Mea Culpa

6th of February, 1996

It was snowing lightly. I remember the way the frost gripped the masonry at the west of the church, making it slanted in the morning shadows. The birds never sung in this sort of cold; it was as if God had silenced them until he saw fit to warmth the earth and their dry throats. The east of the graveyard overlooked the fields, flat and slate grey under the light snowfall.

No one was working there, no one could see me crossing the path into the church. Not the early in the morning. Some crows landed and watched me unlock the ancient doors. I enjoyed the privacy, away from my ever clucking flock in their worn felt hats and desperate painted faces. Just for a few moments each day, I was free of the vulgar licentiousness of the ignorant congregation.

I lit some candles upon entry, and prayed a little, my mind wandering as the soft light filled the glass windows, sending an array of coloured luminance across the steps. I shut my eyes, shutting out the distraction from my God. Beauty is a great temptation away from purity of thought, even for those as focused on spiritual cleanliness as I. But still, knowing the warm pallor of Eve's skin fell on my own hands left me with frustration and guilt. Nowhere is free of temptation.

A shadow past the window, a small silhouette at some distance, ten foot or so from the wall of the church. I felt the light change around my eyelids and opened them in surprise. It was unlike any of the sinners to creep in here before nine in the morning at least, after a large meal and a globulous helping of powder to their aging faces. I stood and left the church, crossing the graveyard, searching for the intruder amongst the gravestones.

A rather young woman, with hair blacker than soot tinged a faint auburn in the sunlight stood facing one of the old victorian graves. I would have dismissed her as some gothic fantasist and shooed her on, but her clothing stopped me. She wasn't dressed like other women her age; a plain blue velvet dress fell covertly to her knees under a beige coat, legs clad in slightly worn grey tights, a modest pair of heeled white shoes on her small feet. At first, I thought she was wearing gloves, for her hands were as pale as her heels, but as she turned I realised her face was the same luminous white as her thin hands.

I could describe that face until the end of my days; deep, wide pupils that shone green and deep brown at the same time, thick dark brows and a delicate small mouth; all her features moved with a melodrama of surprise and friendliness that lit up the warmth in her soft features and blinded me with her extraordinary, striking beauty; no feature could be called exquisite in itself but the overall effect was ungodly.

She was ageless, still young and fresh with youth, untouched by man and still gleaming in her features. She was around eighteen, perhaps a little older. She smiled, her eyes widening, her lips parted to reveal small white teeth. Her figure pleased me. She wasn't tall or thinly boned; her small waist contrasted with her elegant wide shoulders and long skirts.

I didn't speak, nodding in response to her warm smile. I had to leave. I felt flames in my very being, warning me with a cruel intensity to run, run far from this woman whose hair alone burnt with satan's flames before me. I forced myself to turn on my heel, walking back briskly but at a pace that would not appear rude. Who was she, my mind raced. She was not one of my flock.

"Are you John Callahan?"

Her voice rang again, unexpected in its aristocratic, deep nature, warming my skin in the cold air. I had not been called that in many years. I turned, stiffly.

"Father. Father Callahan, yes."

Her eyes lit again, and she beamed at me as a lamb bleats to a wolf. She walked closer, passing the graves in an eerie billow of mist, as if it were smoke from hell. I wanted to back away, resist her presence, her sharp, unnatural beauty.

"Forgive me, I'm a Quaker, we don't use titles. I'm sorry if I appeared rude." Her voice echoed slightly in the clear air, as if calling me like a siren. Oh she was Lucifer, alright. A non-believer to match.

"I was wondering if I may join the service, Father. I'm trying to understand more about the way this community religion thing works, especially with my exams so soon." She was still smiling, unaware of the burning, torturous fear that was forming in my mind. The thought of her, before me, burning among the ancients, their plump flesh contaminating her youth repulsed me.

"It's Tuesday.We don't have service until Sunday." My voice sounded normal, if a little deep after so long in silence. I was relieved to have thought so far. Perhaps, being so young, she would be bored of the idea by then.

"Well, Sunday it is then." She pulled her hair out of her collar, the ripe curls falling to frame her doll-like face. I felt my lungs harden at the sight of her pale neck. I shut my eyes briefly, convincing myself it was the cold. God forgive me, lusting any woman, let alone one so much younger than myself. I was aging faster and faster each day. Perhaps it would do her soul good, and mine, to allow her into the scholarship of God.

"Indeed, Miss?"

"Cassie. Cassie Morley."

"I look forward to you seeing the light of the lord."

She looked down briefly, unable to make eye contact over the remark, smiling again. Her eyelashes were as dark and as wild as her hair, her wide eyes shaded a soft brown. I normally despise women in cosmetics, but the effect was mesmerising.

She crossed the courtyard, her hips swaying, not with eroticsm but with confidence. In a way, it repulsed me more. A woman should have modesty in her walk, and a humble nature. These things Cassie did not possess in her character. Still, I could not break my gaze away until the last of the crows fluttered away in her wake.

It was then I noticed her perfume. It was almost lilacs, with a subtle musk, refreshing after a long flowerless winter. I waited until the scent faded, savouring every moment of it. God help me, temptation was seeking me that day. Lucifer had pulled my strings with the ease of a falling cliff in a storm.

I returned to my prayers at the front of St Mary's. Eve's breasts hung beneath painted dark branches, a red apple and her hand shielding her modesty. But no longer did I see an image of an ancient, fallen woman. In her full, nymph figure, I saw Cassie, her eyes burning my own into hell with her innocent smile.

An obsession was born in me that day.

And how it would come to consume me.

And how that girl would haunt me forever.