On the Third Day (11 page)

            Donovan climbed the stone steps slowly, turning now and then to catch a glimpse of the rocks and the beach below, and the blue sky over the water.  There was a low hanging fog, but he knew it would burn away before noon.  It was cool, and a breeze blew in from the ocean, but Father Prescott felt no chill.

            At the top of the stairs he tried the main doors, and found them unlocked.  He smiled.  It was what he’d expected.  Father Thomas wouldn’t bar the doors to anyone.  He doubted if they were ever locked.  The location was secluded enough to make burglars less likely, and if a member of the parish needed to commune with God in private, he could enter the Cathedral at any time.

            There were few lights on inside.  Warm, golden light rose from lamps built into elaborate sconces on the walls, and sunlight teased the side windows, not high enough yet to show on all sides of the church.  If there had been a window in the rear, it would have glowed, but instead a huge, bas-relief of the crucifixion hung there, far above the altar. 

            The Christ’s face was a mask of pain; its great, sad eyes were raised to the heavens.  Though that pain-wracked visage was aimed away from him, Father Prescott felt the weight of it as he stepped forward into the small cathedral.  The door swung silently shut behind him.

            Donovan dipped his fingers into the basin of Holy Water, crossed himself, and bowed his head.  He felt the weight of the Christ’s eyes on his shoulders, and he stood very still. 

            The silence was deep.  In the distance, Donovan heard a soft, rhythmic scrape.  He turned to his right and wound his way around the right side of the cathedral toward the rectory in back.  Shadows leaked off the walls and spilled across the floor.  He thought of the smaller church in the jungles of Peru.  Here the rows of candles stretched up one wall behind a small wooden barrier.  There were hundreds, maybe thousands of candles, and unlike those in the jungle, these were set on terraced shelves that stretched back toward the wall, not hidden away in an alcove.

            On impulse, he stepped to the rail, knelt, and bowed his head. He pictured the clearing, and the low, squat church cut into the edge of the forest.  He pictured the old wooden cross and the rows of eyes, staring at him and through him, searching for answers he’d been unable to provide.  He thought of Father Gonzalez.  Father Prescott prayed silently for them all, asking God to grant them answers and to give them peace. 

            Donovan rose, lifted one of the lit candles, and touched the flame to another.  He stared into the flickering light for a moment, searched the hot gold depths until the wax formed a pool, and the edge of that pool melted.  As the candle burned, he turned away and cleared his mind.

            It was a little brighter in the cathedral, and he realized he’d stood there longer than he intended.  The rhythmic scraping sound he’d heard earlier was nearer.  He scanned the shadows and made out the thin, stooped form of an old man.  The man had a broom and he very carefully ran the bristles along the edge of the wall, sweeping slowly and meticulously.  Donovan watched for a moment, then stepped forward and smiled.

            The old man glanced up, as if seeing Donovan for the first time.  In that glance, Donovan saw the man’s eyes lock onto the dark robes and the white collar.  Those eyes widened, and his mouth clamped tight.  Without a word, he returned to his sweeping as if he’d never seen Father Prescott at all.  Donovan stopped a few feet away.  His hand, which he’d been ready to offer, dropped back to his side.

            “Excuse me,” Father Prescott said, keeping his voice low.  He didn’t want to break the silence with anything too harsh.

            The old man didn’t meet his gaze, but did stop sweeping for the moment.  Donovan pressed on.

            “I’m trying to find Father Thomas,” he said.  “I know it’s early, but I’ve been told he’s an habitual early riser.  Can you tell me where to find him?”

            It seemed the old man would ignore him completely and continue sweeping.  Father Prescott stood patiently, waiting.

            “I’m Father Prescott,” he said.

            Finally, the old man glanced up.  “Harry Seymour, Father” he said.  “You’ll find Father Thomas in the rectory.  He won’t be out here until later in the day.”

            Father Prescott nodded and started to turn toward the rear of the church.  Then he stopped.

            “Thank you, Harry,” he said.

            Harry nodded sullenly.  “My pleasure,” he said.

            As Donovan started to walk away the man added, “Father.”

            Donovan hesitated, and then walked on.  He wasn’t sure what to make of the old caretaker, but there would be plenty of time to figure it out once he’d made his initial contact with Father Thomas.  That was why he’d come, of course.  It was up to him to take the first step, and to show that the attitude of the Bishop, and that of the Vatican were not necessarily one and the same.

            Father Prescott skirted the rail that fronted the altar and walked around the right side.  In back he saw a large, dark opening, and he headed straight for it.  A moment later he stepped into a long hallway stretching back into shadows.  At the far end he saw two squares of light.  One was so bright it was difficult to look straight at it. This was an outside window, probably the rear door of the Cathedral.   To the right of this, and almost invisible in the blinding flash of sunlight, another door stood open.  The pale, milky-white rectangle that was its window was framed in dark, stained oak.

            Father Prescott heard muffled voices.  He hesitated.  He didn’t want to interrupt Father Thomas if he was busy with one of the members of the parish.  Then he heard footsteps, and he stopped to wait.  Moments later a portly figure stepped through the open door at the end of the corridor and turned toward him.  The man stopped dead at the sight of Father Prescott, obviously flustered.  He fumbled with something in his hands, jammed hands and whatever they held into the pocket of a rumpled sport coat, and then stood, staring down the hallway in consternation.

            Father Prescott stepped forward.  He couldn’t make out details because of the glare, but as he approached he saw that the man he confronted was in his mid to late thirties, with beady, glaring eyes and a flushed face.  His skin had an unhealthy pallor, odd in the sunny climate.

            The man stared a moment longer, then lowered his head and plowed down the corridor, nearly knocking Donovan off his feet in the passing.  There were no words exchanged, and a moment later the man disappeared out into the cathedral.

            Father Prescott blinked his eyes, closed them, and waited for his pupils to return to normal and his sight to clear.  He shook his head, held his hand to his eyes like a visor, and turned toward the door once again.  There were no more sounds.  Donovan stopped and knocked on the heavy wood frame, glancing into the office beyond.

            This room had none of the splendor of Bishop Michaels’ office.  The desk was old and worn, but still polished and clean.  The shelves held books of all sizes and shapes, some with papers sticking out between their spines.  There was a small table with two chairs by a back window, and the carpet appeared to be at least as old as the desk, though still thick and soft to the tread.

            Father Thomas sat behind the desk, completely relaxed in an old, worn leather chair.  He had a book open on the desk in front of him and he looked up from his reading when Father Prescott entered.

            He smiled bleakly, and Donovan smiled in return. 

            “Good morning, Father Thomas,” he said, extending his hand.  “I hope I’m not interrupting anything important?”

            Father Thomas rose slowly and extended his hand.  He looked as if he’d had too little sleep.  There were dark pits beneath his eyes, and what had been small, insignificant wrinkles at the corners of his eyes were deeper and more pronounced.  His grip was strong, though, and his smile gained strength at the contact.

            “I’d like to say you caught me at a good moment, Father Prescott,” he said, “but most of my moments lately have been bad ones.  I’m afraid that I upset Bishop Michaels at our little meeting.  I can’t say I’m not more than a little upset myself.”

            Father Prescott nodded sympathetically.  “He has some strong beliefs.  I’m Donovan, by the way.  No need for formality, unless you prefer it?”

            “Quentin,” Father Thomas said quickly.  “My mother thought it was a ‘dashing’ name.  I think she was more than a little disappointed when I heard the call to the Priesthood rather than that of Hollywood.”

            Father Prescott gestured at one of the chairs across the desk from Father Thomas.  “May I?”

            “Of course,” Father Thomas replied.

            Father Prescott sat down and leaned back.  He craned his neck and stared up at the beams of the high ceiling for a moment in silence.  Finally he met Father Thomas’ gaze and spoke.

            “Bishop Michaels is a man of small imagination, Quentin.  It isn’t that he wishes you ill, he just wants you to be quiet.  He doesn’t want something so grand as a miracle to intrude on his life.  He wants nothing, in fact, to intrude upon his life at all.  There are many such men in the priesthood.”

            Father Thomas nodded thoughtfully.  “He isn’t the first I’ve met with that attitude.  How about you, Donovan?  How do you feel about miracles?”

            Donovan hesitated, and then answered.

            “I have been searching for a miracle all my life, Quentin.  It consumes me.  That is why I’m here -- why I perform the function that I do, rather than moving up in the Church.  I’ve been searching a very long time.”

            He hesitated, and then grinned.

            “Would it surprise you to know that if I had followed a normal path in the church, I would already be Bishop Michaels’ superior?”

            Father Thomas stared at him, incredulous.  He thought about the question for a while, and then shook his head.

            “I’d have to doubt whether you were serious,” he said at last.  “You certainly can’t be his age.”

            “If age were the only factor,” Donovan said, “you would be correct.  You know that it is not, though, if you think about it.  Bishop Michaels was called to the priesthood as a young adult.  I began my own training at age twelve.  I knew from the very first time that I responded to the litany that I would be called.  I never wanted anything else, and I have never regretted my choice.”

            Father Thomas stared hard at the older priest.  His depression had vanished, and bright curiosity burned in his eyes.

            “This function you serve in the church,” Father Thomas asked softly.  “What exactly is it?  What is more important to you than your own Diocese? “

            “You are not alone, Quentin,” Donovan replied.  “There are a thousand miracles reported to the Vatican every day – more on and near holidays.  Most of them are weeded out immediately, either patently ridiculous, mocking, or obviously untrue.  But there are others – enough to keep myself and half dozen others busy full time investigating and reporting back to Rome.”

            “Miracles?” Quentin asked.

            “Some.  Mostly, they are dreams -- dreams that good people have woven into a fabric a bit more palpable than faith and a bit too insubstantial for the Vatican.

            “A man will see the face of the Virgin on the side of his wall -- not just among knotholes that have always been there, but appearing suddenly -- and vividly.  His neighbors will come and the local priests will follow.  If enough of these people become convinced, it is the job of The Church -- my job -- to investigate and make a ruling.”

            Father Thomas nodded.  “I’ve heard of such things, of course.  Those in my parish have asked me about them, and I’ve seen articles on relics and miracles.   Tell me, Donovan,” he asked, “this Virgin appearing on the wall – have you seen it?”

            Father Prescott nodded. 

“I have.  It was a water spot, formed of mold and seepage where a drain had clogged and leaked.  This was the rainy season.  I arrived just before the summer kicked in.  Two days after I’d arrived, the sun had dried all but the most vague of images from the wood.  The villagers -- in particular the priest -- were upset, but I found no miracle there.”

Father Thomas sat back heavily and let his face drop into his hands.  He looked very tired at that moment, and very young.

“So, your job is to debunk.  You have been sent here to prove that what I have experienced, or what I believe I’ve experienced, is nothing more than some kind of stage trick, or fluke of nature.  Figure it out, classify it, and the Church can get back to business as usual.”

Father Prescott, suddenly angry, leaned forward and slammed his hands down onto the surface of Thomas’ desk.  The young priest started up and back, shocked, and Donovan leaned in close.

“I am here to find the truth, Quentin, whether you or the Bishop believe it.  I did not come here assuming you were trying to deceive me, nor did I come here assuming divine intervention.  I came here because my calling demands it.  It is a part of who I am – seeking the answers to questions of faith.  I told you that I’m searching for a miracle, and I meant what I said.”

Father Thomas, contrite, leaned forward and laid his hands across the older priest’s.

“I’m sorry, Donovan.  I truly am.  With all that has happened I’ve been under a lot of pressure.  It’s not an excuse, I know, but it’s all I have to offer.  The Bishop’s attitude hasn’t helped.  I’m over-wrought and very tired.

“Maybe if you told me about one of the miracles you haven’t lost faith in – one you aren’t certain has an earthly explanation, it would help.  I could use something to bolster my faith; I’m beginning to think the Bishop is right and that it’s all somehow created in my own mind.”

Father Prescott gathered his thoughts and nodded.  He leaned back in his chair and his eyes took on a far-away, thoughtful aspect.