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and interrupted purpose—my hidden host had killed one of
his own.
The crucifixions looked like giant crumbling flowers
emerging from the lightless earthen floor, and the dusky
basement seemed the perfect greenhouse to foster them.
The slain hunter—its darkest flower by far—loomed above
me, a cutting stare for thorns, bearing a heady fragrance of
withered rage and broken purpose. As its shadow fell across
me, I could feel the void of its dream, still and sterile.
The garden was pruned and pampered, carefully arranged
and maintained with the diligence of a doting mother. I
wondered what manner of thing should want me to destroy
such an artist. The moment contained a hint of whispered
purpose, suggesting perhaps that the beauty of the man’s
work required my intervention, to allow it to spread and take
root.
Books and journals lay scattered across a nearby table. A
slave to my overdeveloped curiosity, I began to read from
them, remorseful for my rudeness. The books were all so very
pious, bordering on pretentious. His journals, however, were
not difficult to tolerate. They were the reflections of a man
who lived inside a cold obligation, a mechanical penance that
unfolded with small emphasis upon its material effects. The
reward for his labors was intangible and withheld, merely
the hope of reward. His deathly garden was not an end, but
a pleasantly necessary side effect of his means. He was an
unconscious artist—perhaps the most powerful kind—one
who forgets themselves entirely within their work.
I didn’t need to read the journals long to realize the
identity of the man I hunted. He was known as The Crucifier.
It was a much less subtle title than my own, and I’m fairly
certain it missed the point of his undertaking entirely—as
much as my own moniker missed the point of my work,
subtlety or no. According to one of his journals, he saw
himself as the reincarnated fifth prefect of Judea—Pontius
Pilate. He professed nothing less than the destruction of all
28 | Mark Anzalone