A Plague of Shadows

CHAPTER FOUR-1

CHAPTER FOUR

PIETRO COUGHED HARD into his elbow, a cough that hunched his shoulders and worked his abdominal muscles. It was followed by a worrisome rattle. The cold had started as a tickle in his throat a few weeks ago. Since then, it had ebbed and flowed, lingering on and on, all the while sapping his energy. He was glad the long day was over so he could go, wrap himself in a warm blanket and drink some spiced tea, spiked with some of his mother's special medicine: brandy.

"Ah, I know it's here," a rough voice said from the dark lane beside the church.

Father Pietro glanced in its direction then back to the door, his hand on the key in the lock. The thought of warmth and brandy gave him pause, then he sighed, his sore shoulders slumping as he turned the key and slid it into his pocket. Then he made his way down the stairs, his knee clicking with each step.

"Rain soon," he said to himself, rubbing the palm of one hand over the knuckles of the other. He didn't need to look up at the dark grey, looming sky to tell him the forecast. "My knees are better at predicting the weather than that woman on Channel 6," he muttered.

Pietro looked into the lane, dimly lit by weak security lights on the church wall; he noted that some of the bulbs needed replacing. Ten paces along, an old man in a worn but clean winter jacket rifled through a pile of old newspapers.

"There was a message here. Now there's none." The man picked up a jumble of papers, tearing them as he shifted them from one hand to the other.

"Michael, what's the matter?" the priest asked.

The old man shook his head and waved his hand. "I tell them, I tell you, I tell them," he said, not looking at Pietro. "There's only Mike, no Michael. No Michaels anymore. I am not the messenger, just the medium."

"Sorry. Mike." He took a step toward the old man, who bent to his task again, muttering about a knife. A new motif that worried Pietro; Mike had always seemed harmless but his rants the past month had taken a darker, more strident turn. But they'd never involved weapons, not that Pietro had heard. He glanced around, as if answers would appear out of the darkness. Some concern niggled at the base of his brain, but he couldn't pinpoint what until he saw a rat, further along, scurry for cover from Mike's ravings. "Mike, where's your cat?"

"Hunting. Out hunting for vermin. The vermin. Always looking for evil creatures while I hunt for answers. Together we find the truth." Mike shook his head, pulling his faded blue toque down over his ears. "But there is no truth anymore, only the message."

"What are you looking for? Maybe I can help." Pietro took a step closer, but Mike pulled away.

"No, you don't know what the knife of darkness looks like. No one does." The old man tapped his temple. "But I know, I've seen it." Mike got down on his knees, lifting soggy, dirty pieces of newspaper. "It was here. Dark blade of the Even Star, piercing the heart of the Sun."

Pietro frowned, and rubbed his hands together, before tucking them under his armpits. The threat of snow had passed, but the night was still cold. He crouched down beside Mike, reaching out, placing his hand on the man's shoulder. "Come with me, I can get you a warm bed, some food."

Mike shrugged his hand away. He always refused shelter. Pietro sighed; he might need to dig deeper to get the man the help he needed.

"Aha, see." Mike extracted something from the pile. He jabbed a finger at a scrap of newspaper.

All Pietro could make out were words with more letters than any word should have. Nothing about a knife.

"Can I see?" Pietro reached for the crumpled paper. But Mike clutched the scrap to his chest.

Pietro retracted his hand, moving it back to Mike's shoulder. "Okay, I don't need to look. Won't you come to the shelter, just tonight?"

Mike shook his head, then looked at the sliver of dark clouds visible above them. "I need to watch. The Herald descends, and the servants of Night fill the air." Mike clutched at Father Pietro's arm. "Don't let them take the day," he said. "Don't let the sun fall." Mike let go of his arm, then turned to pat the sodden pile of cardboard and newspaper. "Now, where's that cat?" he muttered.

Pietro stood, his knees protesting. He looked down at Mike for a long moment before turning and walking back to the front of the church. At the end of the alley, he glanced back at Mike. "Are you sure...?"

The man's eyes finally met his. "You? You shouldn't be out here." He tilted his head, his eyes shining in the weak lights. "Beware the crow that enters on silent wings."

Father Pietro sighed, suddenly very weary. Then he turned towards home, his feet leaden and his heart heavy, his shoulders convulsing as the cough returned.

––––––––