On the Third Day (21 page)

            Hector made a quick gesture at the cameraman, half distracted, half annoyed, and then nodded to Bishop Michaels.  Without another word he turned, ignoring the two priests at the top of the steps, and entered the cathedral.  Shirley slipped from the crowd and entered at his heels.

            “I wish we had a way to search the guy,” Father Prescott muttered, stepping back a bit from Quentin, who breathed a sigh of relief.   “The guy probably has a camcorder in each pocket and a tape recorder in his shirt.”

            Father Prescott laughed softly.   The Bishop’s party reached the top step, and Quentin stepped forward.  For just a moment it seemed the Bishop’s guard would not part now, either, but reluctantly he was allowed to pass.  He stepped close and took Bishop Michaels by the arm.

            “Thank you, Excellency,” he said softly.  “I wasn’t sure what to do next.”

            “That was obvious,” Michaels replied.  He didn’t have the severe expression to back up his words, however.  He was almost grinning, obviously glad to have had the chance to one-up the cocky Clearwater.  “We haven’t heard the last of that man – be warned.”

            Father Thomas nodded, and bowed, letting the Bishop pass.  Once the ring of security guards had disappeared inside the Cathedral, the slow tide of his parish washed up the steps.  Quentin lost himself in the greetings, the smiles, familiar faces and bright eyes.  He shook hands, patted children on the head and laughed at the same, tired old jokes he’d laughed at for so many years, week after week.

            At the last, Gladys Multinerry made her way up the steps.  Her pace was slow and determined, as always, but this time – another miracle? – she wasn’t’ alone.  Her son, Norman, walked at her side.  The young man wore a dark suit, dark polished boots that almost approached respectability, and appeared to have even combed his hair.

When they reached Father Thomas’ side, he noted that there were dark patches under her Gladys’ eyes, and that Norman appeared not to be eating or sleeping well.  Norman nodded to Father Thomas, relinquished his mother’s arm, and slipped hurriedly past into the church without a word.  Father Thomas watched him go, and then turned back to Gladys. 

He wondered if he looked the same as they – there had been little sleep for any of them the past night.

            “Good morning, Gladys,” he said, holding out his arm and helping her up the final few steps.  “I hope you got a little sleep.  Was Norman worried when you got back so late?”

            “That one?” Gladys asked, glancing up sharply.  “If he was even aware I wasn’t in the house it had to do with something he wanted that I wasn’t there to provide.  I’ll not lose sleep over him, I promise you.”

            Father Thomas’ smile widened.  He believed her.

            “Still,” he said, “he came with you this morning.  And you…you’re looking ravishing, as always.  Is that a new dress?”

            He’d asked her the same question for years, but this time he was almost certain that it was.

            Gladys nodded.

            ”It’s a special day, Father.  I feel it.  I’ve felt it growing in me since last Easter, and I have never felt it more strongly than I do now.  This is the first dress I’ve bought for myself these last ten years, and I believe it may be the last.”

Father Thomas stared at her, then, without even checking to see who might be watching, he leaned in close and gave the huge old woman a tight hug. 

            “Thank you for everything,” he said softly.

            Blushing, Gladys pushed him away, unable to hide her own smile of almost girlish pleasure.

            “Go on with you now,” she said.  “Let an old lady get in out of the heat and find a seat.”

            Quentin held the door for her, and then stood alone on the top of the steps for a long moment.  He stared off over the ocean, clearing his mind of everything but the words, and the ritual, cleansing his thoughts.  Then he turned, stepped into the Cathedral, and drew the doors closed tightly behind him

            The sunlight beat on the wood of the door and glittered off the white walls, winking back at the sky.

~ Twenty-One ~

            In it’s day, the Cathedral of San Marcos had housed all of the faithful within traveling distance with ease.  The domed ceiling and ornate walls loomed over row upon row of pews, polished oak that gleamed and shimmered in the light of a hundred wall sconces.  The altar was raised above the level of the first rows of seats.  To the right of this, looking in from the main doors, there was a loft to the right and raised yet another level where the choir sat.  To the left, recessed and built in along the wall were three confessionals.

            Fronting all of this was a rail that ran in a semi-circle about the base of the altar.  There were carpeted steps leading down to this rail from the altar itself, and on the other side a velvet-lined platform ran the length of the rail.  Kneeling on this, the faithful could accept Holy Communion, or, when there was no mass being performed, pray.  Something about kneeling in the center of that vast room lent solemnity and power to such prayers.

            Father Prescott had marked off a seat near the front and center.  He didn’t want to miss anything.  If he sat too close, he’d have to crane his neck, and the altar behind and around Father Thomas would be lost to sight.  If he sat too far away from the altar, he could miss something – some trick, or danger.  He’d intended to sit and meditate, but his mind raced.  He wished he’d taken time to examine the altar itself.  A thousand questions he should have asked Father Thomas flitted through his mind, and he tried in vain to piece together the probable answers by drawing on questions that he
had
asked.

            Around the room, he noted others taking similar posts.  Bishop Michaels didn’t climb up to the balcony this year.  There were several cordoned off seating areas to the sides of the main pews.  Within these were upholstered seats intended for visiting pontiffs.  Michaels had taken such a position of honor, and those in his entourage lined the aisle on that side of the cathedral, first and second seats in four rows of pews.  Father Prescott took in the men’s dark suits, dark glasses that weren’t removed, even in the church, and wondered how many of them had walked into God’s house “packing”.  Despite his aloof manner on the stairs outside, the Bishop wasn’t making a very positive impression, and Donovan saw many of the parishioners turn frowns and glares in Michael’s direction.

            Then there was Clearwater.  The man projected an aura of energy that followed him, even into the house of God.  He sat with only a single assistant, not too much further back than Donovan himself, and almost dead center.  The man had leaned over to discuss something with the woman at his side, a short, blonde woman with very close-cropped hair and a severe expression, and Father Prescott got the distinct impression that the two of them were manipulating something between them.  A camera?  Some sort of recorder?  Donovan recalled the reporter’s insistence on asking about the film from the previous year, and he frowned.  He wanted to rise and check it out more thoroughly, but at that moment the choir broke into song and launched into their introductory hymn.

            The room rustled.  He couldn’t think of a better way to describe it.  Linens and lace, cotton and polyester brushed against one another, and against pews.  Hymnals that had been removed from their racks for perusal slid back into place.  Feet shuffled, and throats cleared, all in a single burst of sound.  The first verse and chorus of the hymn were lost in it, and then it died away, leaving behind the harmonies of the choir dance off the walls and ceiling.

            Father Thomas was not yet in sight.  Donovan knew the younger priest was standing out of sight, possibly still in the entrance to the hall leading back to the rectory.  He would allow the first hymn to run its course, then make his way slowly up from behind. 

            It was easy to get lost in the power of it all, and Donovan had to shake his head to clear it as he waited.  He would, he knew, have plenty of chances to celebrate The Mass, but this Sunday was not his alone.  It belonged to those he served, The Vatican, the Bishop, and even to Father Thomas himself.  He had a responsibility to remain clear-headed and objective.  Above all, he couldn’t afford to be distracted.  That would do none of them any good.

            The acoustics of the cathedral were amazing.  The Spanish roots of the architecture brought forth some of the magic of the great cathedrals of Madrid and Seville.  Father Prescott had attended Mass in both cities, as well as in Rome, and yet he couldn’t recall a time when he’d felt the wonder of this day more fully.  Energy crackled in the air, a sense of impending…revelation.  It wasn’t just himself, he knew.  Those around him leaned forward in their seats.  After the initial scramble for comfort faded, there was little or no sound except that of the choir.  If someone coughed, the sound rose and echoed, lost without company in a room heavy with anticipation and emotion.

            Father Thomas waited until the final chorus began, and then started forward.  He climbed the steps behind the altar and came into view, and if anything the silence deepened.  Father Prescott let out a breath he’d not been aware of holding, and heard the soft sigh of a room filled with others sharing that same sensation.  They were in tune with one another, and with the choir, and they were focused on the young, handsome priest who stepped to the front and stood before them.

            Every gaze was locked on Father Thomas’ hand as he signed the cross.  He moved slowly and deliberately, focusing on each action and very aware of the extra attention he was receiving this day.  If it rattled him, he didn’t let it show.  The congregation fell silent, and he spoke.

“Welcome to this the celebration of our Holy Mass on the anniversary of the greatest event in the history of the world.  This is the day when we, as men and women, feel our imperfections bearing down upon us, the weight of our many sins and the blessing of our faith most intensely.

“It’s a time to reflect on those things we have done that we regret, and those things we have not done that await our attention.  For every event in life, there is a beginning, and an ending.  For those of us with faith in our savior, Jesus Christ, there can be a new beginning – a new life – after the old has been washed away.  Come.  Celebrate with me.”

The crowd rustled again, moving as a single entity, sharing each breath and heartbeat.  The first of the litany belonged to the Parish, and they began to speak.  Their voices were low at first.  None wanted to be the first to raise himself above the others, or to be singled out.  The volume rose slowly, almost imperceptibly, until they were all joined in a single, resonant voice.

     “I confess to Almighty God,

      And to you here present,

      That I have sinned through my own fault,

      "Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa"

      In my thoughts and in my words,

      In what I have done and in what I have failed to do.

      And I ask Blessed Mary, ever Virgin,

      All the Angels and Saints,

      And you here present

      To pray for me to the Lord, our God.”

            Their voices blended perfectly.  Their tone was expectant and beseeching all at once.  Father Prescott mouthed the words silently, but he didn’t speak.  He was here, and he would experience whatever was to come, but his intent was to distance himself.  No matter how powerfully the Mass projected this day, he could not fall prey to its influence if he was to be an impartial judge.  He felt a pang, the pain of self-denial, but he pushed it aside with inner contempt.  He was not present for himself.

            Donovan gazed up at Father Thomas.  The younger man met his gaze, and yet, at the same time seemed to look directly into the soul of each and every person present.  It was a very intimate gaze, like an assessment, or judgment.  Donovan swallowed hard, but didn’t look away. 

            A few moments later he noticed that the air in the cathedral had taken on a shimmering, hazy aspect.  He heard the echo of the words being spoken about him, the litany and the response with its old, powerful rhythms, but he couldn’t really make out the words.  He knew them, and he felt them, but he didn’t really
hear
them.

            Father Prescott shook his head sharply.  Something buzzed in the back of his brain, but he ignored it.  He tore his gaze from that of Father Thomas and turned to his right.  He stared down the row of worshippers intently.  They did not turn to meet his gaze, not even the closest of them, a young man in a polo shirt and dress pants.  Their attention remained fixed on the altar, and on Father Thomas.  They met his gaze in some strange, universal manner that was all encompassing, and very personal at the same time.  Their lips moved, and Donovan knew they spoke the words of the litany, but it blended together in a strange roar, rising and falling with his heartbeat.  He’d felt the same sensation once after a long flight with his ears partially blocked from the pressure change, opening and closing as he chewed gum and letting in static-like bursts of sound.

            He spun the other way, but the motion was slow and surreal.  He saw the faces of those around him, the colors of their clothes, but all of it trailed behind his focus, leaving stripes in the air that strobed and shifted colors.  He gripped the back of the pew in front of him and turned back to the altar.  He sought Father Thomas’ gaze and found that the younger priest stared straight at him – or through him.  Before he could call out, or make any sort of sign that something felt wrong, Father Thomas began to speak.  Donovan mouthed the words along with the other priest, dragged from word to word and syllable-to-syllable by some unshakeable presence.

            “It is written, in the Book of Psalms, Chapter 22: ‘A good name is to be chosen rather than great riches, and a favor is better than silver or gold.  The rich and the poor meet together; the Lord is the maker of them all.  A prudent man sees danger, and hides himself; but the simple go on and suffer for it.  The reward for humility and fear of the Lord is riches and honor and life.  Thorns and snares are in the way of the perverse; he who guards himself will keep far from them.”