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 <strong>of</strong> 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 <strong>of</strong> 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 <strong>of</strong> the paintings— and the dark contents <strong>of</strong> the niches along the walls. “Try to understand,” Trochino said. There was an note <strong>of</strong> 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 <strong>of</strong> their dead. My people were reduced practically to animals for many years, able to eat only the <strong>of</strong>fal that was cast from the temples, the corpses left after a bloody show at the coliseum. We had access only to the lowest sort <strong>of</strong> men. We were becoming the lowest sort <strong>of</strong> people ourselves.” Trochino had come at last to an open room; here he finally put the old priest down on a flat tablature <strong>of</strong> 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 <strong>of</strong> the emperor Nero. A vile and evil man, a persecutor <strong>of</strong> 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 <strong>of</strong> 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 <strong>of</strong> Christians who were buried here, my people learned <strong>of</strong> the great sacrifice which Our Lord and Savior had made, and <strong>of</strong> 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 <strong>of</strong> 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 <strong>of</strong> 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 <strong>of</strong> 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 s<strong>of</strong>t, expectant hiss. One <strong>of</strong> 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 <strong>of</strong> the women joined in simultaneously, completing the final words <strong>of</strong> the Apostle’s Creed in a chorus: “I believe in the Holy Ghost, the Holy Church; the communion <strong>of</strong> saints, the forgiveness <strong>of</strong> sins; the resurrection <strong>of</strong> the body; and the life everlasting.” “Amen,” Trochino said—but Father Macchi did not. As the oldest <strong>of</strong> the women lifted her veil, bending to deliver the Kiss <strong>of</strong> Peace, he simply tried to scream. n Arrin Dembo’s writing has appeared in a wide array <strong>of</strong> venues, including The New York Review <strong>of</strong> Science Fiction, Computer Gaming World, The <strong>Magazine</strong> <strong>of</strong> Fantasy and Science Fiction, The Vancouver Courier, and Pretty-Scary.net. She is the creator <strong>of</strong> the “Sword <strong>of</strong> the Stars” computer game universe and the author <strong>of</strong> the “Sword <strong>of</strong> the Stars” novel The Deacon’s Tale. She is currently pursuing a degree in anthropology from the University <strong>of</strong> Tennessee, and in her spare time enjoys working with independent filmmakers, especially those specializing in horror.
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