HP Lovecraft's Magazine of Horror - Weird Tales

48 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
“Careful,” the priest said. “Do you have a light,
Trochino?”
The silent pause that followed seemed almost deafening.
Then there came the creak of leather, and the clink and clatter
of Trochino’s tool belt. Suddenly a circle of light exploded in
Macchi’s right eye.
The priest raised a hand, wincing. “Please do not blind me,
my son.”
“Sorry, Padrone.” Trochino turned the flashlight beam
aside, playing it over the heap in which the priest lay halfburied.
“We must get you out of there.”
“Yes,” Macchi said. “But carefully. My ankle.”
Trochino wedged the flashlight into a pile of fallen stones
and worked with a will, quickly lifting away the broken chunks
and slabs of stone which had pinned the priest’s legs. “I am terribly
sorry, Padrone,” he said. “You were hurt trying to save me
from harm.”
Macchi winced as his leg shifted. “It was nothing, my son.
You would have done the same for me, I am sure.”
Trochino stopped for a moment, stricken—then bent and
redoubled his efforts to clear the debris. “I would like to think
so, Padrone,” he said. “But I am afraid that I am not so good a
man as you. Roma has polluted my soul.”
“You are a good man, Trochino. Your soul is not polluted;
God’s love and forgiveness will wash away all of your sins.”
Trochino turned and gave the priest a feeble smile. “If you
say so, Padrone, it must be so. I am sorry that my faith is sometimes
weak.” The surveyor squatted to scoop away the last of
the sand and earth away from the old priest’s legs. “I believe we
should try to turn you over, Padrone,” he said. “Are you ready?”
Macchi nodded, and clenched his teeth to brace himself.
Trochino’s arms were strong and his touch surprisingly deft
and gentle—but still the priest winced as his ankle shifted.
Trochino propped the priest up in a sitting position, ignoring
his grunts and grimaces of pain. When Macchi was upright,
the surveyor removed a handkerchief from his pocket and
mopped the cold sweat on the old man’s brow. “I am sorry,
Padrone,” he said. “Is the pain very bad?”
“Yes,” Macchi gasped. “Just a sprain, thank God.”
Trochino rose to his feet, looking around. “We are
trapped, Padrone. The catacombs both ahead and behind us
have collapsed.”
Macchi nodded. “I thought as much. I have been through
a few cave-ins before. Usually it happens in new excavations—
I could have sworn these passages were well-braced.” He shook
his head. “In any case, someone will certainly have heard that
noise. They will come and dig us out soon enough.”
“Yes. I am sure someone will come for us,” Trochino said.
He turned and found his paper bag in the dirt. “Here; let me
give you a sip of wine, Padrone. I still have some of the food I
brought for today.”
Macchi did not protest or resist as the surveyor placed the
thermos bottle to his lips; if anything, he was surprised by his
own greed, taking it in his own hand to down the remaining
contents. The wine was sweet and sharp; he could feel a cool
rill dribble down from the corner of his mouth, but did not
stop to wipe it away until all the wine was gone.
Trochino had removed a half-eaten loaf of bread from the
bag, and now sat squatting on his heels eating it, watching the
priest drink with a thoughtful expression. “You were thirsty,
Padrone.”
Macchi took a deep breath. “Yes. Thank you, Trochino.”
The surveyor held out his torn loaf, offering it, but Macchi
waved it away. “No. Is that all you brought for your afternoon
meal, Trochino—bread and wine?”
The surveyor nodded, ripping off another chunk of the
bread with his strong white teeth. “I had a bit of fruit as
well.”
The priest raised an eyebrow. “You are a vegetarian?”
Trochino shrugged as he popped the last piece of bread
into his mouth. “We are what we eat, Signore. I do not wish to
be a beast, and so I do not eat the flesh of beasts.”
Macchi smiled weakly, fighting down his pain. “You are
speaking to a Jesuit, Trochino. Such statements tempt me to
debate.”
Trochino raised his hands in mock surrender. “I am not so
wise as you are, Padrone. I could not win an argument. I only
know that when I drink the wine of Sicily, I can taste the shadow
of the volcano. When I eat a loaf of new bread, the grain of
Tuscany carries the memory of rain and sun. The lives of the
plants are sweet and full of grace—the lives of beasts are
painful, full of suffering and confusion.”
“I see.” Macchi tilted to his head to one side, studying the
surveyor with narrowed eyes. “I have never heard it expressed
quite that way before. Very . . . poetic, Trochino.”
The surveyor rubbed his thick hands over his thighs, eyes
downcast and embarrassed. “I am no poet, Padrone.”
Father Macchi pointed to the flashlight, still wedged into a
pile of fallen rocks. “May I have it, please?”
Trochino handed him the light and Macchi played it over
the surrounding walls. “Interesting,” he mused. “I believe the
side of this tunnel has collapsed as well as the roof behind us—
I would have sworn that section there was a solid wall, but
there appears to be more space behind it.” He looked at
Trochino, licking his lips. “Tell me—do you think there is anything
in your tool belt that we could use as a splint?”
Trochino nodded. “I think so.”
It took a few minutes to make the dressing; Trochino
found a few pieces of broken wood in the wreckage and used
them to brace the sprained ankle, wrapping the priest’s ankle in
electrical tape to secure them. By the time the operation was
finished, Macchi was white-faced and shaking.
Trochino looked up at the priest, concerned. “Are you
sure we can move you, Padrone?”
Macchi swallowed hard. “I think it would be wise. More of
this area may collapse; if there are rooms beyond, there may be
a safer place to wait for rescue. Please help me to my feet, my
son—I think I will need to lean on you for a while.”
The surveyor bent and allowed the old man to put an arm
over his broad shoulder, raising him easily to his feet. Macchi
clung to him with one arm, holding the flashlight with the
other—playing it over the fallen earth and stone. “Yes,” he said
decisively. “I have come this way a thousand times. This was
not here before.” He urged Trochino forward, half stumbling