The Visitant: A Venetian Ghost Story (22 page)

Chapter 28

Father Pietro arrived with the ringing of the noon Angelus from the Madonna dell’ Orto, the echoes and murmurs of Venice’s other church bells wafting and lulling in chorus, music that seemed ominous and eerie and bodiless, suspended as it was in the fog that shrouded the city. That morning I’d gone to Samuel’s balcony, needing to see the color of the dyer’s canal. It seemed important to know what it was.
Not red
, I prayed.
Please, not red.
But all I could see was a thick layer of fog below, as if it meant deliberately to hide the color. I hoped it was not a portent.

Both Giulia and Madame Basilio accompanied the priest to the third floor. He was vested in surplice and purple stole, wearing a large cross around his neck and bearing a heavy leather bag and a Bible, and the moment I saw his serious expression, I wanted to send him back to the church, to cancel the rite. It all seemed too much for this . . . this was not so large a problem, was it, that it required God’s mediation?

We were in the sala. Samuel lay exhausted on the settee, eyes closed; Nero leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, surveying the scene with thinly veiled contempt. When his aunt entered, he gave her a look of such accusatory scorn I was surprised that she did not wither beneath it. It had the opposite effect: her already ramrod-straight spine went rigid, her chin jutted out, bristling as if at any moment she might start spewing a stream of poison. The dislike between them was so palpable that even Father Pietro felt it. He frowned at them, though he said nothing.

Giulia leaned over Samuel, brushing his hair back from his forehead. He did not respond, not with a look or a smile, and I felt a thin satisfaction when she drew her hand away, clearly annoyed.

Father Pietro gestured to Samuel. “This is the afflicted one?”

I nodded.

The priest clutched his Bible more tightly. “If I could ask you some questions, m’sieur.”

“As you will,” Samuel said tiredly.

Father Pietro peered down at him as if he could see into Samuel’s soul. “Have you had a loss of appetite?”

“No.”

“Have you tried to harm yourself? Cutting, biting, scratching?”

“I tried to throw myself into the rio. Does that count?”

The priest frowned. He held out the cross around his neck, brandishing it in Samuel’s face. Samuel only stared up at him blandly. Father Pietro stood there for a moment, measuring. I wondered if he’d expected Samuel to burst into flame at the sight of a holy object. He seemed disappointed that Samuel didn’t.

“Have you entered a church recently?” Father Pietro asked.

“No.”

“Because you could not?”

“Because I would not,” Samuel responded. “I haven’t been to church in years.”

“Then I would hear your confession, my son.”

“I’ve nothing to confess. Or too much. It comes to the same thing. I committed sins with deliberation and purpose. I have no wish for God’s forgiveness.”

Father Pietro turned to me. “Have there been strange bodily postures? Frenzies?”

Samuel’s gaze jerked to mine, a warning. I willed Nero to say nothing about Samuel’s epilepsy, and said to the priest, “He’s attacked me, as I said. I would call it a frenzy.”

“Does he speak an unnatural language? Or one he’s claimed no knowledge of?”

“Venetian,” I said. “He’s spoken it in trance but says he doesn’t know it.”

“I don’t,” Samuel said. “Beyond a few words—mostly curses. And some of those ridiculous proverbs Nero’s always spouting.
Fra Marco e Todaro
, things like that. That’s the extent of it.”

“But your nurse says you’re strangely strong,” the priest went on, half murmuring, as if he spoke to himself. He glanced about. “Cold in the room.”

“It’s always cold in here,” Nero said. “Just as it is everywhere in Venice in the winter. The dell’ Orto is frigid—you should tend to your own house, padre. By the way it feels, the church is swimming in demons.”

“Nerone,” Madame Basilio said sternly.

Giulia dipped her head with a little amused smile.

I felt a stab of irritation and said quietly, “It’s a different kind of cold. An unnatural kind.”

“Then I think we have enough proof that it is not just madness.”

“Have we?” Nero asked. “Are we really so certain?”

The priest ignored him. “We will proceed.” He reached into his bag and pulled out a tangle of thick leather straps—it was a moment before I caught Samuel’s look of horror and realized what the priest meant to do with them.

“No,” I said quickly. “No restraints. He won’t be a danger.”

“He attacked you, mademoiselle.”

“He won’t be a danger.”

“I’m afraid I cannot take the risk.” But Father Pietro did not look sorry as he approached Samuel.

“No.” I turned desperately to Nero.

He pushed off from the wall, striding to the settee. “Leave him be, padre. I won’t let him attack anyone.”

Father Pietro looked uncertain, but he nodded and dropped the restraints to the floor, though within arm’s reach. He said to Samuel, “Kneel before me.”

Samuel obeyed, sliding off the settee and falling to his knees, but it was clear it was a position he could not keep for long. He swayed with exhaustion and pain, his hair falling into his hollowed eyes, the pink of his new-made scars the only color on his face. The priest reached into his bag again, taking out a bottle of what I assumed was holy water.

He gestured for us all to come closer, and then he made the sign of the cross over Samuel, over himself, and then the rest of us, sprinkling everyone with holy water. He knelt before Samuel and bowed his head, closing his eyes, murmuring a prayer I had no familiarity with, calling for us to repeat after him, which I did without really listening,
Lord have mercy, Christ have mercy
. . .
Christ graciously hear us
. . . on and on, seemingly forever, a listing of saint’s names
Michael and Gabriel and Raphael
. . .
Benedict, Bernard, Dominic, Francis
. . .
Mary Magdalen, Lucy, Agnes
. . . a stupor of names.

Samuel’s swaying became more pronounced; Nero watched him with half-lidded eyes, taut with expectation—he would be on Samuel in a moment if he fell, I knew. Madame Basilio mouthed the litany along with the father silently, almost ecstatic. Giulia stood with her hands clasped before her, looking . . . afraid. I wondered what she feared, and then I remembered that she’d seen Samuel in a frenzy.

From the window, sunlight glowed through the fog, sending a current of rippling reflection over the ceiling.

The priest switched to Latin, the droning rhythm of which sent me into a near trance. I saw Samuel’s eyes close, his head droop forward, shoulders down. Nero started toward him, but then Father Pietro said, “Amen,” and Madame Basilio and Giulia echoed him, and Samuel roused, starting when the priest raised his voice, booming, reverberating, made the sign of the cross and then: “
Praecípio tibi, quicúmque es, spíritus immúnde
. . .” on and on, his voice seeming to fill the room. He placed his hands on Samuel’s head and raised his own, speaking again, and then traced a flurry of signs on himself, on Samuel’s brow, over his heart. Samuel leaned his head back, staring up at the ceiling, that mesmerizing, rippling light, sparkles of sunlight chasing now, bursting through the fog in little flashes—

Flashing lights.

Samuel twitched, a quick flex of his fingers.

No, oh no.

The priest raised his arms.
“Exorcizo te, immundíssime spíritus, omnis incúrsio adversárii, omne phantasma—”

“Samuel,” I said urgently, not caring that I interrupted, ignoring Father Pietro’s frown, the shake of his head. “Samuel, look at me. Look at me.”

It was too late. Samuel shouted—a short, piercing shriek, hands up as if to ward off an approaching specter, and then he fell as if something attacked him. His head cracked upon the edge of the settee, his eyes rolled back, and he was convulsing, jerking and contorting, teeth gnashing. Father Pietro started, his eyes widening. Giulia dropped to her knees, babbling in terror. Nero nearly threw himself over the settee to get to Samuel, looking to me in desperation. “What do I do? Tell me what to do.”

I ran over, shoving the settee to keep Samuel from hurting himself on it.

“Hold him as best as you can,” I ordered, fumbling in my pocket for the bit of leather to shove between his teeth that I should have been carrying—and wasn’t.

Father Pietro yanked me away, nearly throwing me to the floor behind him. “Stand back!” he shouted. “The demon is come!”

“It’s no demon—”

“
Vade retro satana
!” he cried, brandishing his crucifix, repeating it again, once more, leaning over Samuel, wielding the cross like a weapon. Nero tried vainly to still Samuel’s flailing arms. Madame Basilio watched almost rabidly.

Saliva foamed at Samuel’s mouth. He struck out; the priest dodged, and the blow landed squarely on Nero’s cheek.

“
Vade retro satana
!”

“Quiet!” Nero choked. “You’re not helping, padre. Can’t you see it?”

“Exorcizo te, immundíssime spíritus, omnis incúrsio adversárii . . .”

I tried to push my way back in. Father Pietro forced me away, his face sharp with concentration, religious conviction giving him a strength I didn’t expect.

Then I felt it: the freezing draught, burrowing into bone, sending shivers over my flesh, swirling, a whirlwind of feeling, fury and distress. Madame Basilio felt it too, I realized. She looked up at the ceiling, and the ecstasy that burst over her face was almost obscene in its intensity. She looked like a saint in the throes of orgiastic revelation, skin stretched too tight, cheeks hollowed, the bones of her skull defined and set—terrifying.

Samuel gave a cry. His back arched, raising his hips violently from the ground, and he muttered Venetian words. Ones he’d said before: “
Chi comincia mal, finisse pezo
.” Then he began to choke. He tried to pry away fingers at his throat, throttling fingers that weren’t there. Red marks began to form on his skin, though there were no hands to make them, the tendons in his neck collapsing, his breath strained and gasping as we all watched in horror.

He was being strangled, but not by anything we could see.

He gasped, “. . . 
lasagnone
. . .
garbatìn
. . .”

Nero sprang back in shock, his gaze leaping to his aunt. She stared at her nephew as if he had become a monster before her very eyes.

I lurched forward, pushing Father Pietro with all of my strength, surprising him so he let me through, and fell upon Samuel. I pulled away his hands. The bruises on his throat were still forming. I screamed, “Help him! Someone stop her!” and no one did anything but stare. “Samuel, come back to me. Come back. Fight her. Please.”

He shuddered; I felt his attention like a terrible, wicked thing, intention and determination. He made a horrible gurgling sound, and his hands clasped my throat, curving round, squeezing, squeezing, the power and strength of him impossible to dislodge, Father Pietro’s voice in my ear, his hand with the crucifix at the edge of my vision.
“Vade retro satana!”

I couldn’t breathe, those black stars now, the cross and the priest’s hand blurring, and then someone was pulling at me—Nero—and Samuel opened his eyes to stare at me, and they were black too—she was there again. “
Mé viscara
,” he murmured, a small, dreadful smile on his lips, satisfaction and victory, his strength something prodigious, a necklace of linked reddened marks about his neck, matching mine—Nero pushed between us. I heard the thwack of bone against flesh, and the pressure on my throat eased; pain and air rushed in, dizzying. I fell back, gasping, and then I realized that Samuel was unmoving, unconscious. Madame Basilio’s eyes shone; I did not miss the vindication in her expression when she looked at me. Nero pulled me into his arms until I was cradled against his chest, muttering a stream of Venetian into my ear, his English having completely deserted him, kisses in my hair, his heart racing against my cheek—or was that my own?

I collapsed into him, tears blurring my eyes, the shock of everything numbing, horror still buzzing. It was some moments before I could bring myself to lift my head from the comfort of his chest, the soft linen of his shirt, and I saw that Father Pietro was busy strapping an unconscious Samuel into restraints.

I wrenched away from Nero. “What are you doing?”

“We cannot risk that the devil will still be inside him when he wakes,” the priest said grimly.

“But it’s not the devil. Don’t you see? It’s—”

“Quiet,” Nero whispered, dragging me back. “Cara, quiet. Let him do as he will for now.”

“Samuel hates restraints.”

“I know.”

“You don’t understand. At—”

“Quiet, cara.
Shhh
. Not now.”

He held me close, pressing my face again into his chest. Madame Basilio and Giulia and the priest spoke tersely to each other in Venetian. Now and then Nero interjected something in a curt voice, and I thought he sounded tense and frightened and angry. But I could not blame him for that. The image came to me again, bruises being made by invisible hands, and I was horrified all over again. But as I began to calm, questions came too. The otherness in Samuel’s eyes and his smile of victory reminded me a little too well of the vindication I’d just seen on Madame Basilio’s face. Whatever had happened, Nero’s aunt had wanted it to be so. Whatever had happened, I thought that she understood it.

Perhaps she did. I didn’t.

The priest said something to Nero, who nodded and drew gently away. He peered at my throat, pushing aside strands of my fallen hair to see. “Are you all right?”

“Shaken, that’s all.”

He was as well, I knew. He kissed me in full view of his aunt and Giulia, and I heard Madame Basilio’s hiss of disapproval. Then he said, “I’m going to help the padre take Samuel to bed.”

I nodded. “I’ll get the morphine.”

“I think he has no need of it now. For how long will he be asleep? What’s usual?”