The Nameless Day. Sara Douglass
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neck.
He had walked all his life towards this moment, and he could now hardly believe such was the munificence of God’s Grace that he was finally here.
Again Thomas’ steps faltered as he reached the altar. He knew that to one side steps led down into a chamber from where he could view through a grille the actual tomb of St Peter, but for now all Thomas wanted to do, all he could do, was to prostrate himself before the altar.
He slumped to his knees, his eyes still raised to the altar, then he dropped his head and hands, and lowered himself until he lay prostrate in a cruciform position before the altar.
It was cold and horribly uncomfortable, but Thomas was filled with such zeal he did not notice.
Holy St Peter, he prayed silently over and over, grant me your humbleness and courage, let my footsteps be guided by yours, let my life be as worthy as yours, let me be of true service to sweet Jesus Christ as you were, let me ignore hunger and pain as you did, let me immerse myself in the true wonder and joy of God. Holy St Peter…
Hours passed unnoticed, and the Basilica emptied of all save the friar stretched before the altar. Thomas’ muscles grew stiff with the cold and the fervour of his thoughts, but he did not notice his discomfort. All Thomas wanted was to be granted St Peter’s grace, to be accepted to serve—
Thomas.
Thomas was lost in prayer. He did not hear.
Thomas.
One of Thomas’ outstretched fingers twitched slightly, otherwise he showed no outward sign of hearing.
Now the voice grew more insistent, more terrible.
Thomas!
Thomas’ entire body jerked, and he rolled onto his back, his eyes blinking in surprise and disorientation.
Thomas!
He jerked again, and rose on one elbow, staring down the nave of the Basilica.
Perhaps a third of the way down, on the left wall of the Basilica, a golden light exuded from one of the side shrines.
Thomas!
Thomas scrambled about until he was on his hands and feet. He lowered his face to the stone floor. “Lord!”
Thomas, come speak with me.
Shaking with fear and wonder, Thomas inched his way across the floor, his breath harsh in his throat, his eyes wide and staring at the stones before him.
Thomas…
Thomas crept to the entrance of the shrine, daring a quick look.
The shrine consisted merely of a niche in the wall, large enough only for a statue of an angel, arms and wings outstretched.
Thomas supposed that the statue was of some alabaster stone, but now it glowed with a brilliance that made his eyes ache. The face of the statue was terrible, full of cruel righteousness and the power of the Lord.
Thomas averted his eyes in dread.
“Lord!” he said again.
No Thomas. Not the Lord our God, but His servant, Michael.
The archangel Michael…
“Blessed saint,” Thomas whispered, his fingers clawing forward very slightly on the floor.
Blessed Thomas, said the archangel, and Thomas felt a brief warmth on the top of his bowed head, as if the angel had laid his hand there in benediction.
Thomas began to cry.
Do not weep, Thomas, but hark to what I say. There are few men or women these days who can be called of brave heart and true soul. You are one of them.
“I would give my life to serve, blessed Saint Michael!”
I do not think you shall have to go that far, Thomas, for you are of the Beloved.
Of the beloved?
“Blessed saint, I am a poor man with a great sin on my soul. There was a woman who I—”
Think you I know not every deed of your life? Think you that I cannot see into every corner of your soul? The woman used you. She was a whore. What you did was right and caused a great rejoicing among my brethren.
A great weight fell from Thomas’ mind. For so long he had laboured under the burden of his sin…and now to hear from St Michael that it was no sin at all…
“I thank you,” he whispered. He had been right to do as he had. Alice was indeed a whore, for she had betrayed her husband to sate her lustful cravings.
All women are vile. Their flesh leads to temptations. Never forget that it was a woman who betrayed Adam.
“I will never forget it, blessed saint.”
You have passed the first test, Thomas. Now comes one much greater.
“Saint Michael?”
Evil roams among your brethren, Thomas.
Thomas shuddered. “Among the fellows of my holy order, Saint Michael?”
It well may, but I speak of the wider community of mankind. For many years now evil incarnate in the form of Satan’s imps have walked unhindered, wreaking havoc and despair. The world is altering, Thomas, and turning away from God. You are Beloved of both the Lord God and my brethren, and it is you who shall head His army of righteous anger.
Thomas felt all the disparate elements of his life fall into place. When he’d been closest to despair, unable to see the meaning and course of his life, the Lord had all the while been guiding and training him. He’d thought his life before entering the Order worthless and empty. Now Thomas knew differently.
Exultation filled his soul. He was to be a soldier of Christ…and the enemy was evil.
“What should I do? I am yours, blessed saint, mind and body and soul!”
Study. Pray. Grow in understanding. In time, and only when the time is right, I will return to give you further guidance.
“But—”
Thomas got no further. Suddenly the glow and warmth was gone, and Thomas found himself alone in St Peter’s Basilica before a lifeless statue, its face once more cold and impassive.
He struggled into a sitting position, tears still streaming down his cheeks, his hands clasped before him, staring at the statue of St Michael.
“I am yours!” he whispered. “Yours!”
Aye, came the faintest of whispers, as if from the summit of heaven itself. You are one of ours indeed.
The Saturday within the Octave of the Annunciation
In the fifty-first year of the reign of Edward III
(27th March 1378)
Thomas told no one of his experience in St Peter’s. If Satan’s imps—demons—roamed among mankind, then who knew which among his brother friars worked for God, and which for evil? So Thomas remained silent, sinking deeper into his devotions and burying himself in his studies within the library of St Angelo’s friary. Here were the ancient books and manuscripts that might cast some light on what the archangel had revealed to him. Here might lie the key to how he could aid the Lord.
He watched and listened, and learned what he could.
His feet healed, and his hands, and somehow that disappointed Thomas, for he would have liked a lingering ache or a stiffness in his joints to remind him of his duty to God, and also, now, to St Michael.
In the year following his ecstatic vision, the archangel did not appear to