On the Third Day (7 page)

            Again, Brian Morrigan wondered why he was there.  He knew the real-world roots of it, the instruction from Cardinal O’Brien, the urgency of the need in California, whatever it might be, but the question rose from deeper wells than these.  They were very fundamental questions of belief, and outright terror.  It is one thing to sit in a classroom, or a great cathedral, and to hear of miracles.  The stories of demons being cast forth, and blind men gaining sight were comforting in their own way, but they had the added quality of not intruding themselves into every day life.  Father Morrigan’s faith was a comfortable room he’d constructed with an easy chair and soothing music, and what he’d witnessed the day before in the middle of a Peruvian jungle, had shaken his world, and his perception of faith, to their roots.

            He was sure of two things, and they ate at him like hungry tapeworms, sapping his strength and his resolve.  The first was that, like it or not, he had come to a new level of belief.  That level included things like raining blood, and if this one, incredible, impossible thing were true, then what of the others?  What of demons who might claw their way into his soul?  What of Satan, and all the fallen minions of Hell itself?  What good was his armchair faith against such primal, powerful truths?

            The answer didn’t sit well with him.   The other truth that had come to him was even more disconcerting and frightening than the first.  It was simply this:  He now had an idea that he might have chosen poorly in deciding to enter the priesthood.  He believed he would have been just as at home in a library, or a museum, cataloguing the facts of civilizations long crumbled to dust and recommending the literature of the great masters to the next generation of scholars.  The difference was that those artifacts and books wouldn’t have driven him to nightmares. Not like the dreams he’d suffered the night before.  They wouldn’t have caused him to doubt the veracity of a lifetime of truth gathering. 

            So he stood, lost in thought and listened absently as the two older priests said their farewells.  In the end, he knew, there was no hope of going back.  He knew what he knew, had seen what he had seen, and until answers were forthcoming, if they ever were, he would have the images of blood and faith whirling about in his mind.

            “Will you return?” Father Gonzalez asked softly.   There wasn’t much hope in his voice, and Father Morrigan came to another realization.  His own fears were selfish in nature to the point he’d not even considered the old man’s position.    “The cycle is nearly complete for this year, but it will come again in eight months.”

            “I don’t know,” Father Prescott answered.  He hesitated, and then said.  “I don’t know what else I can learn here.”

            They stood in silence for a little while longer.  Father Morrigan saw Father Gonzalez’s shoulders sag a few inches, as if under a heavy burden.  Something went out of the man then, something vital, and Father Morrigan felt a pang of regret.  When Father Prescott, or one of his associates, was sent out into the world, their mission was to handle the questions and faith of others, and those others came into it with certain expectations of their own.

            “My report will be filed with the Vatican,” Father Prescott went on.  “There are some very wise men there, Ignacio.  I have samples, and evidence.  I have the testimony of many of your parishioners.  Perhaps there will be an answer that makes sense.”

            The old priest turned and glanced back past Father Morrigan, down the trail toward the mission.  The voices of his parish rose gently, and that sound, haunting and melodic, floated through the trees to the clearing on the morning breeze.  When he turned back, his expression was of great longing, and he spoke in a husky, far-away voice that did not seem directed so much at Father Prescott, as at the universe itself.

            “They have waited a long time,” he said at last, nodding toward the mission, “to hear – something.  They need to hear something that makes it real for them, something from The Church, or something that takes it all away from us so that we can forget.”

            Father Prescott stepped closer and laid his hand on the old man’s shoulder. 

            “They are fortunate to have you, my friend,” he said softly.  “The moment I have a verdict from the Vatican, I will be in touch.  You know that I will.  And if I am free to do so, I will come again.”

            The old priest nodded, but he didn’t really seem to be paying attention.  He stared into the empty clearing, at the dark-stained cross with an expression that seemed to say it was his own, and he knew now that he must bear it, as his savior had done, until another was chosen to take it up.

            Father Morrigan could stand the silence no longer, and he stepped forward, touching Father Prescott’s arm.

            “But,” he said, trying to form the question so that he would not sound as nervous, or as naïve, as he suddenly felt, “what do you think?” he asked.  “Is it a miracle, or…?”

            At that precise moment, before Father Prescott could form an answer to the question, a huge flock of butterflies burst from the jungle in a spray of color.  They fluttered and melded, their colors sliding through every hue in the rainbow and back again in a kaleidoscope of life and beauty, glittering in the sunlight.

            “There’s your miracle, Brian,” Father Prescott said, staring into the sky.  “Never forget it.”

           The three priests turned slowly and trudged back down the trail to the mission as the sun rose fully in the sky at their backs, pressing them on in silence.

~ Ten ~

            Father Prescott and Father Morrigan sat on opposite sides of a smooth, Formica topped table.  Their seats were deep, comfortable leather, very different from the rough furnishings of the Mission in Peru.

            Father Prescott had a small stack of file folders beside him.  He held a single page letter in his hand with the seal of Cardinal Sean O’Brien affixed to the bottom.  On the table, beside the file folders, sat a thin laptop, its screen flipped open. The display showed a slowly rotating cross – a screensaver.

            The letter was short and to the point.

            “Don, this one may be big, and there are complications.  I know how important the work you are doing in Peru is to you – and to those who worship there.  I will send a separate letter of apology to Father Gonzalez; he and his mission will not be forgotten.  I need you on this one, though.

            One of our priests out in California, a Father Quentin Thomas, reported to his Bishop, Father Anthony Michaels, that he received the Stigmata during Easter Mass.  Bishop Michaels is, let us say, less than receptive to news of this sort.  What I’ve sent you will show you the outcome of the Bishop’s private investigation.  I have also included several interviews conducted with members of the parish, and all other information we’ve been able to gather on what happened this past April.

            I don’t expect the Bishop will make it any easier for you, but I trust your judgment and discretion.  Call me when you reach San Valencez.

                                                Cardinal Tony O’Brien.

P.S.  Donovan, I’ve entrusted the delivery of this to Brian Morrigan because I believe he needs to get out into the world.  I couldn’t imagine a better guide for his first outing.”

            Father Prescott folded the letter carefully and placed it in the top folder.  He glanced at the laptop, then at Father Morrigan.

            “Did you make that, Brian?” he asked.  He pointed at the whirling cross on the screen.

            Brian laughed.

            “No.  I found it on the Vatican web site.  Can you believe it?”

            Donovan shook his head.  He couldn’t.  He couldn’t imagine a priest, or a monk, or whomever it had been with enough time on their hands to sit around and create such a thing as a Vatican screensaver.  He’d heard reports of other “innovations”.  On-line confessionals.  Mass held electronically.  Already you could search the web and find any ritual you might require, or find the history of each saint, along with heretical versions, fictionalized accounts, and apocryphal texts.

            Father Prescott stared at the computer but made no move to touch it.

            “You need to see the video,” Brian said softly.  “It came to Rome on a VHS tape, but we converted it and saved it on a DVD.  It was easier to copy that way, and much lighter to transport.”

            Donovan nodded distractedly.

            “I put the files together myself,” Brian continued.  “The interviews are organized chronologically in the order they were conducted.  I thought about alphabetizing, but…”

            Father Prescott glanced up and caught the younger priest’s eye.  Brian fell silent.

            Father Prescott closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them and reached for the laptop.  He turned it so the screen faced him.  He tapped a key, and the screensaver faded, showing a black background with several icons along the left side.

            “I set it up so all you have to do is click the icon marked ‘Prescott’ on the desktop,” Brian said.  He spoke tentatively, as if he were afraid anything he said might provoke his companion.

            Donovan nodded. 

            “Here,” Brian added.  “These will help.”

            Brian handed over a small pair of headphones with soft foam covers for the ears.  Father Prescott took them and popped the jack on the end of the cord into the proper outlet on the laptop.  He wasn’t unfamiliar with the computer, just uncertain the part it should play in The Church.

            Father Morrigan leaned forward, as if he might say something more, then leaned back.  Father Prescott brushed his hair back from his ears and settled the headphones into place.  He leaned back, slid his finger lightly over the touch pad on the laptop’s keyboard, and punched down to click on the icon that bore his name.

            A window opened on the screen, displaying a movie-theater style log and curtain.  There was a whirring sound as the DVD reader spun up, and then it began.

            The screen flickered and filled with white snow and hissing static, and then went black for a few seconds.  Next a bright, colorful image of the altar of San Marcos by the Sea came into full view.  The sound quality was tinny, but the priest, who Donovan assumed to be Father Thomas, had a deep, powerful voice that filled the speakers of the headphone and welcomed Father Prescott, along with the congregation, to the service.  A moment later he began to celebrate Easter Mass.

            Father Thomas’s voice was bright and strong.  There was emotion behind the words, and a bright glitter in his eye.  He exuded what drama instructors call “presence” and those gathered before him moved in time with each motion of his arms and bobbed their heads with the rhythm and cadence of his speech.

            The lights were not bright, but they were all trained on Father Thomas, and it blinded him somewhat, causing him to focus most sharply on those in the rows closest to him.  Donovan watched, a frown creasing his brow as he saw that they were moving. The front section of the congregation swayed in a sinuous, side-to-side rhythm that seemed to grip Father Thomas’ words in tight coils and squeeze them out in ripples that ran through the congregation like ocean waves.

            Father Prescott gripped the table and leaned closer.

            He saw one old woman in particular who stood near the front of the cathedral.  She swayed with the others, her immense bulk seeming to flow, and her gray hair damp with sweat.

            Then, suddenly the woman broke rhythm with those around her.  The flow of bodies didn’t cease.  The motion of the crowd continued, and the words flowed from the priest’s lips, either drawn by the motion, or drawing it from the congregation, but somehow that single woman stepping free of it gave the scene a sense of incompletion.

            She stumbled forward alone and stood like a great white quivering island of flesh against the ceaseless motion of faces and drone of voices.  She raised her flabby arm, placed the fingers of one hand against her lips and stared up at the altar.

            Then she raised her other arm, pointed a stubby finger directly between Father Thomas’ eyes, and she began to scream.  She backed away, but she couldn’t rejoin the swaying line of worshippers in the front row.  They had closed in behind her, and her way was blocked.  The laced fingers of hundreds of hands locked arms tight to one another.

            It was unheard of.  There was nothing that could have prepared them for such a moment.  They were overwhelmed, caught up in, and they reached out to one another, sharing the emotion.

            Still, the rhythm was dissolving.  Others up and down the line saw what the old woman had noticed first.  Confusion flickered across their faces, then a growing horror.  Some tried to pull their hands from the grip of neighbors who were not yet aware that something was wrong.  Some cried out, and others stumbled, tumbled and fell about the pews.  Nearer to the back of the church, most of the faithful continued to chant the replies to the litany as if nothing had happened.  They had not yet seen the disturbance near the altar.

Father Thomas stood with the great expanse of the cathedral stretching up and out before him.  His eyes showed awareness.  Donovan saw them flick from side to side, watching the tableau before him, but his body was too rigid.  His lips moved, but the sound that boomed forth was disproportionate. The voice that rose, deep and powerful, sounded like the voice Father Prescott had heard when the video began, but different.  The volume seemed to have shifted, as if whoever was running the recording had twisted the knob to its fullest sensitivity, then beyond.  There was a sort of pulsing energy in the air surrounding the stage that warped everything slightly. Could the camera have gone out of focus?

            Father Prescott watched as those beside and behind the old woman waved their arms at Father Thomas and pointed.  Some of them turned and fled through the massed, packed bodies behind them, trying to break through the joined arms of their fellows.  Others dropped to their knees and crossed themselves, then repeated this motion over and over.  Their lips moved, but any sounds they made were drowned in the booming thunder of Father Thomas’ voice.