Brother Sebastian kneeled upon the red crushed-velvet carpet, arthritic knees resting in the depressions of a thousand other communions. The other monks had left for the orchard. He envied them in their peaceful simple work. He would much rather be pruning back the cherry trees, keeping the chaos at bay, than readying for the task to come.

He steadied his hands in front of him as he felt the silent movement of the priest on his right. He didn't need to see, to know, that Father Roy was administering the Eucharist to Brother Peter. Sebastian allowed himself a small smile as he reveled in the image of the fidgety young monk and Christ occupying the same space in the same time--the miracle of transubstantiation. No matter how many times he communed with the lord, it was as refreshing as the first. Communion, to taste the maker and become one, was the greatest honor--the greatest gift. He felt his heart lighten and his soul fly free as, moments later, he was also eating the flesh and blood of the Lord.

After an hour of introspection and prayer, Brother Sebastian cracked open his old eyes. On a silver plate, held steady by Father Roy, lay the reason for his trembling soul. It was an innocuous white envelope, overlarge and thick. He glanced over at Brother Peter and watched as the young man's lips had trouble settling on the nervous face.

It was a small walk down the stone path to the old well house. The doorway had been cleared of kudzu, recently. The bright green smell of the all consuming vine made him heady, reluctant to leave the world of brightness. Old brick and new mortar graced the sides of the small old building. The door was stout oak and was secured by a new steel lock. Brother Sebastian pulled a key from his pocket and inserted it with a shaky hand. One glance back at the dark green hues of the Tennessee mountains and the two monks stooped, under the low opening and descended, picking their way single-file down the narrow stone stairway into the depths of the abbey. The younger one descended first, cutting through cobwebs with the edge of his slender soft hand. A grimace of disgust squatted beneath excited eyes.

"And you say that someone lives down here, Brother Sebastian?"

The older monk ignored him, keeping his right hand steadfastly in the middle of the younger monk's back. He was always fearful of getting lost in the earthy darkness of the abbey's catacombs, something that had haunted his dreams of late. His other hand clutched the letter against his chest, the envelope's whiteness trembling against the coarse brown cloth of the Dominican robe.

"But Brother, we were given dispensation to speak. I, for one, am going to enjoy it."

Brother Sebastian stared fatherly disapproval at the back of his guide's head. "Brother Peter, we are allowed to talk for one reason only. Your nonsensical wanderings, however understandable, are at cross purposes with the moment."

Brother Peter descended silently for a while, the older monk's words a tender slap. They finally arrived at the hard packed dirt floor. The air was filled with a permanent coolness. A stale taste lingered on the tongue. Spiders and beetles scuttled out of the flashlight's beam. The two monks stepped over several fallen wooden beams--a vestige of the abbey's Civil War history.

The young monk examined the age of the wood and the tool markings on the walls. "How come I never heard of this place before, Brother Sebastian?" he asked carefully, his youthful excitement now tightly leashed.

"It hasn't been used for over a hundred years. The abbot at the time hid escaped slaves down here until safe passage could be arranged. Before that, it was used as cells for those brothers who had transgressed against the faith. It was a place for redemption on earth--a place of contemplation and revelation."

Brother Sebastian removed his hand from Peter's back and muffled a sneeze. They paused at each empty cell and genuflected to the iron crosses inlaid in each wooden door. These sturdy doors were solidly hinged in rock, some hanging half open, leering.

They stopped at the end of the single hallway, a closed cell door to their left. The iron cross embedded here had been polished and reflected the flashlight like a mirror. Several locks, including an iron-banded wooden bar, kept the door closed and its occupant contained. A barred window was set at eye level.

"It seems that we are here," said the older brother almost absently. "Peter, what you see and hear is never to reach the light of day. It stays buried. Forever. Understand?" The subdued words were a command, punctuated by hard nods of the bald head.

He reached into the depths of his robe and grabbed a white candle with his free hand. Brother Peter took the candle, levered the flashlight between his arm and side, and pulled out a box of matches. He lit the candle, blew out the match and cast the dead stick aside. He pointed the flashlight at the ground and they were suddenly shrouded in the sick yellow candle-light. He finally turned, excitement rekindled in his eyes. He stood back, a quivering smile of apprehension slow-dancing on his otherwise stoic countenance.

Brother Sebastian paused to admire the youth's naiveté and remembered when he, too, didn't know. He turned a granite face to the door. He sucked in a strained breath, gathering strength, realizing that this would be his last trip into the catacombs. He seemed to rise several inches as he used the stored strength of his faith. He was suddenly more than the hunched old monk that needed a younger man's assistance.

"Spawn of Satan. Servant of Hell. A poor servant of the Lord would have traffic with you." Brother Sebastian's voice rang with angelic purity.

Brother Peter stared, waiting, two hands on the candle to keep it from quivering. It was two full minutes before barely audible words intruded on the monks' silence like the sound of paper rustling in the wind.

"Don't you think 'Spawn of Satan' is a bit melodramatic, my dear Sebastian?" asked a very masculine, but incredibly weak voice.

Sebastian sighed and Peter shifted nervously.

"I was losing hope you or one of yours would deign visit me. I always look forward to your visits. . .remembering how refreshing the visits are, of course."

Brother Sebastian glanced quickly at Brother Peter, sad for the boy and his innocence. "I was beginning to hope you were dead."

"Not very Godly of you." Rough laughter like coughing came from the darkness of the window. "Then our God has never been known for his humanity. Strange, that."

Sebastian ignored the retort, "I have the letter here, as contracted, Brother."

A serpent's hiss escaped like the air from a dying tire. "My eyes are quite old. A bit of light, if you would," the voice commanded as a white bony hand accepted the letter through the rusted iron bars.

Sebastian stood back and nodded at Peter who tentatively passed the candle through. He held it with two fingers and fought the urge to jerk his hand back as two spider-like fingers gripped it. For a split second their finger's almost touched. Sebastian could almost see sparks of life and death trying to jump the tiny gap. Then the emaciated hand pulled the candle into the cell's depths. Peter pulled his hand back and tried to stop its shaking. He slid near his smaller older peer and finally beheld the small frail figure that was suddenly illuminated in the halo of yellow light from the old-fashioned tallow candle within the cell. He shuddered and watched, eagerness evaporated.

They watched as the ancient brother slowly opened the envelope and extracted the two pieces of paper. So sturdy was the paper, it unfolded almost completely as it exited the envelope. The brown blotches that adorned the prisoner's hands and arms shook with palsied urgency as he opened the pages the rest of the way.

He shifted his brittle frame, six feet somehow folded into four. The nails on his hands and leather-sandaled feet were black and decomposing. The wisps of hair that escaped the coarse, brown wool cowl were long, white and spider-web fine. An aquiline nose hung from his face like a well-used hook. Once proud, it now sagged as did the rest of his face.

His hands shook so much with the infuriating combination of age and need, that after a harried glance at the two monks eyeing him closely, he was forced to place the pages of the letter side-by-side on the rough wooden table in front of him. He sat down in an old, but sturdy chair and placed the dancing candle in a holder so that it illuminated the words he so desperately needed.

He tried unsuccessfully to conceal a smile, but his traitorous crusty lips peeled back, revealing stain-blackened teeth and green-white gums. A nasal cackle of pleasure escaped the hole before his lips snapped shut. He was once again in control. He leaned forward, milky-white eyes inches from the rust-brown ink.

'Brother Martinez,

With the death of one's parent, a person does not expect such a legacy as I have inherited. I had never imagined such a blackened soul as yours being possible. Admittedly, I had never attended God, either. Now, as surely as I know you are real through your deeds, I know he is real by your pathetic need for redemption.

Seven generations of my ancestors did you subjugate. Four before their move to America and three after. You kept them as your herd--feeding, fornicating and devouring at your whim. I have read the testimonies. I have read copies of the coroners' reports. I have read secret church documents from priests who knew of you and sought your destruction. I have seen the missing persons reports and followed the labrynthian connections that led each and every one of the them back to you.

I read and have seen paintings of your abattoir, where you kept children half-alive, suspended from chains. You let them hang like sides of beef until you felt the need to feed. These ancestors of mine hung for decades, never to feel love, the soft breath of a tender kiss or even a whisper of a promise of rescue. They were animals, who knew of no other existence, but that of an animal. You even left them hanging when you escaped. Dried mewling husks of humanity-half alive and blood crazed. I know not why you chose my line, but it is fitting that the tables are now turned.

I sit at my window watching my children playing on my lush green lawn. I smell the rich loamy aroma of the Appalachian Mountains. I can reach over and trace my fingers across the lush velvet of a book. I watch as my most perfect wife picks a bouquet of flowers from our garden--brilliant hues of yellow, blue, red and orange.

All these earthly pleasures are now forbidden to you. Since you were captured by the abbot some hundred years ago and made your strange and disturbing choice, you have been removed from everything. I hear that you are buried somewhere in the mountains, entombed until redemption.

I also know that I hold a key to your atonement within my soul. The power to help decide your fate. The power to determine if enough time has passed for you to finally confront God's justice.

I know not if you are true in your confessions. Neither am I qualified or am I ready to make this judgment. Until I find myself able, you shall await my family's descretion.'

The two brothers watched with horror as the thing within the cell leaned its head back and howled. The cowl eased away revealing a half-bald mange-ridden scalp as the ancient monk's entire body shook with rage. The agonizing cry reverberated off the walls of the cell. The brothers covered their ears, pain in the lines of their faces. The sound went on for several seconds, finally ending in a cackle of satisfied laughter.

It turned toward the two brothers.

"This is what you call mercy?" it asked, emotion heavy in the voice.

"It is the mercy of the Lord," said Sebastian in response, his voice weak with the strain.

"Indeed," was all the thing said.

It picked up a page in its hands and licked it from top to bottom, maniacal laughter escaping in short gasps. It began to eat the page in great bites, appearing to savor each and every word.

The brothers noticed the head first. He watched as the patches of diseased baldness, the head that had previously held only a few wisps, sprouted a mane of long flowing white hair. They saw the sagging shoulders lift. The wool of the robe stretching and filling as muscles once again returned to the ancient bones. They stared as the nose become firm and patrician, once again lording over beautiful cheekbones in a face that was becoming handsome. They saw the teeth whiten and the lips fill as they chewed, swallowed and savored each word--still laughing between bites.

The laughing finally ceased. The thing now on its knees--shoulders shaking, head bobbing. Finally, it stood and turned. The young monk felt the pull of the beautiful face. He felt the heady warm aura that poured from it in waves. He admired the tall powerful body.

Tears slid down perfect cheeks from eyes that begged for death. When he saw the perfect twin fangs that descended from the clean red gums, was when he realized that the letter had been written in blood.