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matrixrefugeeBy popular request, and since I'll be posting Chapter One tomorrow...
I'm actually posting two versions of this, one on fanfiction.net, which I toned down slightly for a more general audience (and because I'm annoyed with their policy of hiding R-rated fics, or whatever they're calling the ratings these days), and the other, what might be called the "Director's Cut" version, I'll be posting here on my personal LJ and on a couple "Constantine" fan communities.
And I have a poster design for this in the works: I just have to figure out how to PhotoShop two pics together...
+J.M.J.+
The Smoke of Satan in Your House
by "Matrix Refugee"
Rating: PG-13 (spiritually mature themes; later chapters will go up to R for violence, language and demon slash)
Warnings: None for this chapter
Summary: When a bishop possibly in league with the demons threatens to close a historic parish, the Church's least faithful son may be the only one who can prevent something far worse...
Author's Note: The central scenario of this story, a historic church in danger of being closed, is inspired by something actually happening to my own parish. I've changed names and locations, but many of the facts are unchanged. Please don't think I'm trying to take advantage of a small tragedy for the sake of angst or drama, like those idiots that write badfics about 9/11 or the Tsunami of 2004 or [::shudder::] the Terri Schindler-Schiavo tragedy: I'm using fanfiction as a creative outlet to vent some of my frustrations about a situation that is somewhat out of my control. ...And since I'm convinced that the bishop behind the imminent closing of my parish is demonically posessed, I'm curious as to what would happen if he crossed paths with the movie-verse version of John Constantine...
Disclaimer: I don't own "Constantine", its characters, concepts and other indicia, which are the property of Francis Lawrence, Village Roadshow, Warner Brothers, DC Comics/Vertigo, et al. And I certainly don't own any of the demons.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"The smoke of Satan has entered the Church" --Pope Leo XIII
Prologue: The Scent of Evil
Once the delegation of concerned parishoners from Sankt Maria der Magdalena (German) Catholic Church had finished presenting their case, the look on Bishop Benjamin Mallegant's round face told them more about his internal decision than any amount of words.
He sat back in the chair behind his desk, looking out at the people clustered in his office with paternal concern, yet with adamant finality. "I'm very well aware of how you all feel about the church which houses your parish community, but we have to be practical and live in reality," he said. "And that reality is that it would be less of a drain on the finances of the diocese if we close the building and move your parish to a neighboring church. A building that old isn't cheap to maintain."
"But what about the Tridentine Mass community? There aren't any churches in the area that could really accomodate the ritual requirements: none of the altars are oriented the right way," Georg Schuller, the parish historian and accountant said, simply stating the facts, but with a note of desperation.
Bishop Mallegant sighed. "Oh, we'll sort that all out eventually; I'll speak with your pastor about that in private, at another time and place."
Natalie O'Halloran, seated at the back of the group, praying the rosary in silent support, detected an oddly harrassed note in the bishop's tone. Shielding herself behind the people in front of her, she looked up at the bishop. The slight smile on his face might have been intended to look disarming, but a look in his pale eyes suggested he wanted nothing more to do with their plea.
"That's part of the problem: our present paster, Father Herbert Manning has been asking to retire on account of his health," said Alissa Hoyt, one of the parish council members, a sturdy blonde woman in her late thirties. "We've got another priest coming in to take his place, Father Henry Prewitt, but he's currently tied up with his transferral paperwork.
Bishop Mallegant spread his hands and rolled his eyes in exasperated surrender. "It's out of my hands. I'm up to my eyebrows in trying to settle the financial mess my predecessor left. I know this will sound crude and even blasphemous to you, but the money from the sale of some of the land Sankt Maria's and a few other struggling churches like it would help balance the deficit."
Natalie had to bite her tongue to keep from blurting out, 'How valuable would Sankt Maria's be? It's in the middle of the bloody housing projects and the old mill section of Houlton!' But looking into the bishop's eyes made her gulp these words: she thought she saw something flicker in them that didn't belong there.
Bishop Mallegant rose, an unspoken declaration that he had nothing more to say to them and that he would hear nothing more from them. "I truly wish I could discuss this matter with you further, but I'm afraid I'm late for an important engagement."
The dozen parish representatives rose as one; Natalie could feel the dissappointment flowing from them all, echoed in her own choked-up feeling, but that vanished, pushed aside by the strange aura that surrounded Bishop Mallegant, like a smell.
"Will you give us your blessing?" Schuller asked, with a hint of defeat.
Bishop Mallegant let out a quiet sigh. "As you wish, my children." The gathering knelt before the bishop as he raised his hand over them and prayed the invocation out loud; but as he did so that aura thickened into a smell, like rotten eggs burning in an open sewer...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"I think your imagination was simply over-reacting," Father Prewitt said to Natalie, after morning Mass the next day, as she walked by his side in the snow-buried rose garden at Sankt Maria's. He'd been listening to her account of the previous day's meeting with the bishop, which he'd been unable to attend.
Natalie paused, in the shadow of the church building, close by one of the buttresses supporting the walls of the imposing yet graceful Gothic structure. "I don't think I was," she said. "It felt too real. It got worse when he was blessing us, as if the blessing gave it an allergic reaction."
He chuckled gently. "Interesting metaphor... Please don't think I'm saying it's impossible, but I don't think it would happen to Bishop Mallegant. That look in his eye was probably just from his own exhaustion. I've heard that he's been up late with a debt consultant and several accountants, trying to settle the dioceasan books after the financial scandal broke."
That story had been all over the newspaper and Internet headlines and the newscasts on the radio and the television: several priests appointed to collect money for the annual Diocesan Appeal had been caught pocketing the funds, an abuse that had been going on for years, which meant the total losses were now in the millions. What made it more damaging was that the offenders had used the money for their own needs: one had paid off a lover who had threatened to go public about their affair; a few others had used the cash to feed their substance addictions; two other priests had been paying off gambling debts. The previous bishop, Cardinal James Bacon, had resigned from his post after admitting he'd cast a blind eye to these abuses. The Vatican had appointed Bishop Mallegant soon afterwards, but within a matter of months, he had announced that in order to balance the books, the diocease would have to "reconfigure" itself and close some churches which housed smaller or older parishes, selling the buildings or the land they occupied.
The two of them paused before the larger-than-life white marble statue of St. Mary Magdalen, at the center of the garden. The face of the penitent woman seemed to peer shyly from under her veil, yet the artist had given her a gently sensuous mouth and a shapely form.
"It's ironic, though, that one of the parishes slated for closing should be this one, when you consider who its patron saint is," Father Prewitt said, looking up at the statue.
"Because of the snarky comment Judas Iscariot made about Mary Magdalen pouring the perfumed oil on Christ's head, when she could have sold it and brought in some money for the poor?" Natalie said, her eye on the jar in the hands of the statue before them.
"Exactly."
"But... didn't Christ also cast seven demons out of her?"
"Which brings us back to your story," Father Prewitt said. He fell silent, his gaze lingering in a thoughtful way on the Magdalen's statue. "You'd really need to speak to Father Martin Crowley, the dioceasan exorcist about this; I'll see if I can put in a word with him. But I'd better warn you: it might take a while for him to get back to you, since the case load has been heavy this year.
"Why does that not surprise me?" Natalie said.
"You've probably just been reading one too many horror novels lately," the priest said, indulgently but with a gently teasing lilt.
She shook her head. "I've been too busy, between working at my job and working on saving our church."
"You keep busy with that: I'll let you know if Father Crowley can fit in an appointment with you," the priest said.
"Thank you, Father," she said, reaching out and clasping his hand in relief and gratitude.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Within a few days, Father Prewitt called Natalie to tell her he'd spoken with Father Martin Crowley, the current exorcist, but he added a warning that the exorcist might not be able to free up much time to meet with her, since he had a backlog of cases he was trying to get under control. Natalie called Father Crowley later that day; she managed to get through long enough to make an appointment to meet with him, a week from that day, at a coffee shop not far from Sankt Maria's.
On the afternoon they were supposed to meet, Natalie waited over an hour for the exorcist to arrive, but at length he entered and approached the table: he was a tall, lean man in his late fifties, his platinum-blonde hair turned to silver and white in several patches. A vaguely haunted look showed in his long, lantern-jawed face, and his dark eyes had a look about him that suggested many years of gazing into faces and at horrors no human should have to look upon.
"Father Crowley?" she said, rising. "I'm Natalie O'Halloran."
"Yes, that's me," he said. "Peace be with you, Natalie."
"And with your spirit, " she replied.
Once she had sat down again, he seated himself in the chair across from hers, clearly welcoming the respite. A waitress approached to take his order: black coffer, no cream or sugar.
After the waitress had bustled away, the exorcist got down to business. "Father Prewit tells me that you sensed something strange about Bishop Mallegant."
"Yes, though I suppose I might just have been over-reacting to him, thinking he's in league with the devils when he's only making some contraversial decisions."
He shook his head. "No, you weren't over-reacting at all. There really is something dangerous going on with him."
"How did you find that out?"
"I had the oppurtunity to put your theory to the test a few days ago: there was a lunch meeting of the diocesan council: I offered to refill His Eminence's coffee cup, and when he couldn't see what I was doing, I blessed the contents of a packet of sweetener and put it in." A trace of slightly smirking smile showed on Father Crowley's face, but that quickly faded. "As soon as he drank it, he got nauseous and had to excuse himself for a few moments. Even before that, I sensed the presence of the old grappin, the old sinner, about him the whole time."
"You can sense the presence of evil spirits?" she asked.
"Not as strongly as some people can. But, if someone has served as an exorcist for as long as I have, they get to know the signs, like an dermatologist can spot certain skin conditions in the people around him."
"So will you do it? Will you exorcise him?" She leaned closer, almost conspiratorially.
He shook his head sadly. "No... I would if I could, but I'm afraid my hands are tied, thanks to a lovely conflict of interests," he said with a hint of sarcasm. "If I tried, it would probably cost me this position, and at my stage in life, I can't run that risk. Mallegant isn't an easy bishop to serve under, and he's only gotten worse over time... though that might of course have something to do with the houseguests in his being."
She leaned back in her chair, defeated. "So what are you going to do?"
Father Crowley leaned closer to her, lowering his voice as he spoke. "I know someone who could help us; he's sort of a supernatural detective, based out on the West Coast, Los Angeles to be precise. His name's John Constantine: I've known him for several years. He's a strange sort, definately rough around the edges of his soul, but he's good at what he does."
"Is he a priest?"
"No, but he's got the gift for dislodging the most stubborn demons. I'll call him tonight and run this past him, see if he'll come out here and put his hand to this."
"You said 'if'... why does that give me a bad feeling?"
"I wouldn't call him unpredictable, but he's the sort who doesn't let himself get involved in anyone's problems needlessly. Like I said, he's a tough character, just to prepare you in case he agrees to come out here."
"I'd better start praying, then, that he does," Natalie said.
Father Crowley smiled. "You do that: I'll take care of the mundane matters of calling him and getting him here in the first place."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
To Be Continued....
Literary Easter Eggs:
Father Martin Crowley -- I based his appearance and some elements of his personality on the late novelist, biblical scholar and dioceasan exorcist Father Malachi Martin.
"the old grappin" -- This was a slang term which St. Jean-Marie Vianney, an 19th century French priest, used to refer to the demons which used to pester him constantly at night.
I'm actually posting two versions of this, one on fanfiction.net, which I toned down slightly for a more general audience (and because I'm annoyed with their policy of hiding R-rated fics, or whatever they're calling the ratings these days), and the other, what might be called the "Director's Cut" version, I'll be posting here on my personal LJ and on a couple "Constantine" fan communities.
And I have a poster design for this in the works: I just have to figure out how to PhotoShop two pics together...
+J.M.J.+
The Smoke of Satan in Your House
by "Matrix Refugee"
Rating: PG-13 (spiritually mature themes; later chapters will go up to R for violence, language and demon slash)
Warnings: None for this chapter
Summary: When a bishop possibly in league with the demons threatens to close a historic parish, the Church's least faithful son may be the only one who can prevent something far worse...
Author's Note: The central scenario of this story, a historic church in danger of being closed, is inspired by something actually happening to my own parish. I've changed names and locations, but many of the facts are unchanged. Please don't think I'm trying to take advantage of a small tragedy for the sake of angst or drama, like those idiots that write badfics about 9/11 or the Tsunami of 2004 or [::shudder::] the Terri Schindler-Schiavo tragedy: I'm using fanfiction as a creative outlet to vent some of my frustrations about a situation that is somewhat out of my control. ...And since I'm convinced that the bishop behind the imminent closing of my parish is demonically posessed, I'm curious as to what would happen if he crossed paths with the movie-verse version of John Constantine...
Disclaimer: I don't own "Constantine", its characters, concepts and other indicia, which are the property of Francis Lawrence, Village Roadshow, Warner Brothers, DC Comics/Vertigo, et al. And I certainly don't own any of the demons.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Once the delegation of concerned parishoners from Sankt Maria der Magdalena (German) Catholic Church had finished presenting their case, the look on Bishop Benjamin Mallegant's round face told them more about his internal decision than any amount of words.
He sat back in the chair behind his desk, looking out at the people clustered in his office with paternal concern, yet with adamant finality. "I'm very well aware of how you all feel about the church which houses your parish community, but we have to be practical and live in reality," he said. "And that reality is that it would be less of a drain on the finances of the diocese if we close the building and move your parish to a neighboring church. A building that old isn't cheap to maintain."
"But what about the Tridentine Mass community? There aren't any churches in the area that could really accomodate the ritual requirements: none of the altars are oriented the right way," Georg Schuller, the parish historian and accountant said, simply stating the facts, but with a note of desperation.
Bishop Mallegant sighed. "Oh, we'll sort that all out eventually; I'll speak with your pastor about that in private, at another time and place."
Natalie O'Halloran, seated at the back of the group, praying the rosary in silent support, detected an oddly harrassed note in the bishop's tone. Shielding herself behind the people in front of her, she looked up at the bishop. The slight smile on his face might have been intended to look disarming, but a look in his pale eyes suggested he wanted nothing more to do with their plea.
"That's part of the problem: our present paster, Father Herbert Manning has been asking to retire on account of his health," said Alissa Hoyt, one of the parish council members, a sturdy blonde woman in her late thirties. "We've got another priest coming in to take his place, Father Henry Prewitt, but he's currently tied up with his transferral paperwork.
Bishop Mallegant spread his hands and rolled his eyes in exasperated surrender. "It's out of my hands. I'm up to my eyebrows in trying to settle the financial mess my predecessor left. I know this will sound crude and even blasphemous to you, but the money from the sale of some of the land Sankt Maria's and a few other struggling churches like it would help balance the deficit."
Natalie had to bite her tongue to keep from blurting out, 'How valuable would Sankt Maria's be? It's in the middle of the bloody housing projects and the old mill section of Houlton!' But looking into the bishop's eyes made her gulp these words: she thought she saw something flicker in them that didn't belong there.
Bishop Mallegant rose, an unspoken declaration that he had nothing more to say to them and that he would hear nothing more from them. "I truly wish I could discuss this matter with you further, but I'm afraid I'm late for an important engagement."
The dozen parish representatives rose as one; Natalie could feel the dissappointment flowing from them all, echoed in her own choked-up feeling, but that vanished, pushed aside by the strange aura that surrounded Bishop Mallegant, like a smell.
"Will you give us your blessing?" Schuller asked, with a hint of defeat.
Bishop Mallegant let out a quiet sigh. "As you wish, my children." The gathering knelt before the bishop as he raised his hand over them and prayed the invocation out loud; but as he did so that aura thickened into a smell, like rotten eggs burning in an open sewer...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"I think your imagination was simply over-reacting," Father Prewitt said to Natalie, after morning Mass the next day, as she walked by his side in the snow-buried rose garden at Sankt Maria's. He'd been listening to her account of the previous day's meeting with the bishop, which he'd been unable to attend.
Natalie paused, in the shadow of the church building, close by one of the buttresses supporting the walls of the imposing yet graceful Gothic structure. "I don't think I was," she said. "It felt too real. It got worse when he was blessing us, as if the blessing gave it an allergic reaction."
He chuckled gently. "Interesting metaphor... Please don't think I'm saying it's impossible, but I don't think it would happen to Bishop Mallegant. That look in his eye was probably just from his own exhaustion. I've heard that he's been up late with a debt consultant and several accountants, trying to settle the dioceasan books after the financial scandal broke."
That story had been all over the newspaper and Internet headlines and the newscasts on the radio and the television: several priests appointed to collect money for the annual Diocesan Appeal had been caught pocketing the funds, an abuse that had been going on for years, which meant the total losses were now in the millions. What made it more damaging was that the offenders had used the money for their own needs: one had paid off a lover who had threatened to go public about their affair; a few others had used the cash to feed their substance addictions; two other priests had been paying off gambling debts. The previous bishop, Cardinal James Bacon, had resigned from his post after admitting he'd cast a blind eye to these abuses. The Vatican had appointed Bishop Mallegant soon afterwards, but within a matter of months, he had announced that in order to balance the books, the diocease would have to "reconfigure" itself and close some churches which housed smaller or older parishes, selling the buildings or the land they occupied.
The two of them paused before the larger-than-life white marble statue of St. Mary Magdalen, at the center of the garden. The face of the penitent woman seemed to peer shyly from under her veil, yet the artist had given her a gently sensuous mouth and a shapely form.
"It's ironic, though, that one of the parishes slated for closing should be this one, when you consider who its patron saint is," Father Prewitt said, looking up at the statue.
"Because of the snarky comment Judas Iscariot made about Mary Magdalen pouring the perfumed oil on Christ's head, when she could have sold it and brought in some money for the poor?" Natalie said, her eye on the jar in the hands of the statue before them.
"Exactly."
"But... didn't Christ also cast seven demons out of her?"
"Which brings us back to your story," Father Prewitt said. He fell silent, his gaze lingering in a thoughtful way on the Magdalen's statue. "You'd really need to speak to Father Martin Crowley, the dioceasan exorcist about this; I'll see if I can put in a word with him. But I'd better warn you: it might take a while for him to get back to you, since the case load has been heavy this year.
"Why does that not surprise me?" Natalie said.
"You've probably just been reading one too many horror novels lately," the priest said, indulgently but with a gently teasing lilt.
She shook her head. "I've been too busy, between working at my job and working on saving our church."
"You keep busy with that: I'll let you know if Father Crowley can fit in an appointment with you," the priest said.
"Thank you, Father," she said, reaching out and clasping his hand in relief and gratitude.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Within a few days, Father Prewitt called Natalie to tell her he'd spoken with Father Martin Crowley, the current exorcist, but he added a warning that the exorcist might not be able to free up much time to meet with her, since he had a backlog of cases he was trying to get under control. Natalie called Father Crowley later that day; she managed to get through long enough to make an appointment to meet with him, a week from that day, at a coffee shop not far from Sankt Maria's.
On the afternoon they were supposed to meet, Natalie waited over an hour for the exorcist to arrive, but at length he entered and approached the table: he was a tall, lean man in his late fifties, his platinum-blonde hair turned to silver and white in several patches. A vaguely haunted look showed in his long, lantern-jawed face, and his dark eyes had a look about him that suggested many years of gazing into faces and at horrors no human should have to look upon.
"Father Crowley?" she said, rising. "I'm Natalie O'Halloran."
"Yes, that's me," he said. "Peace be with you, Natalie."
"And with your spirit, " she replied.
Once she had sat down again, he seated himself in the chair across from hers, clearly welcoming the respite. A waitress approached to take his order: black coffer, no cream or sugar.
After the waitress had bustled away, the exorcist got down to business. "Father Prewit tells me that you sensed something strange about Bishop Mallegant."
"Yes, though I suppose I might just have been over-reacting to him, thinking he's in league with the devils when he's only making some contraversial decisions."
He shook his head. "No, you weren't over-reacting at all. There really is something dangerous going on with him."
"How did you find that out?"
"I had the oppurtunity to put your theory to the test a few days ago: there was a lunch meeting of the diocesan council: I offered to refill His Eminence's coffee cup, and when he couldn't see what I was doing, I blessed the contents of a packet of sweetener and put it in." A trace of slightly smirking smile showed on Father Crowley's face, but that quickly faded. "As soon as he drank it, he got nauseous and had to excuse himself for a few moments. Even before that, I sensed the presence of the old grappin, the old sinner, about him the whole time."
"You can sense the presence of evil spirits?" she asked.
"Not as strongly as some people can. But, if someone has served as an exorcist for as long as I have, they get to know the signs, like an dermatologist can spot certain skin conditions in the people around him."
"So will you do it? Will you exorcise him?" She leaned closer, almost conspiratorially.
He shook his head sadly. "No... I would if I could, but I'm afraid my hands are tied, thanks to a lovely conflict of interests," he said with a hint of sarcasm. "If I tried, it would probably cost me this position, and at my stage in life, I can't run that risk. Mallegant isn't an easy bishop to serve under, and he's only gotten worse over time... though that might of course have something to do with the houseguests in his being."
She leaned back in her chair, defeated. "So what are you going to do?"
Father Crowley leaned closer to her, lowering his voice as he spoke. "I know someone who could help us; he's sort of a supernatural detective, based out on the West Coast, Los Angeles to be precise. His name's John Constantine: I've known him for several years. He's a strange sort, definately rough around the edges of his soul, but he's good at what he does."
"Is he a priest?"
"No, but he's got the gift for dislodging the most stubborn demons. I'll call him tonight and run this past him, see if he'll come out here and put his hand to this."
"You said 'if'... why does that give me a bad feeling?"
"I wouldn't call him unpredictable, but he's the sort who doesn't let himself get involved in anyone's problems needlessly. Like I said, he's a tough character, just to prepare you in case he agrees to come out here."
"I'd better start praying, then, that he does," Natalie said.
Father Crowley smiled. "You do that: I'll take care of the mundane matters of calling him and getting him here in the first place."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
To Be Continued....
Literary Easter Eggs:
Father Martin Crowley -- I based his appearance and some elements of his personality on the late novelist, biblical scholar and dioceasan exorcist Father Malachi Martin.
"the old grappin" -- This was a slang term which St. Jean-Marie Vianney, an 19th century French priest, used to refer to the demons which used to pester him constantly at night.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2005-04-05 03:21 am (UTC)Also, Crowley to me = Aleister Crowley, the turn-of-the-century scoundrel reputed to have dealings with the devil. ;-)
no subject
Date: 2005-04-05 03:55 am (UTC)And giving the exorcist the last name Crowley was semi-intentional: I was waiting for someone to get the reference. Wierd/clever name for an exorcist, no? ;8^D
Hang onto your seat: this story, and the one that inspired it, is gonna be a bumpy ride.