I am going to write a story.

My heroes are they, pasted on the wallAs you read on the characters will fall from the wall onto my pages like dead leaves, to fertilize my tale. Jean Genet, Notre Dame des Fleurs

It happened again around midnight; the coming of the dream that snaked its way between the sheets night after night. He was there, sitting on a piece of crimson granite, dressed in black. Candles were burning. There was a red fire crackling softly in the corner of the forgotten cave. Thats where he lived after it all ended, hiding from Him just behind the waterfall. The scene was decorated with oversized tropical flowers spilling over the rocky entrance, a soft spray hitting the rocks behind the silvery curtain of water. I walked in uninvited, as always. He was happy to see me, as always. The woman at his side reminded me of a picture in our family Bible of a raven-haired beauty portrayed as sinner and temptress. Never understanding why the dark woman was sinful while the fair was saved, I stared at that picture as if mesmerized, just as I stared at her walking across the frayed carpet to give me a warm cookie and the usual doting caress to the left cheek. I was only three years old, you see, and I expected it. After a lingering smile, she slipped away, saying over her shoulder with a wink, Ill leave the two of you alone. You have a lot to talk about. Thats the way the dream began, every night at first, then slowing to a few times a week, a few times a month, a few times a year, until he left me to grow up on my own. Before waking, however, he habitually charged me with a task. Tell the world about me, he pleaded. But please dont tell Him I got away. Dont tell Him Im here. Hes a tyrant, you know. Hed throw me out again, and the game would start anew. Tell everyone the truth: Im on your side. Ive always been on your side, he trailed off sadly as I nodded in assent, chocolate crumbs around my lips, my eyes wide as I looked up at him, awed by his sincerity as well as his ethereal beauty. I promise, big brother. Ill tell them the truth. Then I took another bite of cookie. It was always the same. Smiling, I waved goodbye and walked away, scrambling over the slippery rocks and skipping carelessly through verdant fields. It was then that I woke up, bleary-eyed and confused, a grey cat curled at my side. It was always the same, night after night. I wondered, what does he mean? I knew who he was, of that there was no question. He was the Fallen One, only he hadnt fallen quite so far as weve been toldand that is precisely the problem, what weve been told. Our version of the story is only one-sided, and weve foolishly based our lives on it. But there are two sides to this tale, two sides to Him. Daemon Est Deus Inversus, or so they say. Thirty years have passed since the coming and going of the dream, and yet it never really ended. He never left me. Subtly, he was there. Every time I was scolded for asking too many questions, every time I read a book they didnt want me to read, every time I scribbled down an unorthodox thought, every time I filed away this or that piece of

knowledge, the things forbidden by Him. Yes, somehow, he was there, smiling and proud as ever. He may be here now, as I sit on a beach somewhere near old Savannah, sifting through silvery sands, trying to make sense of it all. Tell them the truth, he always said. What does that mean? Is there such a thing? No, of course not; but I was very young at the time and everything was true or false, right or wrong. For some reason, he needed to take that certainty away from me, and he did so with a dream that turned bad to good and good to bad. That confusion drove me, book after book and class after class. I had to know it all, only to find that I knew nothing. But thats wisdom, isnt it? Or is it delusion? That's what they tell me now, as I awake from a dream within a dream, tied to a long narrow bed in a sterile white room. I am still in the asylum, drugged and forced through its cold metal doors over a year ago. Why? My ideas scared them, shocked their sensibilities, and so a madness was manufactured for their convenience and I was deliberately lost in the system. Nonetheless, the dream was real and Id made a promise. I had to relate his story somehow, though I wasnt sure how to tell his heartbreaking tale. Still, the muse would come and I'd scratch the tell-tale words on the very walls if need be. I'd already been told that no myth or fable from my tormented imagination could encompass it all. No, it had to be real, collectively remembered, and painful to admit. For this, I had to find a starting point, a platform on which he could speak, perhaps a place and time somewhere in our past where He had gone horribly awry. I remembered so many. ************* Like a tyrant gorged on meat and wine, He sleeps ~ the sound of our blasphemies sweet in his ears. Charles Baudelaire, Les Fleurs du Mal No! she bellowed, her voice full of fear. Dont touch me with that thing! She alternated between frantic screams and a low guttural murmur, all of it incomprehensible to the local nobles whod come to see the show. Her name was Mre Jeanne des Anges, actress beyond compare, the star of a drama that took to the stage in Loudun, France, September of 1632. Extremely popular, the show ran non-stop for more than two full years, even beyond the untimely death of the antagonist. But thats the way it had to be; it was all a part of their finely orchestrated tale. He had to go out in a blaze of glory, as they sayand blaze he did. But back to our production. Pre Mignon hovered over the tiny nuns arching body, waving a garish crucifix in her contorted face. Why cant I touch you, demon, are you afraid of Him?

He laid the crucifix on her chest and held the tiny silver corpse firmly in place as she arched her back again, trying desperately to get away; but she was tied down. He turned triumphantly to the small crowd behind him, See how the demons writhe in His presence? They fear Him! Our Lord and Savior will be their doom! In a near frenzied excitement, he turned back to Jeanne, who was by now heaving and convulsingbecause thats what they told her to do. Mignon struck her several times in the stomach with the heavy cross, yelling with each blow, Exorciso te, creatura mali! She was crying now. Why did he have to hit her so hard? This continued for close to an hour. She blasphemed the saints, attacked the absurd notion of the trinity, cursed the Virgin whose ideals no woman could reach. They told her to say those awful things, and they must surely have a reason, right? There must be a reason she could say whatever she pleased about Him and His church. In fact, the more blasphemous the better. After all, her obscenities confirmed their slipping beliefs and confirmation was exactly what they needed with so many sheep leaving the fold, the Huguenots snatching those that didnt wander too far astray. And so, it came to this, a showdown with the Devil, something to prove their necessity, their opponents impotence in the face of genuine evil. Loudun needed her Catholics, as did the rest of France. Without the church, His Church, the world would be overrun with fiends, nevermind that it seemed to be only cloistered nuns who became possessed, and then only when they were told to act so by their superiors. Nevermind that these superiors so often took advantage, in every conceivable way, of these afflicted women. Nevermind that theyd caused the affliction in the first place, convincing, by any means necessary, a handful of young women that a den of infernal demons had colonized just beneath their very flesh and bone. If thats what really happened. We will find the sorcerer responsible for this outrage. For our faith! For our church! This we must do. Pointing a crooked finger at Louduns upper crust, he ended the sessions this way in the beginning, until they found their scapegoat. Once he was in custody, the final lines were changed. They went something like this, Mre Jeanne, we will rid you of your torments. The priest will soon answer to the courts for his crimes, and then he will answer to God who, in His wisdom, will not be so merciful. On our stage, in the back of the convents small chapel, the exorcism was over, for a blessed short while. The demons had been ordered to leave, and inexplicably, theyd obeyed. But they would be back, on command, whenever the Good Fathers needed to put on a show. Her trespassers silenced for a time, Jeanne was carried back into the parlor, the first room inside the convents stark, white-washed walls. She was disoriented, but slowly regaining awareness. Mignon stood in the doorway, speaking to Louis Trincant, his uncle and a prominent Loudunais citizen, mumbling under his breath that this was the only way. You are right, Monsieur, this is the solution weve both been looking for. Through the demons, I can demonstrate to all of them that they need hold fast their Catholicism, lest the enemy catch them off guard and creep uninvited into their very souls! The Hugeonots have no power over the Devil, of course, as he himself will tell them through these possessed women. And you, mon oncle, can finally rid yourself of Pre Grandier. What he did to Phillipa is inexcusable, and he must burn for his sins. To think, a priest seducing a young girl like that! The Ursulines will help you find justice for

your daughter. This is the only way to rid Loudon of this deceiver and to prove our faith the stronger. Trincant agreed. Yes, the possessions were the only way to bolster a waning faith and to rid Loudun of an unwanted and innovative priest, a man who had the gall to harbor Huguenot sympathies, a free-thinker who had clearly bewitched the wealthy Monsieur Trincants virginal daughter, leaving poor Phillipa pregnant and unmarried. But this little girl would not be tucked away behind convent walls, not in Loudun. And what was happening inside those presumably impregnable barriers? Here, a similarly bewitched Mre Jeanne was recovering from the performance, hoping it didnt follow her into her once private room. Lying down on a long, narrow couch in the parlor, she could see them hovering, more of Louduns curious nobles. Mignon came back in. She pushed herself up into a sitting position, thought about walking to her cell, and then thought better of it. She often lost her senses in there. Yes, at this point it was all a blur, the public exorcisms, the private visits. For reasons she didnt understand (he told her she didnt need to understand), she could never quite remember what happened when Mignon helped her fight the demons, helped her find the God shed so brazenly lost. She hurt all over, felt strange inside. Sometimes she bled when it wasnt time to bleed; they told her it was the work of the demons. Maybe, thought Jeanne, or maybe its the pills and the potions. And so, for fear of further so-called treatment, she stayed in the parlor. She knew her anxiety was unfounded, he only came to her room after dark, and he swore it was an accident the first time. It was a night like any other, except Jeanne was a bit noisier than usual. Shed found a better use for some of the kitchen implements, you see, and thinking about Grandier made her moan louder than she should have. Mignon was making the rounds when he heard her. He opened the door to find her naked, legs splayed wide, her imagination getting the better of her. Poor Mignon, overburdened by an unnatural asceticism, reacted without thinking. He grabbed her busy hands and hauled her to her feet, slapping her soundly while yelling about shame and incontinence. Touching her naked arms; maybe thats what reminded him that he was a man of flesh as much as he was a man of spirit. He forcefully kissed Jeanne but she fought back, arguing that she could not give to him what was no longer hers to give, what shed consecrated to her holy spouse. You offered it to Grandier, whore! he hissed, arguing that any priest would do, screaming her that it no longer mattered as shed broken the seal herself, explaining hurriedly that sex with a man of God was no sin. No, any act with a holy man was holy! Nonetheless, she struggled and called for help, but he was too strong. He was inside before her back hit the mattress. It was over quickly, but Mignon continued to urge her on to a clear conscience, as well as a shut mouth. Gods representatives, His priests, must reunite the willful female with the Divine; for the Divine Himself resides within the priest. Do you understand, ma Souer, why I must do this for you? And he did it more than once; so often now she couldnt remember how many times. She did remember that ecstatic feeling, lasting ever-sobriefly, that sometimes came with their union. For that, she reasoned, the priest must be telling the truth. That feeling had to be God moving inside her. Yes, Jeanne argued with herself, it had to be this way. Although she knew he was only justifying their sin, knew he was just a man, she pretended he was the divine

incarnate. God or not, she never called him by name. After all, if she said his name while he was fucking her, could she say it in the confessional? No. Instead, she pretended he was there in Christs place, because she shamefully (shamelessly?) came to enjoy his nocturnal visits, and the shame made her hate it; and for that, she hated herself. She knew he was using her, and she hated it because she didnt hate it. Oh, no. The good Sister reveled in it. All of it. The feeling of having someone inside her, the knowledge that it wasnt a sin as shed been raised to believe. Oh, no, not a sin at all, not the way it was done in the convent. In fact, she was a perpetual virgin; sex with the God-priest had healed her self-inflicted wound and had left her perennially intact, like the Holy Mother herself. How can this be, Father? I dont understand. Arent we committing a grave sin? she asked him. The Good Father told her only what she needed to hear to ease her nagging conscience, as well as his own, leaving out all information concerning Grandier and the plans he and Trincant had for the wayward priest. No, Jeanne need never know that she and her enamored Sisters had sealed Grandiers fate with their reckless afterhours sighing. It was their fault, Mignon reasoned, their lust that had revealed to him the bewitchment. If they hadnt been so easily aroused, he thought, the priests spell would not have worked, and he would never have discovered their feelings for the outsider, never would have been inflamed with jealousy. They were his nuns! Grandier had firmly refused the position as Ursuline confessor and hed caused Mignon and several other priests a lot of trouble. They had to get rid of him, one way or another. Still, while Jeanne held Mignon with her body, she held Grandier with her heart and soul. It was clearly a case of witchcraft, to embrace one while loving another. Whatever it was, it seemed the perfect opportunity to feign a heinous but believable crime. Mignon often wondered if he might be bewitched himself, forced into fornication by a rival priest hell-bent on undermining his salvation. That, and only that, could explain his sudden and insatiable lust for what lie just beneath the Good Sisters robes. Just the same, he had to keep her quiet about their affair. Gently stroking her loosened hair, he explained, You see, Jeanne, a priest, a good priest, is His chosen representative on earth. As his corporeal representative, I must consummate His marriage to you. As an extension of Christ, it is my duty. As such, the union of our bodies is divinely sanctioned and even expected. You are, after all, the bride of Christ. You are entitled to His love, in every way. And yet none of the many ways shed experienced His love had compromised the badge of purity shed recovered since experiencing His love in the flesh. Verbum caro factum est, and she liked it that way, enjoyed feeling Him move inside her. For that, for the pleasure it brought, she was ashamed.