His Dark Queen

Daliah, Mari, another girl, and I arrived first. We waited for the others, awkward and silent, huddled in a tight little knot. We waited and, furtively, as if we might get rapped on the nose for it, we examined the round square. In its center there no longer stood that dull, gray obelisk — now the Grucifix rose toward the blood-red sky: a letter “G” that coiled like a snake around an inverted cross, merging with it into an inseparable symbol of the new faith. Tall, carved from polished black granite, it held not a hint of the crude functionality of a crucifixion. This was pure idea given form. Triumphant darkness frozen in stone. I shielded my eyes with my hand like a visor and squinted. The sun hung low on the horizon—a searing, orange-red sphere. That’s what it had become after the Cleansing: born as a scarlet dawn, dying as a carmine sunset, and blazing at zenith the color of “hellfire.” That’s what a lanky boy once said — my shift partner in the greenhouse. Nothing remained of him in my memory except a face too early eaten by wrinkles, and those words. When the twelve of us had gathered, the local Sisters met us — every single one beautiful, almost doll-like. Their clothing was different, not quite monastic: rather black-and-white dresses with deep square necklines. A reminder of the robe, but no longer the robe itself. Their faces remained uncovered, and the thin veil tied above only framed the flowing sheets of hair beneath. Deliberate accents on feminine allure. I wondered if it was so that any moment, one could be caressed—the delicate collarbone, the dip at the throat, the gentle curl at the temple. Through one of the arches, to the left, past majestic but now cracked columns, they led us to an inconspicuous oak door. Then we walked down endless corridors, and I couldn’t tear my eyes from the walls. There, over the old holy images, now grinned the faces of demons, laid out with impeccable elegance. A portrait of the Papa, woven from perfectly fitted plates of black and white marble, hypnotized: his gaze followed me exactly, from whatever angle I looked. My eyes slid over tapestries where, in the intricate weaves of crimson and golden silk, familiar prophecies could be guessed — the seven seals, the riders of the Apocalypse, and the beast rising from the abyss. High overhead the vaults drowned in heavy, oppressive golden tracery, branching into bizarre stone labyrinths. My soul, despite my efforts to rein it in, quivered before this ancient grandeur, now reborn in darkness. What would it be like — to be the full mistress within these walls? A sharp, greedy desire flared and pounded in my chest: I must feel this. Then the twelve chosen fillies were placed in their stalls. That’s what I thought when the Sisters distributed us to our rooms. Until evening we were allowed to rest, and after dinner the pre-selection fever began. We put on the dresses. The black silk waiting for us on hangers. We laced each other’s corsets tighter. We pinned our hair high, stabbing sharp pins into unruly strands. We forced our feet into narrow shoes and wobbled; many still hadn’t gotten used in two months to these elegant instruments of self-torture. We were no longer in our own — the faded gray sweaters, the shapeless tracksuits. They had dressed us in someone else’s, smooth and shining, and in that someone else’s we finally admired ourselves. The girls rushed around the room, chattering: “I can already picture our dance, his hand on my waist…” “What if He says something just for me? Only for me?” “They say that from one touch of His the world ceases to exist…” They repeated it over and over, laughed too brightly, and that chirping poured in an endless, cloying stream straight into my ears. Girls grow up. Their hips widen, their breasts grow heavy, but the fairy tales stay the same. As if time for them stopped right there in that blanket fortress, where the flashlight beam pulls only pink dreams of a prince out of the dark. And where are they themselves in those dreams? I was reflected in the mirror above the low table — apparently an adult girl, with breasts and hips, scattered with whole constellations of freckles, freckles that Jake, Rosie, and Charlie hated so much, and I always loved — because they came from my father. My fingers gripped the smooth plastic tube of lipstick in the shade “Cherry Temptation.” My only indulgence in all these years. The price for it had been a small musical box with a pink ballerina — Kitty’s gift. I hadn’t been able to resist back then, mesmerized by the bloody, almost living gleam of the lipstick. And I traded one trinket for another. Let the rusty-creaking “Swan Lake” play now only in my memory. That’s where it belongs. Like everything left in the past. So here I was, wiping it off and applying it again for the fourth or fifth time — and nothing pleased me. Either the line wavered, or the color went on unevenly. Irritation gathered into a cold knot between my shoulder blades and pulled my spine straight. “You have to try to dance first. Sister Beata told me. The first one is always remembered best.” Mari buzzed annoyingly behind me. “Oh girls, I think I’m already in love…” My hand jerked, smearing lipstick across my cheek. My fist thudded dully against the table. Mari flinched and froze. I caught her thin, dark-haired reflection in the mirror and pinned it with my stare. “Can you shut up for at least one minute? Your squealing is splitting my head open.” “What a bitch you are, Eva.” She hugged her sharp shoulders, shrinking under my steel gaze, but I didn’t let her go. “And you’re acting like an idiot. You haven’t even seen his face. How can you say things like that? What if your beloved Papa prefers infants for breakfast?” “Then go back to your Parish if you don’t understand!” she snapped, and her voice trembled. “I’ve played every hymn to death, watched every old recording! I know Him better than any of you!” I just smirked. I took a tissue, carefully wiped the bloody streak from my skin. And then, in the long-awaited, reigning silence, I painted my lips. Flawlessly even.

***

We descended the spiral staircase in silence, only the heels echoing with a resonant clang — twenty-four sharp little hooves. With every step downward the music from the ballroom grew louder, Daliah’s clinging fingers dug deeper into my forearm, and the excitement pulsed more and more distinctly in my temples. Click-clack-click. I was thinking about what was mine right now: my “Cherry Temptation,” the silver ring on my finger. And about what would become mine: the frescoes on the walls, the mosaics on the floor, the Sistine Chapel. The French gardens and the Belvedere. The Apostolic Library. All the Ghouls, all the Sisters, the Archbishops. The entire Cathedral. The entire Vatican. That beautiful Grucifix. Every street in Rome, every camp in Europe, all the wastelands. The whole world. From those thoughts came a rush of delight, almost the same childish one: when they promised you those tacky vanilla perfumes from the TV ad or a trip to Disneyland during the holidays. The closer you get, the more everything inside trembles with anticipation, clenches and sings with joy. Right now something similar stirred in my chest — for the first time in eight years. Click-clack-click. We froze at the final turn. Beyond it light already poured, and the music no longer came through walls but directly, wrapping us in promise. There was no strength left to wait. One by one the Sisters placed pendants onto twelve outstretched palms. Small silver grucifixes. Cold metal on cold skin. We each already had one, those we left in the room — but these were special. That’s what the Sisters said. I fastened mine around my neck and helped Daliah — her trembling hands could only have tapped out Morse code. I knew a little Morse. My father had been a pilot, and we laughed so much when he taught me the “secret code.” But all Daliah could tap out was one thing: three dots – three dashes – three dots. She had nothing more to say. “Behave with dignity. Politely. Heads high — today is not the time to stare at the floor,” came the voice for final instructions. Young, with a light, almost worldly rasp. “And remember: His Holiness will honor each of you with a dance. Each of you will have a chance to charm him. Good luck, girls.” One of the Sisters exchanged a glance with another. She raised an eyebrow slightly, the corner of her mouth twitched in a smirk: “Well, we’ll see”. The other gave a small shrug in reply: “They’re getting way above themselves”. Women are probably the same everywhere. A hissing knot of vipers. But we really did have a chance. I intended to sink my teeth into mine, to tear into the throat of “c”. I’d been thinking about it since I stepped out of the car. I thought about it for all ten steps from the turn. And then the ability to think switched off. We stepped into the hall. And there was light. Heavy, golden, molten. It poured from massive chandeliers, glistening with tears of wax. And there was sound. A low organ note resonated in the bones, sank into the ceiling, spread in a hum across the vaults. Into that hum wove sharp, glass-shard piano chords and the deep, velvety moan of cellos that pierced the space through. And of course the Ghouls. Ghouls giving birth to this music: some delicately entrusted their fingers to the keys, others drew bows across strings — sensually, devotedly. And Ghouls who waited. Tall, motionless, lined up in a flawless row along the wall. Those I counted eleven. We approached the long table covered with a matte dark cloth, and my stomach immediately clenched with the familiar sharp spasm. There was everything: cheese, meat, fruit — large black grapes catching the light in yellow droplets of moisture on their taut skins. I was hungry today. Far hungrier than decorum and this outfit allowed. I took a glass from a Ghoul’s hand — the tartness of wine struck my nostrils — and, remembering the lessons, politely inclined my head. I was a lady in a dress now. That’s how it’s done. I reached for the tempting dish, and my hand jerked sharply, wine nearly spilling over the rim. It was Daliah — clinging like a frightened lemur. I’d seen one once on Discovery — a big lemur, already adolescent, sitting on its mother’s back, tugging at her fur with its paws. The program said it was abnormal behavior. “An anomaly”. It came back to me now so clearly. “Well, what is it now?” Irritation hissed through clenched teeth. “I don’t know, Eva, darling, I don’t know. I feel something. Something strange. Something bad.” Her voice was a thin, cracked whisper. I rolled my eyes — already out of habit. I heard her “something bad” thirty times a day. I would have preferred not to understand, but I couldn’t help it. Daliah closed her eyes, her lips moving in a soundless prayer. I couldn’t hold back a smirk. What was the point of that, when the one she was praying to was about to appear before us? And the moment that thought took shape, the music fell silent, and from the opposite end of the hall, from behind the massive black altar, a figure emerged. Everyone knew that face. And I, of course. I’d seen it thousands of times: on posters in the camps, on television screens where they played new sermons and old Ghost concert recordings — that’s how they used to conduct the Rituals with the Ghouls. That’s how they prepared their flock. Black paint, sharp along the jawline, acute angles under the cheekbones rising toward the temples. The same paint curved around the nose, and drowned in black lakes around the eyes, while everything else was boiling white. The mask of death that had once been irony was now the true face of the new world. Its emblem. I had seen all of it. But nothing could have prepared me for his Presence. When Papa entered, the air in the hall boiled with invisible sparks. Breathing became difficult — the way it is a moment before lightning strikes, when the leaden weight of clouds presses you to the earth. My skin burned from static, cold froze in my lungs, and my entire being turned into one continuous expectation of discharge. Pure, unbearable power, ready to pierce me through. I think I turned to stone — a statue with pedestal feet and no arms. But behind me, no wings; only a glacial rapture that froze everything but one thing. A light exhale. It slipped through parted lips — my proof. I exist. I’m still alive. And I stand at the epicenter of His storm. Papa walked quickly but smoothly. Movements-dance, honed over years of performing for millions. Every gesture carried not affectation but complete, absolute lived-in authenticity of the role. And Grandeur. Not bargained for, not stolen. True, will-crushing. Not something demonstrated. Something that simply is. “Ladies, forgive me for keeping you waiting. Papa Emeritus III. Welcome to the heart of the Empire.” He bowed gracefully, arms slightly spread. Exactly like an actor receiving the ovation of the hall. Now his stage was the entire world. Then he passed along our row. He nodded to each, smiled to each with a contained-perfect smile, stroked us with his gaze like velvet fabric. And that gaze, brushing, fleeting, pinned me like a butterfly to a board. I was ready to be framed, hung on the wall. If only he would keep looking. But then he passed, returned to the center of the hall and, clasping his hands behind his back, announced: “Enjoy the evening, beautiful ladies. For many are called, but few are chosen. Let us begin.” And I remained standing in paralyzed rapture, forgetting that people are supposed to blink. Tears had frozen in my eyes from dryness. In my eyes (what irony!) wide-open like a doe’s. When I was chosen, I dreamed of comfort. Of cashmere and silk instead of rough cotton, of sweet wines instead of mess-hall rations, of leisurely walks along shady alleys among strict cypresses and whimsical topiaries. While I prepared, I thirsted to possess what I had been denied all these years. And only now, pierced by his gaze, I understood with cutting clarity: It’s not enough for me to simply possess this world. I want to rule it together with Him.