Father Prescott stepped into the square and entered another world. The air was thick, so damp it was like breathing liquid. All of the stone surfaces, white a moment before, glowed brightly. Father Fernando’s long, thick hair gleamed like a helmet of metal, and his bowed figure was so like images of the Apostles Donovan had seen painted and carved in wood and stone that he nearly cried out. Each step was more difficult than the last, but he forced his way forward.
He fell to his knees at the base of the statue. It was so bright, so brilliantly lit, that he was half-blind from the glare. There was a strange buzzing in his ears. In the back of that sound voices danced, but he could make out neither their words nor their rhythms.
The ground at the martyr’s feet shifted. The ground beneath his knees shifted as well, the sucking, terrifying sensation was the same as he’d felt, standing in the surf on a beach with the sand drawn from beneath him, grain by grain, stealing his foundation.
Donovan tried to raise his head and examine the statue, but he could not. A weight rested firmly at the back of his neck and held him still. Had Father Fernando grabbed him? Had others come up from behind to force him to stare and examine their miracle? He felt no fingers gripping his flesh. He scanned the periphery of his sight frantically, but there were no shadows. He heard a rush of sound. It might have been the shifting earth. It might have been some odd wind that rose and roared past his ears. The hairs on his neck prickled, but his hair did not seem caught in any breeze.
The earth before him grew liquid. Vertigo hit hard, and he gasped, but there was no loss of balance. Though the ground no longer felt solid, Donovan didn’t fall forward – nor could he pull back, or look away. Patterns whirled in the soil, winding in and around one another, and he fought frantically to sort them in his mind. They writhed like serpents, and then flowed. There was no other way to describe the motion. It began in the center of an oblong section of ground roughly the width of the statue’s base, spiraled out, and drew dark lines against a darker background. The edges dropped, as if beveled; the backwash drained back and away leaving only the letters of four simple words outlined brilliantly. There was no color, and yet, Donovan knew the letters were bright, blood red.
The paralysis lifted as suddenly as it had come to him. His neck snapped up painfully and he lurched back as control of his limbs returned. He did not rise, nor did he turn away. Father Prescott glanced up once, found the upturned gaze of the martyr in its eternal contemplation of the heavens. There were no answers there. Peter had turned his eyes to heaven, it was up to Donovan to investigate what lay below.
He dropped his gaze to the ground.
“I believe in God.”
The script was simple, almost child-like. The lines were stark and angular, as if slashed into the ground with a blade, or scratched. Clawed, he thought, they were clawed into the earth. The air that cooled them was his dying breath.
His thoughts slowed. He reached out a hand toward the letters. There was another rush of sound, but this time he was certain it was voices, and that they came from behind him. He heard a sharp intake of breath that must have been Father Fernando. The barrier that seemed to cut him off from the world moments before crumbled and fell away. He felt the night breeze. His knees ached from the cold ground and sharp stones pressed into his flesh.
He ignored all of it. Focusing on the letters of the words before him, he stretched out his index finger and brushed it through the ‘o’ in God. He felt it warm and damp on his flesh. Without thought he raised that finger, held it before him, and stared.
A single drop of blood dangled like a tear from his fingernail. Donovan closed his eyes and brought that finger to his lips. His tongue darted out, wrapped around his finger, and drew back. He had to know. Was it oil? Blood? A trick? Paint. What brought it night after night, to what end, and by what hand?
The flavor was metallic. He thought of paper cuts on his fingers, long nights in the stacks of the Vatican’s vast libraries. The taste was the same as sucking his wounded fingers, and at the same time it was not. The flavor was rich and earthy. It spread through him, warmed his mouth, and his face. He brought his palms up to cup his cheeks and tears flowed down to run and through his fingers. His pulse pounded, faint at first and then slamming at his veins and throbbing in his temples until the beats lost individuality and blended to a steady roar.
Donovan turned toward Father Fernando. He held out a hand, as if the younger priest might lift him from the ground, or support him against a fall. The world blurred, slid fast from moonlight to pitch black darkness, and fell away.
* * *
Father Prescott’s words trailed away. Quentin watched for a moment, waited patiently for the conclusion of the story, and finally spoke.
“That can’t be the end of it, Donovan,” he said. “What happened? Did you pass out? Was it a visitation? A miracle?”
Father Prescott shook his head, blinked, and turned in mild surprise. He seemed to be waking from deep sleep, and the sight of Father Thomas, who’d been there all along, confused him.
“I don’t know,” he said at last. “I truly don’t know exactly what happened.
“I woke on the ground, where I’d fallen. Father Fernando was shaking me, and the villagers had gathered around us. They were much closer, and the air was thick with dust. I wanted to tell them to step back, to give me air, but I couldn’t speak.
“The moment I realized where I was, I turned to the statue. The ground at Peter’s feet was smooth and untouched. There were no letters, nor was there any sign of the rich, red blood I’d seen, and touched, and tasted, though my tongue still tingled with it and my hands shook. I reached out and traced the earth where the words had been. There were no indentations – the ground was not damp, or loose, or soft. It was as hard as any of the courtyard soil, packed tight and baked in the sun.
“I stumbled to my feet and Father Fernando held me upright. His eyes were bright, and I saw him searching my own expression, reading my features, and drawing a blank.
“Those around us were less forgiving. As I passed back through their ranks, some of them whispered to me. Others muttered, or cursed. A few grabbed at my robes, but Father Fernando brushed them away, and as much as they wanted to reach me, they did not want to offend Father Fernando. It was a standoff that lasted long enough for me to be back in my quarters with the door locked.
“I let my head drop forward into my hands and I sat there for a very long time. I prayed. I talked to myself. I talked to the floor and studied the various cracks, knots in the wood, and trails of dust for any sign that they might come to life, re-arrange and show me the words a final time.
“In the end, I slept.”
Father Prescott’s eyes brimmed with tears. He shook, and Father Thomas stepped forward to lay a hand on his shoulder. Donovan calmed and continued.
“I stayed that night, and the next day, but I didn’t leave my quarters at all. Not for food, not for water, though I had nothing in the room to drink. I knelt, and I prayed...waiting for darkness to fall.”
The bells of San Marcos began to ring, tolling long and loud, shivering through the walls, and Father Thomas’ grip on Father Prescott’s shoulder tightened.
“What happened that last night, Donovan? Tell me quickly ...I must go.”
Father Prescott raised his eyes until their gazes locked, then Donovan’s glazed. Memory surged through him and spilled out.
“When the sun had gone from the sky that last night, I left my cottage. The streets were lined with the villagers, young, old, men women and children. All of them stared at me, their eyes filled with accusation, even hatred. I marched down the center of the street, bearing that gaze, and at the end of the street I stepped to the edge of the small square.
“Father Fernando stood there, as he had the last time I’d walked this same route. His eyes were the only ones that did not accuse. He merely stood and waited as I approached.
“I held his gaze until I had reached the statue, then I
closed my eyes. I crossed myself, knelt there in the dirt a final time, and I prayed. I don’t remember the words. I don’t even remember the images that tumbled through my mind. I know that I prayed to read the words of Peter, called martyr. I wanted to see them a final time and burn them into my soul. I opened my eyes, and…”
Father Prescott fell silent. Father Thomas shook him, and the older priest turned. His cheeks were damp from his tears, and his voice was hoarse as he concluded.
“The words weren’t there. They haven’t been there since that moment I touched them – since I took them into myself as if accepting a sacrament. There was no indication they had ever been there at all.
“They all left me then, all but Father Fernando. He stood at my side in silence as the people – his people – filed out of the square, off down the street, and back into their lives. I didn’t say a thing. I felt I’d let them down, or worse, that I’d betrayed them. I thought I had failed in my mission, and that my long searching had come to a fruitless end. I still taste the blood.”
Father Thomas stared at him a long moment, then turned toward the doors. He didn’t speak as he walked away, and Donovan stood for a long time watching the empty doorway before making his own departure. Before he left the rectory, he crossed himself slowly.
He whispered into the dust-mote drenched sunlight where Father Thomas had stood only a moment before.
“I believe in God.”
~ Twenty ~
When Father Thomas stepped out onto the steps to greet the morning, and the congregation, the world tipped toward the surreal. He’d spent his night preparing himself, mentally and spiritually, for whatever might happen during the Mass. He hadn’t spent a moment considering what he now faced.
The parking lot was more than half full, though there was nearly an hour until Mass would start. There were loud cries and equipment carts rolling about in a chaos of cameras and cables. Comically, a member of one of the camera crews caught sight of Quentin stepping into the sunlight and nearly fell over himself pointing and calling out to everyone within earshot. As Quentin stood, mouth agape, the surge of bodies flooding his parking lot turned and merged, flowing into a stream that was directed at the stairs, and him.
For a panicked moment he considered ducking back inside, returning to the rectory, and not coming out until it was time to perform The Mass, but he held the urge in check. The last thing he wanted was to act in any way that might be construed as guilty.
Cars still streamed in from the coast highway, many of them carrying members of his Parish, but others filled with people he’d never seen before. Some were probably just thrill seekers, hoping for a show, but Father Thomas recognized a few local celebrities, news anchors, one councilman from San Valencez, and, coming straight up the center of the stairs toward him was none of than the voice of KROK TV, Hector Clearwater.
Hector’s name had been at the bottom of at least half of the faxes and memos that Bishop Michaels had shown Quentin that long ago afternoon, but somehow it had all slipped out of the younger priest’s mind. He had turned down a dozen requests to be interviewed by this man over the past year, but he didn’t think Clearwater had actually expected he would accept.
Sunlight winked off of chrome microphones. Cameras, balanced precariously on the shoulders of eager young cameramen, bounced up the steps in Hector’s wake, and the man’s smile was positively dazzling. He wore a brilliantly white suit, but somehow the white of the man’s smile eclipsed it. Quentin saw instantly the effect such a smile would have on a television audience; he himself was dazzled.
Beyond the approaching crowd, Bishop Michaels’ small entourage slipped into the parking lot almost unnoticed. This year the Bishop wasn’t alone. There were three dark sedans directly behind him, and as he exited into the morning sunlight tall men in dark suits instantly surrounded him. Though many of the members of the press who hadn’t yet made the stairs turned and tried to get a statement from him, The Bishop was safely ensconced in his entourage. He waved and smiled, but said nothing.
Father Thomas watched this spectacle, distracted momentarily, and in that instant Hector Clearwater gained the top step of the Cathedral. A microphone was thrust into Quentin’s face, and he found himself face to face with the host of “Clear It Up.” He wished, momentarily, for his own entourage of dark-suited protectors.
Ignoring Quentin for a second, Clearwater turned to the nearest camera, brought his microphone up, and began to speak.
“We are here this bright, brilliant Easter morning on the steps of the beautiful Cathedral of San Marcos by the Sea, where last year – on this very day – this man,” he turned and swept his arm toward Quentin, “Father Quentin Thomas, may have been visited by a genuine miracle. Stigmata? A strange fluke of nature? A hoax? That’s what we’re here to find out.”
Father Thomas stood silently, staring into the camera with as close to as mile as he could muster. His legs had gone to rubber, and he shook uncontrollably. Clearwater was speaking again, but Quentin couldn’t concentrate on the words. There were too many things happening all at once.
The waving microphone caught Quentin’s attention. He blinked and turned to Clearwater.
“Father Thomas,” the man said, “I was asking about last year. What do you think happened? Are you surprised that the church left you here, in charge of such a large parish, with the question of a hoax still hanging? What of the rumors that the Vatican sent investigators, and that the ‘miracle’ was caught on film?”
Quentin flushed slightly, unable to prevent a quick flash of anger. He was about to speak, when a hand fell on his shoulder from behind. He turned without speaking to find Father Prescott standing at his side. The older Priest was calm, and met Clearwater’s gaze evenly.
“We have every confidence in Father Thomas’ honesty, faith, and courage,” Father Prescott said smoothly. “He was assigned this parish by Rome, and there has been nothing in either his actions or his performance to indicate a bad decision was made.
“I’m afraid, however,” he said more sternly, “that you will have to excuse us. The members of the parish, including the Bishop,” Father Prescott nodded over Clearwater’s shoulder, “need a chance to get to their seats in time for The Mass. I’m afraid you’ll have to remove your equipment at least as far as the parking lot. You are, of course, welcome to attend the service, but there will be no filming or interviews.”
“What about last year?” Clearwater barked, unwilling to give in so easily. “What about the video?”
Bishop Michaels’ voice rose from behind him.
“Last year has come and gone. We are looking forward to a beautiful celebration of Holy Mass. If there is any story to be had here, it’s an old one, and one that we all can benefit from. “
Clearwater spun like a snake.
“You’ve denied me an interview a dozen times since last Easter,” he said, starting back down toward Bishop Michaels and his escort.
“Make that thirteen times, then, “ Michaels responded with a tight smile. “I have a restraining order issued by the San Valencez Police Department, in cooperation with the Police Force of Lavender California, and the California Highway Patrol. You will not cheapen this day for those who attend services here every Sunday by turning this into a circus.”
Clearwater’s eyes went gray, like hard slate. From where he stood, Quentin was almost certain he heard a crackle of electricity spark between the two men. Then, as if only just remembering he was live on tape, Clearwater turned to the camera again.
“Our cameras will, of course, be retreating from this solemn event, but our coverage will not. I will be entering the Cathedral now, directly behind his eminence, Bishop Michaels of San Valencez, and I’ll report live from the parking lot immediately after the services conclude.”
Hector made a quick gesture at the cameraman, half distracted, half annoyed, and then nodded to Bishop Michaels. Without another word he turned, ignoring the two priests at the top of the steps, and entered the
cathedral. Shirley slipped from the crowd and entered at his heels.
“I wish we had a way to search the guy,” Father Prescott muttered, stepping back a bit from Quentin, who breathed a sigh of relief. “The guy probably has a camcorder in each pocket and a tape recorder in his shirt.”
Father Prescott laughed softly. The Bishop’s party reached the top step, and Quentin stepped forward. For just a moment it seemed the Bishop’s guard would not part now, either, but reluctantly he was allowed to pass. He stepped close and took Bishop Michaels by the arm.
“Thank you, Excellency,” he said softly. “I wasn’t sure what to do next.”
“That was obvious,” Michaels replied. He didn’t have the severe expression to back up his words, however. He was almost grinning, obviously glad to have had the chance to one-up the cocky Clearwater. “We haven’t heard the last of that man – be warned.”
Father Thomas nodded, and bowed, letting the Bishop pass. Once the ring of security guards had disappeared inside the Cathedral, the slow tide of his parish washed up the steps. Quentin lost himself in the greetings, the smiles, familiar faces and bright eyes. He shook hands, patted children on the head and laughed at the same, tired old jokes he’d laughed at for so many years, week after week.
At the last, Gladys Multinerry made her way up the steps. Her pace was slow and determined, as always, but this time – another miracle? – she wasn’t’ alone. Her son, Norman, walked at her side. The young man wore a dark suit, dark polished boots that almost approached respectability, and appeared to have even combed his hair.
When they reached Father Thomas’ side, he noted that there were dark patches under her Gladys’ eyes, and that Norman appeared not to be eating or sleeping well. Norman nodded to Father Thomas, relinquished his mother’s arm, and slipped hurriedly past into the church without a word. Father Thomas watched him go, and then turned back to Gladys.
He wondered if he looked the same as they – there had been little sleep for any of them the past night.
On the Third Day Page 15