HP Lovecraft's Magazine of Horror - Weird Tales

22 H .P . L O V E C R A F T ’S M A G A Z IN E O F H O R R O R
The jutting jaw and tilted head gives Columba the look of
a god rather than a saint. Massive arms bulge above the elbows.
The long sword rests with its tip on the ground, held at the hilt.
The free hand reaches toward nothing, grasping for understanding,
or maybe for freedom. The eyes stare toward the ceiling,
praying to God for an answer to his stone-bound predicament.
Sometimes, rocky tears form. I shiver. I did not mold the
body in that posture. The pose comes from Columba’s movement.
Columba lowers his gaze until his eyes stare into mine. I take
a sharp breath. I read the question with ease. Why? he asks. I look
at Glenda who studies the wall opposite Columba. I know she
sees, but she will not say.
',%.$!n Stephen stood immobile in the kitchen
staring at the statue. I had known for some time that Saint
Columba lived. I suspected Stephen’s talent when he sculpted
the Black Madonna, which sold to an offbeat gallery at the edge
of New Orleans. It brought a good price, but I hated to part
with the Gnostic icon. I heard her voice at times, telling me to
wait.
Columba lowered his gaze, pleading for an escape. I studied
the inner wall. Through the mirror, I saw Stephen glance my way.
When he looked to Columba, I studied my husband. Dark hair
fell to his shoulders when he worked. A receding hairline left a
tuft up front. He was still a handsome man at forty-five. I saw
the way women gazed when he walked into a room. For a couple
of years, I wished he would find someone and leave, but he
never noticed others. Ever the artist turned inward and to hell
with the world, including his wife, especially his wife.
Stephen had not loved me for years, though he thought he
did. Our marriage died a slow painless death through neglect and
too much comfort. Columba sagged in the shoulders, fear within
the stone eyes. I talked to Columba when Stephen slept or left
the house. I expected the old Celt to understand Latin, though
he spoke Gaelic or Old English.
Stephen mumbled something and trudged toward the stairs,
moving with a wooden gait as if his skin turned to stone as he
brought Columba to life. I smiled at the thought and turned back
to Columba as Stephen pulled his way up the stairs. I waited until
the bedroom door shut and then walked to the statue. I whispered
to Columba in Latin.
“Do not worry, Columba,” I said. “God would not let you
live in such a condition, not one of His saints.”
I caressed the cheek. The stone sent chills up my back. The
head turned slightly. A smile formed on Columba’s face. The
eyes warmed my heart as I wished Stephen would trade places
with his stone creation.
34%0(%.n I hear Glenda whispering to Columba as
she plots my demise. She is doing this. I don’t know how, but she
is responsible. My anger wells up in my breast as I feel the hardening
of my feet. I lie awake afraid that if I sleep I will become
stone, as much stone as Columba and the Black Madonna. Sleep
takes me when I least expect it.
I stand in front of the Madonna. Darkness encompasses the
gallery except for a bright light that outlines her head. The eyes
shine and I see the stone face smile.
“Stephen,” the Madonna says. “You and I will be together,
soon. Ignore your wife and her obsessions. Her heart craves
stone as mine longs for flesh.”
Anger flashes when she mentions Glenda. “She’s trying to
kill me.”
“No,” the Madonna says. “She sets you free.”
I wake with a start. Glenda did not sleep with me last night.
Anger and jealousy burn my stomach. Struggling to get out of
bed, I realize that my knees bend only with effort. My feet clunk
as stone on the wooden floor. I walk to the bathroom and understand
the true meaning of kidney stones. Pain racks my body as
I expel little fluid. I dress, put my hair in a ponytail, and descend
the stairs with care.
Glenda gazes at Columba, her eyes glistening with love, his
hands cupping hers. She hears my clonking gait on the carpet of
the stairs and pulls away from the statue. Columba turns his
head, easier than last night, as I glare.
“Did you sleep well?” My words convey anger and hurt.
How could she?
“I didn’t sleep,” Glenda says. A furtive glance cast at
Columba as she walks away. “You seemed tired and I decided to
stay on the couch. Caught an old movie.”
I glare at Glenda and then to Columba. Yesterday I had not
yet finished the sculpture, but now he stood complete in the pose
I had sculpted. As if I believe for one minute he did not sleep
with my wife. “I am going into town today,” I say, trying to tone
down the anger. “I thought I would visit the Black Madonna.
Want to come?”
Glenda shakes her head. “I have some errands to run. And
I have a lunch date with Cedric about selling your latest work.”
I stop and stare. Glenda holds my eyes with her gaze. “You
want to sell Saint Columba?” I closed my mouth after realizing I
left it open. I can’t believe she wants to part with Columba.
Glenda laughs. “You did create this thing for money, didn’t
you?” She raises an eyebrow. She plans something, I can tell.
“I’m going to have Cedric over this evening to finalize the
deal.”
I nod. “Do you need anything while I am out?” She shakes
her head, so I walk to the door and leave. I linger for a moment,
until I hear a voice speaking in Latin, a man’s voice coming from
my apartment. A tear rolls done my face and cracks as it hits the
floor.
',%.$!n “How do we do this, my love?” Columba’s
voice growled through stone vocal chords. “I can kill him with
my sword as he walks through the door.”
I smiled. He might be a saint, but things have changed since
his day. Explaining about police and laws was out of the question.
“No, you mustn’t kill him, my love.” I stroked his face,
which feels less than stone. I found certain aspects fleshier than
others last night. “He will see the Madonna today. That should
finish the job.”
My lips brushed his and I felt his kiss return. “I have things
to do, Columba. I’ll be back later.” He grunted his answer.