Lourdes: A Vampire In The Old West

18. Saints with Forgotten Names

Young hands pluck mint, cloves, and carnations growing in the shadow of a granite block. They pat the soil. Cool. Moist. A yard away, though, the sun bakes the dirt, burning anything that dares rise back into ash. These hands, without a wrinkle or scar, are at the end of two long arms atop two long legs folded against the earth. The hands, arms, and legs all belong to a gardener swathed in black.

Standing, straightening his legs and back, the man looks up to the harsh sun and then the granite block – the granite wall – sheltering his flowers. New and made of polished bricks set at precise angles, it's a feat of engineering and a work of art. It's a thing to behold, but the intricacies of the masonry pale beneath the shape reigning from its crown. A gleaming iron cross glistens more brilliantly than the sun.

The gardener in black takes a step back to admire the church. He wipes the sweat from his brow and presses his hands over his eyes to block the fire in the desert sky. Staring at the new stone church, the man smiles. It's nearly complete. Some scaffolding still sits against a wall, and ropes rest around the base of the cross, scraps not cut free after the winches which lifted it were taken away. But even lacking its finishing touches, the monument radiates.

Crossing inside through wrought iron doors, the washed out world of sand becomes a rainbow. Stained glass transmutes oppressive heat, and a kaleidoscope paints the chapel in the colors of trees, seas, and roses. The gardener bows as he enters the church and moves with sanctified steps through its pews to the altar. Again, he bows as he approaches the center of the church. The man sets his mint, cloves, and carnations atop the shrine and turns around. Behind him, lifting a curtain, he comes to bread and wine. Dipping his head, the man parts the sacrament, pulling forward instead a hidden menagerie of dishes, vials, and bowls.

A mortar and pestle grind the herbs. Exotic extracts from glass bottles. Tea leaves from a tiny chest. Measurements on a precise scale. Expensive spices. Relics from saints with forgotten names. The gardener goes through a series of a hundred steps, each calculated, exact, and requiring a hundred additional rituals.

†

The gardener holds a porcelain cup anointed with delicate blue ink. Bluebirds and butterflies soar over sapphire valleys. Slowly stepping from the altar, the man in black comes to a sanctuary reserved only for clergy. Steam wrinkles off the saffron-colored potion cradled between his hands, and he looks into the pastor's personal quarters to find a woman atop a bed.

"Leon..." She smiles.

"Cassandra..." The gardener returns the grin. "I'm sorry it took so long."

Leon the gardener in black sits beside the woman. Cassandra's beneath the pastor's sheets. She's yet to reach 30, but where there should be vigor is instead hidden within layers of dread. She's wilted. Leon bends over her and lays a hand on her head. She's sick. His eyes connect with hers. He feels her fever. Leon's fingers run down Cassandra's cheeks. He caresses her. Softly, gently, they kiss.

"Drink this..." Leon speaks, setting his tea into Cassandra's hands. The woman sits up and looks into the drink. She watches the puddle wobble inside the cup. She shuts her eyes, feeling its warmth on her face. Carefully, she lifts the tea. She sips. Cassandra's fingers shake. A thin line escapes from the corner of her lips.

"How's it taste?" Leon asks.

"Like grass," Cassandra admits.

"Well, that is one of the ingredients," Leon sighs. The teacup clatters as Cassandra lowers her medicine. The gardener reaches out, cupping her hands within his own. "How are you feeling?"

"Much better..." Cassandra speaks. There's no truth in her eyes.

"That's good," Leon nods. There's no joy in his.

"I heard the carpenters banging all morning," Cassandra recalls. "How's your church looking? Almost ready to open its gates?"

"Almost," Leon tells. "And I'm sorry about the carpenters. I told them to work quietly. They've got a few bits of scaffolding to remove, and after that, we're waiting on two pieces of stained glass. I want you to be the first to see everything as soon as it's complete."

"Me, too," Cassandra weakly speaks. "You've put your heart and soul into this place."

"I've put my sweat and blood into it," Leon corrects. "My heart and soul remain in this bed beside you."

"You're sweet," Cassandra whispers.

"I try to be," Leon tells. "It helps make the medicine go down." With that, Leon returns the teacup to Cassandra's lips. Slowly, she grasps it, sipping until the cup's dry.

"Thank you..." Cassandra breathes.

Leon stands and dabs her lips. He looks at her. At the disease eating her. At the woman fighting to hide the pain from her lover and priest. He takes the empty cup.

"Get some rest," Leon wishes. "I'll be back soon with another cup." The man kisses the woman and departs his back room. The moment he's shut the door, Cassandra coughs. Loud and bloody, Cassandra coughs. The man can hear it. He can hear her rise. He can hear her yell. He can hear her agony.

Reserved steps bring Leon back to his altar and the alchemist's toolkit. He sets his teacup down and reaches for the remaining potherbs. He mixes them. He mashes them. He grinds them. Focused muscles and tender attention pull magic from nature, and then, stirring the tonic together, one wide motion brushes against the azure cup. It disrupts it. It jostles it. It knocks it to the floor. Bluebirds, butterflies, and sapphire shards. It breaks.

Leon bends without a word to pick up the pieces. He places a sliver in his hands. A second. A pause. A third. He stops. He sits. He bawls. Tears, immediate and intense, swallow his face. He gasps for breath beneath the sea spewing from his cheeks. The man swings his hand into the shattered chalice.

"I built this for you!" He shrieks. "Ever since I was a boy, I loved only you! I could have lived an easy life, but I was called to serve you! I lived without so I could be closer to you! Your servants told me to come here to spread your name! I've given everything to you!" Leon stands. "And when I want a single thing for myself, do you let me have happiness? When for the first time in my life I want to find joy with a woman, do you allow me this indulgence?" Leon slams his bloody fist against the altar. "No!" He swings his second fist, bringing it down so hard it turns bloody, too. "What crime did I commit? You tell me to love thieves, murderers, and prostitutes! You command me to care for the unfaithful! I gave up my healthy body for a parade of the sick and the lame! I gave away my father's home so I could build one for you! Is what I want so wrong?" Leon smears his blood over mute saints. "How can I pray? How can I preach? How can I spread your name? How can I give myself to you any longer as I watch you rip the one thing in this world I care about from me? How can I have faith in you when you've put no faith in me? How can you have a tantrum like this? How can you behave like a child?"

Leon's own tantrum comes to an abrupt end, interrupted by the gasps and screams of the woman he loves. The man holds his head. He paces the length of the altar and back. He turns to the curtain behind it and the bread and wine beyond. The man throws the bread to the floor and spills the wine into a goblet until it overflows. He laps at it, guzzling it, drowning in it until the last drop glistens on his lips.

"I've spent my life serving in the court of an idiot king," Leon whispers to the empty grail. "Beginning today, the court serves me."