On the Third Day (28 page)

            He glanced down, but it was not blood, only water.  The image was clear, outlined against the knots and grain of the wood clearly, drawn in the dark water dripping from above.  The whispered voices were still with him, not Father Fernando’s villagers now, but others – or all of them at once, all the voices of those who had watched him and whispered and waited for his pronouncements and judgments.  All of those who had come to him, weak and weary with a world that offered no magic – no ultimate power beyond the pain of day-to-day existence.  All of those he’d been sent to “protect” from such false hope.

            The tears blurred his sight.  He leaned forward, hands out to brace himself on the wood, intending only to lay his cheek wearily on the moist wood.  His arms passed through where that surface should have been, but his cheek found the wood.  He brought his arms together in an embrace, clutched the thick wooden beam and, reluctantly, turned his face up. 

            The cross was impossibly tall.  The form dangling above him was pale and insects buzzed through the air, throwing the sound of their own voices into the whispered frenzy at Father Prescott’s back.  He did not know who might be with him, behind him, or inside him, and he did not care.  There was a drop of moisture from above.  It splattered on his forearm, and he looked down quickly.

            No rainwater this time.  The blood was thick, dark red.  It was not the bright red blood of life, but that of death.  Donovan staggered back and stared upward in horror. 

            The man who hung above him was dead, had been dead for a while.  A spear dangled loosely from a gaping wound in his side.  His hair was matted with blood and covered in flies.  His face was slack, and the last of his blood dripped from his extremities to fall and soak into the dry ground below. 

            Donovan stared.   He studied the countenance of the man crucified before him.  The face was so familiar, and at once so distant.  It was unlike any painted likeness, or any fanciful creation of artisans.  It was the simple face of a carpenter.  A man dead for his beliefs, and for the salvation of thousands.  A man dead because others questioned and would not listen.

            Donovan pushed off the wood of the cross and staggered back.  Without thought he reached up and gripped the shaft of the spear tightly.  It had been plunged into the man’s side, then drawn partly out.  The tip of the blade hung on a loose flap of torn skin, and the spear had been left to dangle in the wind, another entertaining bit of adornment for “The King of the Jews.”

            Father Prescott gripped the shaft of that spear and glanced up a final time at the face above him.  The features were no longer slack.  The eyes watched him carefully, and the lips curled in a tiny, almost undetectable smile.  The face shifted, and it was Father Thomas again, no longer crucified in the air, but hanging from the cross.  The young priest’s blue, bloodless lips moved.  He said something very very softly.

            Donovan reared back, gripping the spear so tightly his knuckles went white.  He arched his back and yanked with all his strength, and the spear fell loose.  He toppled back and kept falling.  He knew he should have struck the earth, feared his head would pound into a stone, or one of the scattered skulls, and crack open, but he felt nothing.

            Then the air left his lungs in a sudden rush, and fighting for breath, he released the spear and lay back on some soft surface – not the ground he expected, but something else?  Death?  Heaven?  He dropped away with questions poised on his lips and was swallowed by dark silence.

            He tried to relax, but he couldn’t get his breath.  He gasped. Something pulled back against him and he cried out.

            “Father!”

            The room snapped back into focus.  Gladys Multinerry stood about a foot away from the bed.  She was rubbing her arm and staring at him, wide-eyed.  Some of the fatigue and sorrow had washed from her tired features and he thought, just possibly, that her weariness had been replaced by something better – wonder? – Fear?

            “I…” Donovan started to speak, stopped, finally caught his breath, and tried again.

            “What happened?”

            “You…he…” Gladys couldn’t get a thing out at first.  She continued to rub her arm, as if she’d hurt it, and to stare at him.   She glanced at her arm, and he had a sudden image of the spear.  He thought of reaching out, yanking that wooden shaft free, and gasped.

            He tried to sit up, but she was quickly back at his side.

            “You stay put,” she said, her voice a hoarse whisper.  “You’ll pull over that IV stand again and get the nurse in here.  What…what did you see, Father?  What was that?”

            Gladys drew even closer, her sore arm forgotten.  She leaned close, her eyes beseeching him.

            “You did see him?  Father Thomas?  He was …they were…Father, did you hear what he said?  He was talking to you, clear as day.”
            Donovan stared at her for a long moment.  There were a lot of things he could have done in that instant.  He could have pulled away like she was some crazy woman.  He could have put her off, pretending not to understand her question.  He could have shut down and kept to his own counsel, leaving her to sort out the answers for herself. He had thought this was all he could do himself, draw inward and weather the flood of emotion alone.  Now, though, it seemed possible he was less alone than he had imagined.

            “I don’t know,” he said softly.  “He spoke very softly, and I wasn’t close enough to hear.  I saw the spear dangling from his flesh, and I just wanted it out – gone.  I couldn’t stand seeing it that way any longer, and when I fell back it – he – was gone.”

            Gladys glanced at her arm again and Donovan knew he’d been correct about the spear.

            “He said ‘I believe in God,” Gladys said softly.  “Clear as day.  He looked straight down at me, smiled, turned to you and that was what he said.  “I believe in God.”

            Father Prescott stared at the old woman a moment longer, then let his head fall back into the foam pillow.  He closed his eyes, and he began to pray softly.

            Donovan felt Gladys’ presence as she stood over him.  He was aware when she reached down, flipped an errant lock of his hair from his forehead, and of the soft passage air as she then bowed her own head.  She joined her prayers to his, separate, and somehow complete, and without lifting his head, Donovan smiled.

* * *

            Sunlight poured in through the windows of Father Prescott’s room.  A nurse passed by, stuck her head in the door, and gasped.  Just for a second, it seemed that light formed a halo about the two of them, priest and believer.  The nurse closed the door silently behind her and stepped back into the hall.

~ Twenty-Eight ~

            Funeral services for Father Thomas were scheduled the Wednesday after Easter Mass.  No time was given for the press to mount assaults on the church, or for the aftermath of the myriad stories floating among members of the parish to cause a public uproar.  A quick announcement went out to members of the Parish, but few had responded.  Most vehemently denied that anything at all strange had happened during the Easter service, other than their priest dropping dead on the altar, but there were enough who believed they knew what they’d seen to keep the press hopping.

            Hector Clearwater was surprisingly silent on the issue.  Though it was the hottest topic in the San Valencez gossip columns and sensationalist newspapers, “Clear it Up” was taking a different stance.  They planned a retrospective of the service of Father Quentin Thomas at the Cathedral of San Marcos, a historical piece on the cathedral itself, and an almost inspirational inquiry into modern miracles. 

            Hector Clearwater himself had visited the Bishop in his offices.  He’d inquired politely if either Bishop Michaels himself or Father Prescott would be available for the show.  Both declined and Clearwater took this on face value.  Another first.  Publicly the station was behind his efforts, but behind closed doors certain members of his staff whispered, wondering if Hector had lost the fire and drive for such a program.  Several resumes were polished in anticipation of lost employment, and at least one up-and-coming young news anchor had his eye on the time slot.

            Before leaving the Bishop’s office, Hector handed over two small cameras without comment.  The Bishop accepted them gratefully and dropped them into one of the lower drawers of his desk with vague thanks.

            It was impossible for the conventional news to get a fix on what had happened.  No two stories were alike.  Some had seen much the same thing as the year before.  Others claimed wild visions of crosses on hillsides and odd villages.  Some of them claimed they’d seen Gladys Multinerry as an angel, and at least one of these was convinced that the woman had ascended, leaving behind nothing but her corporeal shell to bind her to the world.

            The stories of when things had become “different” during Mass also disagreed.  They all remembered receiving the communion, but few could remember at what point they’d become so drawn into the service, or when they’d noticed that Father Thomas was covered in blood.

            Most were reluctant to discuss it at all, and among those who did at least half seemed bent on proving that nothing out of the ordinary had happened at all.  It was hard to tell whether they were trying to convince others, or themselves.  The rest “knew” what they saw, except that none of them saw the same thing.  Reporters gave up in frustration.  Reports were delivered, but they were sketchy, and all that was certain was that a priest had died, and the congregation mourned his loss.

            Father Prescott wasn’t a hundred percent recovered, but he’d insisted on being released from observation at the hospital so he could attend.  Gladys Multinerry was there, as well.  Bishop Michaels, looking a bit less polished than usual, had resumed control of the parish for the moment.  His gray hair, usually immaculate, was bedraggled, and there were dark pockets beneath his eyes.  He had the haunted aspect of a Picasso portrait. The angles of his face seemed too sharp, and his eyes shone brightly with lack of sleep.

            Father Prescott watched the Bishop’s arrival, but he left the other man to his own devices.  Donovan stood in the center aisle of the cathedral, where he’d stood only three days before, and drank in the scene.  He didn’t know what it was that he was looking for, or what could calm the dreams that swarmed through his mind at night.

            The huge statue of Jesus didn’t look any different than it had the first day he’d visited the cathedral.  In the far corner, he saw the same old man pushing his broom about through the pews.  The doorway to the hall that led to the rectory stood open, the interior shadowed and dim.  Father Prescott’s coffin had been laid upon the altar with great ceremony, its wooden surface draped in finery and polished to a warm, fiery glow.  Flowers lined the altar and the communion rail, bouquets in a variety of bright colors, lilies, and even a couple of small topiary crosses leaned against the short table they’d drawn out to hold the coffin.

            As Donovan stared out over the scene unfolding, he couldn’t seem to get it into perspective.  His own memories of that same space were too vivid, and they overlapped images and scenes from other places.  The hushed silence seemed a deafening roar against the backdrop of the surreal “otherness” of the Sunday past.  He glanced often at the bas-relief crucifixion on the wall, and even more often at the altar itself, where he expected at any moment to see the thick shaft of the cross erupt through the floor to tower over them all.  He listened, but there were no whispering voices.

            Whatever ghosts had attended Easter Mass, they were either properly put to rest or otherwise engaged.  The beauty of the small cathedral was not diminished.  The subtle play of light through stained glass and the gleam of polished wood had lost none of their charm.

            Father Prescott skirted those gathered and made his way to the far right wall.  He stood for a moment, staring up over the tiered rows of candles.  He thought of the time that had passed since he first stood in that very place.  Then, stepping forward resolutely, he took a new tapir, placed it on one of the central tiers, and quietly lit it.

            Stepping back, he knelt, crossed himself and said a short prayer.  He thought of Father Thomas as he’d met him in Bishop Michaels’ office, open, honest, and anxious.  He remembered their talks, the younger man’s questions, and his sincerity.

            “May your journey end in peace, brother,” Donovan said softly.  He crossed himself again and whispered, “Perhaps we will meet again.”

            He turned then and took a place near the rear of those gathered.  It was a small group, though they were prepared for the worst.  Bishop Michaels stood at the head of the coffin, and the small group gathered in solemn rows to either side. 

            Gladys stepped up beside Father Prescott and took his arm in her meaty hand.  She gave him a quick squeeze, and when he met her gaze, she was smiling.  Her son Norman stood a respectful distance behind her.  Donovan noted that the young man was wearing what appeared to be a new suit, and had trimmed his hair.  The sullen frown had left his features, and he stood patiently waiting for his mother.

            Gladys paid the boy no attention at all.  She met Father Prescott’s gaze and spoke softly and candidly.

“He’s gone to a better place than this, Father,” she said softly.  “I know it.  I saw it.  I believe I will go there too.”

            Donovan nodded and returned her smile, though his own expression was more thoughtful.   Just as the Bishop was about to begin, the doors to the Cathedral opened again, and the two fell silent.  A bent, dark-robed priest stepped through the door and hurriedly closed it behind him.  Father Prescott frowned, then smiled in recognition. 

            Father Morrigan bustled up the aisle as quickly and quietly as he could manage.  He was flustered, sweaty, and obviously out of breath. Father Prescott’s grin widened.  Father Morrigan slipped around the side of the crowd as Bishop Michaels cleared his throat and glared at him sternly.