The Engulfed Cathedral

I hover at twenty meters, here in the warm, sun-rippled depths. Puffs of silvered bubbles rise about me in a ragged column. Their sound is calming, synchronized with my outbreath, while my heart plays a faster rhythm in my ears.

For thirty years, I’ve found my peace, my refuge, down here in the sun-stabbed depths, where curtains of pencil-thin beams form, morph, disappear, layer upon layer, until they vanish in the distance.

A cardinal rule of diving is – never dive alone – but what does it matter, with sixth months to live? I’m here for one last immersion, one final baptism by the sea before disease steals away this most sublime of all experiences.

I muse on the myths of old – generations of sailors who conjured darkness from the deep. Legends of mermaids and mermen, who drag their victims down to underwater kingdoms. Tales of tentacled monsters that drown whole ships beneath the waves. That isn’t the sea I know, that I adore. How could someone fear this place, this perfect peace? A fantastical world where creatures live in three dimensions, not two.

From the silence, a muffled, resonant bong of metal on metal reverberates in my ears. The sound startles me, breaks my meditative trance. It continues on, echoing from hills and rills a hundred feet below. This was no whale’s song, no clang of a buoy’s bell. Then it repeats, and this time sparks a curiosity so keen, so intense, I’ve no choice but to descend further. And find the source.

My air supply gauge reads yellow. I’ve got ten minutes left.

Down, down I descend, as the bong repeats, again and again, growing louder. Thirty meters. Forty. The pressure is palpable. My ears hurt, air feels thick in my lungs. The mask presses deep into my face.

Something looms further down. All I see clearly is a cross of stone, scabbed with barnacles, waving with lush, faintly luminous mosses. Just ten more feet. The next bong makes my jaws and teeth chatter, buzz with energy.

Jarred from the present, I’m back in Doctor Matheson’s office, seated before his large, mahogany desk. He’s the best oncologist in Florida, but his grim face sinks my heart. On his computer monitor – the latest PET scan results. Luminous spots appear in my liver, a large patch on my left lung, my stomach.

“I’m sorry, but this latest bout of chemo didn’t stop the spread. The glowing regions are metastases. At this point, I’ve tried everything.”

Behind him stands a wall of medical text books. Despite their collective knowledge, I’ll get no miracle cure.

Reality compresses around me, until it’s just me, alone in the dark. I think of calling Susan, but that wouldn’t be fair, after how I behaved during our marriage. The drinking, my remoteness, all for the sake of my legal career and ever more money. No, I have to do this on my own. Make peace with myself. And with God.

I jerk back to the present, from the bubbles tickling my face.

From the blue-green depths, a church emerges from the gloom. My hands brush across the mossy stone of the cross. Then my blood runs cold. This cross is inverted. Below that, a barnacle-crusted steeple roof, then a yawning opening in the tower, with a huge, crusted bell barely visible inside. The bell has fallen silent, and small, colorful fish dart around and past it. Several of them brush my cheek as they flee my bubbles.

How could a stone church exist down here? How many times I’ve studied the sea floor maps. Two small wrecks lie a few klicks off, but I’ve seen no mention of such an intricate structure. Five arched windows, devoid of glass, line the nave. A faint yellow glow emanates from each, as fish swim languidly in and out.

Down another few feet, I hover just outside a window. Inside – the impossible. Candles burn in four, enormous, multi-tiered candelabra. Countless more glow in immense, overhanging chandeliers. This makes no sense, further feeding my curiosity. The church pews are adorned with various seaweeds. Each pew ends with another inverted cross, carved of wood.

People sit motionless in their pews – perhaps two dozen men, women, children, scattered about the church. I pull myself through the window and swim up and over the scattered congregation. There’s warmth from a candle chandelier as I swim just underneath.

The congregants face forward. Their clothing waves with seaweed, their faces and hands blue-green like the water. From my vantage, their eyes appear closed. Are they dead? In some state of prayer?

I descend to the church floor, float, neutrally buoyant, in the center aisle beside a pew. I stop breathing, just to listen.

Silence…

I sweep my gaze about, and then my horror. All of them stare directly at me. Their eyes are open – showing featureless, white orbs, devoid of life.

Up front, beyond the sanctuary rail, stands a priest. He wears a helmet horned with huge conchs, inverted crosses glowing gold on his cassock. He holds up a large knife, its blade a foot long, its exterior a dull, tarnished silver. He steps across the sanctuary tiles, their surfaces covered, in patches, with sand. As he approaches the rail, he points at me, his own eyes burning with a light that drains my energy, fills me with dread.

My oxygen gauge goes red. I kick my fins to ascend and flee, but someone from behind is suddenly upon me, on my tank, and I twist violently to escape their grasp. More and more approach, from all sides. I twist free of the hands behind me, but three more men reach out, grab onto my arms, my legs.

More and more swarm in, their faces expressionless, their eyes that vacant, featureless white. They carry me forward, like some helpless, sacrificial lamb, down the aisle. My struggles are futile, and now I float before this unholy priest. He smiles a sickle grin, his eyes luminous with malevolence, and reaches out the knife’s blade. Its sharp edge begins sawing at my oxygen line, and I scream, the regulator coming free of my mouth, spewing bubbles as my oxygen supply dwindles toward zero.

I see the oxygen line, cut in two, as the priest lowers the blade. Air – I need air! But my head spins with vertigo. Fear grips me, and the whole scene twists, swims in my vision. It happens quickly – that stab of mortal terror. Then darkness closes around me. And nothing…

—

I open my eyes. Candle flames glow before and above me. I sit on a wood pew in church. The world around me make sense, and I question nothing. This is the way of things – the way things should be.

Then an immense pipe organ roars to life – its deeper notes shaking my ribs, the pew, and everyone around me.

We all stand, while some unseen organist plays a mournful dirge. Fish flee the church, as the bass notes drop, octave by octave, until my body warms, then fades into a welcome numbness. This dirge is for me, I know – or who I was before I came here.

There is no question of escape. I am here now, to serve this church, this priest, and the underwater spirit that inhabits him. Older than imagining, here in a place that must be concealed, kept secret, lest anyone spoil our peace and challenge the priest’s supremacy. We must preserve our reality with all our will and strength.

For now, however, as the organ falls silent, I sit and close my eyes. I am home…