His Dark Queen

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Eight years since the world we knew burned down in flames. Papa Emeritus III called it the Purification. A pretty word for the end of the world. For the day the earth split open and they crawled out of the fissures. I’ve tried to forget my twelfth birthday. Clenching my teeth until they ached, scratching my hands bloody, squeezing my eyes shut until white sparks danced – but it’s useless. Here I am, inside my own head, like looking in a mirror. Standing by the table in my little blue dress with ruffles, carefully blowing out the candles on the huge cake. Mom is singing beside me, Dad clapping loudly – because I managed to blow them all out at once! And then the ground shuddered. The walls of the neighboring houses folded like card houses. And from the gaping wounds in the asphalt they crawled out: six-legged, skin the color of congealed blood, eyes blazing with yellow hellfire. “Creatures of the Lord.” We survivors later shortened it to something simple and bitter – Beasts. We tried to run. I remember the concrete slab crashing down beside us and a hard shove from my father in the back. He pushed me into the narrow gap beneath it. I pressed myself into the cold, rough debris. Dust – acrid and thick – instantly filled my nose, my mouth, grinding between my teeth. I squeezed my eyes shut, pressed my palms over my ears until they hurt. But the sounds broke through anyway. Human screams, a crunch like snapping branches, and that smell… The sickly-sweet stench of burning flesh, sharp sulfur, and the copper-bitter tang of blood.   I opened my eyes. And I saw Mom.   The monster held her by the hair, lifting her off the ground. Her legs jerked convulsively in the air. She was still breathing, her fingers clawing at the red arm of the creature. And then it leaned in. And it began to peel. Long, clean strips. With teeth sharp as razors. The skin came away with a wet, sucking sound. Mom screamed. For as long as she could. Then her voice broke off, leaving only a gurgling rasp behind. Afterward I thought many times how strange it is – to watch like that, eyes wide open and dry, forgetting to breathe. But I couldn’t look away. The world inside me was burning, breaking, cracking along the same seams as the asphalt outside. And in the reflection of the infernal flames dancing in the yellow pupils of that enormous beast, in the fading scream of her mother – the girl in the blue dress I used to be was drowning. Ever since then, sharp and barren questions, like thorns, have chased each other in circles in my head: Should I have crawled out? Could I have changed anything? Why me? What for? There were no answers. But now, eight years later, standing in front of the heavy, carved doors of the Apostolic Palace, it feels like I finally understand.   I survived so I could end up here.  

***

  The convoy had been jolting over potholes for the second hour already, dragging along the deserted roads. The monotonous hum of the engines and the screech of armor against stones pulsed a dull ache in my temples. It felt like in that time I'd sifted through every speck of dust from the past eight years in my memory. What else was left? The girls lost in the half-darkness of the cabin with me were afraid to even sigh an extra breath, and the Ghouls, our guards, their faces hidden behind masks – they froze in their spots like stone idols, not stirring since the start. And you couldn't get a word out of them. And we'd only covered half the way.   Our Papa, Emeritus the Third, ruled the lion's share of the Old World. His power stretched from the misty islands in the north to the African deserts in the south, digging into the former steppes of Russia in the east. We knew that across the ocean, in the ashes of the Americas, Papa Perpetua reigned, and the Far East and Australia belonged to Cardinal Copia. Between our Parishes, gray wastelands still gaped – ruins where rebels hid and Beasts roamed. The big cities had long turned into graveyards of twisted concrete and rusting steel. In the beginning, we survivors huddled in tent camps, clinging to life and offering Him prayers for every crust of black bread, for a sip of clean water, for another gray dawn. Papa and his Archpriests protected us from the beasts prowling in the night. The payment was our blood. Our faith. Our souls, rewritten to a new, harsh truth. But years passed. The camps gradually grew walls, barracks gave way to stone houses, and on the squares where rations were once handed out, holidays were now held. Survival slowly, with a creak, turned into a semblance of life. I lived in London Camp Number Seven. My existence was as gray as the walls in the shared dormitory, as predictable as the morning roll call. My small, childish dreams and naive goals had to be buried under that soulless concrete slab that forever lay between me and the past. Once I had friends. From those memories, a cold, nauseating void started gnawing at my gut. But in this rattling iron box, in the company of mute fellow travelers, there was nothing to think about except the past. Thoughts turned inside out, exposing everything long and so diligently forgotten.   “Eva+Catherine+Grace.” It probably still adorns the trunk of the oak where we carved that crooked inscription with Gracie's rusty little knife – a gift from her father. And if so – that's the only thing left of our friendship. Of us.   Kitty was taken first. A little after lights out, having strung blankets between the beds and tied them at the corners, we sat in our fortress, surrounded by pillows stolen from empty rooms. Shining the flashlight on herself, Gracie told fairy tales. Beautiful stories about a future that every girl alive now could only dream of: here we are, in long dresses, whirling at a ball in a majestic hall. And here He approaches – extends his hand and whispers, whispers to us in his captivating voice about love... and about darkness. Amid the laughter, amid this simple childish joy, we didn't even hear the Archpriest's footsteps. He burst into the fortress, fished our Kitty right out of the cotton heap, and ordered her to pack her things. At dawn, they were taking her to serve in the monastery. Kitty's big blue eyes immediately lit up, she hurried, spun around the room, folding three sweaters, pants, and a toothbrush into her old red suitcase. She chattered that even though she didn't know exactly where they were sending her – she'd definitely send word, find a way. And then, once she settled in, she'd ask for us too. We'd meet again, hug, and all the fairy-tale stuff would become reality. Gracie and I just nodded, wiping away tears. Nothing surprising that Kitty, with her pale-pink skin and thick golden curls, was chosen for the Sisters of Sin. We never heard anything more about Kitty. And a year later, I stopped believing she was alive.   Grace was next. She died on the twenty-eighth of December, going quiet after another fit of choking cough. “Bunny, please, don't sit next to me. You'll get sick too, and you're the last of us three left. I beg you, go to your room. What do you need my hospital bed for?” She repeated it every day, but I stayed with her, with my little Mouse, who was so small and nimble before the illness, I kept holding her hand, and didn't notice right away how it started to grow cold. Too many died from the pneumonia epidemic that winter. Those girls, my two dear friends, were the last ones who mattered to me. That's how I learned not to get attached. Not to remember the names of new barracks neighbors, not to listen to their empty chatter or the insults from local little bastards... Though some things still ate into my subconscious like rust: «ginger minger», «freckled slag», «beaky bitch» Jake, Rosie, Charlie – they all died too, and their words turned to dust. But there was a voice I couldn't help but listen to. No one could. It was broadcast over the loudspeakers every morning and evening. When Papa spoke, it felt like your lungs filled not with stale barracks air, but something clean and cold. That there was a reason to hold on. His music, the kind that once drove stadiums mad – became the anthem of our world. We sang it in chorus, hauling sacks at construction sites, scrubbing floors with icy water, and we believed. Believed, because otherwise it was impossible. Our constant. Our real. Our eternal. There was no other god. Churches turned into his citadels. Altars where they once prayed to the crucified now served for rituals, orgies, and sacrifices. Rumors went around that in the very depths of the Vatican, in the dungeons under the Cathedral, things happened that snapped the human mind like dry kindling. But only the chosen were allowed there. The rest could only dream of that privilege – to be inside, to become flesh of the flesh of something incomparably greater than wretched survival. And then they announced the Selection.

***

I'd completely gotten unused to sitting so still. I tried to stretch my numb limbs – the movement echoed with a dull, pulling pain in my knees. My legs had stiffened from the long road so much that they probably wouldn't straighten at all anymore. I'd stay forever as a ridiculous grasshopper with knees right under my chin. Yeah, right, who would need an insect-woman as a pair. Barely holding back a chuckle, I hid the inappropriate smile in my fist. But apparently, I hid it poorly. The Ghoul opposite slowly turned his head toward me. And froze. I stared into the slit-voids on his mask – the only breaks in the impenetrable metallic sheen. I tilted my head slightly to the side, and unexpectedly – the Ghoul did the same. There were no doubts, somehow. I was studying him, and he me. I didn't look away. I peered into that absolute blackness until goosebumps ran from the nape of my neck down my spine. And suddenly... it seemed. That the darkness behind his mask stirred, thickened into viscous smoke, and in the depths, like smoldering coals, a pair of red dots flickered. I blinked – and again, just impenetrable emptiness. There was something... alluring. In those impeccably pressed black suits, in the polished masks with elegant, sharp little horns. They hinted at form but hid the essence. “Ghouls are, in essence, demons, spawn of Gehenna, manifestations in the world of the energies of the Papas. His hands, and sight, and ears. Their true form is unbearable to the mortal gaze,” sang in my memory the droning instruction of Sister Dolores. And I was dying of curiosity: what do they think about when left alone with themselves? Do demons ever get sad? I smiled. Barely noticeably, just the corner of my lips, right into the impenetrable mask. Just in case, if maybe they do. The Ghoul, of course, didn't respond in kind. He simply turned back, ending the wordless dialogue. And I sank into boredom again.   The Dark Sisters arrived in our Parish exactly a week later. They stepped measuredly, gliding between our bodies lined up in ranks, and their black, elegant veils fluttered in the cold wind like wings of enormous birds. I thought, then, about Kitty, and involuntarily peered, wouldn't the gold of her curls flash among the veils? Vain hope. The Sisters stopped before some girls, touched icy fingers to the chin, forcing them to lift their heads. When my turn came, I didn't lower my gaze. I looked straight, and thought so fiercely that my lips almost moved: Come on. Choose me. There's nothing left for me here. And she chose.   In total, they gathered twelve girls from all corners of the Empire. Most rushed to the Selection voluntarily. For them, it was the only chance to break out of the camps, a chance – if not to win, then at least to stay in the Vatican, to serve the Papa himself. “There it'll surely be better,” they clucked, sharing naive fantasies about soft beds and sweet pies. Their delight grated on my ears, evoked nothing but contempt. How could they be satisfied with the thought of service, when before them lay the possibility of much, much more? They brought us, first, to the monastery in Livorno – the former Cathedral of Saint Francis, now one of the Papa's sanctuaries. The first week they fattened us up. I ate until my stomach ached, until nausea, stuffing my mouth with fresh strawberries, biting huge chunks from firm apples, sinking my teeth into juice-dripping meat. In recent years in the camps, we didn't starve, but no one allowed overeating either – everything was strictly rationed.   Then the etiquette lessons began. “Knowledge of the rules won't influence His choice,” drawled Sister Dolores, surveying us with a weary gaze, “however, they will be required for the one who passes the Selection and takes her place beside Him. Therefore, you must know how to move, how to dance, how not to disgrace yourself and His Holiness in the palace. And how to address the powerful of this world.” She monotonously dictated: “Your Eminence… Your Highness… Sir… You girls are lucky. Emeritus III doesn't boast titles and requires no more than a respectful tone in address. Whereas Emeritus IV, now, however, demoted to Cardinal, demanded exclusively the full address. Write it verbatim: ‘His Incomparable Holiness, Papa Emeritus the Fourth, Emperor and Sole Ruler of the eastern lands, enclaves, semi-enclaves, exclaves, monasteries, sanctuaries, and all souls who dwell therein…’” On the last words, Daliah, my neighbor, and I couldn't hold back and simultaneously stifled a giggle. It was stupid, childish, but so unbearably sweet. Sister Dolores fell silent. The icy silence in the classroom made it clear that our outburst of disobedience wouldn't go without consequences.   Daliah… she really got attached to me. Tall, graceful, like a forest doe. I saw one like that in childhood, in Epping Forest. I was eight, but I still remember that gaze: big, dark, bottomlessly moist eyes, full of quiet horror before the world. Daliah had exactly the same. Her family was wealthy, lived in a fortified enclave until it fell under the rebels' onslaught. Daliah lost everyone. Parents, brothers, sisters. And herself, as she once let slip through tears. But the world generously gave her something – a long scar, diagonally splitting the pale porcelain of her face in two. A perverted souvenir as a keepsake.   The Sisters insisted that appearance wasn't the main thing for Papa, that His eyes looked deeper, into the very soul, penetrating to the heart itself. Searching for Darkness in it. And each of us would have a chance. When the candles went out, Daliah would sneak into my bed, entwine me like a fly in a spider's cocoon with her thin whip-like arms, and cry. I silently stroked the waves of her soft hair, and she, growing quiet, invariably whispered hotly and hurriedly: “Comfort me, Eva, dear. Otherwise I'll run away. Run away without looking back, and no one will find me. I beg you, say… no matter what happens, we'll go through it together. ” “Yes,” I answered her every night, staring at the ceiling. “Of course, together.” So two months passed. We studied, prayed, memorized hymns until hoarse.   “He is Nostro Dis Pater, Nostr' Alma Mater,” – these lines I repeated until my tongue went numb, until they burned onto the mucous of my heart, soaked into my lungs, becoming an inseparable part of my essence.   The vehicle stopped smoothly. Daliah, who had dozed off on my shoulder, immediately lifted her head, clutched my wrist. Her fingers – like ice. The doe eyes, habitually ready to spill tears, fixed on mine, seeking support. I felt her fear transmitting through the touch, infecting the air, poisoning my blood with corrosive acid. “Everything will be fine,” I forced out, trying to sound firm.   Of course, it was a lie. I just didn't understand yet – who exactly I was lying to. Her or myself.

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