HP Lovecraft's Magazine of Horror - Weird Tales

50 | 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
who has died. They become the dead, know what they knew, feel
what they felt, remember all that they remembered. They can
speak with the voice of the one who was lost. For a grieving man
who needs one last word from the woman he loved . . . it is a
great gift.” Trochino shrugged. “But of course, she cannot come
with him to the world above. And it is always better if he does
not lift her veil.”
“Trochino,” Macchi wheezed. “Why have you—?”
Trochino shook his head sadly. “I am sorry, Padrone. We
never intended that you should suffer; you were not meant to
survive the falling rocks. We have almost reached our destination.”
The priest’s eyes rolled slowly back and forth as the corridors
swung past, trying to gain some sense of the paintings—
and the dark contents of the niches along the walls.
“Try to understand,” Trochino said. There was an note of
pleading in his voice that made the old priest shiver. “We did
not know that we were sinners, Padrone. Eventually the
Romans came to suspect our presence, and began cremating
the bodies of their dead. My people were reduced practically to
animals for many years, able to eat only the offal that was cast
from the temples, the corpses left after a bloody show at the
coliseum. We had access only to the lowest sort of men. We
were becoming the lowest sort of people ourselves.”
Trochino had come at last to an open room; here he finally
put the old priest down on a flat tablature of stone. Around
the room, a few electric lanterns hung. Macchi’s head lolled to
the left and he saw another doorway leading away into the dark.
Trochino kindly readjusted his head; the priest was still unable
to turn it back on his own.
“One day there was a great event in the hippodrome of the
emperor Nero. A vile and evil man, a persecutor of the innocent—but
nonetheless, a man to whom my people owe our
very souls.” Trochino’s voice had dropped to a reverent whisper.
“In the arena that day, a great man was crucified. His head
hung low; he died suffering, a mocking parody of another execution
which had been performed many years earlier, in
Jerusalem.”
“S . . . Saint Peter,” Macchi said, forcing out the words.
Trochino nodded. Tears had begun to flow down his face.
“Si, Padrone. It was my great-great-grandmother who brought
us the true faith. Through the two Apostles and the martyrs
that followed, through the generations of Christians who were
buried here, my people learned of the great sacrifice which Our
Lord and Savior had made, and of the joy to come in the life
hereafter.”
Trochino bent low, his voice dropping still further. “It has
been hard, Signore. Very hard. Faith is dying in the city above
us. The people of Rome have once again become low, and
cold—interested only in material things. They are poisoning my
people—we are losing our faith. And their new digging drives
us deeper and deeper into the earth.
“These new Romans are not like the Christians of old.
They have forgotten us—and it is better so. They would not
understand—would not bring their dead to us willingly, as the
first Christians did. They do not understand that we must be
saved—that our faith must be kept strong.”
Father Macchi struggled to speak. “The student . . .”
Trochino turned his head to one side sadly. “Yes, Padrone.
My deepest regrets. His name was James Keller. A talented and
intelligent young man, very sensitive. His faith was strong, his
love and respect for ancient things even stronger. We have
learned much from him—and gained new concerns, as you
might imagine.”
Trochino frowned. “We too are digging, Padrone. We
must delve deeper, to make a new place for ourselves away
from the world above. Like the subway crews, we are finding
many ancient and marvelous things—but unlike the city planning
council, we have learned to respect them. We do not wish
to see them destroyed.”
Macchi’s eyes suddenly widened. “No . . . Trochino . . .
please . . . ”
Trochino knuckled the tears from his cheek. “I am truly
sorry, Padrone,” he said brokenly. “I had hoped that there was
some other way, but you said yourself that your great skill could
not be taught to a simple man like myself. There is only one
way that my people will gain your wisdom.”
Macchi’s head lolled to the side once more. Pale figures
were emerging from the gloom, the slim robed figures of
women. Their faces were covered by long, sheer white veils—
but beneath the fabric, there was a shifting movement which
made his skin crawl.
“God help me,” the priest whispered. “God save me!”
Trochino’s hand patted his chest, as if to give reassurance.
“He will, Padrone,” he said. “You have been a good and honest
man. You will sit at His right hand.”
Macchi turned his head toward Trochino, but the surveyor
was now backing away. The women glided silently into the
room, and now encircled the stone table. There was a faint,
wordless whisper from beneath their veils—a soft, expectant
hiss.
One of them was speaking; Macchi recognized the words,
although the Latin intonation was strange. “ . . . From thence
He shall come to judge the quick and the dead.”
The rest of the women joined in simultaneously, completing
the final words of the Apostle’s Creed in a chorus: “I
believe in the Holy Ghost, the Holy Church; the communion
of saints, the forgiveness of sins; the resurrection of the body;
and the life everlasting.”
“Amen,” Trochino said—but Father Macchi did not. As
the oldest of the women lifted her veil, bending to deliver the
Kiss of Peace, he simply tried to scream. n
Arrin Dembo’s writing has appeared in a wide array of venues, including
The New York Review of Science Fiction, Computer Gaming
World, The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, The
Vancouver Courier, and Pretty-Scary.net. She is the creator of the “Sword
of the Stars” computer game universe and the author of the “Sword of the
Stars” novel The Deacon’s Tale. She is currently pursuing a degree in
anthropology from the University of Tennessee, and in her spare time enjoys
working with independent filmmakers, especially those specializing in horror.