His chapel was like him; high, wide and built for God’s work. A shingled roof stood over them like the Lord Himself. Tall, thick glass windows admitted the last of the day’s light, which fell mostly on a small stage that stood opposite the entrance. A crucifix was suspended above the stage so Jesus could look down lovingly on his worshippers. Below the Lord’s son was a lectern which held his Bible, this copy still new enough to creak when opened, and a small pewter chalice.
Normally pews would be laid out in neat rows between the entrance and the stage but they’d been cleared away to let people sleep on the floor. That’d been the intention anyway; as the troubles progressed, the pews had been chopped up and used to keep a fire burning all night. So instead of his pews he had a great pile of bedding on his chapel floor. Bedding and chamberpots.
It befouled the chapel, having people do their business inside its walls, but what else could they do? Father Kilkenny hoped the Lord wouldn’t mind. Not when it was keeping folk safe.
The chapel was also like the Father insofar as it had precious little privacy from his flock; all it had was the right of the stage was the walled-off section he called a bedroom. It was only large enough for his bed, his bookshelf, a stove and his chamberpot but it served him well enough. He didn’t have much to hide.
His flock continued to settle when he stepped into his chapel. Stragglers flowed around him to their spots on the floor.
The Father grimaced. It irked him that, even in this mess, people had established a social order; everyone wanted to be near the crucifix and none wanted to sleep near the chamberpots. Those who considered themselves important, like Jimmy who owned the tavern, had made sure they would be in a prime position. The meek were left to suffer. Father Kilkenny had tried to force the likes of Jimmy to sleep near the chamberpots by introducing rotation but, shortly after he did, those of a lesser standing bargained their places on the floor away for drink or the removal of debts.
With brains like that, they surely would inherit the Earth.
Father Kilkenny shook his head and got to work, starting with checking the protective measures he’d put in place against-
Just then, someone screamed. The Father jumped and looked around, terrified that they were being attacked early. His mind raced. It was impossible. Surely it was impossible… But no, the scream had come from inside the chapel. He couldn’t see who was so scared. Had one of them found their way inside during the day and…
Whoever had screamed shouted again “There’s a scorpion in my bed!”
It was Grammy Ridgewell, matriarch of the Ridgewells. A false alarm. By the Lord, she had a pair of lungs on her.
Father Kilkenny closed his eyes as the Ridgewell clan dealt with the scorpion. All his calm and control had abandoned him for a moment. He needed to retain them. He was a Father, a member of the Catholic Church.
And the Church didn’t panic.
The Dixie Problem had surprised the United States government but the Catholic Church had long been aware that something like it might happen; it was secret knowledge and part of a shameful history but many cults had arisen within the Vatican over its long history and some had brought knowledge of the so-called Old Gods of the Triangle into the Church along with their sickening taint.
Old Gods… Devils and demons, that’s all they were. It was blasphemous to name them anything other than True Demons.
The Church had worked hard to uncover these cults ever since after a scandal in the fifteenth century. Within a few decades, they succeeded in weeding them all out. It was not a point of pride but torture and punishment had drawn information on the True Demons from the heretics found by this Inquisition.
As a result of the Inquisition, there were several canonical books on the subject of how to fight True Demons, not in wide publication but ratified by the Vatican during centuries of combat against the Triangle.
So when the Dixie Problem had arisen and a Bishop had proved that the United States were facing True Demons, the Catholic Church hadn’t panicked. Copies of these canonised books had been distributed to every American clergymen and it was recommended that some Fathers in affected areas got special training.
Father Kilkenny had thankfully been one of them.
‘A Treatise on the Subject of True Demons’, ‘The Prayers and Holy Symbols that Protect the Soul’ and ‘Assorted Scrolls of Rome’ and the ability to use them were in his possession. Each one had contributed something to the defence of Crucifix. He had studied them intently during his training and had learned his lessons well. In a few more months, he’d know them as well as he knew the Bible.
Father Kilkenny took a deep breath, regained his composure, and went about ensuring that the chapel was protected by this holy knowledge:
Under each of his windows, he’d nailed a prayer written in Latin. Father Kilkenny’s Latin was appalling but he didn’t need to understand more than the basics; copied verbatim, the prayer protected the glass from demons. He checked that each was in tact and moved on;
