On the Third Day

by David Niall Wilson

  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.

  From the perspective of the camera, Donovan saw the dark line form on Father Thomas’ brow. The tinny echo of what the young priest’s voice had become, even through the laptop speaker, was powerful and compelling. It was all Donovan could do to keep his lips still and his voice silent.

  On the altar, Father Thomas had raised his arms into the position of a man crucified on a cross. Blood flowed freely down his brow and over his cheeks. His face was streaked with it. The sleeves of his vestments were soaked and the dark red liquid dripped from them as well, dribbling to the floor and pooling, rolling forward toward and away in a ruby river.

  His eyes were glazed. Father Prescott searched the young man’s face carefully for any indication of awareness, any sign that he could have controlled this, or been aware of it, but there was nothing. The uproar spread backward from the altar and rippled through the crowded church as swiftly and powerfully as the words of the Mass had done only a few short minutes before. There were cries and screams, prayers and curses, and through it all Father Thomas features remained serene and implacable. He stood rooted in place, his arms outstretched, impossible amounts of blood pouring from him to the carpeted floor, his head tilted to the side and the holy, ancient Latin words poured steadily through his lips which, impossibly, had fallen still, as though he’d been held up as some sort of cosmic ventriloquist’s dummy.

  Then Father Thomas’ arms rotated, palms face up first, and then flipped forward. Deep, raw wounds invaded his wrists, clotted with gore and running like spigots with broken tap handles.

  Father Prescott nearly cried out as the camera angle tilted. The lens veered crazily to the side. There was a sudden de-focusing of the image as the altar suddenly rushed forward. Off screen someone cursed. Then the camera focused again, and was righted, and Father Thomas’ face stared blankly into the lens in close-up. His eyes were glazed, his head lolled to one side and his lips moved very gently. The voice that crashed through the speakers, louder and louder, was as powerful as ever, but the incongruity of that monstrous sound escaping those still, almost lifeless lips was eerie and disturbing. Impossible

  And the blood ran in fine rivulets from a scored, raw ring somewhere above his hairline. With the camera zoomed in on his features, deep gouges were visible in his skin – punctures, not slices. The blood formed a headband of gore and dripped down over his unseeing eyes and across his lips, which never ceased their movement. The streamers of red met, eventually, winding over the contours of his face and down to stain his white collar deep, rich red.

  There was too much of it to have come from a single man. The pool on the floor was thick and clotted, running off over the edge of the altar and down to the rail below where the faithful knelt for communion. Where, in fact, many had knelt just at that moment.

  The Mass drew to a close. There was no sign that Father Thomas knew he was speaking the words, or that he stood crucified in the air by unseen supports, or that he was soaked and matted in blood. There was no sign, that is, until the final words were spoken.

  At that moment, a very bright white light interfered with the film, and it was difficult to make out just what was going on. There was movement, but whether it was one, two, or more persons was impossible to tell. The glow faded, and Father Thomas stood alone on the altar, blinking slowly. He crossed himself and stared out over the cathedral, and then down at his feet – at those backing away into the aisles and those kneeling at the altar, their foreheads pressed to the shiny, polished wood.

  In that instant, understanding flooded his features. He seemed to become suddenly aware of his surroundings, of the cries and prayers and screams surrounding him, of the thick, slick blood beneath his feet and drying across his pale, drawn face.

  He glanced up then, straight into the lens of the camera, his eyes awash in pain and a pleading, beseeching question stillborn on his lips. He held out one trembling hand to the balcony, and then, without a sound, collapsed backward onto the altar, unconscious.

  The film didn’t end with Father Thomas’ collapse, but the tone shifted. The exaltation that had emanated from the small screen was replaced by panic and desperation.

  The members of his parish ran for the doors, cried out in the aisles, and prayed loudly in small groups. The back doors were flung wide, letting in the brilliant sunlight to cut a swath down the center aisle, straight to where Father Thomas lay prone and unmoving.

  The old woman that Donovan had seen before, with two others in tow and a third helping her up the wide, carpeted stairs, made her way to Father Thomas’ side. She dropped to her knees, drew his head into her ample lap, and snapped something inaudible at one of her companions, who sprinted toward the rectory without a backward glance, looking for a telephone, and for help, he supposed.

  There was a loud scuffing sound, and another curse. The camera angle shifted again, canted to the side, and was followed by a dull thud as the screen went dark.

  Father Prescott sat for a long time staring at the screen. It had returned to the cheerful, colorful matinee image he’d seen when the video program first opened. There was no sound, and the combination of the headphones and pressure from the altitude closed off all sounds
save the pounding of Donovan’s heart.

  Very slowly he removed the headphones and laid them on the table beside him. He reached out and closed the top of the laptop without bothering to log off or close any programs. He glanced over and saw that Father Morrigan was staring at him.

  The young priest’s lips moved, but Donovan heard no sound. He still saw Father Thomas’ stricken face, the small rivers of blood flowing down over the man’s vestments. He still heard the old woman’s scream and the curse he assumed must have come from the Bishop.

  “My god,” he said softly. “Oh, my God.”

  Father Morrigan’s voice finally registered.

  “Astonishing, isn’t it?”

  Donovan stared at the younger man incredulously. “Astonishing?” He thought about it. No, astonishing was not the right word. Impossible was a good word, even miraculous – perhaps – but not astonishing.

  Father Morrigan started to say something more about the files piled beside the laptop, but his voice fuzzed out again, and Donovan reached for the headphones. He put them back in place and lifted the cover of the laptop once again. Without another word or thought spent on Father Morrigan, Father Prescott pressed down on the cursor over the PRESCOTT icon once again.

  Before the jet touched down in Los Angeles, he’d seen the entire thing five times. As they coasted down the runway, he stared out the window, ignoring his companion, the files, and most of all, the laptop. His mind whirled and his stomach had a queasy, unsettled feel.

  As the jet rolled gently to a stop, he fingered the leather pouch hanging around his neck. Father Morrigan reached over and laid a hand gently on Father Prescott’s arm.

  “I’ll be leaving tonight for Rome,” he said softly. “Is there any message you’d like me to take to the Cardinal?”

  Father Prescott shook his head slowly. “Tell him I’ll call,” he said. “I don’t know what I’ll say when I do, but tell him I’ll call in a day or so.”

  Father Morrigan nodded. His expression held a far-off aspect.

  “What will your report on Peru say?” Brian asked. “What will you say?”

  The question started Donovan from his daze. He’d nearly forgotten the clearing, the old cross – the mission. He had a sudden flash of memory, Father Gonzalez’s expression as they’d parted.

  “I only wish I knew,” he said. “Truly, I only wish I knew.”

  ~ Eleven ~

  The whirring of the VCR rewinding echoed so loudly that it seemed the machine might vibrate itself off of the wood surface of the buffet. Other than that mechanical whir, the silence was deep and complete. To the right of the video player, a color television hung from the supports that would retract it into the ceiling when it was no longer needed, revealing the restored Spanish Icon hanging on the wall behind it.

  It was early morning, but the blinds were pulled tight, and Bishop Michaels’ office was nested in deep shadows. A small pool of light leaked in from the next room, which was a foyer equipped with comfortable seats where visitors could await an audience. This room had no lights lit, but the receptionist’s office beyond was bright and filled with the flash of clever fingers over a keyboard, and the blinking of phone lines.

  No one would disturb them, the Bishop had seen to it. All of his morning appointments had been rescheduled, and the receptionist, Martha Schengle was her name, had strict orders to allow no intrusion, and to hold all calls. Martha was used to such requests, and she’d seen the Bishop in all kinds of moods. She had never seen him like this, though. When he glanced at her and told her to “hold calls” she’d nodded briskly, turned away trembling and waited for him to leave the room.

  The VCR clicked as it finished rewinding. Bishop Michaels grabbed the control from his desk, punched his finger hard on the play button, and leaned back in smug, exaggerated diffidence. It was the second time he had played the tape, and his expression clearly showed that he did not believe it was necessary. He was, in fact, desperate for it to not be necessary, for a quick end to the nightmare that had clutched him tightly and robbed him of his sleep since Easter Sunday.

  Three men watched the screen in silence. Bishop Michaels’ hand hovered over the remote control that rested once more on his desk. He’d released it when he noticed a slight creak from the plastic, and realized he was in danger of crushing the device in his bare hand. He wanted very much to punch his finger down on the stop button, and then, perhaps, to rewind it again and erase the abomination it represented to him from existence. He had an idea that if he could do that, if he could turn that black cassette in the VCR into a blank tape, that he might find a way to start rebuilding his world.

  In sharp contrast, Father Prescott, seated to the right of the Bishop’s desk, leaned forward in his seat and watched the scene unfold on the screen with rapt attention. His features were frozen in an expression that might have been predatory, or simply alert, but there was no doubt what his reaction would be if the Bishop were to give in to his destructive urge.

  Father Prescott had a leather folder open on his lap to reveal a yellow legal pad. Now and then he scribbled in it, barely glancing down to be certain he didn’t write one word over the top of another. A sheaf of papers was tucked into a pocket on the opposite side of the leather folder from the notepad, and tucked in on top of that were several photographs. All of them had been taken on or near Easter Sunday in the cathedral of San Marcos.

  Father Thomas sat at the far end of the desk. He was furthest from the screen, and though he watched dutifully, his mind was far away. He had no reason to review the tape. He had lived each and every moment of it – once on Easter, and again every night since, going over it in minute detail and trying to put it into some context that allowed it all to make sense. There was a DVD copy of the recording somewhere in the jumbled files on his desk back at the rectory. He hadn’t even opened the plastic the Vatican has used to seal it.

  Every few moments, Father Thomas slid his gaze from the screen and glanced at the two men watching with him, trying to read their reactions to what they saw. The Bishop’s contempt was obvious, worn like a badge of honor. Quentin remembered all-too-well how the man had railed at him, standing by his sickbed in the rectory, screaming questions and almost spitting in anger. He’d had to be asked to remove himself so that Father Thomas could recover in peace, and the two had not talked since. Not, that is, until today’s summons.

  Not, in fact, until the arrival of the other priest, Father Prescott. Here Quentin found the first ray of hope that he might not be cast out to deal with whatever had befallen him on his own. Father Prescott was a very intense man, dark eyes, long dark hair going to gray, and the features of a weathered Hollywood actor. His purpose here was still uncertain, but from the terse conversation he’d had that morning with Bishop Michaels, Quentin had learned that Father Prescott answered to Rome, and that he’d been sent in to investigate.

  Father Thomas didn’t know what that investigation would entail, or what the outcome would prove to be, but one thing seemed clear. If The Vatican was going to dismiss what had happened, or condemn it outright, they would have given the satisfaction to Bishop Michaels. They would not have validated Father Thomas’ plight by sending an investigator without sufficient cause.

  Unfortunately, Father Prescott was as unreadable as the Bishop was transparent. There was no way to know what he was thinking, whether he’d been sent to debunk the upstart young priest and restore order for Bishop Michaels, or to investigate the possibility of a legitimate miracle. With a soft sigh that was masked by the background hiss from the television, and his own raised and recorded voice, Quentin leaned back and watched, letting the events rise from memory to the forefront of his mind.

  Tears streamed from the corners of his eyes. He lived it again in fitful bursts of remembered images, and the echoed sound of his own voice, ringing from the high-domed ceiling of the cathedral.

  * * *

  With a very loud, final click, Bishop Michaels pressed the STOP button on his remo
te and the screen on the television returned to its snowy static and a quiet hum.

  The Bishop didn’t speak. He sat back slowly, and his heavy, comfortable leather chair creaked ominously. He stared at the blank screen, lost in thought. His features were etched in severe lines of disapproval and – something else.

  Father Thomas, who had glanced at the Bishop surreptitiously, tried to place it. Eventually, he settled on outrage. The Bishop was outraged, and Quentin didn’t know if it was because the man couldn’t explain what he had just witnessed for the thousandth time, or if he were still single-mindedly blaming Father Thomas for setting up a clever hoax that was making him look foolish.

  Father Thomas himself hadn’t moved since the film played out its last seconds, and though the screen has gone blank, the last image – that of Gladys Multinerry holding his inert form and screeching orders at her fellow parishioners as if she were some sort of maternal general, would not leave him. He was haunted by it, as he’d been haunted since that day, and he had grown very weary waiting for support from Bishop Michaels, or the church. So weary that at times he felt like breaking down and weeping like a child.

  So he sat, his knees close together, his hands clasped, and his eyes respectfully tilted toward the carpeted floor beneath his feet, and he waited. He looked as if he might be awaiting the final judgment.

  Father Prescott was silent as well. His expression was much harder to read. He stared at the screen, transfixed, and though it was their second time through it that morning, his reaction was no less intense. His brow rippled with deep-etched furrows of concentration, coated in a clammy sweat he hadn’t bothered to wipe away, though his handkerchief was clutched tightly in one hand.

  The Bishop cleared his throat, and the tension in the room slowly dissolved. Father Prescott inhaled deeply, lowered his gaze for a moment and shook his head, as if dislodging some thought he wasn’t happy with, or something he didn’t want to show on his face when he met the gaze of the two others in the room.