Tacit was running, running through the winding streets and courtyards of Vatican City, rushing before an almighty storm, Father Adansoni’s hand on his shoulder, driving him forward, out of the rain. He was running and he was laughing as he ran, bathing in the joy of belonging, of feeling safe under his master’s counsel despite the downpour, laughing, and the Father laughing too, at their folly, at getting caught in the storm.
They were drenched and it cheered Tacit’s heart to see how the Father didn’t care that his robes and cassock were drenched either. And in that moment, Tacit wondered perhaps if that was why he was put on earth, to bring joy and good cheer to all whom he met. He thought it a good life then, to bring hilarity and joy wherever he went.
That was seconds before the old man fell. Or was he pushed? Tacit didn’t know, or couldn’t recall. All he remembered was turning and seeing faces, men with torches, drenched heavy coats, resentful sneers, enemies of the Church, bearing down on them from the shadows. From where they had come, he didn’t know, but he recognised their look from somewhere far off, long ago.
He remembered a club being lifted and brought down on the old man as he lay scrambling on the cobbles of the path, the wicked chuckle of voices, voices the like of which he remembered from … from …
He drew back from his memories as he felt the sharp jar in his elbow of his fist connecting with bone. He heard the crack of a jaw and a cruel voice swearing. A club, like a truncheon, a bobbing member, was being waved in front of him. Red rage tore out of him, followed by a sickening guttural choking, the sudden sound of liquid gushing onto the floor, a stickiness between his fingers.
He was aware of his hands moving before he had time to even consider where they should go, as if guided by another greater power. Wherever they went there followed a weeping and a pleading from voices quite unlike his, the splintering of limbs, the falling of bodies, then a tight intake of breath and then a slow release as death came.
And lights. Everywhere about him were lights, hanging in the air around him, embracing him, nourishing him with their rays.
And then, as quickly as the brawl had begun, it was over. Tacit picked the Father up off the floor and ushered him away from the lifeless bodies strewn about the courtyard.
Adansoni threw his eyes onto the boy and stared, a look speared somewhere between fear, disbelief and wonder at what his young pupil had done.
“You are, Poldek,” Adansoni muttered, his eyes wide on the young man. “You are,” he repeated.
“I am what, Father?”
But Adansoni could, or would, say no more.