He was awake that night, in the rectory of St. Joseph's Catholic Church in Pennsylvania. Father Tyler Coleridge, a Priest of St. Joseph's, had heard some noise outside. He did not want to wake the Pastor and head Priest Josiah Turnbull, so he quietly left the rectory to examine what was making the noise. Coleridge thought it would be rodents, or a raccoon, as always. However, when he got outside, he saw a group of Negroes running towards the stable barn behind the rectory. They had knocked down an empty crate that once held apples. Coleridge assumed they were looking for food.
Coleridge had taken a moment to assure himself of what he saw, clearing his eyes of the sleep to see the five Negroes in torn and sullied clothes scampering across the grounds. Their shadowy forms ran inside the stable and disappeared. He always felt pity for those less fortunate, so he figured he would get the some food while they his from the authorities. It was the least he could do.
He walked back into the rectory and headed towards the food pantry he and Pastor Turnbull kept stocked and supplied. They had started the pantry at the beginning of the recent economic panic, and were taking in donations from the wealthier land-owners from the countryside to help feed the people moving out of Philadelphia. Coleridge saw they had plenty to spare for the few Negroes taking refuge in the stable.
| Tyler Coleridge |
"Cleaning out the refuse, Pastor," said Coleridge, trying to cover the jump of his surprise.
"A noise woke me, was it you?"
"Who else would it be, Pastor?" asked Coleridge. Pastor Turnbull was a sympathizer for the slave owners. Coleridge knew if he told the pastor what he saw, Turnbull would be quick to alert the authorities. Coleridge had been raised in Philadelphia, believing that all men were created equal under the eyes of God - regardless of the color of their skin. Coleridge was not a radical abolitionist by any means, but he did feel slavery was not something God would condone. He and Turnbull had enjoyed many debates on the topic, but now, the subject of debate had found its way to their Church stable.
"Did you?"
"You're acting strange, Father Coleridge," said Turnbull. "You wouldn't be getting that food for the people in the stables, would you?"
"I've seen no people in the stables."
"Thou shalt not lie, Father Coleridge."
"In all honesty, Pastor Turnbull, I saw no one inside the stables." Coleridge had not, in fact, seen anyone inside the stables.
"If not, then why are you doing this work in the middle of the night?"
"I could not sleep, Pastor."
"So, you decided to clean the food pantry? In the dark? With no lantern?" Turnbull lit the oil lantern he held in his hand to life. It flared for a second, then calmed to a flickering spirit. Turnbull's handlebar mustache and hard, chiseled face held the deep shadows of truth in their features. Turnbull knew Coleridge was lying.
"Yes, pastor."
"Then go ahead," Turnbull's face softened to a knowing, confident smile. "Throw the spoiled food away to the rodents and birds of the field. I will watch, for I, too, am having a hard time sleeping."
"I was going to feed the apples to the horses, Pastor."
"Good, then we can go to the stables and see what we find." Coleridge walked to the stables with the lantern's light behind him. Turnbull's shadow loomed over him.
"They are not men, Tyler, as I have said time and again. They are mongrels from another world - they are a race meant to be enslaved."
"How can you say that they are not men? Do they not share our features and characteristics?"
"Does a horse not eat? Does a flower not blossom when it's time to procreate? Just because they have similarities does not mean they are the same, Tyler. Besides, if the Lord had seen fit to make them equal to us, he would have given them the means to defend themselves. Surely, we have been blessed by the Lord and the mongrels have been cursed in their servitude." Coleridge arrived at the stable door, and set down the food crate.
"But surely, the Lord has put them in our care, then, to foster them and not to enslave them; to teach them, not to beat them; to ignite within them the fire of life, not to stamp out their spirits like we would a horse. We are the stewards of the land, not the rulers- yes?" asked Coleridge as he began opening the door to the stable. The heavy wooden frame was tough to move against the moist autumn soil beneath.
"The Lord gave them to us as He gave us cattle."
"Then you would have us slaughter them?" Coleridge asked through panting breaths. When the door opened, he went back to the crate. "You would have us beat them into submission?"
"It is the Lord's way."
"The Lord would kill, then, those that desire freedom to live?"
"The Lord punishes those that do not obey His Will."
"And who are you to know His Will?"
"I am his servant, as are you."
"Then why do we disagree?" Coleridge took the crate and walked into the stable. He stopped near the first stall. He heard the stomping horse behind it. The lantern illuminated the hayloft and shadows danced in the flickering light. Coleridge saw Turnbull eyeing the loft with suspicion.
"You should join the Franciscans, Tyler," said Turnbull. "They would suit you better than the Jesuits." Coleridge snorted a chuckle.
"You joke," said Coleridge, "but God is life, is He not? Why would He create beings like us if they were not to be held in the same light?" Coleridge opened the stall and walked in to feed the brown mare. He took the softest apple he could find and fed it to the horse. He saw a pitchfork for the hay to the horse's right, and bent down to take lift it off the ground. He leaned it on the wall outside, and then closed the stall behind him.
"They are cursed souls, Tyler. They do not deserve the light of heaven."
"God would deny his creations the light of heaven?" Turnbull looked at Coleridge with skewed eyes, as if Coleridge should have known the answer was 'yes.' Coleridge was half in and half out of the second stall, and fed the grey gelding a softened apple as well.
"God is all-powerful, Father Coleridge. He alone is the judge of us. These beings have been judged and placed in the skin chosen for them."
"I cannot believe that God would be so cruel."
"It is reality, Father Coleridge. God is not just life. God is the beginning and the end."
"I have seen these creatures and their faith, Pastor Turnbull. They beg for forgiveness - does God not hear them?" Coleridge returned to the main walk of the stable, just within reach of the pitchfork. Turnbull was near the hayloft ladder. Coleridge saw something in the other hand of Turnbull, now that the light was in front of him. He had not noticed it at first.
"There!" Turnbull pointed to the hayloft and a shadow moving along the ceiling. It looked like a man who was adjusting his position, or trying to grab someone else from running. Coleridge couldn't see clearly, but he did see a revolver in Turnbull's pointing hand. Coleridge had not known Turnbull to possess one. The pastor was about to fire the gun into the haystack in the loft. Coleridge moved fast, dropping the food crate and lifting up the pitchfork. Turnbull didn't see Coleridge act. Without thought, Coleridge moved to stop Turnbull.
A shot fired from Turnbull's pistol. Hay flew everywhere. Coleridge saw the pitchfork, held within his own grasp, lodged within Turnbull's back. He had stabbed Pastor Turnbull - the forks were halfway through the man's back. Turnbull's pistol dropped to the side. Coleridge was breathing heavy. It had happened so fast, he didn't have time to comprehend what he did until it was done. His eyes were wide, his breathing became faster. He heard a woman scream above him - it chilled his blood. Coleridge let go of the pitchfork. Turnbull fell to his knees, then to the hay covered ground, lantern in hand.
What have I done? Coleridge asked himself. He tried to put his head around the act. Before he could regain his focus, the scream came from the hayloft once again. Coleridge could not take his eyes off of Turnbull. He had not meant to kill the pastor, but Coleridge had to do something to stop Turnbull from shooting into the darkness. Turnbull's words echoed in his mind.
God is the beginning and the end. Coleridge wondered if he, himself, had been chosen by God to end Turnbull's life. God is both life and death, thought Coleridge, looking at the pitchfork sticking out of Turnbull's back like a flagpole. The Bible did say that God worked through man. His Catholic Tradition upheld the notion. Perhaps Coleridge was only enacting God's will.
He heard steps coming down the ladder to the hayloft. He turned and saw a Negro man and woman descending the stairs, tears glistening in the fallen lantern light. They stopped, but then continued once they saw Coleridge's frozen shock. Two more descended after them. The woman held a small, motionless bundle over her shoulder. The four Negroes ran from the ladder - one man stopped to gather the food from the crate - and they fled out of the stable. The door behind Coleridge swung open, letting the cool autumn breeze chill his skin.
The light of the lantern flickered and caught in the dry hay of the barn. Coleridge was still frozen. He didn't know what to do. He had not killed anyone in his life. He had been a peaceful man, a faithful man. What do I do now? he asked himself, looking down at the dead pastor's body. The fire began to spread, but he paid it no heed. He took the gun from the pastor's cold hand, yet left the lantern to burn. If the stable burned down, it could give reason for the pastor's death. Thinking quickly, he opened the stalls to each of the four horses that had begun whinnying in the firelight. The dry hay was catching fire fast. They hurried from the stable and out to the pasture beyond. Coleridge, before leaving, looked back at the stationary body of Turnbull, still in quiet shock at what he had done, and made the sign of the cross to bless the pastor on his way to heaven.
When he turned around, he saw a looming figure robed in night, standing in the middle of the doorway. The figure held a long, tall and crooked scythe, and wore its hood to conceal its features. It was easily three heads taller than Coleridge. He stepped back, feeling the hot flames burn behind him.
"TYLER COLERIDGE," a voice boomed in his mind. While it was loud, it was also sinewy and hollow. It bore the strength of something more powerful than man. Coleridge's mouth gaped. He stood before what he believed was the visage of death. "I HAVE COME FOR YOU."
"Am I... to die?" stammered Coleridge, weakly. The figure moved closer, seeming to float over the ground. "Please forgive me - I didn't mean to kill him." Coleridge sobbed softly in the awe he felt for the being before him. "I AM HADES, RULER UNDER OLYMPUS," the figure spoke. Coleridge gulped down his fear. The very God of the Dead stood before him. In that instant, all of Coleridge's faith in the Catholic Church vanished. He prostrated himself and begged for mercy. "RISE, FOOL MORTAL. I HAVE CHOSEN YOU TO BE MY HARBINGER - MY INSTRUMENT - MY SON." A single finger of bone extended from the cloaked arm of the shadow being before him. It touched Coleridge in the middle of the forehead as he felt his own tears washing his face.
In that instant, the fires behind him burned in the heat of hell. They flared and exploded around him. He felt his mind sharpen, his body harden, and his soul strengthen. A sudden understanding came over him of the cosmic forces within the universe - he had been Chosen by Hades, God of the Dead, as his instrument on Earth. The God in which he had believed was dead - had never been in existence. The god who stood before him was now his father - his Holy Father. The finger of bone moved away. Coleridge looked upon the horrific shadow visage of deep nothingness. Coleridge had never known his parents - he had been orphaned by Indians. Now, his father was a god.
Coleridge smiled at the being's decision. For the first time in his life, Coleridge felt like he belonged in the world - he felt a pattern weaving around him. It gave him strength of purpose.
"What would you have me do, Divine Father?" The figure began to vanish. It was a slow process. First the bottom robes disappeared, and then the arms. When only Hades's head remained, he spoke once again.
"TRAVEL TO KING'S COUNTY - YOU WILL DISCOVER YOUR PURPOSE."
The hooded figure vanished entirely, and the fires behind him roared on. Coleridge rose, and viewed the suffocating flames once more, glancing only once at the dead body in the middle of the stable. He smiled as he walked out and left the stable to burn. He had been called to New York. He had no need to stay in Pennsylvania any longer. Turnbull was taken by the Chosen of Hades - and now Coleridge moved onward.
New York...
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