The Magdalene Ch. 02

I strike my nailed heel into the hardwood underneath me. The crisp echo pulls focus. Bastian keeps the rhythm for the audience to be content just enough, knuckle tapping his guitar between his strums. Márk and I begin our conversation.

The bass teases around my stamps and taps-I chase the rhythm. My ribs and arms float and snap to Márk's brazen advances. I stamp, stamp, stamp them away, collecting the ambient power building between us in my arms, and swish it down my body. With each turn and replace, I direct my energy onto a member of the audience. They don't move or blink in return-they never quite know what to do when so much intensity is offered to them. I turn and turn, stomping, pounding my heels as Márk pursues with his fingers, and a fire rises within me, until...

I see those daunting eyes gazing back from the audience. Those dark eyes and that boyish face. So often have I seen them in my dreams. They are unmistakeable. My heart skips a beat, but I can rely on my feet to carry me.

The Tuscan priest sits behind a couple as though it's normal for him to be here. His cool stare knots up my insides bringing back the rush he gave me in the bell tower. My thighs clench and I miss my fill in the music, but Márk covers for me. He plays louder grabbing my attention. He knows something is up, but I gently shake my head at him as if I'm alright and just got lost in the rhythm. I can't spoil this for him, I have to focus.

Relying on my body, I golpe fast, striking hard. Rolling my heels, I drum to dampen the wayward rhythm of my heart. The thrill and fear of having the priest in my midst is all too much and I'm tiring. I use Bastian's strum pattern to back bend, pushing my arm styling above, twirling my hands in the ending utterances of music.

Rolling back up, I face the priest again, but he is gone.

Along the row, I see a man scooting towards the isle. He's not the priest-no white collar, long shaggy hair, a gruff stuble. Huh, I've deceived myself. I just got excited over a gaudy hipster, a rude one at that. Doesn't he know it's disrespectful to leave during a number?

I regain my power, and dash my heels on the hardwood, making sure the volume can prick the man's arrogance. It works. Before exiting, he stops and glances back. Those eyes, those limitless eyes... he is the priest.

The man pushes through the door and my heart races after him.

This is not serendipity, there is no such thing as coincidence, and wishes don't come true. If the priest is here, there is something gravely wrong. I have to fix this before our worlds collide.

My dance is done, but Bastian is taking his sweet-ass time finishing his phrase. I'm pulled off my spot and reach the edge of the stage. I can't turn back to Márk for as soon as I look at him, he will stop me from being foolish.

The audience are expecting me to do something dramatic, but not to jump off the stage. I do it anyway, landing on my two feet, and I run up the aisle.

Hooking onto the door frame, I glimpse back at the stage. Márk is left standing, his bass hanging in his hand. I'm so sorry, I breathe, but I can't let this one go.

Through the double doors, I fling myself out into the foyer. The black cloaked man is nowhere. I pass around a few human obstacles blocking my line for the main doors.

The nightlife is too busy going places to notice me charge out of the Hall in my shiny flamenco costume. The flags hanging overhead snap back and forth as I look up and down the street.

I take a chance and head north. I'm sure I see the priest ahead of me, his coat flapping from his pace. I quicken my pace, banging into the cement with my nailed shoes.

Crossing the road, I literally screech to a stop before the tree line. The priest vanishes into the woods. My breath catches up to me and I take time to wrench at my predicament. With hands-on-head, I grip onto my hair in frustration. Central Park. I do not dare go in. There is no telling what slivers about in the darkest shadows of the night. Gaius, the temperamental Guardian that he is, would probably lock me up for another ten years if he found out I went into the park.

I swing around, almost taking out a woman in a summer shawl. The near-miss and her scowl pressures me into settling down. Grunting through my teeth is my final surrender.

I search for something tangible amongst the pedestrians and the cars and the trees but they drift around me, unwilling to be still so I can collect my heart.

This is disastrous. Brought on by my own foolishness. I thought he was a phantom-pieces of him around every corner, over my shoulder, in the darkness. I thought he was only a figment of my desires, haunting my days and stealing my nights. But all this time he's been real. Instead of fulfilling whatever the hell he was divinely assigned to do, he's tracked me down in one of the biggest cities of the world.

It's a wonder my guardian hasn't ripped him to pieces by now. Gaius doesn't mess around.

My terrifying desire for the priest has blinded me. I was too quick to disregard my interference in his vision. I was so caught up in him that I accidentally revealed myself. He saw New York through me, I knew he did. I'm such an idiot.

Now that he's found me, it's only a matter of time before he is destroyed. I can't have this, not if it was my fault in the first place.

I should be going back to the Hall, to Márk and grovel at his feet for fleeing his concert like that. He doesn't deserve me and all the pain I cause him. I need to make it up to him, and then some. But now is not the time. First, I must go to confession.

I leave the shadows behind in the park to wrestle with themselves. On the corner, Columbus Circle welcomes me with its merry-go-round of twin-lights. Crossing a little further up, I dive into the numbering streets again, tall apartments towering over me, until I reach it-sanctuary.

The stone walls are a fortress against the world, but the doors are always open.

Father John never sleeps.

He is a man of symmetry, order and tradition. He has to be, living in one city for so long. It's a life were everything has a place, and a time, where the mundane and boring is a good thing. It is the way he knows when something is amiss, when the realm of the living has been tampered with.

A great weight lays upon me as I pass through the doors to the nave. The dense air hits me first, then the heavy embellishment-the classical timber and the rich blue dome are as overbearing as ever. The mosaic tiles and stained glass windows, full of aesthetic life, lack the humility I so desperately search for within myself.

It didn't start out like this-pomp and ceremony. All that was needed was a mountain-a high place to reach to the heavens-and an open heart. But Father John and I, we play the game. We keep up the facade in the midst of everyone else. It's how we've survived for so long.

Bracing myself on the second pew, I complete the customary sign, before I take a seat on the cold, hard plank.

Father John is conversing with a solemn soul. The woman's handkerchief is well used, every bit crumpled as she dabs it under her nose. Her cheeks are valleys for her tears, but her face shines when she looks up into Father John's eyes.

There is good done in stone walls, I admit-giving the blinded a sense of their small importance in the grand scheme of things-but the feeling doesn't last. It starts to rub off, or break down, as soon as they walk out the doors.

I too know what it means to leave Father John.

Trinkets and prayers comfort most, but I've never found solace in ornamental things. I don't see the reason in calling out when I know no voice can escape this world. What the faithful remember is a narrative that was never supposed to happen. They won't awaken to the truth-they can't-the truth is too scary.

I've been living the truth all my life, since the stones were dropped at the feet of my accusers. Since I was lifted up from my knees and carried across the desert.

Father John sees me from out the corner of his eye, but his empathy never leaves the woman. The Spanish are blessed with devout hearts, and Father John has always had a soft spot for people of the Romantic languages.

Clutching onto her handbag hanging from her shoulder, the woman presents a delicate smile through glassy eyes. She steps away, and waddles down the aisle. Just past me, she turns to the head of the church and crosses her frame, whispering an intent-filled formula.

I watch Father John looking after the mournful woman leaving his protection. His soft eyes under rickety brows have stood the test of time, a compassionate gaze that never tires.

John the Beloved is a pillar of strength, his benevolence long lasting. It's been a while since I've seen him, but he hasn't changed. He has started to dye his hair gray again around his temples to gain some years-a mature look has always become him.

No matter how few and far between we are, John and I have stayed close over the centuries. It was our solidarity in the life, and our grief in the loss, that sealed our fates together. We are Heralds of this realm, the true Followers who were there at the beginning. Many writings have confused us-John thinks it's funny, but I still get annoyed at how the scriptures get it so wrong. That's what happens when bored and hungry monks are given the task to transcribe in candle light from a third or fourth translation.

But always, The Beloved is my strength when I have misplaced my own. I shouldn't have avoided him for so long.

John's gaze skips onto me, and his tight features dissolve into relief. His elegant nod gets me to my feet.

Following him to the confessionals, I sigh heavily in hope to dislodge any part of my dread.

He takes the middle box in the oversized closet and closes the lattice door behind him.

It's always been hard for me to enter the confessionals-coffin boxes with breathing holes.

I choose the one on the left, for pertinent reasons mostly-the heart is more forgiving than the hand. I step into the darkness, and seal it up behind me.

Sitting on the bench, I ready myself-I take my hair out, allowing it to fall past my cheeks.

Reaching down, I find the buckles to my shoes and pull them apart. Slipping my feet out and onto the bleak floor, I change my mind and catch my knees up into my arms. It helps to have something to squeeze when I pour out my soul.

Resting my chin on top of my knees, I fall into a penitent temper. My vision blurs as always when I introspect my mind.

John is waiting but he's a patient man, he can wait a little longer.

Allowing myself to enjoy the stillness, I reflect on my past deeds. They aren't hard to remember, they have been kept fresh in my mind.

The assignment. Tuscany. The priest. His first eyes on me. My first glimpse into him... Oh, I remember. I remember what I saw in him. The vastness, an encompassing brightness throughout the Ages...

It is now the prick of regret creeps in. There is none for the seduction, nor the months of craving the priest-only regret for walking through the doors of the church to give him up.

Before I'm ready, the divider between my box and the next slides open. "Beloved," I say, feeling like a child caught doing something naughty.

"Betrothed..." John's soothing voice invades my dark space.

I'm defenseless. I shrink, pressing my eyes closed to stop the meaning of that word going further into me, but it still washes down my spine. The title has always pained me. I wish he wouldn't use it.

"You are troubled. Tell me, what has kept you from coming to see me?" John is using his passive voice. Damn it. It means he is deeply angry with me, chastising me through a mask of charity.

The words are on my tongue but they are not good enough. How do I tell the Beloved the thoughts that have possessed me these last months? The feelings I have, and want to keep. Not to mention that because I didn't control my thoughts in the heat of passion, I fell into the priest, sharing myself with him, and I am now found by him.

My mind is racing and the longer I say nothing, the more I can hear John thinking.

I long to escape my coffin. It was a mistake coming to John, I'm not ready yet to give up the priest.

Shifting my weight forward, I'm going to run, but not before picking up my tailor-made shoes...

"Mary... It's been six months." John has dropped the act. I hear my friend and confidant coming through. He knows how to pierce my soul. "Why haven't you come to me earlier?"

I have no excuse, none that would satisfy him. My heart going astray is nothing new. It's how it works. I'm supposed to fall for my lovers-I'm a woman, after all. I'm drawn to each one by immeasurable proportions, too inevitable to resist. If I feel nothing, if there's no bond made, the Light can't flow through. It's not magic, just quantum physics.

"You know how dangerous it is to hold onto one soul for too long, especially when your task has been completed-the bond has no more purpose."

And that is my life in a nutshell-there's no point in loving someone unless it's for a higher purpose. There's just no point...

My sight falls to the Act of Contrition taped to the side panel. The edges of the card are crisp, and face clean. It looks out of place against the rough wood, and I want to tear it down. Instead, I clutch around my legs hard enough for prickles to start in my palms.

"Tell me, out of all your confessions over the centuries, all the souls you have bonded to, why is this the one you won't seek absolution for?"

My throat won't work and all I can manage is, "I don't know..."

"It is not for you to decide which bonds to keep and which to give up. Your bond with the priest is not yours-it belongs to the Greater Good. So let it go, Magdalene."

I catch my breath. It's spooky how Father John is always on point. He has the power of Discernment, and I swear he was given it just to torment me.

The world is out of balance. It leans towards an obscure angle, and it is ready to tip. There are those of us, called to do what we do, who push the other way...

My bonds are made in the name of Joshua for the war in Heaven is certainly not over. I'm required to break every single one after a vision is completed-Joshua requires it. They don't call him the Jealous God, and me the Penitent Woman, for nothing. My tears salt the earth, breaking what has been bound by him. I can never stop atoning until he returns.

But my tears for this priest are tied up. It makes me feel guilty as hell, but I can't release him. It feels wrong, and an overwhelming dread consumes me whenever I think about doing it. There is something more to the priest, I know it.

I clear the thickness in my mouth, annoyed at the awful patience of Father John. He waits for my answer like a dog for a bone.

Closing my eyes, I see what I dream every night-the universe inside the priest-and I find the courage to confess it. "The priest has broken into me like a thief. I see his truth amongst the anguish, and it is beautiful-a love waiting, hoping to be realized. His stars are far reaching... there is no end to his world. He has been here before..."

"Enough!" John grunts into my coffin shaking me out of my reflection. His harsh echoes hit me, making me crunch my stomach. "So this is why you hold onto him? The priest has a past? A life before, and that intrigues you?"

I am not rattled, but I am furious as a fiery blade. Sometimes I forget myself and think John is my elder. My youthful meekness and uncertainty often trick us both into believing I need his council and approval. I am no lesser in power or dignity, but the world would have us act so. I have become accustomed to playing the damsel, but I will not let John treat me like a child.

"No," I gnarl. "I hold onto the pain of wanting him fair well knowing I shouldn't."

I am offended at Father John's refusal to understand. I know something of this priest, I'm not quiet sure what, but John has dismissed the slightest breath of it, as if it is nothing. Why? Why won't he listen to what I have to say?

The tension between our boxes runs thick. I'm ready to bite at anything he throws me.

"You've always been good at torturing yourself."

The caring quality in John flails at my shielded heart.

"Mary, punishing yourself like this serves no purpose. Joshua requires sacrifice, that also means releasing your personal punishments..."

"John, stop handling me. I'm Jewish for Christ sake. I know what he requires... I know. I'm living proof." My teeth grit together to pinch in my hurt and fury. The Beloved and I are at odds for the first time in five hundred years, and it scares the hell out of me.

Taking a deep, silent breath allows me to collect myself and settle my tone. Strong and slow, I pronounce my truth. "No matter how much I give, it will never be enough." The tightness surrounding me finally tenderizes my stubbornness.

Hanging my head, I press my lashes onto my cheeks. I don't want to see anymore, not the weave in the door and the candle light flickering through, the clearly printed Contrition, nor my design and purpose.

We still for a long time.

Through the quietness, I carefully whisper, "I did this, John. I was the one. Because of me, Joshua failed." I push the burning blade into my own heart-I deserve it-and it starts the familiar tingling in my eyes. They fill up in the darkness.

"Because of you, Mary, he can return, but not if you keep the bond with this priest. There is more work to do before enough is done. There is only so much love a mortal body can bear. Only so much the beating heart can take." And then John says something that I would never expect. "He loves you, Mary. I've seen it with my own eyes. I can feel it whenever I stand next to you. Joshua loves you. He needs you just as much as you need him. He gave you your gift for a reason..."

I sputter out a little laugh. "Gift? Is that what we're calling it now?"

"You're his last miracle. You are more than a witness, you are the shape of his voice."

Wiping off the tears gathering under my chin onto my knuckles, I gently sniff. It is hard to swallow.

"No matter your feelings for this priest... let them go. He is not yours to keep. We are meant to progress like light, not stand still in darkness. Remember who you are-what's at stake. I urge you to get back to routine. Any disturbance, any unnatural activity-like chasing ghosts through the city..."

My center clenches, before I gasp.

I should have known-John senses everything. He knows the priest has found me. He knows I have broken protocol, running after my foolish desires through the streets of New York.

A sickly pang sweeps through me. "What are you going to do to him?" I struggle, already knowing the answer.

"What must be done."

I wince at the thought.

"By their live or their death, everyone has a purpose."

John has settled it for me. I must let go of the priest or I am to suffer the pain of loving him and losing him.

"Mary..? Remember, they are watching. They are always watching." John bids me to start.

I kneel on the prayer bar at the base to bring my lips closer to the window. Opening my eyes wider, I feel the rush. With each tear running down my face, I let go of the priest-giving up the bonds from the cells in my muscles, my bones, my blood and all living matter-sensing damn well I shouldn't be. I have to fight hard to work against my instincts, and I begin to shake. But, there is one place he is stuck-my obstinate heart won't untie him from its fibres, it won't obey me. Rather than crying myself into a desert trying to overturn it, I allow my eyes to dry up, leaving my bond with the priest nestled in the deepest chamber of my heart.