Stephen Baxter - Transcendent

“The word exorcise actually comes from a Greek root meaning to swear. You bind the demon to a higher authority — Christ — so that you can control it, and command it against its will.”

Sonia asked, curious, “And is that what’s written down in your little books?”

Rosa held up one battered-looking volume. “This is the Rituale Romanum, a priest’s manual of services. This contains the formal exorcism rite sanctioned by the Church. Dates back to 1614. I don’t think we have to be too formal today, however.”

John was mocking. “What, no bell, book, and candle? I’m disappointed.”

“But I am wearing the required uniform,” she said, smiling. “And I took confession before coming here. I’m absolved of my sins; there’s nothing a demon could use against me during the ritual.”

“Quackery,” John said again. “After all, what was ‘demonic possession’ but the symptom of some illness — hysteria, multiple personality, schizophrenia, paranoia, some other neuroses — even just a chemical imbalance in the brain? I wonder how many hundreds, thousands of mentally ill people had to endure the cruelty of rites like this?”

Rosa said, “Maybe a little humility is in order. There may come a time when diagnoses of ‘hysteria’ and ‘schizophrenia’ will seem just as foolish, ignorant, and superstition-laden as talk of demons. Besides,

John, belief isn’t necessary for your participation. A funeral doesn’t change the fact of death, but you wouldn’t refuse to attend one, would you? And having attended you would feel better, for through our rituals we feel we have some control over such an extraordinary and powerful part of our lives, even death. This rite is merely a way of managing the ineffable.”

“So is that what you’re trying to do today? Make us all feel better?”

Rosa replied, “No. This isn’t just cosmetic. What we have here is a ritual of proven power. And it’s the only way I can think of to break through the barriers inside Morag — to communicate with whatever she truly is, or whoever sent her here. If nothing else this will surely make it clear that we want this state of affairs to change: maybe just the fact of our desire will get through, our sincerity.”

“Get through to where? ” John demanded.

“I don’t know,” Rosa snapped. “If I did, perhaps we wouldn’t need to do this. But if you have a better idea I’ll gladly hear it.”

He had no reply, but I felt he was covering a deeper fear. As he sat there, arms folded, face knotted into a scowl, I felt a surge of helpless, protective love for him; after all he was my brother.

Morag’s face was expressionless. She said now, “ I sure don’t have any better ideas. Maybe if we push at the door, we may find there’s somebody pulling from the other side as well. Let’s do it.” Her voice was clear, calm, strong.

We all stared at her.

Rosa said, “Fine. Michael, do you have the props?”

I had a small bag under my seat; now I brought it out and opened it. “Props? Is that the right word?”

“Just hand them over,” Rosa said, sounding grumpy herself.

I produced a small bag of salt, which I set on the floor to one side of Morag’s chair. There was a vial of wine, bloodred, which I put down on the other side.

Tom asked, “So what’s with the salt and the wine?”

“Salt represents purity,” I told him. “The wine the blood of Christ.”

John said, “Shame we haven’t a few relics to hand. A bit of the True Cross. A saint’s toe-bone.” He laughed, but it was hollow, and nobody laughed with him.

“Wow,” Sonia said. I thought it was the first time she had spoken. “I haven’t felt this way since I messed with a Ouija board when I was twelve.” She sounded as if this were fun, like a haunted-house theme park ride. She held up her arm. “The hairs on my flesh are standing up. Look, Tom—”

He hushed her. But I envied her lack of imagination.

I reached into the bag again, and drew out a crucifix. It was a small silver pendant, in fact a legacy from my grandfather Poole, a Manchester Catholic, who died when I was ten. It was only the size of a quarter, with a little Christ like a toy soldier. But it was an extraordinary moment when I held up the crucifix before Morag, and I was aware of everybody staring at the little medallion, the way it caught the light.

I passed the crucifix to Morag and leaned over her. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I can’t believe I’m putting you through this.”

She took the pendant and smiled. Her face was only centimeters from mine, and I could smell the sweetness of her breath. “Everything is going to be fine. You’ll see.”

I pulled away and sat down.

Rosa turned to her book. “Let’s begin.” She began to read, rapidly, in a low voice.

John listened for a minute. “Is that Latin?”

“Prayers,” I said. “The Lord’s Prayer. The fifty-fourth Psalm. Latin is thought to be more effective.”

John threw his hands in the air. “Who am I to argue?”

We all sat in our horseshoe. Rosa’s quiet voice murmured on, the only noise in the room. Even Gea was silent. Morag just sat, her gaze downcast, her hands folded in her lap, the crucifix glinting between her fingers. She seemed calm, so still I couldn’t even see the rise and fall of her breathing. It struck me that it must have been many years since I was in an environment so empty, so denuded of electronic gadgetry, the rich and colorful texture of modern life. Here was this room with nothing but a row of chairs, a handful of people, a woman in black muttering prayers in a language none of us could understand. But it was extraordinary how the tension built.

And suddenly Rosa stood up. We all flinched.

Rosa pointed at Morag. “Who are you? Abandon your pretense. Tell me your true name. Who are you? ”

Morag gazed up at Rosa. Then she rubbed the little crucifix and smiled at me. She didn’t seem at all afraid. She mouthed, I’m sorry.

I was too shocked to react.

And then Morag began to change.

Her body seemed to shrivel inside her clothes, the skin of her face to crumple. Some kind of fur was gathering on her skin, long, pale brown hairs, not sprouting but coalescing in place over her face and arms, like a morphing VR. She continued to implode inside her clothes, so her dress was collapsing like a tent with its ropes cut. But soon her arms were protruding out of her sleeves, as if they were growing longer. With an impatient spasm she kicked off her shoes, revealing feet with long toes, as long as a child’s fingers.

All this took just seconds.

She stood up. She had become so slim that her blue dress fell away around her. Wisps of underwear, a bra and pants, still clung to her, but she pulled them away, handling them curiously. Naked, she was only about a meter and a half tall. Her body was coated with the orange-red fur. She was slim, but she had breasts with hard, prominent nipples. Her arms were long, about as long as her legs. Her all-but-human face, with a long nose and prominent chin, was coated with that soft fur. Her skull seemed small, and was covered with that smooth, shining fur. I wondered what had become of Morag’s beautiful hair.

Her eyes were human — pale gray, soft. She smiled at me, showing a row of perfectly white teeth. She held up her arm, with muscles like knotted rope beneath the fur. She was still holding the crucifix.

I risked a glance at the others. They sat in their chairs, staring. Tom was grasping Sonia’s hand so hard his knuckles were white. The Gea robot just watched, its plastic eyes bright.

Rosa was smiling.

John said, “What — the fuck — is that? Some kind of ape?”