1 1971

1971

Three robed figures pass down the street of Vatican City in Rome, the

streets lit up by streetlights and buildings, and passers-by give the three

monks a glance and continue with their midnight duties. One of the

figures stops in a dark alleyway and pulls out an ancient scroll, rolling it

down, and the other two lower their heads.

'We have made the journey . . .' he says under his breath to his two

companions. A guard on night duty looks towards the monks and starts

to approach.

'Ti sei perso?' the guard asks behind them. 'Are you lost?' the man

with the scroll translates.

'Non, abbiamo una mappa,' he answers, meaning that they do have a

map.

The guard says, 'Monaci hanno una piacevole serata.'

The man smiles beneath his hood and translates, 'Have peaceful

evening, monks.'

'Per grazia di Dio, va bene,' he says, meaning, 'By the grace of God,

we shall.'

The guard relaxes a bit. The strange feeling of malice which made

him follow these three men of God fell partially away as he walks back to

his post. Only the next morning, he will recall seeing the monk's hands

holding the scripture were scaled and clawed. The two others look at the

scripture, and one asks in a soft female voice, 'Where do we find them?'

The man holding the scroll says quickly, 'The basilica,' pointing

towards the massive cathedral, the size of a castle, in the far distance.

Catherina Abella came to Rome after the death of her family. Born

as a slave, she ran from her home in Cadiz, Spain, to join the monastery

after being abused and beaten by the man she loved. Priest Anthony

Frigal, a powerful man in the grace of God, took her in and gave her new life as a nun. He led the monastery along with Deacon Marcellus

Pirelli, who was once a lost soul roaming the streets of Bologna.

The droning hymns and prayers of the midnight mass echo in the

hall of Saint Peter's Basilica. Monsignor Frigal looks from the platform

down at the more than seven hundred white alb members of the

congregation. His eyes fall on the Spanish girl as she speaks softly to

herself over her rosary beads. Her beauty strikes him even seven years

after her arrival from Cadiz. Her dark deep recovering eyes catch his; he

gives her a heartfelt smile. She returns it with her never-failing shy grin

and looks down. The feeling he has for her is pure, the way he would

find a rose in full bloom beautiful. He feels for her more than he would

have wished for; yet she is his best accomplishment. The warmth in

his heart is not just merely a product of her utter beauty; her soul deep

within is the purest he has ever come across. 'Sacerdote,' his right-hand

deacon calls softly behind him. He looks back at the young well-built

man. 'Shall we begin the mass?' Deacon Pirelli asks. Suddenly, Father

Frigal's premature grey hair blows forward, as if some unknown gust of

icy wind has entered the secured sacred hall. He looks back towards the

members of the cloth and feels an eerie sensation of hostility fall over

him like a blanket; he always trusts such feelings that come over him.

He keeps them on reign mostly, yet he feels things he cannot explain at

times. In the far corner of the massive hall, his glossy green eyes catch

three figures, wearing cassocks, not albs, unsuited for a holy mass. He

follows them with his gaze as they silently, almost unseemly, walk behind

the last row of the congregation. Something inside their black robes

suddenly sends some signal to him, the signal of violence. He shifts the

unholy thought out of his mind and looks back at Deacon Pirelli. 'How

would they have entered the holy basilica without our knowledge?' He

steps closer to the high priest and looks over to the three black cassock

intruders, standing out like night from day between the white callas.

'Padre, shall I go ask what they . . .' Monsignor Frigal looks back towards

them, his white slither of beard running from his bottom lip to his chin

glistens as he lifts his white ceremonially robed arms. The hymns and

prayers ceases at once.

'Welcome, newcomers, accogliere I nuovi arrivati. Please approach, si

prega di approccio.' The figures seem to speak amongst themselves before

one leads them towards the holy podium.

'Thank you for your kind welcome, Padre,' the figure that leads

says in an accent Frigal has never heard. It is clearly spoken yet roughly

rounded. 'We wish to speak with Sister Abella, Deacon Pirelli, and

you . . . in private.'

Monsignor Frigal looks at the darkness inside the material; his whole

existence screams that there is something not quite right.

'Your attire, signor, is inappropriate to the mass,' Padre says.

The figure somewhere inside says, 'I have found a scripture,

dating back to 6000 BC. If you are interested, Padre, take the six of us

somewhere secure.' The other two figures stand silently, watching him

before he turns to Deacon Pirelli.

Closing the door to the inner sanctum of the basilica, the speaker

between the three says to the deacon, 'I would prefer you to lock it. The

secret that I am about to expose is meant for the three of you only. Is this

room soundproof? I wish no one to hear our conversation.'

Deacon Pirelli nods. Monsignor Frigal looks at the cloaked man and

asks, as Sister Abella looks frightened at him, 'Why do you wish the sister

to be here? She has no business outside of the congregation or regarding

historic relics.'

The figure calmly walks over to his companions. 'All will be revealed

in due time, Padre.'

In the high priest's sharp face, Sister Abella can see a glimpse of fear

hidden behind authority. It terrifies her.

'This'—the figure holds up his cloaked arm—'is what I have for you.'

He drops an ancient rolled-up scroll on the brick floor. Deacon Pirelli

picks it up quickly and hands it to the high priest.

Taking the heavy scroll he asks, 'Who are you?'

The figure stops and says, 'I am no one and everyone. I am all that

you want me to be.'

The priest's eyes widen a bit as Sister Abella gives a small gasp. The

high priest looks down at the scroll with his brilliant green eyes and rolls

it down a bit.

'The Invoking of transmogrification . . .' he says under his breath.

Deacon Pirelli stands next to him and says, 'Non e che il cambiamento

di forma?', which means, 'Is it shape shifting?'

'No, il rotolo e di circa il potere di transformare esternamente,' the

man says.

'It is about the power to externally transform.'

'I suppose you are right to a degree,' the man continues under the

hood. 'It might symbolise internal savagery of a being.'

The high priest scrolls down a bit before the creature inside the hood

says, 'Fancy that is the only scripture found in the English language. It is

even in the form of a manual.' He reads softly as Sister Abella suddenly

takes hold of his thin white-robed arm. She speaks loudly in a language

the man doesn't understand; he dismisses it as Spanish. 'Find a dweller of

land with a similar build and gender . . .' the high priest reads as Deacon

Pirelli's eyes almost fall out of his skull. 'Drink out all the blood whilst the

heart remains beating,' he reads softly on before dropping the scroll . . .

'I' opera di satana . . . ,' the high priest says, which means, 'That is

the work of Satan.' 'Se stesso . . .' he adds. The speaker gives a soft sigh.

'No padre, you are so wrong . . . the work of the great Foretopmen.'

The cloaked man turns around and drops his black robe. Silence

falls over the three members of the cloth as the man before them stands

covered in thick scales. Its long back running down to a lizard's tail, yet

lizard wasn't the first thing father Frigal thought about . . .

'Coccodrillo . . .' he says in a shaking voice. The scales on its back thin

out towards the creature standing like a man's long arms. Turning slowly,

the creature's long jaws showed rows of yellow fang-like teeth. Its deathly

dry eyes look at the high priest with human consciousness so morbid and

ill that he feels the creature is somehow human to a degree. The monster

extends his long grey and black scaled claw towards him; suddenly, sister

Abella gives a scream that shook father Frigal to the core. She runs to the

door before Deacon Pirelli catches her and holds her tight. 'God wouldn't

let that demon near us!' he says in a faint whisper. The high priest looks

back at the creature, the scales on its head stand almost as thick triangular

horns. It suddenly licks over its left eye with a thin red tongue. Strangely,

father Frigal felt no fear too extreme to run away or scream; his whole

scant body shakes under his robe, yet he stares into the black and yellow

eyes of a creature two metres in front of him. Somehow, he knew deep

inside that this is his time; the creature resembling a prehistoric crocodile

takes an easy step forward, its claws relaxing softly on the rock floor. The

other two cloaked figures rush towards the deacon and the nun; Father

Frigal barely notices the screams of terror behind him. He sees the thin

layer of scales on the sides of this animal's neck slowly move as he edges

closer to the priest. Out of nowhere, Anthony Frigal knew he would serve

a great purpose; he knew that this being out of an ill-minded nightmare

will take his life and that he is finally ready, after his seven-year fight with cancer, to accept that he will meet the God he worships. He knows by

seeing this monster from the bowls of hell that that is not the case; the

prehistoric being standing an inch from him is a higher form.

As if the creature has read his thoughts, it places its scaled

long-fingered claw on his shoulder and says in a voice so uncannily

human it made him believe he saw himself, 'Forgive me, Father.'

Giving a small nod, the high priest says, 'I am ready.'

The creature opens its almost curved yet straight jaws and places them

gently around the priest's neck. When the Father's neck is completely held

by the creature, he feels warm breath coming from the creature's lungs.

Taking a deep breath, Anthony Frigal said his final prayer.

Snapping his jaws shut as both fell to the rocked floor, drinking

as much of the man's blood as he possibly can. The creature stands up

quickly and looks at his companions, both covered in black and red fur.

The female looks up at him and says, 'I can't drink anymore. It's too

much, Governor.'

The creature nods and says, 'Open their chests. We have to be quick.'

The male stands up and wipes his mouth with a densely furred claw,

his slight mane drenched in the blood of the deacon. He slashes through

the deacon's white gown and splits the skin on his chest. 'Artemia,' the

Governor calls to her; she looks up with slithered cat-like yellow eyes.

'Break the breast bone. The ribs will bend.' She nods and folds her

claws together, bringing it down with full force and repeating it several

times on Sister Abella's feminine chest. Her son soon follows, snapping

open the deacon's well-built breastbone. The Governor does the same.

After several minutes, they have opened the chest cavities and found the

hearts. Consuming it quickly before they empty out each chest, creating

a leek-proof containment area. Covered in blood, all three of them stand

up; knowing that this ritual has an eighty-seven present mortality rate,

they give each other a quick glance.

'I love you, Mother . . . ,' he says towards Artemia while his long tail

swings slowly over the deacon's body.

She pulls her long black whiskers back and shows her jaguar—like

fangs. 'I love you too, my son. Promise me, Vulcan, if I don't make this,

you will look after your father.'

He pulls back his sharp ears under his thick fur. 'I promise, Mother.

But nothing will happen to you. We will all be . . .'

The governor says quickly, 'I admire your faith, young Vulcan. Let us

take positions.'

Vulcan nods and gives one last nervous look at his mother before

stepping into the chest cavity he created inside the fresh corpse of the

deacon. The lady places her small clawed foot inside the Spanish nun's

chest and looks over to the governor.

'Thank you, Governor. My best wishes for you,' she says softly.

He turns his long fanged snout towards her and says, 'Anything for

you, my queen.'

She nods with a smile on the corners of her thin lips. She places her

paws carefully inside the soft flesh of the girl's chest; between her feet,

she can see the nun's white bone spine. Concentrating on the warmth

below her feet as the governor approaches her with a small dagger in his

hand. He takes her paw in his scaled claw and feels for her pulse before he

places the dagger on the main artery in her sleek furred neck. Her yellow

eyes fixed on her son as he stands helplessly watching his mother's throat

being partially cut. She gives a low yowl as blood pours down her furred

collar, curving chest, and flat stomach and finally into the body beneath

her feet. Staring at his mother, Vulcan barely notes as the governor shoves

his sharp claw in between his thick scant main and finds a pulse. Vulcan

felt no pain, but only a warm sensation as his blood flows down his body

into the deacon's chest cavity. He holds his mother's yellow eyes as the

governor walks quickly back to the body of the high priest, pulls his

corpse in between them, and inserts the blade into the thin scales of his

neck.

Looking down, Artemia can see the corpse's chest filled halfway with

her dark red blood. Pins and needles shoot from her toes and fingers up

her legs and arms. Looking at her son, she sees him, closing his big eyes.

He says under his breath, 'This will work, this will work, this will

wok . . .'

He cuts off as she sees the deacon's chest cavity is overflowing. The

governor looks towards him with his dry bulging reptile eyes.

'He is bleeding too much!' his mother screams. 'Why isn't it taking?'

She lifts her paw out of the three-quarter-filled chest before the

governor screams, 'Artemia, no! Stay where you are. It takes time!'

She places her foot back and cries, 'He is going to bleed out!'

The governor says loudly, 'He will not!'

The governor grabs Vulcan by his furred shoulders and gives him a

quick shake. His eyes open partially as his knees lose lock Pulling him to a stand quickly, the governor says with his jaws an inch

from his whiskers, 'Don't give in now, Vulcan! Concentrate! What have I

taught you?'

Vulcan focuses on the governor's scaled face and says in a mumble, 'I

can't feel my legs . . .'

The governor gives him another shake. 'Be strong, do it for your

mother!' He drops his head strangely to his shoulder and mumbles

dryly. Artemia gives a soft cry. 'We can't lose you, Vulcan. Fight it!' The

governor finds no strength in his words as the young prince's blood

runs over his claw. He suddenly realises he has cut too deep. 'Vulcan!'

his mother cries as the governor looks down to the nun she is standing

on. A few more seconds before she overflows, he looks down at the high

priest beneath him. It's filled to the brim. In the dim light cast by the old

chandelier, he could have sworn he saw movement in the blood. He gives

Vulcan another shake. 'Don't do this to me . . .' His voice sounds weak

as his vision starts to blur, and he sees Vulcan dropping back to the floor.

Looking slowly towards Artemia, he sees her screaming yet couldn't hear

a sound. To his wonder, the skin around the nun seems to be melting

beneath Artemia's legs, consuming and burning off her fur. She falls to the

side as he feels a strange tingling on his legs, in the blur he could make

out the priest's skin pulling off the body's flesh and gently touching the

thick scales on his calves. A lightning bolt flashes through the governor's

entire body, making him shriek soundlessly as the pale skin covers and

eats into his scales. The pain sends bright rays of light across his vision as

the skin creeps up ever so slowly towards his tail and thighs. The claws on

his toes become expelled by his body; as his legs give in, he falls on top of

Vulcan. Rolling on to his side as the skin draws over his tail; he suddenly

feels a hand grab his twitching claw. In a mist of agony and pure suffering,

he turns his long head towards Vulcan. 'Tell Father . . . I am sorry . . . I

never want to disappoint you,' he says as his bright eyes fog up. A fresh

bolt of hell fire shot through the governor's spine, trying to hold on to the

dim lights cast by the burning lamp in the far corner as blackness creates

a tunnel in his vision. He feels his claws dig into Vulcan's paw until he

is sure he can feel bone; he feels his tail retracting into his spinal cord

inch by inch. Hitting his jaw on the floor, he bites off a small piece of

his tongue and takes no note. In the agony he tries to pul Vulcan closer,

his mind orders him to run from his own body as the pain becomes too

much; his hip-bones break forward twisting his legs in their sockets to form a flat pelvis. The dark tunnel closes quickly until he can only see

bright flashes inside darkness. The pain finally stops.

With a shriek she sits up, Artemia looks at Vulcan lying dead with his

paws still inside the deacon's corpse. Something wet falls over her back;

she screams and looks behind her, only to see the locked door. Looking

down, she stands up slowly, her whole body snapping and cracking inside

the joints. In fear, she crooks her head towards the governor, lying with

his feet inside a skinned corpse of the high priest. He breathes quickly.

His prominent ribs moving rapidly, she looks at her hands. Pale furless

and dainty fingers move as she forms a fist. Her feet are tiny flat hairless

creatures with five moving toes. The wet thing falls over her back again;

she grabs it and pulls on long wet hair growing from her scalp. Looking

over to her son, she whispers, 'Vulcan, please answer me.' No response.

She slowly walks over the puddles of blood towards them. 'Governor . . .'

she says softly as her feet pit-a-pat wetly. She feels the cold floor which

gave her a strange chill, as if the bones in her feet touched every nerve

in this body. She leans over and repeats, 'Governor . . .' close to the

high priest lying naked on the bloody floor next to her son. Suddenly,

his green eyes open, making her shriek and pit-a-pat back; he opens his

blood-covered mouth and gives a deep gasp. Looking into the dead eyes

of Vulcan, he quickly and painfully sits up. He sees the Spanish nun stare

at him wearily. He slowly looks at his pianist hand and snaps it closed.

'Governor . . . ?' she asks, close to tears.

He looks up at her and says, 'I am in deep sorrow over your loss, my

queen.' His voice sounds cracking and almost feminine in a strange way.

She bursts out in tears as he slowly stands up.

'Pardon my insensitivity, my queen. We have to clean ourselves up,

get decent, and burn this room down.'

She nods and turns around. He takes her by her small shoulders

and says over her neck, 'I have spotted a lavatory which might have a

bathtub. Be quick please, my queen. I do not know how long we were

unconscious.' She nods and walks to an adjacent room; as he hears the

door close, he bends over and throws up on the blood puddle.

Opening all the cupboards and drawers around the room, the

governor finds papers which he throws on top of the mess of corpses and

blood close to the door. On a small study table, he grabs the paraffin

lamp and walks towards the flurry of blood and intestine. He places the THE GREAT GALLIWASP'S HANDICAP 17

lamp on the bloody floor and walks to a clothes rack by the far wall. Five

albs, all ceremonial, hang neatly in a row; a smile spreads over his sharp

face before the bathroom door opens and queen Artemia walks quickly

towards him. Her skin is fair and dark and feminine and athletic. She

shakes her long wet corrugated black hair quickly and says almost in a

whine, 'It doesn't want to dry.' Tears well up in her Hispanic eyes; he

quickly takes a small rubber band off the study table and walks towards

her. An array of pencils falls to the floor. He grabs her hair in his long

bloody hand and twists it together, wrapping the band around it in a tight

bun. 'No one will know. Now if you will excuse me . . .' She says quickly,

'I will come stand with you.' she looks at her dead son as tears run down

her small face.

After washing every bit of blood off his deathly pale skin, the governor

leads Artemia to the rack of cloaks. He takes one and holds it open for

her; she places her arms in, and he holds her tightly. Getting cloaked, they

walk to the mess of death. She looks down at her son and says something

inaudible as he picks up the paraffin lantern. The governor kneels next

to the body of prince Vulcan as his mother cries loudly, he gives a deep

sigh and places his hand on the soft fur on Vulcan's forhead. He slowly

lowers his hand and closes the prince's stark yellow eyes. Taking his small

dagger from the floor, he says to her while standing up, 'Please turn your

back, my queen.' She does so while sobbing loudly; he expertly stabs the

blade into the glass bottom of the lantern. Paraffin pours over his hand as

he pulls it out. Pouring the liquid on the bodies and intestine, he looks

down at the skinned corpse of the high priest again. 'He has given his body

willingly,' the governor thinks to himself. He knew he would serve a much

greater purpose; he knew the monster which is the great galliwasp is no

better or worse than mankind. He gives the skinned corpse a small nod

before dropping the lantern and unlocking the door.

Leaving the basilica, they are under no suspicion, smiling politely

at all the monks who give him a worthy bow. He drops the key to the

burning room in the well-kept beds of flowers as they walked on Main

Street. Dawn begins to fall over the horizon as the governor just begins to

relax before the guard from before stops them.

'Have I not seen you before, Padre?' the guard asks with a strange look

of amazement and puzzling suspicion.

'I suppose you have,' the governor says as he can feel Artemia,

standing next to him, feeling tensed.

'Then what is your name, Padre?'

The governor falls silent for a second; the guard finds it strange.

'I am Anthony Frigg. I am Monsignor Anthony Shogal Frigg. Any

further questions, Officer? Sister Artemia Abella and I are on our way to

see off an old member of the parson.'

The guard eyes Artemia and lifts his cap. 'May God have his hand

over you.' They both nod and walk along the street.