Our Lady of the Forest (30 page)

Well I'm no martyr.

And yet you sacrifice, clearly, Ms. Greer. You might be miles from here, unencumbered. Instead of offering your services so generously. As Ann's friend and confidante.

Carolyn began playing with an orange peel. Kneading loose the white inner meal. Father Butler, she saw, was an inquisitor. He seemed already to have looked right through her. On the other hand he couldn't know that underneath his priestly posterior was four hundred and fifty-five dollars she'd appropriated from his fellow Catholics. The night before, her shades drawn tight, she'd tediously counted all the small bills Ann's followers had so virtuously coughed up and hid more than half in the empty catch basin of her van's never-used chemical toilet, directly underneath the very bench on which Father Butler sat. Whatever you say, she told him.

Father Butler smiled, pulled loose a handkerchief, and began cleaning his glasses. He was agonizingly slow about it, blowing hot air repeatedly on the lenses and holding them up to a seam of light, examining his polishing work critically. As you may or may not know, he said to Ann, there are each year in this country alone a considerable number, hundreds shall we say, of claims made regarding the Blessed Virgin, that her face has appeared on a freshly dug potato, that a pizza maker throwing dough in Syracuse saw her silhouette in the wrinkles of a crust. The details are unimportant. The details are not my point. Shorn lamb's wool, cow dung, snowdrifts, children having epileptic seizures, road-show evangelists, psychotic nuns, runaways addicted to marijuana—go ahead and take your pick. These claims are manifold, absolutely, commonplace and everywhere, rest assured you are not the first such claimant, nor will you be the last. So commonplace as to be banal in certain circles of the episcopal college which I think shall go unnamed right now, to name them would be a certain digression, but the important point is that your experience of Mary is not in the least bit unusual, dear, as far as the church is concerned. It has seen the likes of this a thousand times, and each time the likes of me is dispatched to try to make sense of it. Although, I should say, your case is unusual in that the scope of it is quite impressive, you've succeeded in attracting considerable attention, more than the average Marian event, that fact is not contestable, this is a significant episode that requires a significant investigation, such investigation to pursue, at its core, the fundamental truth of your claims regarding the Blessed Virgin. Which the Church does not take in any way lightly and which it is determined to explore thoroughly with all due seriousness.

A change of tone had crept into his voice, an increasing gravity that made Carolyn think of the immolation of Joan of Arc. She knew very little about religious persecution, but perhaps this was it.

Father Butler looked up from his polishing work in order to settle his eyes on Ann, who responded by clasping her hands to her chin and saying I want your questions, Father. I want your interest. Thank you.

You're very welcome.

I'm blessed by your presence.

You may not feel that way later on.

I'm sure I will, replied Ann.

Father Butler went back to his glasses, giving them a final scrutiny before slipping them onto his face. Their presence was prosthetic and increased his severity. Fortunately for you, he said, I'm not a psychologist. I don't operate in the realm of science. If I did I would dismiss you out of hand as suffering from a patently self-evident delusion, the ready and obvious explanation. But for a priest it isn't that clear and simple. It can never be clear and simple, Ann. What is the nature of God's plan, God's reality? How can we know the good Lord's truth? Father Butler shook his head, as if to suggest the innate futility of every metaphysical inquiry. You can see that the task I have in front of me is grave, deep, difficult, challenging. How do I decide what is real?

I don't know, answered Ann.

Like floating about in a void, said Father Butler. Devoid of reference points.

Ann tightened her blankets around her. Outside she could hear the din of the crowd. She was calm and listless yet she burned with fever. An inchoate truth had hold of her. She could see Father Collins had misgivings about the tone of this prelude to an inquisition. He fidgeted and watched her with a conspirator's empathy, as if to say I'm not his friend, these are unavoidable circumstances. Ann watched Father Butler pull back a shade and peer outside as if he was dumbfounded. But it was all an act, she could easily see this. She could see his shrewd and driven performance. He was already fashioning his clerical noose, there was nobody who could talk to God except the pope himself.

In here the questions are abstract, said Father Butler. But out there a thousand fervent pilgrims are waiting for us to emerge.

More than a thousand, said Carolyn. And all of them believers.

Father Butler let the shade fall back. Right, he said. More than a thousand. I meant a thousand figuratively. At any rate, here we all are. Contemplating, once again, the eternal attraction of the Mother of God. A thing so easily… exploited.

He smiled beatifically at Ann, then raised his hands like Jesus sermonizing. In my job, he said, there are wonders, of course. It isn't all just flimflam artists. And one of these wonders is our Church's recognition that God in all his mystery and power has in fact historically communicated with us, and if he so chooses can communicate again, and can choose to do so via private revelation, by presenting himself, if I can put it this way, to the inward perception of an individual, to Abraham or Moses, say, who in turn is called to deliver God's message in a public fashion, as you feel you are, and this has been one of God's great means, to deliver himself to his followers through the conduit of such revelations, a divine technique which the Church affirms may not be confined to the Lord alone but may extend as well to Our Lady, the Blessed Mother, as we've witnessed in Bernadette at Lourdes, whose visions the Church deems worthy of belief, in Lucia dos Santos at Fátima, in her cousins Jacinta and Francisco Marto, in Sister Catherine Labouré, in Mélanie Calvat and Maximin Giraud, these are all individuals, Ann, whose claims were very similar to your own and whose revelations were carefully scrutinized, examined by local diocesan committees, approved by pertinent local bishops, and ultimately accepted as legitimate by the Church—a mere handful of cases, my dear, among the thousands investigated; nevertheless, there they are, and because they are, why, there are men such as me, appointed to pursue these claims.

So the odds aren't good, said Carolyn. Because the Church holds all the cards.

Father Butler locked his fingers together. Cards, he said, are an improper conceit. But on the other hand it is the province of the Church to make a determination, is it not? The Church revealed by the Holy Spirit, the Church perfected in glory? Who else might do so?

Only the Church, Ann agreed. There isn't anybody else.

Father Butler tried to lean back and stretch, but there simply wasn't room. He looked oversized, a rat in a mouse den, an adult in a child's playhouse. In these matters, he explained, the Church is careful. Exhaustive, always, in its consideration. Not wishing to err in either direction. In the end quite delicate about its wording. The opinion of the Church is rendered exactingly. The question of discernment is taken seriously. We must decide if this is merely a case for secular psychologists to yawn about or, instead, a bona fide apparition. Or—a third disturbing alternative—one of the tricks of Satan.

Father Butler allowed a beat of silence for the obvious purpose of heightened drama. I know what you're probably thinking, he said. The concept of Satan is… antiquated. Perhaps you're waiting for me right now to use the word diabolical so you can have a laugh at my expense.

No, said Ann. I'm not.

I was thinking more of Arch Fiend, said Carolyn. Arch Fiend or Prince of Darkness.

A rose by any other name, Father Butler shot back. But it's always possible that the force of evil, to give Satan more secular clothing, is active in fomenting apparitions, so we must take this possibility into account, we can't dismiss Satan's subterfuge. Greed, ambition, personal gain, the name of evil is irrelevant, name it as you must, Ms. Greer. According to your lights, such as they are. As you please, as you must. Lucifer goes by any number of titles, but always his endeavor is exactly the same, to destroy, subvert, bring anarchy and chaos, pave the way for hell on earth.

The Great Deceiver, said Carolyn. You're saying maybe it's the devil in disguise when Ann sees the Virgin Mary?

I'm saying, said Father Butler, that it's possible. That we can't overlook that prospect.

I'm just not much for talk of the devil.

We'll put him in the back of our mind for now then.

Do you think that's really a good place for him?

Foremost is our effort, generally, at discernment. A broad endeavor, certainly. So we can afford to leave him there temporarily while we press forward in other areas.

We, said Carolyn. Forgive me but that sounds like the royal plural.

The priestly plural, said Father Butler. Father Collins and I.

Father Collins smiled sheepishly. He looked, thought Carolyn, disposed to defend himself, prepared to distance himself from Father Butler, but instead there was a saving knock at the door and she threw it open with muscular force on two sentinels in rubber rain gear and on the woman with the transparent plastic scarf battened down against her hair who was poised between them like an actress on whom the curtain has risen. I'm here, she said, on behalf of your petitioners, and handed Carolyn a wad of paper on which, she explained, were requests. They want to see you, Our Ann, she added. They need you to hear their appeals.

She has to go to the woods now, said Carolyn. Tell them to clear a way for us so we can get through them, please.

She shut the door, turned to the priests, and picked up her bullhorn with belligerent enthusiasm. Well, well, she said. How interesting. We're about to embark on a forest journey to the site of these purported apparitions. But won't it appear, if you come along too, that you've decided to sanction us?

Appearances are not of interest, said Father Butler. Only reality. Truth.

I agree, ventured Father Collins. We only want the truth.

Brave of you, sneered Carolyn.

Father Butler raised one hand. Whatever your sentiments might be, he said, we'd like to continue this dialogue with Ann. Would it be possible for you to meet with us—tonight, say? At seven o'clock? Would that work for you? At Father Collins' church? In town at seven o'clock?

Our day is long, said Carolyn. Make it nine o'clock.

Ann pushed her blanket aside. Her thin forearms, the knobs of her wrists, suggested emaciation. The pallor of illness had left her white in disconcerting fashion. Father Collins, she wheezed. I ask you again. I ask you in the name of Our Lady, please. Help me build her church.

         

They set out into the forest at eleven-thirty, slowed by the volume of the campground crowd, and the trees were a relief to Ann, though her illness made walking difficult. It helped that overnight a way had been cleared as obvious as the Oregon Trail. Ann led, leaning on Carolyn, who carried only her bullhorn. The two priests walked immediately at their backs, next four sentinels hauling alms buckets, and behind them five thousand pilgrims. The sheriff had deputized three out-of-work loggers, bringing the county contingent to nine; there was also his department's canine team, a leashed pair of fat German shepherds. The state had sent a half dozen patrol officers whose pressed uniforms and wide-brimmed hats made them look like colorless doppelgängers of Royal Canadian Mounties. In the forest their shined shoes were loudly out of place. Soon they all had wet feet.

Most of the photographers darted ahead in search of advantageous postures from which to shoot in the forest gloom, but the trees made it impossible for them to capture the magnitude of the crowd. The journalists were consistently thwarted by sentinels, though one managed briefly to walk beside Ann and ask Do you have a Web site yet or an e-mail address where I can reach you? Carolyn replied, Yes we do, it's Ann at North Fork dot org. All one word. Ann with no e. Caps where appropriate. You'll find our e-mail address there and you can e-mail us your questions conveniently and we'll get back to you.

I sense you're lying.

Okay—it's a lie.

What if I ask some questions right now?

Now really isn't a very good time.

How do you feel about everything that's happened?

Now isn't a good time to talk.

Would you say you expected a crowd this large?

She isn't answering questions, sir.

Who are you?

Carolyn Greer.

Right, but who are you?

Carolyn Greer. Double-e Greer. Spokeswoman.

Spokeswoman?

At a later date I'll pencil you in.

Ms. Holmes, is this person really your spokeswoman?

Yes. She is.

Leave your card, said Carolyn.

The log at Fryingpan Creek was still intact but had now been circumvented. The trail turned downstream fifty yards to where a makeshift bridge had been erected by someone with a rudimentary background in construction. There were slip-proof treads nailed over rough planks, neat one-by-two safety railings, and plywood wheelchair ramps. On the near bank two men waited. One wore a green wool timber cruiser's jacket, the other a Highlander raincoat. They were standing with their hands in their pockets, observing the approach of Ann's processional, minions of the local land baron. Greetings, said the one in the Highlander coat. I'm Richard Devine. From the Stinson Timber Company. And this is Richard Olsen.

So you're both named Richard, said Carolyn.

And who might you be?

Carolyn Greer.

And your friend here beside you is the girl with the visions?

That depends, said Carolyn.