On the Third Day (5 page)

            Brian knew that when the night arrived, he would also miss his firm, slender cot and the utilitarian desk and shelves.  The books, each with their own scent of leather and age, blurred gently by the sweat of a thousand pious fingers thumbing their worn pages.

            Father Brian Morrigan’s insular world was as far removed as it could be from that of his colleague, Father Donovan Prescott.  Cardinal O’Brien had known this when he chose Father Morrigan for the trip.  It was possible that the Cardinal had only wanted to broaden Brian’s horizons, but he didn’t think so.  There was more to it.  And there was the rest of the message, nestled carefully in Father Morrigan’s briefcase, to consider.  For a seeker of truths, Brian Morrigan was as terrified of finding them as any human being on earth.

            Shaking thoughts of his office and the Vatican from his mind like old cobwebs, Brian concentrated on the road and the jungle.  He clutched the briefcase tightly with one hand, and the Jeep with the other.  His body physically left the seat at every other pothole, then slammed back down, jarring his kidneys and back.

            For maybe twenty minutes they continued in absolute silence.  Father Morrigan finally grew comfortable enough with the stability of the Jeep to release one hand and use it to shield his eyes.  In places the trees and overhanging greenery stretched so far into the sky that there seemed no end to them. In others, the sun burst through and he caught glimpses of small forms, some flying, others leaping, all in motion.  There were more butterflies and insects than he’d ever seen, some so large that at times he mistook them for birds.

            Finally he could stand it no longer, and he turned to the driver, shouting to be heard over the roar of the Jeep’s motor and the squeaking of the shocks.

            “How much further to Father Prescott?” he asked.

            The Jeep hit an exceptionally large bump.  The driver grunted and fought to keep the vehicle under control.  Father Morrigan, who’d not been expecting the extra jolt, flailed his arm wildly, found the roll bar and gripped it tightly.  He pressed back into the seat as the Jeep skewed at an angle for a moment, then slid back true, and darted ahead.

            They rounded a curve and slid into a large, cleared area.  The Jeep slowed and turned off onto a gravel road.  There was a worn sign in the shape of an arrow pointing down the road.  It read simply SAN SEBASTIAN.

            Moments later, moving at a much less dangerous speed, they turned yet again and rolled through an overhanging arch of vines and thin slats of wood.  Huge blooming flowers dangled heavily from the vines.  Father Morrigan blinked once, then again.  Something had moved.  Something deep in that cluster of slats and leaves had been there, and then moved on. 

            The mission building sprawled before them.  San Sebastian was a low-slung adobe structure, butted up against the edge of the jungle so that from the front it had the appearance of being swallowed whole by greenery.  The doors in front were tall, heavy and wooden, bound in bands of black iron like something out of the 18
^th
century.  Brian wished he’d done his homework better – maybe this place
was
from the 18
^th
century.

            There was a large crucifix planted outside the windows in front and a stone slab rested in the ground at its feet.  The slab was gray granite.  Inscribed across the flat, glossy surface of the stone in letters large enough to read from where he sat was the following inscription.

            “For God so loved the earth that he gave his only begotten son…”

            Father Morrigan climbed free of the Jeep as quickly as he could and stood still for a moment to catch his balance.  He stared at the mission and wondered again why he was there.  There were a dozen seasoned Jesuits who might have made this journey, men who were familiar with the language, the people, and more importantly than any of those things – with Father Prescott. 

            Standing before the primitive statue and mouthing the familiar words of the inscription, Father Morrigan felt something stir within him.  A sudden wind riffled through the errant waves of his hair, and he pushed his glasses up on his nose again, the gesture so familiar he didn’t realize he’d done it.  He had seen a thousand such statues, stood on the steps of some of the grandest cathedrals in the world, but this was new.  He felt a primal pulse of vitality and felt it ripple through the leaves and verdant grass.

            The driver stepped past him silently and opened the heavy wooden door of the mission.  Father Morrigan turned and followed quickly, afraid the man would let the door close on him and leave him standing alone within a stone’s throw of the jungle.

The door closed behind them with a resonant boom.

~ Six ~

            It took a few moments for Father Morrigan’s eyes to grow accustomed to the dimly lit interior.  There was light from an array of stained glass windows high overhead, but the glass was very thick, and the colors were deep and rich.  They blocked most of the brightness of the sun, and the only other illumination was a series of torches that rested in sconces along the walls, flickering eerily and sending shadows out to meet near the center of the large hall where Father Morrigan stood.

           
It’s like stepping back in time,
he thought.

            He heard shuffling footsteps and squinted.  An aged priest made his way out of the rear of the building, slowly becoming visible as he slipped free of clinging shadows and stepped more fully into the light.

            A hallway stretched back into the shadows, and Father Morrigan was forced to reassess his initial impression of the size of the place.  He wondered how much of it had actually been swallowed by the jungle, and if anything beyond the walls to the rear had been cleared away, or if it was as much a lair, or a cave as it was a sanctuary.  These were the thoughts of only a few seconds, because the old priest had drawn near and held out one gnarled, blue-veined hand in greeting.

            The man was shorter than Father Morrigan, slightly stooped, with gray hair and bright roving eyes that reminded Brian of a bird of prey.  His skin was dark – though not quite as dark as the driver’s had been, and there was the hint of a smile in the depths of his eyes, though closely guarded.

            “Father Gonzalez?” Brian asked, taking the offered hand, at first gently in deference to the man’s age, and then in firm appreciation of the older priest’s strength.  He might be old, but there was strength in his grip, and it did not shake.

            “Father Morrigan,” the old man spoke softly, but the words carried.  “It is . . . an honor to have so much attention from Rome.”

            Father Morrigan searched the man’s face in the dim light, looked for hidden meaning and found nothing.

            “I wish that the circumstances were more personal,” he replied at last.  “As you know from the Cardinal’s letter, I’ve come to see Father Prescott.”

            Father Gonzalez nodded.  His expression was unreadable, and yet there was something to be read.  Father Morrigan felt it in the air that surrounded them.  He believed he still felt the gaze of the dark-haired driver, boring into him from the shadows.  Then there was this place, the undercurrent of something very old, and very powerful.  A well of faith, perhaps?  Something more, or less?

            The older priest gazed at him in silence, and then the silence grew uncomfortable.  Brian had the impression the man was trying to read something from his expression, or the tone of his voice.  It felt like being judged.

            “Father Prescott is out at the field,” Father Gonzalez said at last.  “It is nearly time for the . . . miracle.”

            Again Father Morrigan searched the old man’s features.  He knew why Father Prescott was here, of course.  Everyone in Vatican City knew when Father Prescott was sent out, where, and why.  Even Mother Church was not without her fair share of rumor and speculation.  

            Brian had particular knowledge, another reason, he reflected, why Cardinal O’Brien might have chosen him for this task.  It was Brian who had first received Father Gonzales’ request for assistance.  That letter had described their “miracle” in detail, and the memory of the simple, eloquent, and disturbing words still clung to the corners of Brian’s mind.  It was one thing to read about such things, he realized – quite another to confront a man who had seen them, and in such a place as this.

            “The Miracle,” as Father Gonzalez had put it, was not the purpose of Father Morrigan’s visit; he was merely a messenger for others.  Still, with the sensations the old mission generated seeping into his bones, he felt his heart flutter.   It was easier to comprehend, in a moment such as this, what Father Prescott found in the work he performed, what he sought when he left the confines of civilization to trek into the wilderness.  It was also easier to fear it.

            Miracles were possible.  Everything that Father Morrigan had studied, all that he had been taught, and all that he believed was a lie if that was not true.  His mouth suddenly very dry, he asked.

            “Can you take me to him?”

            Father Gonzalez nodded.  It was difficult to tell if it was in approval, or resignation.  Father Brian’s heart went out to the old man, momentarily.  He imagined that not everyone approached this place, or this miracle, with an open, inquiring mind.

            Father Gonzalez turned and headed back into the shadows.  Brian followed, watching where he placed his feet and wondering if all the jumping, slithering things he’d seen outside respected the sanctity of the chapel.  They reached the rear wall, and a moment later they were swallowed by the gloom of the hallway that led into the greater exterior of the mission.

            In an alcove to the left of the door, the driver of the Jeep sat silently.  The shadowed cave had been cut into the adobe wall.  Inside were shelves arrayed in a semi-circle, rising one shelf above the next up the wall.  These were covered by rows of candles.  The man leaned against the wall and watched as the two priests departed, his gaze locked on the center of Father Morrigan’s back.  His eyes were dark, and his mouth was pressed into a thin, tight line.

            Then, pushing off of the wall violently, he reached down and grabbed the green duffle bag off the floor where he had dropped it.  Lifting the bag, he headed back toward the front of the mission, and out of sight.

~ Seven ~

            Brian followed Father Gonzalez down a long, dark corridor.  To either side there were doors.  There was a small chapel, a larger prayer room, another that was obviously the rectory, and more.  Father Morrigan paid little attention.  He was focused on the glitter of sunlight at the far end of the hall.  There was another door opening out the rear of the mission, and that was where Father Gonzalez led him. 

            “Not swallowed, then,” he murmured.

            Father Gonzalez glanced over his shoulder, but Father Morrigan held his silence, feeling a little foolish.

            Moments later they stepped onto a wide porch, crossed this, and followed a circling stone stairway down into the jungle.  The stairs ended at the foot of a path that led off between the trees, and Father Gonzalez followed this without hesitation.

            Father Morrigan heard the voice of the jungle once again.  Birds cried.  Unseen creatures rustled in the leaves overhead.  The wind danced through giant leaves and teased the petals of brilliantly colored blossoms.  It was a different world entirely from his comfortable corner of The Vatican.  He felt this more strongly with each step.

            Then he heard the murmur of voices, rising and falling in a resonant chant, and this, combined with the jungle and the wet heat lent an aura of surreality to the moment.  He tried to concentrate on his desk, to see the dark oak walls, the shelves lined with books and the crystal paperweight he used to keep the unruly stack of files in place.  He tried to smell the faint incense, and to remember the plush carpeting beneath his feet.  The images shredded in the hot breeze.

            Ahead, the path wound through a break in the trees.  The sunlight, which had speckled and striped the path as they walked beneath the overhanging canopy of the jungle, shone brilliantly on a small clearing visible through that opening.

            Father Morrigan approached the clearing, and saw a man standing alone in the center.  The man was tall and slender, with dark, shoulder-length hair touched with gray at the temples.  The brilliant white of a clerical collar showed beneath the dark locks of sweat-dampened hair.

            “Father Prescott,” Morrigan said.  He started to step past Father Gonzalez as they reached the clearing, but the old man reached out and grasped his arm, holding him back.

            Father Morrigan turned in surprise and caught the old priest with one finger to his lips.  Father Gonzalez inclined his head to the right, and Brian saw them.

            Lining the clearing in ranks three deep, dark haired, dark skinned men and women knelt on the soft floor of the jungle.  Their hands were clasped before them, and they chanted a prayer that Brian couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed before.  The words blended so well with the jungle’s other voices it formed a perfect harmony. Their collective gaze was fixed on Father Prescott, standing before a rough wooden cross.

            From a distance, the priest had seemed to be alone in the clearing, but clearly he was just the axis around which some greater wheel was spinning.

            Father Morrigan’s head buzzed with the heat, the rhythmic chant, and the strange, hallucinogenic sensation of the heat wave warped, brilliantly lit clearing.  He shrugged free of Father Gonzalez’s restraining hand and took a step toward the clearing.  It was an effort.  A palpable force surrounded the place so thick it was like walking through molten butter.  He took another step forward and entered the clearing.