn't help. The stranger who had fled in the face of his failure.

Still, he could feel the stairs beneath his feet. They were made of stone. Thick blocks of stone. Carved by hand. Rough. Cold. Ancient.

And the blood. He could still smell the blood. The deep, rich scent of blood.

A shake of the head cleared it away. His feet pressing flat on the cool parquet. The splash of the cars gliding by on the rain-slicked street below reassuring him that, yes, he had escaped.

He was safe.

No man made of gold. No trees thick with green listing in the breeze below. No rich meadows of yellow spreading as far as the eye could see. No rolling hills or great slopes of smooth rock or the shimmering blue of a sea that was a three day walk away.

His home forever lost.

The priest opened his eyes, unaware they'd been closed again, and shook his head. He stood and walked away from the bed, untangling the sheets from his legs, leaving behind the dishonest safety of sleep.

Whose home?, he thought as he stood at the window, moving the curtains aside to look out over the city, the familiar sight of those ambling the cobblestone streets of the Latin Quarter below somehow soothing.

He pressed his hands to the glass and, the palms cool, to his face, the slight chill calming him as the tears fell.

Whose home?

***

Several days passed, the stranger nowhere to be seen.

The dream remained.

Hours lost as the sounds and smells of this strange and sad story stole his thoughts.

One minute, his desk before him, the papers in their orderly piles, pen in hand, his signature needed. The mistakes of others to be discovered and corrected. The unseen administrative business of a church immediate and necessary.

The next, a king, a wounded king, suffering on the stone of a great palace. Not a king he'd know now. Or a palace he'd recognize today.

No, this was different. This was a city buried long ago and lost to time. An unwieldy ancient sprawl of sun-bleached white stone with ribbons of water that snaked through the paved streets like blood in a vein. And a temple, a great temple, rising in the distance. Watching. Waiting.

Powerful.

Inescapable.

And this king. The one who refused the conical crown, opting instead for a simple tunic, no, a skirt, really. Of wool? Linen? His feet bare, his flesh cracked and peeling. His sightless eyes a milky white. The tears stained red as he mourned, as death crawled near. His end inevitable, his screams unheard.

The poisoned wine in the golden chalice. The impatient rustle of expensive fabric from the whispering sea of red and gold.

The bones in the stones.

Bones in the stones?

He blinked, the rude honk of a horn below pulling him back to the polished wood of the desk and the ignored stacks of unsigned papers. The afternoon lost in someone else's memories.

Bones in the stones.

‘What an odd thing,’ he thought as he walked through the nave, his footsteps clip-clopping on the polished stone.

Could there be bones in the stones?

And from somewhere deep, from some dark place hidden in the stolen memories of someone else, he knew with a certainty that made him wince that, yes, there were.

There were most certainly bones in the stones.

Even here.

Even now.

***

There were screams. A frightening din unlike anything he’d ever heard.

He lay on the altar.

The Elder, a priest, an old priest, an old man, the red and gold of his robes familiar and strange, stood over him.

Another dream, yes, the young priest turning to push his face into the pillow, the sheets clenched in his fists. The sunlight of Paris blocked by the heavy curtains. His desperation for sleep, for escape, chasing him from the dark of night into the light of day.

The Darkness was coming near. In the dream. The Darkness was here. The Darkness would rob him of his humanity. Would make him a monster. One trapped by time. Like a mist, a fog, it was, the Darkness. A black cloud sprouting fingers and toes and teeth, it slid along the blood-drenched altar, the crowd bellowing for his death below, their appetite endless.

In the wine was salvation. The wine the Elder, this skeletal man with the dead eyes who loomed over him, was holding, was offering. In the wine was the poison that would offer relief.

The warmth was around him now. The steamy heat of the Darkness. The priest, in the here and now of Paris, trapped in sleep sitting up in his bed, falling from the mattress to the floor, the sheets dragged behind him as he crawled to escape. The Darkness wound 'round his ankles, his calves blushing red, the sickening steam slithering up his legs to his torso. This ancient evil drawn back like a snake, ready to strike and force its way down his screaming throat.

And that's how he was discovered, his neighbors all but breaking down the door to find him asleep and screaming at the window, his face pressed against the glass, the sheets wound 'round his legs.

You need to rest, the neighbor, an older woman with a kind face, had said as he sat later, sipping water and ignoring the remnants of this new nightmare echoing in his mind.

Take a vacation, the second neighbor, a younger man, fashionable, handsome, professionally patient, had urged in accented English, his strong hand resting on his arm. You will be no good to anyone if you do not have the sleep, no?

He shook his head. No, no vacation. He needed to be at the church. Needed to be there when the stranger would return. He needed ...

He didn't know what he needed. Answers, probably. Answers he may never get.

And he needed sleep. Yes. Sleep without dreams.

No, he assured them, a smile on his face as he politely ushered them to the door. He was fine. It was stress. Lack of sleep. He was fine, he said again as he closed the door and clicked the lock.

The bed waited, calling his exhaustion. The dreams patient and inevitable.

He ignored it, his body stretched on the floor, no pillow, the sheets left by the window.

The stranger would come, he told himself, a tumble of images rumbling near as the Darkness pulled him back to the world of altars and priests and a screaming he was afraid would never stop.

Yes, he would come.

***

The air in this wooden box was stale. The cushion beneath him flat and faded. A sad echo of what it used to be, the glittering gilt of its border now quiet and frayed.

The stranger was here. When the priest had arrived in the morning and fumbled with the keys as he’d struggled to open the doors, he’d been lingering outside.

The stranger was of average height. Thin. Fit, even. His dark hair thick, as he’d remembered it. The eyes dark as well. The brows low. The quick glimpse he caught of him revealing a handsome face, his skin betraying his ancestry. A touch of the Middle East most definitely. A parent, perhaps, blessed with the silken skin of an Arab. Or even an Iranian. Maybe an Iraqi.

But a man. A successful man by the looks of the cashmere coat and the hand-lasted shoes. The ends of the expensive wool scarf wrapped around the neck tucked discreetly into the lapels. Someone in his thirties. Perhaps his early-forties. A sense of effortless elegance at first glance, whatever private pain this stranger was enduring hidden well.

But this fleeting glimpse was hours ago.

They had come and gone, the familiar devoted. Their worries, their lies, their petty sins, laid at his canonical