Trollheart

With a roar of frustration that echoes with more than a little unhinged insanity, and a gesture of impotent resignation, he hauls his tattered pants back up and after one more shake of his fist at the cross, whispers “Damn you. Damn you for not being there. Damn you for not existing. And damn me for believing in you all my life. You're not there. You never were.”

Of a sudden, his tone becomes darker, nastier, as if he is mocking Jesus, or His Father, or both. “But He is,” he tells the statue with what sounds like smugness. I think he cackles. It's hard to know; I'm not well-versed in determining the different sounds a dead man makes after resurrection. “Oh yes, He is there. And He will reward me for the work I have done,” Bennett assures the carving. “He looks after his friends. He knows the score. He is coming. And He will destroy you.”

He turns, throws back his head (again, I expect to see it snap at the neck, but it does not) and issues a shuddering, bubbling laugh like the accumulated laughter of every madman in Bedlam. “He'll show you, oh yes. You'll know all about Him soon. And you'll be sorry. Nothing can stand against Him, not even you. Remember that!” he snarls, shaking his fist and then giving Jesus the finger. “He is coming!”

I’m too far away to see exactly what happens next, though I certainly see the outcome. I can’t believe such a huge, heavy structure could just fall, but this is exactly what it does. Whether the supports that hold it, like a toy airplane in a giant’s bedroom, to the ceiling of the church weaken, or whether Bennett lashes out against it and somehow upsets the balance (this seems unlikely: Bennett was never a strong man and now he’s a dead man) of the delicately-hung cross, or perhaps you prefer to believe it is an act of God, a judgement from the Almighty, taking offence at the insult and squashing the puny thing that made it, is, I suppose, in the end of no real consequence.

The important thing is that as Josiah Bennett looks up, his face a mask of hatred (( can’t see it but I can assume, from his speech, that it it so twisted) at the crucified Christ, the instrument of the Saviour’s death swings to one side, there is a sickening groaning sound and a loud SNAP! That fills the empty church, echoing up and down the halls like the last breath of a dying man, and the whole thing crashes to the ground.

There’s no time for me to act, even if I could (or if I wanted to?): it’s over in a blink of the eye. Bennett, seeing the huge cross come falling down upon him, does what we all do in that situation. He throws up his arms as if this will somehow protect him, and cowers as the huge wooden crucifix hits him with a wet slopping sound, the aisles of the church again echoing, this time to the snap of brittle bones and the anguished cry of the old man. A dark stain spreads out from where the cross has fallen upon him, almost amusingly having landed with its arms askew by several degrees.

X marks the spot.

As the cloud of dust begins to settle, I realise there is no further need for subterfuge. Hesitantly at first, then more boldy, I walk up the aisle towards the altar, where the sacrifice lies. Perhaps absurdly, I eye the ceiling, in fear of further missiles a vengeful god might hurl at me. The fact that I do not believe in God is temporarily lost on me. However, it may also be lost on Him, or perhaps my lack of faith shields me from His wrath. Or, more likely, this was nothing more than a tragic accident, and for myself I have nothing to fear. Nonetheless, my eyes continue to dart towards the high, vaulted ceiling as I reach Bennett’s prostrate body (or what remains of it) and kneel down in an unintentional mockery of worship.

There is, of course, nothing I can do for him. Josiah Bennett is dead, if he was ever truly alive. There is little left of the man, in truth. Most of him is pinned underneath the heavy wooden symbol of Christianity, pulped like a pureed fruit. One of his hands sticks out, the fingers somehow all curled inward save for the index one, and I nod. Bennett’s final “up yours” to God. It seems fitting somehow. The force of the impact has separated his head from his shoulders, and I find it on the third step leading up to the pulpit, almost as if, even disembodied, Bennett wished to continue railing against his creator. Loath to touch the thing, I prod it gingerly with my foot, unintentionally nudging the face up towards me.

The dead eyes flicker open, and I jump back before I realise that it is just the motion of my foot that has caused the eyelids to flutter, but my heart is beating quickly in my chest. There’s something in those eyes, some dark, bitter knowledge that, even now fully dead, cannot be denied, cannot be avoided, cannot be ignored.

I know.
I know.

As I stagger back, my mind ablaze, I bump into one of the arms of the fallen cross and trip, losing my balance and landing heavily, my face only inches away from the tortured face of Jesus Christ. His dead carven eyes look at me, helpless, impotent, dying.

And he knows too.

He knows, and I know, and soon everyone will know.

I walk out of the church without looking back.

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Trollheart: Signature-free since April 2018