The Mummies of Blogspace9: Chapter Sixteen

June 20, 2011
Seville, Spain
*%^&$#(*&    http://www.perdido.blogspace9.ex

Sancti daemones…

Latin to English translation module: activated

Holy demons… 

Insolent fool, can you feel the sun on your skin?  Can you feel the soil under foot?  If such can yet be said of you, you have lived too long.  I cannot beg you because I have centuries ago shed my own fragile mortality, and begging necessitates at least a beating heart.  Nor can I command you because I no longer command armies of men and tortured souls both. 

But I can counsel you, young fool called Bruce, that the time is at hand to drink what poison you must, sharpen any nearest blade and cut deep, because Sopay has already cast his unholy gaze upon you.  And he can extinguish your soul as effortlessly as putting breath to a candle’s flame.

Even if you took refuge in the golden temples of the Hindoos or the hallowed minarets that Sultans climb, or worse yet, should you cling to the silken hems of a papal gown in a painted Roman sacristy, it would not suffice.  Touch his sacred books, will you?  Walk his halls?  Cast your gaze on his wives?  He’ll come for you now. 

For such insolence I would kill you myself, and I bear him no mournful nor generous consideration.  But for the sake of all that is Holy, climb to a noble place, Bruce.  Climb to the top of Giralda Tower.  Once there, set your foot atop the highest ledge, make your last prayer to God, and push off into his embrace before opportunity dims.

 

June 20, 2011
Magdalena de Paz, Peru
Samples      http://www.greatbigLeon.blogspace9.ex 

And a fine good morning to you too, Perdido.  Always good to hear from you!

 Leon, here.  It’s morning on the north coast, and we’re gearing up for another exciting day of Peruvian archaeology!  I thought I’d take this rare moment of electrical connectivity and mental clarity to take stock of our current situation.

Let’s see, our director Cyrus has deserted us, having fled the country. Young Bruce is an international fugitive, possibly a murderer, though unlikely.  Kim is paralyzed with dread, concerned about the deteriorating condition of our diminutive gaucho bodyguard who is currently convalescing from an encounter with what we all now agree was an animated mummy returned from the dead. 

Have I missed anything?  Oh wait, Laney spends her days in near hysteria concerned about Bruce, who is now apparently a Spanish gypsy crime-lord’s new bitch.  And if that weren’t enough, he’s now being threatened by an internet-savvy demon with a penchant for suicidal gloom. 

Not to whine or anything, but I’m almost out of mescaline.  When it rains, it pours! 

Before I forget, Kim asked me to upload the next entry of the Gota journal, so here it is:

“Malleus Momias” - Hammer of the Mummies - entry # 2

You will surely think me a fool for bringing my concern to light, but please consider my predicament.  Though nearly one hundred souls live within earshot of my poor mud house, and though I sleep in the holy bosom of Our Lord, I am ashamed to say that I feel quite alone.  Notwithstanding that I spent two months in Truxillo upon my arrival in the Americas, studying with the native tutors, I confess I speak the indian tongue quite poorly, nearly not at all.

Now, two months into my appointment at our church here in Santa Magdalena de Paz, I am hard at work bringing word of Our Lord to this land.  Even though our church is built of baked mud, and can hold but twelve bodies at a time, I can already count a score of converts.  Notwithstanding my concern that the indians indignantly refuse my sermons if there is no sacramental wine on offer, I believe  they hold me in great esteem.

No, my concern plagues me each night as I tidy my sacred church, sweeping the floor with my poor broom, as if it might do more than simply pool the spills of the fermented beverage the indians consume habitually.  Dutifully I sweep away the chewed bones of the rodents they gnaw at during my service, along with the scraps of indian bread which I daresay is tastier than that with which I am accustomed.

It is this sweeping that causes my indians much distress.  Initially I suspected they cherished some measure of filth, as did in fact my own grandmother, may she rest in the womb of Heaven, no fan of chores was she.  But recently I have come to understand that it is the late hour of my sweeping that is of issue. 

I confess I am remiss in my own chores, and I make my own prayers and my own writings before I undertake my tidying.  And when I tarry in the church after the sun has set, my indians become quite serious in demeanor.  They will usher me quickly to my poor house not fifty paces away, not retreating until my latch is set.

One night, they grew cross when I had cause to return to the church, having forgotten my Breviary.  With great urgency and torchlight they ushered me home.  It was on this night that I first sighted Them, the lurkers who watch from the edges of the village, those who step back quietly into the fields, or who take plodding refuge behind what wall or donkey might suffice to shield them from plain view.

No queries about these individuals would be abided.  But late one night I took to foot about the village, lest these be souls craving knowledge of Our Lord yet be too timid to seek it directly.

And in this assumption, I proved dead wrong, my words being most carefully chosen.  Once approached, and followed around the back of the church, I caught up with one such individual.  It was not difficult in that they move quite slowly.  No sooner had I placed my hand on his arm, did he turn and place his own hand on mine and look deeply into my eyes.

You’ll think me a fool for saying this, as did Father Vasco who has since counseled me on such encounters, but I found great solace in that moment.  For what stood before me was not a living soul, not a soul at all, but a ghoul from some unanticipated proximal hell set loose in our world. 

I knew at that moment that the existence of such a being manifestly laid to rest any doubts I might have had about divinity itself, and I confess that those doubts did arise from time to time arise.  Because if such a spectral being is neither too alien nor cumbersome for this world, then neither is the Lord God I serve.

– Santa Magdalena de Paz, 20 June, Year of Our Lord 1580   SEBASTIANO

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