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matrixrefugeeSorry this took so long to post: I bruised my right index finger and this made it hard to write and type, especially since that's my writing/mouse-clicking hand.
+J.M.J.+
The Smoke of Satan in Your House
by "Matrix Refugee"
Rating: PG-13 (spiritually mature themes, language)
Warnings: None for this chapter, aside from references to demonic activity, and Constantine's usual cussing.
Author's Note: I'm typing this chapter just after hearing that the dioceasan exorcist in my area just retired. Considering the story that I'm writing and where I got the inspiration, that was a little close to home, if you ask me.
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.
Chapter Three: Creeping Around the Basement
Later that evening, Constantine made a collect call on Crowley's phone, to Beeman, the arcane scholar who'd helped him on more than a few occasions; he had to find out what was up with that hotspot under the floorboards at Sankt Maria's. The line rang almost a dozen times before it finally picked up.
"Hello?" Beeman's quietly nervous voice replied, on the other end of the line.
"Hey, it's me, Constantine."
"Ah, I see you made it to Massachusetts in one piece."
"Barely. Listen, I got some research I need you to run for me. Look in the scrolls, the annals, anything you can get your hands on. I need to know everything you can find about Sankt Maria Magdalena German Catholic Church, in Houlton, or about any hotspots in the area. Anything that stinks of Hell."
"I'll see what I can find, but the annals tend to be generalized. You might need to look around the local libraries where you are."
"Just see what you can come up with, drop me a word when you do."
"All right, John, but I can't make any guarantees," Beeman said.
They exchanged goodbyes and hung up.
Crowley looked up from reading the evening newspaper. "Do you want some back-up on this? I've got some friends in the chancery."
"No, you said yourself it could cost you your job," Constantine said. "Besides, what would you tell them, 'Hey, you can't close Sankt Maria's and tear it down: it's sitting on top of a interdimensional portal. You knock down that building and the demons will come pouring out like the bats out of hell that they are'. Mallegant wouldn't just kick you out, he'd have you committed to a mental hospital."
"Okay. Just tell me, how do you plan to stop that building from coming down?" Crowley asked.
Constantine reached into his pocket for his cigarettes. "I'm working on that. I just gotta put a name to the demons first."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Next morning, Crowley dropped Constantine off at Sankt Maria's, as he headed to the chancery office for the morning. The Nine a.m, Mass was in progress when he arrived, so he slipped into the back of the church to avoid being noticed by anyone.
After Mass, while a group of women, including one woman who appeared to be Natalie, a few older men, and young kids -- probably homeschoolers -- gathered at the front of the church to pray the rosary, Constantine slipped out to find a way into the basement of the building.
He stepped out into the garden to the right of the church; a set of wide flagstone steps recessed into the ground, led from the terrace down to a basement level entrance. He descended the stairs and tried the double doors; finding them unlocked, he lifted the latch of one and let himself in.
A wainscotted entryway gave onto a large but low-ceilinged common area with a number of folding tables and chairs, clearly the parish hall. Beyond it, a set of glass and metal doors led into a small chapel, probably used for small weddings, or Exposition of the Blessed Sacrament. Both sections were well-lit for a basement: the sunlight streamed in through old-fashioned floor-to-ceiling stained glass windows. The parish hall clearly was once part of the chapel, until someone had rennovated the basement level.
As he crossed the hall, he reached out, testing the aura of the place. He sensed the same vile presence he had felt yesterday, the scent of hell lingering on the air, even in this holy place. As he pushed open the doors into the chapel and entered, the presence grew stronger. The hotspot was closer here, he could feel its vile energies emanating from the wall in back of the altar. The tabernacle did not contain the Sacred Species, and thus he did not see the Divine Presence, but he sensed the grace of merit emanating from the martyrs' bones within the altar stone, filling the hole in the sea wall between earth and hell, holding back the demonic waves.
He stepped behind the altar, into the small sacristy behind it. The hellish aura grew stronger still, until it seemed a palpable force, the demonic voices yattering and screeching, the stink of sulphur and burning flesh filling his nostrils. The evil presences hurled themselves forward, trying to assault him, but the aura of the martyrs' merits held them back.
"Depart, then, impious one; depart, accursed one; depart with all your deceits, for God has willed that man should be His temple!" he ordered, quoting the Ritualis. He hiked down his sleeves, uncovering the sigils tattooed on the insides of his wrists. The demonic aura pulsed as the evil prescences screamed at his reproach, then feel back to a dull murmur.
It's right back there, he thought, surveying the stretch of wall before him. Right there, that's the living rock between us and them.... Maybe he just imagined the crude cross in the grain of the panelling. Maybe someone had traced it there....
As he emerged into the sunlight and the slush, Constantine spotted Natalie walking through the garden, clearly on her way somewhere after the rosary. He started walking away more quickly than before, but she glanced in his direction and sharply changed her course.
"I thought I'd find you here," she said.
"You were hoping you would," he replied, pausing, waiting for her to catch up.
"I probably was: You didn't get a chance to tell me what you'd found out," she said.
"After the way you started to flip out yesterday, I'm not sure if I should."
"I'm in a better frame of mind."
He looked around, making sure no one was watching or listening, then stepped closer to her. "All right," he said, then lowering his voice, asked, "You know that square-shaped design in the tiles in front of the sanctuary?"
"Yeah, I'd always wondered why they'd put that there," she said.
"It's right over a hell-mouth, a hotspot, a weakness between the human plane and the demonic plane, between earth and hell." He waited for her response, expecting her to flip out. Or to flap out, the way he'd seen some autistics respond to a bad fright, during the year he'd spent in Ravenscar's mental ward, during his teen years.
"That sounds almost like something out of Buffy the Vampire Slayer," she said, trying to joke. Her hand rose in that loose clenched-fist gesture, but thankfully, she made no other response. "Y' know, I'd had some wierd feelings about that spot, but I'd never been able to put my finger on it. I never was able to walk across it without getting this feeling like an electric shock."
"Now, you said you wanted to help; I think I might have something for you to do," he said. "How good are you at researching stuff?"
She grinned broadly. "How good am I at research? How good is Johnny Damon at hitting baseballs or Curt Schilling at throwing them? What do you need?"
"I need you to help me look up anything on this hotspot, anything at all, in local history, arcane studies, what-have-you. I'm heading to the library later on to see what I can find," Constantine said. "I'm no good at research, never was."
"I'd be glad to help," she said.
"Good. You busy today?"
"I'm working, but I'll be off work at five. Do you want me to meet you at the Houlton Public Library?"
"Sure thing. See you after five." With that, he went on his way
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When Constantine and Crowley returned to the residence, they met Ursula lurking behind the door, standing over Constantine's missing suitcase. Her small eyes burned with anger. "They just delivered something that belongs to you, Mr. John Constantine," she said. "And I got something else for you."
She took a small metal crucifix on a chain from around her neck and slapped it against Constantine's chest. An annoyed expletive rose to his lips, but he managed to hold his tongue.
"Ursula, there's no need for that," Crowley said.
"Of course there is," she snapped. "They say he's in league with the devils, that's how he binds 'em."
"Who told you that?" Constantine asked.
"There was a piece in the Remnant about people like you. They listed you among some strange people who'd been doing exorcisms, even though you aren't priests."
"Ursula, that's enough: he's on our side," Crowley ordered.
The old woman glared at them both, then went away, darting an evil look at them, over her shoulder.
"Miserable old bitch," Constantine muttered, picking up his suitcase and following Crowley upstairs.
"I was afraid something like that would happen," Crowley said, once they were alone in his rooms. "I'm sorry about that."
"Nah, no need to be," Constantine said. "I expected worse, actually. You heard about the woman with the six-month old? She pressed kidnapping charges on me when Hennessey and I pulled Legion out of her kid."
"Yes, I read about that on the Internet," Crowley said. "I know you were trying to do what you're down here to do, but you crossed the line of human law that time. You could have gotten locked up for that stunt."
He plunked the suitcase down by the couch. "It had to be done and there was no other way. For all it's worth... I mean, I certainly don't expect people to kiss my feet or my ass, but a little, 'Hey, thanks for keeping my kid from turnin' into Lucifer's middleman on earth' would be nice to hear once in a little while."
"It comes with the territory, John. I've had people slam doors in my face. One woman's father threatened me with a shotgun, which thanks be to God turned out to be unloaded. I even had a woman messed up with black magic try putting a binding charm on me when I was trying to liberate her nephew; that's when my hair went white and the nightmares started."
Constantine sank down on the sofa. "Yeah, but you're doing this work because you chose it. The damn job chose me."
"You've got a gift, John--" Crowley started to say.
"Pardon my putting it this way, but if that's the case, then your Boss has a knack for giving people fucked-up bad gifts."
Crowley parted his lips to object, then laid a finger over them, pausing, clearly choosing the right words. "I can hear you're angry with God, but you have to let that go before it eats you alive."
Constantine shrugged, then shucked Crowley's cassock. "I'm suckin' it up, same as I always do."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Later that afternoon, the phone rang. Constantine, dozing on the couch, pulled himself up to answer it, but a fit if coughing nearly floored him.
Crowley, typing up a report on his laptop, reached for the phone and answered it. "Hello, Father Martin Crowley speaking... Yes, he's here." Off line, he added, "John, it's your friend Beeman."
"I'm on the way--kaff, kaff!" Constantine managed, his chest starting to burn. He reached for and took the handset Crowley held out to him. "Hey--kaff!"
"You all right there, John?" Beeman's voice asked, on the other end of the line.
"Yeah, I'll be all right. That cough that's buggin' me floors me if I've been laying down. You find anything?"
"There wasn't much, I'm afraid. The annals tend to be localised and the scrolls didn't tell me anything more than you'd already know. You might want to start taking a look in the local libraries."
"Don't sweat it, Beeman, you did what you could. I got someone on that now," Constantine replied.
Constantine switched off the phone and handed it back to Crowley. A door had been slammed in his face, but hopefully Natalie and her research could help him find an open window...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
At five-twenty, Constantine stood huddled under the portico of the Houlton Public Library, smoking to keep warm and cursing the New England winter, the collar of his trenchcoat turned up against the biting wind that whipped around the grey stone building and found its way into what should have been a sheltered nook. He was about to give up and walk back to the residency, when Natalie came running up the steps to meet him.
"I'm sorry I'm late: the traffic was bad and it slowed down my bus," she said.
"Well, at least you made it before I got turned into an icicle," he said, stubbing out his cigarette.
She led the way inside, through the inner doors and around a corner to a staircase leading to the mezzanine level stacks. She clearly knew the place like the back of her hand.
"So what are we looking for?" she asked.
"Any books, anything dealing with strange things happening in the area," he said, shrugging.
"Okay... let's try the arcane section, in the 001's," she said, leading the way to the right section.
They found several books on the Salem Witch Trials and a few books on ghost ships and other sea-related spooks, but nothing that looked likely. Natalie changed their course and led him up a twisting metal staircase -- little more than a glorified metal ladder with handrails added as an after-thought -- to the local history section, which occupied a reading room all its own. Up here, they found several comb-bound book on wierd things that had happened (house-hauntings, poltergeists, vampirism) in and around Houlton, but there was no mention of a hellmouth.
"Dammit," Constantine muttered, leaning back in his chair. "Everything else but the hotspot."
"I'm frustrated too," Natalie said, her fist clenching, but not rising.
He gazed across the reading room, trying to get his mind off the nicotine cravings starting to gnaw at him. His eye fell on a yellowed newspaper lying on a table. "Old newspapers," he said, an idea coming to him.
"They've got two hundred-ten years of the Houlton Herald archived on microfilm here," Natalie said, getting up. "Let me find the reference librarian."
An hour later found them sitting in front of the library's microfilm reader. Natalie scrolled through the plates of pages, while Constantine looked over her shoulder, scanning the headlines, when she didn't run the plates too fast. They started in the most likely place, around the time the church had been burned, starting with that item in particular:
The German Papist Church Burns in A Mysterious Fire
On the night of Friday, the 12th of April, Mr. James Metcalfe, owner of a ready-made clothing emporium on Sweetley Street, was retiring for the night in his rooms above his shop, when he happened to look out a window facing the German Papist Church which is situated across the street from his place of business. He noticed then that the windows of the church were lit up, which at first he took to indicate that the Papists were holding some midnight ceremonies. But then he smelled smoke, as of a great fire, and on running out into the street, discovered that a fire had broken out in the church and was consuming one of the walls of the structure.
The article didn't do much more than expand on what Natalie and the parish priest had already told him. But one paragraph caught his attention:
In the wreckage of the building, the remains of Father Yohan Miller was found lying between the table and the benches, a half-charred beam fallen across his back. Even in death, he still clung to a golden vessal which the surviving cleric, Father Hinereck Shtosser claims contained the Lord's Bread.
The members of the parish have applied to the Papist bishop for the necessary funds to rebuild the church. For the time being, the members will hold their ceremonies at the French church of Saint John Dark, which is located nearby on Winthrop Street.
"Funny they should mention Ste. Jeanne D'Arc's," Natalie said. "We've been told that we might be combining with them, once the closing goes through. There's just one big problem with that: the altar isn't really Tridentine Mass-friendly, the table is flush with the top level of the plinth in the sanctuary, and that way there's no place for the priest to stand in front of the altar to offer the Mass."
"Doesn't tell me a whole lot more than we already knew," he said, taking out his smokes and tapping one out of the pack, just to have something in his hands. "Try scrolling to the next issue."
"Consider it done," Natalie said, scrolling forward. Under a smaller headline was a short article which claimed that the fire in Sankt Maria Magdalena's might have been set by some local hoodlums, instead of being caused by a candlestick falling over. Constantine turned his attention to the fillers at the bottom of the columns this time, looking for anything likely.
"Hey, there," he said, pointing to a small item, in an issue dated a week after the fire.
The Devil Walks In Houlton
A Woman attended a charity ball held Saturday, the 20 th of April, at the Odd Fellows' Hall, arriving without a male companion to guide her. On entering the place, a tall, red-haired gentleman in a black greatcoat approached her, and with a great many flowery words and witty compliments, offered to accompany her for the evening. She found him so comely of appearance, that she hardly noticed that he spoke with an accent which indicated he was a foreigner, nor did she take note that no one else attending the gathering seemed to recognize or even take much note of him.
After the ball, the woman's companion offered to escort her back to her home, but in stead of taking her straightaway to her lodgings, the foreigner led her down a secluded alleyway and attempted to get her into a comprimising situation. She struggled against him, beating him with her reticule and crying out for help. When the foreigner had nearly overpowered her, a Papist priest from the German church happened by, on returning from attending the deathbed of a parish member. At his approach, the foreigner emitted a loud cry which the woman and her rescuer both described as sounding like the combined sounds of a donkey braying and an injured dog yelping. The foreigner's greatcoat transformed itself into a pair of great, black leathern wings with which he took flight over the rooftops, leaving behind a terrible sulphurous stench.
There were other items in the same issue: reports of chickens and dogs and other small animals being found horribly mauled; several cases of inexplicable mental illness; unexplained house fires.
It all added up to the kind of total Constantine expected: a few demons must have slipped through onto the human plane. But the priest must have offered his life as a sacrifice, to keep the worst from breaking through.
"Almost exactly what I needed to know," Constantine said, thinking out loud.
"What I'd like to know is how it got there in the first place," Natalie said.
"It'd be good information to have on hand, but I've got enough information to get started," Constantine said, sticking the cigarette between his lips. "Come on, let's get out of here."
To Be Continued....
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Literary Easter Eggs:
The Remnant -- An ultra-conservative Catholic newspaper, which tends to veer off into some wierd directions once in a while. If I take the occasional pot-shot at ultra-conservatives, it's because they make orthodox/moderate conservative people like myself look bad.
The Houlton Public Library -- Based -- metal staircases and all -- on the Lowell Public Library, prior to its recent and extensive (and lengthy) rennovation.
"Papist" -- an old and somewhat perjorative term for a Catholic. It's like calling a Jewish person a Yid or a kike.
((Cross-posted to two "Constantine" fan communities and my personal LJ))
+J.M.J.+
The Smoke of Satan in Your House
by "Matrix Refugee"
Rating: PG-13 (spiritually mature themes, language)
Warnings: None for this chapter, aside from references to demonic activity, and Constantine's usual cussing.
Author's Note: I'm typing this chapter just after hearing that the dioceasan exorcist in my area just retired. Considering the story that I'm writing and where I got the inspiration, that was a little close to home, if you ask me.
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.
Later that evening, Constantine made a collect call on Crowley's phone, to Beeman, the arcane scholar who'd helped him on more than a few occasions; he had to find out what was up with that hotspot under the floorboards at Sankt Maria's. The line rang almost a dozen times before it finally picked up.
"Hello?" Beeman's quietly nervous voice replied, on the other end of the line.
"Hey, it's me, Constantine."
"Ah, I see you made it to Massachusetts in one piece."
"Barely. Listen, I got some research I need you to run for me. Look in the scrolls, the annals, anything you can get your hands on. I need to know everything you can find about Sankt Maria Magdalena German Catholic Church, in Houlton, or about any hotspots in the area. Anything that stinks of Hell."
"I'll see what I can find, but the annals tend to be generalized. You might need to look around the local libraries where you are."
"Just see what you can come up with, drop me a word when you do."
"All right, John, but I can't make any guarantees," Beeman said.
They exchanged goodbyes and hung up.
Crowley looked up from reading the evening newspaper. "Do you want some back-up on this? I've got some friends in the chancery."
"No, you said yourself it could cost you your job," Constantine said. "Besides, what would you tell them, 'Hey, you can't close Sankt Maria's and tear it down: it's sitting on top of a interdimensional portal. You knock down that building and the demons will come pouring out like the bats out of hell that they are'. Mallegant wouldn't just kick you out, he'd have you committed to a mental hospital."
"Okay. Just tell me, how do you plan to stop that building from coming down?" Crowley asked.
Constantine reached into his pocket for his cigarettes. "I'm working on that. I just gotta put a name to the demons first."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Next morning, Crowley dropped Constantine off at Sankt Maria's, as he headed to the chancery office for the morning. The Nine a.m, Mass was in progress when he arrived, so he slipped into the back of the church to avoid being noticed by anyone.
After Mass, while a group of women, including one woman who appeared to be Natalie, a few older men, and young kids -- probably homeschoolers -- gathered at the front of the church to pray the rosary, Constantine slipped out to find a way into the basement of the building.
He stepped out into the garden to the right of the church; a set of wide flagstone steps recessed into the ground, led from the terrace down to a basement level entrance. He descended the stairs and tried the double doors; finding them unlocked, he lifted the latch of one and let himself in.
A wainscotted entryway gave onto a large but low-ceilinged common area with a number of folding tables and chairs, clearly the parish hall. Beyond it, a set of glass and metal doors led into a small chapel, probably used for small weddings, or Exposition of the Blessed Sacrament. Both sections were well-lit for a basement: the sunlight streamed in through old-fashioned floor-to-ceiling stained glass windows. The parish hall clearly was once part of the chapel, until someone had rennovated the basement level.
As he crossed the hall, he reached out, testing the aura of the place. He sensed the same vile presence he had felt yesterday, the scent of hell lingering on the air, even in this holy place. As he pushed open the doors into the chapel and entered, the presence grew stronger. The hotspot was closer here, he could feel its vile energies emanating from the wall in back of the altar. The tabernacle did not contain the Sacred Species, and thus he did not see the Divine Presence, but he sensed the grace of merit emanating from the martyrs' bones within the altar stone, filling the hole in the sea wall between earth and hell, holding back the demonic waves.
He stepped behind the altar, into the small sacristy behind it. The hellish aura grew stronger still, until it seemed a palpable force, the demonic voices yattering and screeching, the stink of sulphur and burning flesh filling his nostrils. The evil presences hurled themselves forward, trying to assault him, but the aura of the martyrs' merits held them back.
"Depart, then, impious one; depart, accursed one; depart with all your deceits, for God has willed that man should be His temple!" he ordered, quoting the Ritualis. He hiked down his sleeves, uncovering the sigils tattooed on the insides of his wrists. The demonic aura pulsed as the evil prescences screamed at his reproach, then feel back to a dull murmur.
It's right back there, he thought, surveying the stretch of wall before him. Right there, that's the living rock between us and them.... Maybe he just imagined the crude cross in the grain of the panelling. Maybe someone had traced it there....
As he emerged into the sunlight and the slush, Constantine spotted Natalie walking through the garden, clearly on her way somewhere after the rosary. He started walking away more quickly than before, but she glanced in his direction and sharply changed her course.
"I thought I'd find you here," she said.
"You were hoping you would," he replied, pausing, waiting for her to catch up.
"I probably was: You didn't get a chance to tell me what you'd found out," she said.
"After the way you started to flip out yesterday, I'm not sure if I should."
"I'm in a better frame of mind."
He looked around, making sure no one was watching or listening, then stepped closer to her. "All right," he said, then lowering his voice, asked, "You know that square-shaped design in the tiles in front of the sanctuary?"
"Yeah, I'd always wondered why they'd put that there," she said.
"It's right over a hell-mouth, a hotspot, a weakness between the human plane and the demonic plane, between earth and hell." He waited for her response, expecting her to flip out. Or to flap out, the way he'd seen some autistics respond to a bad fright, during the year he'd spent in Ravenscar's mental ward, during his teen years.
"That sounds almost like something out of Buffy the Vampire Slayer," she said, trying to joke. Her hand rose in that loose clenched-fist gesture, but thankfully, she made no other response. "Y' know, I'd had some wierd feelings about that spot, but I'd never been able to put my finger on it. I never was able to walk across it without getting this feeling like an electric shock."
"Now, you said you wanted to help; I think I might have something for you to do," he said. "How good are you at researching stuff?"
She grinned broadly. "How good am I at research? How good is Johnny Damon at hitting baseballs or Curt Schilling at throwing them? What do you need?"
"I need you to help me look up anything on this hotspot, anything at all, in local history, arcane studies, what-have-you. I'm heading to the library later on to see what I can find," Constantine said. "I'm no good at research, never was."
"I'd be glad to help," she said.
"Good. You busy today?"
"I'm working, but I'll be off work at five. Do you want me to meet you at the Houlton Public Library?"
"Sure thing. See you after five." With that, he went on his way
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When Constantine and Crowley returned to the residence, they met Ursula lurking behind the door, standing over Constantine's missing suitcase. Her small eyes burned with anger. "They just delivered something that belongs to you, Mr. John Constantine," she said. "And I got something else for you."
She took a small metal crucifix on a chain from around her neck and slapped it against Constantine's chest. An annoyed expletive rose to his lips, but he managed to hold his tongue.
"Ursula, there's no need for that," Crowley said.
"Of course there is," she snapped. "They say he's in league with the devils, that's how he binds 'em."
"Who told you that?" Constantine asked.
"There was a piece in the Remnant about people like you. They listed you among some strange people who'd been doing exorcisms, even though you aren't priests."
"Ursula, that's enough: he's on our side," Crowley ordered.
The old woman glared at them both, then went away, darting an evil look at them, over her shoulder.
"Miserable old bitch," Constantine muttered, picking up his suitcase and following Crowley upstairs.
"I was afraid something like that would happen," Crowley said, once they were alone in his rooms. "I'm sorry about that."
"Nah, no need to be," Constantine said. "I expected worse, actually. You heard about the woman with the six-month old? She pressed kidnapping charges on me when Hennessey and I pulled Legion out of her kid."
"Yes, I read about that on the Internet," Crowley said. "I know you were trying to do what you're down here to do, but you crossed the line of human law that time. You could have gotten locked up for that stunt."
He plunked the suitcase down by the couch. "It had to be done and there was no other way. For all it's worth... I mean, I certainly don't expect people to kiss my feet or my ass, but a little, 'Hey, thanks for keeping my kid from turnin' into Lucifer's middleman on earth' would be nice to hear once in a little while."
"It comes with the territory, John. I've had people slam doors in my face. One woman's father threatened me with a shotgun, which thanks be to God turned out to be unloaded. I even had a woman messed up with black magic try putting a binding charm on me when I was trying to liberate her nephew; that's when my hair went white and the nightmares started."
Constantine sank down on the sofa. "Yeah, but you're doing this work because you chose it. The damn job chose me."
"You've got a gift, John--" Crowley started to say.
"Pardon my putting it this way, but if that's the case, then your Boss has a knack for giving people fucked-up bad gifts."
Crowley parted his lips to object, then laid a finger over them, pausing, clearly choosing the right words. "I can hear you're angry with God, but you have to let that go before it eats you alive."
Constantine shrugged, then shucked Crowley's cassock. "I'm suckin' it up, same as I always do."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Later that afternoon, the phone rang. Constantine, dozing on the couch, pulled himself up to answer it, but a fit if coughing nearly floored him.
Crowley, typing up a report on his laptop, reached for the phone and answered it. "Hello, Father Martin Crowley speaking... Yes, he's here." Off line, he added, "John, it's your friend Beeman."
"I'm on the way--kaff, kaff!" Constantine managed, his chest starting to burn. He reached for and took the handset Crowley held out to him. "Hey--kaff!"
"You all right there, John?" Beeman's voice asked, on the other end of the line.
"Yeah, I'll be all right. That cough that's buggin' me floors me if I've been laying down. You find anything?"
"There wasn't much, I'm afraid. The annals tend to be localised and the scrolls didn't tell me anything more than you'd already know. You might want to start taking a look in the local libraries."
"Don't sweat it, Beeman, you did what you could. I got someone on that now," Constantine replied.
Constantine switched off the phone and handed it back to Crowley. A door had been slammed in his face, but hopefully Natalie and her research could help him find an open window...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
At five-twenty, Constantine stood huddled under the portico of the Houlton Public Library, smoking to keep warm and cursing the New England winter, the collar of his trenchcoat turned up against the biting wind that whipped around the grey stone building and found its way into what should have been a sheltered nook. He was about to give up and walk back to the residency, when Natalie came running up the steps to meet him.
"I'm sorry I'm late: the traffic was bad and it slowed down my bus," she said.
"Well, at least you made it before I got turned into an icicle," he said, stubbing out his cigarette.
She led the way inside, through the inner doors and around a corner to a staircase leading to the mezzanine level stacks. She clearly knew the place like the back of her hand.
"So what are we looking for?" she asked.
"Any books, anything dealing with strange things happening in the area," he said, shrugging.
"Okay... let's try the arcane section, in the 001's," she said, leading the way to the right section.
They found several books on the Salem Witch Trials and a few books on ghost ships and other sea-related spooks, but nothing that looked likely. Natalie changed their course and led him up a twisting metal staircase -- little more than a glorified metal ladder with handrails added as an after-thought -- to the local history section, which occupied a reading room all its own. Up here, they found several comb-bound book on wierd things that had happened (house-hauntings, poltergeists, vampirism) in and around Houlton, but there was no mention of a hellmouth.
"Dammit," Constantine muttered, leaning back in his chair. "Everything else but the hotspot."
"I'm frustrated too," Natalie said, her fist clenching, but not rising.
He gazed across the reading room, trying to get his mind off the nicotine cravings starting to gnaw at him. His eye fell on a yellowed newspaper lying on a table. "Old newspapers," he said, an idea coming to him.
"They've got two hundred-ten years of the Houlton Herald archived on microfilm here," Natalie said, getting up. "Let me find the reference librarian."
An hour later found them sitting in front of the library's microfilm reader. Natalie scrolled through the plates of pages, while Constantine looked over her shoulder, scanning the headlines, when she didn't run the plates too fast. They started in the most likely place, around the time the church had been burned, starting with that item in particular:
On the night of Friday, the 12th of April, Mr. James Metcalfe, owner of a ready-made clothing emporium on Sweetley Street, was retiring for the night in his rooms above his shop, when he happened to look out a window facing the German Papist Church which is situated across the street from his place of business. He noticed then that the windows of the church were lit up, which at first he took to indicate that the Papists were holding some midnight ceremonies. But then he smelled smoke, as of a great fire, and on running out into the street, discovered that a fire had broken out in the church and was consuming one of the walls of the structure.
The article didn't do much more than expand on what Natalie and the parish priest had already told him. But one paragraph caught his attention:
In the wreckage of the building, the remains of Father Yohan Miller was found lying between the table and the benches, a half-charred beam fallen across his back. Even in death, he still clung to a golden vessal which the surviving cleric, Father Hinereck Shtosser claims contained the Lord's Bread.
The members of the parish have applied to the Papist bishop for the necessary funds to rebuild the church. For the time being, the members will hold their ceremonies at the French church of Saint John Dark, which is located nearby on Winthrop Street.
"Funny they should mention Ste. Jeanne D'Arc's," Natalie said. "We've been told that we might be combining with them, once the closing goes through. There's just one big problem with that: the altar isn't really Tridentine Mass-friendly, the table is flush with the top level of the plinth in the sanctuary, and that way there's no place for the priest to stand in front of the altar to offer the Mass."
"Doesn't tell me a whole lot more than we already knew," he said, taking out his smokes and tapping one out of the pack, just to have something in his hands. "Try scrolling to the next issue."
"Consider it done," Natalie said, scrolling forward. Under a smaller headline was a short article which claimed that the fire in Sankt Maria Magdalena's might have been set by some local hoodlums, instead of being caused by a candlestick falling over. Constantine turned his attention to the fillers at the bottom of the columns this time, looking for anything likely.
"Hey, there," he said, pointing to a small item, in an issue dated a week after the fire.
A Woman attended a charity ball held Saturday, the 20 th of April, at the Odd Fellows' Hall, arriving without a male companion to guide her. On entering the place, a tall, red-haired gentleman in a black greatcoat approached her, and with a great many flowery words and witty compliments, offered to accompany her for the evening. She found him so comely of appearance, that she hardly noticed that he spoke with an accent which indicated he was a foreigner, nor did she take note that no one else attending the gathering seemed to recognize or even take much note of him.
After the ball, the woman's companion offered to escort her back to her home, but in stead of taking her straightaway to her lodgings, the foreigner led her down a secluded alleyway and attempted to get her into a comprimising situation. She struggled against him, beating him with her reticule and crying out for help. When the foreigner had nearly overpowered her, a Papist priest from the German church happened by, on returning from attending the deathbed of a parish member. At his approach, the foreigner emitted a loud cry which the woman and her rescuer both described as sounding like the combined sounds of a donkey braying and an injured dog yelping. The foreigner's greatcoat transformed itself into a pair of great, black leathern wings with which he took flight over the rooftops, leaving behind a terrible sulphurous stench.
There were other items in the same issue: reports of chickens and dogs and other small animals being found horribly mauled; several cases of inexplicable mental illness; unexplained house fires.
It all added up to the kind of total Constantine expected: a few demons must have slipped through onto the human plane. But the priest must have offered his life as a sacrifice, to keep the worst from breaking through.
"Almost exactly what I needed to know," Constantine said, thinking out loud.
"What I'd like to know is how it got there in the first place," Natalie said.
"It'd be good information to have on hand, but I've got enough information to get started," Constantine said, sticking the cigarette between his lips. "Come on, let's get out of here."
To Be Continued....
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Literary Easter Eggs:
The Remnant -- An ultra-conservative Catholic newspaper, which tends to veer off into some wierd directions once in a while. If I take the occasional pot-shot at ultra-conservatives, it's because they make orthodox/moderate conservative people like myself look bad.
The Houlton Public Library -- Based -- metal staircases and all -- on the Lowell Public Library, prior to its recent and extensive (and lengthy) rennovation.
"Papist" -- an old and somewhat perjorative term for a Catholic. It's like calling a Jewish person a Yid or a kike.
((Cross-posted to two "Constantine" fan communities and my personal LJ))
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Date: 2005-05-03 09:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-05-04 02:57 am (UTC)