DIVINATIONS 
MAGAZINE

It is the time of the year, when the world is most hallowed, that the bishop must visit his lover under the cover of sleep.

Midnight mass, having taken place only an hour ago, leaves the cathedral smelling sweet with liturgical incense. As the bishop scurries down the corridor to the lower levels, he hears the metallic swinging of the thurible above as the altar boy sways the herb filled container back and forth. They are preparing for Easter in the year 1520. Come morning, the cathedral will be decorated with yellow and white drapery, white flower crowns placed upon the statues. During mass, the bishop will adorn himself in white liturgical vestments, signifying the coming of eternal salvation.

Now, however, all he craves is sleep. Deep sleep. Restless sleep. A holier priest would use the quiet hours of the night for meditation, but Bishop Samuel’s desires drift to that of the heart. He finds his way down the hidden corridors, to the small passageway that leads to the cathedral crypt. He pauses for a moment before he enters, his eyes meeting those of the statues and paintings of saints and other holy figures. They return his gaze, and whether they judge him or not, he does not know. They are frozen in their own perpetual sleep—one that, in an instant, he will become all too accustomed to.

Quickly, he strolls down the curved stone staircase and shuts the door behind him. In darkness, he makes out the familiar path down the hallway and finally arrives at the dimly lit crypt. He bars the door behind him.

Sequestered away in the stone walls are rows upon rows of tombs. The names carved into stone, display the bishops appointed to Winchester before him. They sleep here in silence, as they have for hundreds of years. One day, he will sleep with them. There is a tomb, unmarked and unsealed, made for him. His body will grow cold, and the priests will dress him in fine vestments, mitre and crozier. They will place him into his coffin and gently slide him into the wall, forever condemning him to a stone slumber. Or, at least, he was led to believe at a point.

At the far end of the crypt is a bag, placed there by him hours earlier, containing a few items needed for his nightly excursion. Salt, for a barrier; lavender for protection; holy water, to keep his body untouched by wandering entities; and a knife. He grabs the bag and pours a salt circle around his person. He then places fresh lavender within the barrier and drizzles the vat of holy water onto the ground. The final tool in the now discarded bag—a knife—glides across either of the palms of his hands. Not deep enough to bleed out, but certainly deep enough to draw blood. After that, the bishop lies flat on the ground within the circle and, gently, his eyelids flutter shut.

The sleep that comes for him is unnatural, but calm nonetheless. It is as familiar as drifting away in the night, as it is a soul tethered to the edge of life and death. This sleep is accompanied by a shadow that is both heavy and weightless, and it eclipses Samuel’s very being as he lies still upon the ground. The crypt, though illuminated by torches, fades into darkness. The room shudders around him, and it is as if his consciousness is being pulled from his body—like sharp claws digging into his essence, tearing through the skin to claim him. Another man would be terrified at such a sensation, at the ever numbing paralysis consuming him as he is forcibly put to sleep by an unknown deity, spirit, or what have you. The bishop, however, is all too used to this ritual. Blood pours from his palms at a faster, unnatural rate, and both his mind and heart mutter words unknown to those of the mortal realm. His eyes are finally sealed shut, and the world around him disappears. For a moment, he is still. He does not breathe or move; he is simply a corpse, frozen in a perpetual slumber. Candle light returns and the natural ambiance of the crypt follows. It is almost as if the aura that surrounds him is unaware of the bishop lying motionless upon the stone floor.

He however, begins to breathe.

And then, he stands.

Or rather, his soul, his spirit, his lucid form rises. His mortal body, flesh and bone, remains on the ground as motionless as before. In this strange, transparent form, the bishop makes sure that the body is breathing; it is so easy to accidentally die during these dangerous rituals. He watches as his chest rises up and down in a rhythmic pattern, and, listening ever so quietly, he hears a heart beat. With  relief, the bishop’s astral form takes a step away from his body, and effortlessly, the bishop begins his journey.

The ritual of sleep, as he and his lover like to call it, can be performed only under the right circumstances—on a holy night, between the hours of midnight and sunrise. If a soul is caught outside of the body by the time the sun peaks over the horizon, it can mean eternally wandering between purgatory and life, and for the unclaimed mortal body, perpetual slumber. A body with a beating heart, yet no soul, can survive only for a few months before it simply withers away.

This has never happened to Samuel, and it will not, for this is not the first time he has performed this ritual; it is not the first time he has sought out his lover under these strange circumstances.

That night, he walks through the stone walls of his cathedral. He arrives in the nave of the church—the main hall, where the altar boys and other priests diligently decorate in preparation for Easter morning. He catches a conversation in his spectre-like state; a couple of them inquire about ‘the bishop’s’ presence, but figure he has gone home to pray. There is not a speculation in their minds that his mortal body lies floors beneath them, and that behind them stands his disembodied spirit. He continues his trek, eventually leaving the cathedral and venturing into the streets.

During the night hours, one might think that the city sleeps; however, that assumption would be far from the truth. All around him candles are illuminated as they sit upon the window seals, and chatter and laughter is heard from families behind closed doors. If he was a soul that had more time, he would perhaps peer inside some homes just to see how his flock lived when not attending mass. Tonight, other matters preoccupy his mind.

It does not take long for Winchester to become a speckle of lights in the distance, the usual chatter dying down.

Now, rather, it is the untamed noise of the dark forest where he has ventured, that sings in his ear. To a wanderer, the darkness of these woods would appear uninviting. Samuel does not blame them, for at night especially, the forest has a sinister aura about it. It is a place where witches congregate, where pagans dance beneath the moonlight, and where demons come to collect their souls. To Samuel , none of these thoughts are off-putting, but rather, inviting.

He steps across the unspoken threshold, and for thirty minutes or so, walks beneath the thick trees until he arrives at a glade within the woods. A patch of grass, illuminated by moonlight. He stands there for a while, inhaling the deep, rich smell of the forest and allowing the excitement of the night and ritual to fully consume his disembodied soul. He can feel his heart beating strongly in his chest, though it remains miles away from him, in the crypt of his cathedral. It is intriguing to him how he can be in two places at once, in this strange, lucid state. Yet, it is all the more freeing. All of this is freeing to him. Being a bishop, and having been so for over thirty years, he is all too used to customs and formalities. Not even sleep gives him a true escape.

Until now, that is.

There is something freeing about this sleep-blood ritual. The sensation of one slipping away from their mortal body into the cover of darkness, is as thrilling as it is sinful. For it is not simply for his own benefit that Samuel has come here.

As he stands in the clearing beneath the pale moonlight, a familiar sensation settles upon him. Reminiscent of the possessive feeling nearly an hour before, a thick darkness enters his space. Like talons reaching from the shadows, clawing their way into the celestial light, something grabs hold of him from behind. Heavy hands grip his sides and gently slide down, resting upon his hips as if to ground him. The sensation grows stronger, yet he remains calm and still, and his eyes are closed. There is not a molecule in his body—astral or physical—that feels an ounce of fear. As the darkness consumes him, he pushes away the silent arousal, and begins to speak:

“I have not yet called for you, Robert.”  Samuel breathes, leaning into the darkness.

“It was your blood, I smelled that beckoned me here, my love. Is that not why you cut your palms? To draw me to you?” The entity—or rather, demon, for that is what he is—removes his hands from Samuel’s waist. There is a shift in the air, and a chuckle that follows. Samuel opens his eyes, and they rest upon what appears to be a young man. His skin is pale, and his eyes are a piercing black, just like his hair. He wears the typical attire for men of the time: a doublet, riding boots, dark trousers and a sturdy coat, and, unlike Samuel, he is flesh and bone.

One would assume that Robert is a human man. At a time, he was, this Samuel knows for sure. Samuel always remembers their past.

They had been lovers, Samuel and Robert, some thirty years ago. That is, before Robert was burned at the stake. It nearly destroyed Samuel. Afterwards, Samuel assumed that Robert was gone for good. Oh, how wrong he had been. When Samuel turned fifty-eight, strange things began to happen to him. It did not take him long to realize that he was being haunted, by what he had at the time thought, was a ghost. Eventually he discovered that his soul had somehow been claimed by a demon—that demon being Robert, his former undead lover.

Fifty-eight would be the last age Samuel would ever reach, for Robert had his soul, and Samuel would forever remain a fifty-eight-year-old man. In hindsight, Samuel did not like this, he did not like any of this. A bishop’s soul being kept by a demon—it was not how he wanted to live.

However, it was something he had warmed up to, for at the end of the day, it was freeing, and demon or not, Robert was his. And now, in the present, as they hold one another he vows to never let Robert go again.

Robert will always be his.

As he is Robert’s.

Even if on holy days they must meet like this— away from civilization in the cover of the woods. That night, he embraces Robert, feeling so loved and protected in his arms. Samuel’s heart beats faster as demonic, pale lips gently clash against the brown skin of his neck. Samuel wonders if his body, resting in the crypt, is blushing.

Though he does not ponder on his physical body much during the rest of the night. Not when Robert’s touch grows stronger, and the demonic grip around him tightens.

He simply prays for restless, yet arousing, sleep. A sleep he wishes never to wake from.